#but fret not it is not /that/ angsty - it's got an ending; a happy one - a hopeful one

[mtchee]

My Chosen Beloved - [Zhongli] GN

blurb:

In ancient Teyvat, you worship your Lord of Geo as much as the next villager. When you hear that you're cursed by something unknown, your fears are only confirmed when you're given to your Archon as a sacrifice to save your village. Only, it turns out you're not quite the sacrifice you thought you were. OH, turns out, you're to be wedded to your Archon. Except, since arriving at his hidden chambers, you've seen neither hide nor hair of him. Only his pet dragon, Morax, lazes about in the mountainscape to accompany you. Welp, new best friend! Even if it is a sassy lizard. What... What do you mean, he is the sassy lizard...

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, kinda chaotic [name], sugestive at the end, arranged (??) marriage trope except he arranged it, Zhongli is a little shit, i think he's slightly OOC im SO sorry, dragonli, young Morax?? but not quite, ancient teyvat au (kind of), swearing, might do a part 2

| masterlist | genshin impact collection |

[4.0k]

"Cursed!?" You cry out in horror, "I'm cursed!?"

"Not cursed, dear one," The sweet old lady hums, swishing around your cup of left over tea leaves, "just marked."

"Oh, oh good," You feign relief, "so I'm a target."

"Oh hush you," The tea reader swats you over the head, "you fret too much. Besides, there's more I've yet to see..."

You grumble to yourself under your breath, rubbing your sore spot with a pout before sitting and waiting for the rest of her verdict. The woman hums lowly, a content smile on her delicate old features as she keeps her eyes trained on the semi-warm yunomi cup in her hands.

"Ooh, would you look at that," She hums happily, "a crescent star--how wonderful. You will have an unusually large fortune happen upon you..." she swishes the cup once more, "and... ah! And these are... indeed! Health and happiness shall befall you! Though beware, a great sacrifice must you omit in your coming days for this to be achieved."

You sigh to yourself quietly, smiling softly with a shake of your head, "Thank you, grandma."

You place a small pouch of coins atop her tattered, velvet cloth table as you move to stand.

"Ah, ah, ah!" She tuts, eyes wide as she stares at your tea leaves, "my child... I see that someone has their eye on you; beware of whom it is that you trust, deary. Not all things are as they seem..."

You feel a shiver crawl up your spine, and you squeak; you feel your soul levitate.

You gain a cold sweat, "T-Thanks, granny..."

"It's no problem, child!" The old lady beams, positively ignorant of your terror, "come back anytime. It's always such a joy to read for you..."

"Aha, yes. I-I'm sure..." You wince, smile strained, "um... goodnight, granny."

"Goodnight, dear one!"

You're quick to leave the quaint tea shop, placid smile immediately dropping into one of panic. Ever since you'd gone up that stupid magical mountain or whatever, you'd felt these odd shivers down your spine, like someone was watching you.

Constantly.

Or, nearly constantly. It usually stopped when you got to your house--at least this stalker had some decency. 

It certainly didn't help that there was an apparent raid being planned on your village, an attack that you'd all been warned about by an anonymous.

It was a curse of sorts, unleashed by an old enemy of your land's beloved Archon, Rex Lapis. The main city of Liyue is only small at this time, and the adepti, each to their own, have additionally been busy with protecting the various other scattered villages around the land.

You were given fourteen days to figure out a solution. 

Now, there's only three left. 

You shudder, once again feeling a pair of eyes glaring into you from archons knows where, and you let out an angsty huff, crossing your arms over yourself. 

"Great," You crinkle your nose, "now I'm even more paranoid." 

"A WHAT!?" 

Ah, what a wonderful start to the morning, with two days left before the presumed attack. 

The whole village gathers with murmurs of concern, pity, and fear.

In seeing no other way to prevent the attack, the town elder had announced a last resort solution, as provided with help from the adepti.

A sacrifice is to be made and sent to the stone mountains where it is told that their Great Lord and his dragon reside. A sacrifice must be made to their Archon in exchange for protection from the oncoming curse.

And with consultation from Adeptis Cloud Retainer and Moon Carver, you were chosen to be the offered one. 

"You want me to be a WHAT!?" Your eyes practically bulge from your head, and a panic rushes through you, thoughts spiralling as your heart tightens painfully in your chest.

Your outburst garnered further chatter from the rest of the town, some shouting their concern for you, others in protest of the decision made--but ultimately, it wasn't up to them.

The adepti themselves had chosen. 

Your ears rang with a high pitch, gaze hazy as you grew dizzy, struggling to breathe.

You couldn't hear what anyone else was saying--and quite frankly, you didn't want to, nor did you care.

A further immense feeling of fright pierced through you, causing your knees to buckle. It was those eyes again. 

'Dear archons,' You thought to yourself fearfully, 'am I going to die?'

The next forty-eight hours went by too fast, consisting of preparation for your departure, where a group of villagers would later escort you to the mountains and present you at its base before returning home.

And where you would be left alone, alongside barrels of fruit and meat offerings, and baskets of their finest silk and gold.

Then, it would be up to their Great Lord to make the decision. 

And so there you had been, fearful and adorned in opaque silks and fine threads, arms and legs decorated with pretty golden jewellery for an extravagent yet elegant appeal.

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest, breath uncomfortably stuck in your throat as paranoia and terror consume you simultaneously. The feeling of eyes being burnt into your form had never left, and they had never felt so intense until then.

Staring at the mountain base with your back to the open field behind you, you felt your very soul ice over as a dark shadow swallowed you. You hadn't dared to look back, eyes wide with your skin pricked, breath stagnant as your base most instincts went wild; run.

But you felt you were dead before it had even approached.

You don't remember anything from that point on, only recalling a behemoth silhouette drowning yours before everything went silent and dark.

You had fainted.

But freedom! You cry in your mind, finding yourself awake inside a palace worthy bedchamber. You weren't eaten! Yay! CELEBRATE FOOL.

You notice a soft quilt upon you, its fabric smooth to the touch. Your hands tremble ever so slightly, nerves recovering from being shot. You swallow thickly, unsure of what to expect as you observe your surroundings.

The room is heavenly. Much grander than even the nobles in the nearest city, the room is vast and elegant, with artworks and calligraphy engraved into the stone walls. Cor lapis illuminates it all, along with the plentiful golden intricacies.

An elaborate archway to your left is separated from your room by a semi-sheer curtain, and you can hear the ever so soothing tinkling of water. A bathroom.

Placed along that same wall is a beautiful vanity and smaller archway separated similarly to the other. You can spy a more than generous number of hanging fabrics and neat, polished crates--a wardrobe.

The opposite side of the room displays practically half a library. Gorgeous bookshelves line the walls with ornate pillars and decorative foliage, a grand desk situated nearby with an equally as exquisite chair. The floor is covered by a soft carpet, accompanied by various cosy and inhumanely large pillows.

Nevermind, you must have been eaten, because this looks like heaven.

Mouth agape in bewilderment and disbelief, you slowly slip out from beneath the covers, tip toeing along the cool flooring into the middle of the room.

Your eyes graze over everything, and you're tempted to throw yourself indulgently into the giant pile of pillows just begging to be laid on.

Yet you restrain yourself because where the hell are you.

The large door across from you looks promising.

It takes a good hard push from you before it opens, though once it does the doors part for you effortlessly on their own. You pause, peeking out into the hallway skeptically before actually stepping out.

The door shuts quietly by itself one you're out of its way.

Interesting.

The corridor itself is daunting, both in size and extravagence. One side leads to an archway concealed by a thick red curtain, whilst the other reveals an opening into what appears to be a sun room.

Well, that looks promising.

Like everything else, the area is expansive and elegant. Sunlight bathes everything in a soft, golden glow, and water trickles pleasingly from ornate divets in the high stone walls, following a painstakingly carved path down into a rivet in the ground that outlines the floor plan.

Looking up into the high ceiling, your mouth drops in awe at the crystal clear glass encasing. In an octagonal, dome shape, the largest panes showcase stained glass designs, threading rainbow highlights here and there.

Thriving vines decorate the roofs edge, neatly climbing down the walls and curling around the spaced pillars that hold it all together. The plantation has been carefully placed as to not obstuct or corrode the ornate architecture.

In the centre of the room is a mound of silks and pillows with gold trims and intricacies, a large serpentine figure curled atop the delicate fabrics gracefully as it slumbers.

What.

Pause.

A dragon.

A fucking dragon.

Morax, Rex Lapis' dragon.

And you know it's Rex Lapis' dragon because who fucking else would have a dragon.

Your mouth drops in absolute horror at what you've stumbled upon, and you start to backtrack in silent terror when the slumbering creature begins to shuffle.

You internally curse yourself as the thing emits a sleepy grumble that vibrates the floor before locking eyes with you.

It blinks drearily, lazily yawning and smacking its maws before learning towards you with lidded amber eyes and a grounding purr.

You've been frozen in utter fear for the entirety of its slow awakening, and it huffs warm air into your wide eyed face once its levelled with you.

You let out a frightened squeak, blinking rapidly to recover from the assault while the serpentine creature rumbles contently. It looks... entirely unbothered by your presence.

You can't quite tell what it's thinking, its eyes watching you ever so intently, yet with a peculiar fondness that has you puzzled.

"He.. Hello, dragon," Your voice cracks, and you take a hasty bow to make up for it, "uh! Morax. Um, am I... aren't I suppose to be, uh, eaten..?"

Morax blinks at you cluelessly.

"As, uh, in sacrifice?"

The dragon huffs at you again, though this time much more sharply, as though offended. An odd keen gets stuck in its throat as it tilts its head before shaking out its mane.

Then, Morax leans towards you again with a grumbling coo, as though attempting to soothe you before nudging its large muzzle at your chest.

You stumble back from the unexpected contact, but the being only prods at you again until you gently guide its nose away with both hands. It retreats back into the rest of its curled form, watching you expectantly.

You reach a hand to where Morax had been poking, touching the thick cor lapis pendant situated on your chest in the shape of the geo symbol, secured by a deceivingly delicate looking gold chain.

"Oh this?" You look down at it from your awkward angle, "is something wrong with it?"

Morax lets out a curt grumble, not in warning or any form of vexation, but as a sort of prompt. Not quite.

You furrow your brows, "Then... does it mean something?"

Its grumbles again. Closer.

Your mind blanks, and you stare back at the beast that just blinks at you slowly. It makes no more sounds to edge you forwards, nor anymore mortion to aid your thinking. Instead, it watches you patiently, expectantly. Fondly.

"...You wanna... you wanna tell me?"

Your features flatten when the dragon emits an exaggerated yawn, crossing its massive paws and laying its head down upon them.

"Oh, you've got an attitude, you know," You frown at the mythical thing, and it closes its eyes teasingly in cheek.

You look at your pendant again. It had been provided by the Adeptis, and passed onto the village chief for when the chosen had been annouced. Then it was later given to you at the end of all your preparations, and you've been wearing it since.

Funnily enough, your preparations were similar to those of your wedding traditions--the older women fussing over your appearance while the men gathered gold and jewels to toss and offer up in symbolizing a rich, fruitiful future for the beweddeds.

The pendant is a similar heirloom typically passed from the more forthright intended to their beloved, as a way to show both their devotion, and their will to provide and protect.

The heirloom is usually something that represents the family from which it is given, as the receiver takes on their last name.

But your pendant is the geo symbol, your Archon's insignia.

Holy freaking shit you're wearing your Archon's insignia and it's not a vision.

Your stomach drops.

"O-Oh my god!" The pendant drops back into place on your chest, and you stare wide eyed at the serpent that daringly matches your panicked gaze, "I-I'm our Lord's intended!?"

"You're my one true friend Morax. But don't tell anyone I said that, that's kinda sad."

You distractedly scrub the dragon's scales by his neck, having moved on from his claws. You're dressed in thin bathing silks that cling to your figure from the water, parts of the fabric sheer upon your skin. You're not bothered though, it's only you and the dragon in this huge manor.

For the week or so that you've spent here, you've seen neither hide nor hair of your dear Archon. One part of you is curious as to why, seeing as this is his abode, though the other shudders at the prospect of running into him in person. You're still not mentally prepared for that.

You don't know how to talk to a god! Let alone how to your god--and that's not even mentioning the fact that you're technically supposed to be married to him.

Yeah. You've figured it out now.

No, you had not been sentenced to your death. No pain or any form of violence has been inflicted since your arrival, unless you want to count the dragon tormenting you with the fluff of its tail.

Stupid dragon.

Speaking of the damned creature, you've taken solace in its company. Although non-human, the dragon is a sentient being of its own, and though large and very much built for battle, Morax has been nothing but patient and gentle.

Ever so aware of your smaller being, the dragon has been careful with its every motion, bending its languid body elegently and fluidly to accomidate you. Even in a playful mood, Morax takes great care not to jostle you or startle you so.

You've claimed the overgrown reptile as your best friend in claws!

Morax had preened at the proclamation.

"Has our Lord been taking care of you? I haven't seen him once since I've been here. Do you think I've scared him off?" You snicker, wringing out the soaked cloth in the floral water you're seeping in, "ah, yes. As I am everything he should fear in a spouse. A merciless tongue and a non-existent sleep schedule."

In the furthest depths of this absolutely insanely huge manor, palace or whatever, is an opening in what you presume to be the back of the mountain.

Walls opening into a magnificent waterscape with a lazy lake and picturesque waterfalls, vines and flowers and brush decorating the scene with giant trees overshading parts of the water.

Morax snorts at your accusations, nostrils puffing non-aggravated smoke.

You move on to delicately rinsing the dragon's mane in parts, fingers sifting through the long, smooth fur to untangle any knots.

"Is he kind?"

From its once sleep tempted state, the beast perks up, opening its eyes to gaze at you. Sensing Morax's confusion, you give a tender smile while you brush a hand through its mane and over its scales.

"My betrothed, our Lord," The dragon croons softly, leaning its massive head down to rest its chin on your lap as you chuckle bashfully, "only you and the adepti know what he's really like. When he's not attending his duties, I mean."

You swallow thickly, worry glazing your eyes before being swiftly masked by a ginger smile as Moraz nudges you.

"I just... to be wedded to our Lord is just a fantasy. Who could I ever amass to in comparison to our Archon? I... don't think he will be cruel. But," Your eyes flutter to the side unsurely, "I don't want to live a lie."

Your heart pangs in your chest, and you slow in your movements which begin to cease. The water ripples around you at each notion, the air still and serene. Yet, despite the peace, you feel burdened.

No, not burdened.

Your brows crease in thought.

Perhaps dejected.

Although you have yet to meet, you've been provided with an abundance of wealth. It's evident your Lord is the spoiling type.

Your room is just one example, full of things you love and could lose yourself in for hours, alongside a wardrobe full of clothes you could only ever have previously dreamed of.

And you have the entire mountain to explore to entertain yourself--and it's not as though you were trapped.

You've gone flying with Morax twice now, and further explored the wilderness surrounding with the dragon's protective supervision. If you so truly wished, you could leave these hidden chambers to go elsewhere. To be honest though, you don't trust yourself to be able to find your way back.

The food is plentiful. Visiting the kitchens each morning and night, you find a feast is laden. And during the mid-day when you're hungry, or the late hours when you're peckish, the pantries are stocked in abundance.

A warm breeze caresses your shoulders, and the sound of the water trinkling melodically echoes a tranquil tune.

Morax purrs at you, and your smile saddens as you speak a dismal truth, "I will forever worship our Lord, not just for what he has provided me, but for him in all his existence. Though I admit, my heart will carry the dual burden of heartache."

The dragon blinks at you slowly, before reeling back in all its grace with a low croon. Its eyes are lidded, looking down at you in fondness and something else you can't quite place.

You puff a breathy laugh, reaching up a hand to cup the scales on its cheek. Despite the comically drastic size difference, the mystic being leans into your touch with a rumble.

"Thank you, Morax," You murmur, awed, "but I could ask nothing more from our dearest Archon who has given so much already. I only pray that someday he will find the one with whom he can truly return their affections."

A disgruntled huff escapes from the amber dragon's maw, and it shakes its head before leaning down to carefully press its horned head against yours.

A smile traces your lips, sincere gratitude oozing from your being as your eyes slip shut, nuzzling back against the smooth and damp scales of your mythical friend.

Another kind brush of air kisses your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. From behind your eyelids, a bright flash of light is muted, though you pass it off as naught.

Suddenly though, the scales you had cupped fit much better in your palm, a sensation much softer gracing your fingertips. Your brows furrow slightly as you feel the weight of the dragon's physical presence decrease. The water around you ripples greatly, though the atmosphere itself remains undisturbed.

The winds swoop gracefully as always, musical water cascades still singing their dream inducing tinkles while the scent of the surrounding natural flora soothes you.

You hear a gentle rumble, though much softer than the dragon before you. Your eyes gradually open, slinking up to lock onto the ethereal man leant into your loving caress.

Your gaze drifts to his nose, and then his lips, observing his attire that consists of layers of intricate brown and golden silks that float atop the water's surface.

And then you gasp, meeting eternally wise amber orbs that stare into yours knowingly.

Your muscles tense and your stomach drops, and you stumble back, almost tripping in the water.

At your sudden lurch in movement, the devastatingly handsome man fixes his arms around you, a gavelly chuckle sending a flush of heat to the tips of your ears as he pulls you flush against him.

"Y-You! I--" Embarrassment in all its forms overwhelms you while your beloved Lord himself stares down at you with lidded eyes, exuding elegance and unwavering strength just as he stands.

You don't dare look him in the eye, gaze latched shamefully onto the intricate details laced on the garment covering his chest. Your shame only increases once you notice the opening in the fabric that reveals part of his chest.

"M-My Lord..!"

Humiliation causes tears to prick at your eyes painfully.

But the dragon--his dragon, he is the dragon!

Heavens above, how utterly foolish could you be!?

Weeks you have spent confiding and bumbling about with that damned beast had you spilling the deepest depths of your heart and innermost being.

You would have never behaved in such a trecherous manner had you known it was your Lord! How disgusted he must be with you. How offended he must feel for the ignorant things you have speeled!

You clench your eyes shut, almost trembling in his grasp.

"My.. My most sincerest apologies, Lord Rex Lapis. I-I must avow that for each word I have spoken I never did intend-"

"Whatever do you mean, my love?" His voice is warm and low, a pleasant gravel that slinks into your ears like honey.

Rex Lapis--Morax, your very Archon who is one in the same, pulls himself back to admire you with fond eyes. Though his gaze is ever intense, the emotion he expresses is more than palpable.

His touch is tender, careful but full of longing, "Perish such nonsense from your mind. I, apologise, dear one," He leans down hopefully to meet your gaze, "for startling you so. And for withholding my true self for so long."

You flutter your eyes open, swallowing shakily when he smiles at you oh so adoringly.

"To be honest, I was... nervous. Unsure as to how you would perceive me."

"You? Nervous?" You incredulous tone has him breathe out a laugh.

"Indeed, dearest," You flush at the endearment, able to process it past your panic this time, "it is not everyday you are intended to a God. Now though, I see I should have been the one to welcome you first and foremost."

In contrast to his gentle touches and patient tone, a familiar cheeky twinkle sparkles in his eyes, "To think you thought you were a meat offering."

You blink up at him, horridly aghast at the mention of your initial misgrievances.

Forgetting your prior reservations about him as your Lord, no longer heeding your behaviour to such, you recognise that mischevious glint just as on the first day you had arrived.

A sense of relief floods your being, and you gradually untense in his tender grasp.

Though you're still unwilling to let him off unscathed.

"Who's the one who had me snatched up on such short notice?"

A sense of sheepishness has him ducking his head in self awareness, nodding acceptingly and in apology. A pink tint lines his fair cheeks at that.

But then he glances down at your drenched attire, and his flush deepens as a desire much too long forgone has him turning up his cheek a little more than he normally would.

"Well," He clears his throat distractedly, "who wouldn't at such a delightful temptation, hm?"

And then it's your turn to feel flushed.

Although he had left you lonesome in you first few weeks of stay, he more than made up for it in the coming nights.

And in response to your apprehensions and concern in being wedded to a God, he addressed them directly by providing you with an adoring reverence than even celestia would envy.

And he continued to do so, for the many years that would come.

For he had chosen you; his one and true beloved.

[weskin-time]

listen, i'm throwing this request in here because we frankly don't get enough of this in the x reader tag, character x injured/sick!reader. it doesn't even have to be anything super angsty if you don't want it to be. like i just want the fluff of an overwatch character fretting over reader with a sprained ankle lmao

(any characters are okay tbh, write for whoever you have ideas for!)

Hello anon!! i hope this works for you! i had a lot of fun writing this and i might make more later on. >:3

please give me more OW requests. mm brain rot <3

TBH i don’t really like genjis one i might rewrite it later on so keep an eye out for a post

D.Va, Genji, Ramattra X GN!Hurt/Sick!Reader

Not beta read

cw- injury, pain,

Hana “D.Va” Song

gaming with your girlfriend was almost mandatory as you started your relationship

you were fine with that, in fact you were happy to join in her streams and hang out with D.Va and finish to get some quiet time with Hana.

But. you two played different types of games.

You loved character driven story games, open worlds and side quests

and she was a world champion, mmorpgs, real time strategy games, fast paced games you never really tried

But she asked one day if you wanted to play LOL with her on stream you said yes of course

but wow was it a learning curve, and a new thing you had to adapt to. fast paced clicking and key mashing hurt your fingers and wrists.

you have no idea how Hana doesn’t have wrist problems worse then she does if you just played for a few days and your pointer finger felt stuck and pain would throb in your forearms.

Hana ended stream that night and took a breath to regain her self. You were chilling in the same room as her, her set up more impressive than yours as you turned off your own PC and turned your chair to face her.

Getting up from your semi uncomfortable office chair you walked over to her as she stretched, you went to grab her water bottle to refill it for her but as soon as your hand grabbed the bottle pain shot through your forearm and wrist making you involuntarily wince.

Her eyes shot to you in worry before she completely understood what happened, “Aww I hope i didn’t push you too hard that last round.”

You chuckled and shook out your arms, it really didn’t do much. “It’s hard to keep up with you in these games Ms Professional ESports World Champion.”

It was her turn to laugh, “Get good.” She got up and grabbed the bottle herself and shut down her PC. “You good though? Got Gamers wrist?”

“Up my forearms and everything, clicking finger is sore too.” You flex your fingers trying to get the stiff feeling out.

“Didn’t you used to play a religious amount of Cookie Clicker back in the day, without auto clicker?” She points out as you follow her out of y’all’s gaming room and to the kitchen.

You have a scoff, “My child self didn’t know what that was, i was rich on cookies. And it didn’t hurt all this bad.” You rested against the island.

She paused by the fridge, filling her bottle up with the water. “I have some extra wrist braces if you’d like, they work wonders.”

“Please.” Your response came instantly before you could even process the last part of her sentence. It made her snort with how desperate you sounded and she almost overflowed her bottle.

“Come here, give me your arms.” She turned around and leaned against the other side of the island in front of you.

You did and held out your forearms to her with a confused look.

She wrapped her hands around for forearms and began to squeeze them, massaging them firmly, perfectly in the place where it hurt the most. A whine left your throat at the feeling of sore pain meeting soft comforting pain. Her fingers dug into the meat gently as she circled the muscle, slowly making her way down to your wrists where she provided the same treatment. Your head rested on the island counter as you slumped over, heaven was in her hands.

“Thank you Hana.”

“You’re welcome bunny.”

——————————————————————

Genji Shimada

sleep deprivation sucked.

2-3 hours a night was all you were going off of. it wasn’t enough to keep your brain healthy or your body.

constant headaches, unfocused eyes, micro sleep, confusion, it all was ass

but there was nothing you could do in the moment to fix it, you just kept staying awake at night to either game or finish work projects and paperwork.

sickness sometimes finds you when you’re like this, nauseous from lack of sleep, headaches making your eyes hurt.

you tried your best to fight back the sleep that demanded itself, but failed.

Genji was silent in his approach to your desk, you knew he was there, you could sense him.

Your laptop was too bright, your eyes were unfocused and you could barely feel yourself slowly lean forward to the desks surface. A hand on your shoulder wakes you up enough to realize you were holding down a single key on your keyboard and the open document on your screen now had a long line of Vs.

“Hiya Genji.” you slur almost, as you closed your eyes only for the entire world to pulse around you, sounds were too sharp and too dull at the same time, breathing in and out seemed to take all your strength, but your strength was elsewhere trying to fight off sleep.

“You don’t look too good.” He stated flatly, his helmet off as he rested in comfortable clothing.

You glance up to see him, eyes focusing on his face, “Thanks.” was all you had the energy to respond with.

He looked at your laptop, reading what you were writing but telling by his confused and concerned face you think you just wrote gibberish that your brain thought sounded like a normal sentence.

“How long have you been awake?” His voice dripping with concern but his voice buzzed in your ears and bounced around your head for a second before you could process what he said.

“I’ve had 5 hours of sleep this week.” You yawn and look away from his wide eyed expression.

It was Saturday. 11pm.

Your body didn’t have enough energy to even move it felt like.

“Okay,” he dragged out the word and closed your laptop. “Let’s get you to bed yea?” The way he said it made you know there was no changing his mind.

You didn’t want to admit you needed sleep but at the same time your head was throbbing and the thought of cuddling with your Genji was enough to perk you up more.

You mumbled out an okay before trying to stand on wobbly knees, your body feeling light yet heavy at the same time. A flesh hand came to steady you and hold you before you heard a sigh and suddenly you were swept off your feet and being carried to the bedroom.

“You need to take better care of yourself.” Concern laced his words as he placed you on the bed carefully.

“I know I know,” you made a grabby hand motion at him and he smiles, soon making his way to the bed as well, cuddling up beside you. You used his still flesh side as a pillow as he laid on his back. “I’m sorry Genji.”

He ran fingers along your scalp, scratching softly, putting you in a trance. “I know you don’t do field work anymore but you still need to rest.”

“I will, I will.” Was all you could mumble out before almost instantly falling asleep. the last thing you felt was his lips against your forehead.

The next morning Genji barley let you leave the bedroom after you slept for nearly 14 hours. He made you food and sat and ate with you in the bed while the two of you watched Cowboy Bebop. Your work could wait till monday, you just wanted to enjoy the last day of the weekend resting with him.

—————————————————————

Ramattra

you were out for a walk with Ramattra

the spring air buzzed with life as you two passed by trees, bird song filling silence, bees resting on flowers as they bumbled their fat little bodies around

it was a nice walk, one to clear your mind and his systems, just to think and be together

you didn’t see a tree root and you fell and ate dirt, twisting your ankle

“oh ow ow ow ow ow.” you let out a string of curses from behind clenched teeth.

Your ankle throbbed, it felt warm and tingly at the same time, pain shooting through your foot and up your shin. You do what your dumb brain tells you to and you roll it to make sure it’s not broken, thankfully it isn’t but the pain takes the air from your lungs with a sharp gasp.

Ramattra stared down at you on the ground, unmoving as he studied you. He watched as you tried to get back up with only the use of one leg, holding onto a tree for support as you stood with your leg raised like a dog that’s paw got stepped on.

“Fragile things you humans are. You tripped and now you can’t stand?” His voice wasn’t as harsh as it once was many moons ago, but he still said it with some form of exasperation.

You set your foot on the ground, testing it and instantly regretting it as pain erupts again.

You ignore his comment, “Oh gods I don’t know if i can walk back.”

“Weakling.” He said but held out his arm for you to take. There was no malice in his vocal synthesizers.

You did, leaning against him. Thanking him as you both turned around and took a step to head back to base. As you tried to put weight on your ankle you winced and let out a hiss.

“I really fucked myself up good.” You laugh a little as you stare down at your feet.

“Do you need me to carry you?” His voice buzzed with slight concern, you wouldn’t have noticed it unless you had spent enough time with the Omnic, and you have.

You look up at him with a smirk, a look that pokes him, “You goin soft on me Ram?”

He tenses a tiny tiny bit more than he already was, “No!” He said a bit too quickly. “It would take us ages to get back with your condition and I am not going to wait on you. It would be faster for me to carry you there. Simple.”

You ponder for a second, before nodding your head. Why would you ever give up the opportunity to be carried by this giant?

Ramattra let’s out a fake sigh and grabs you by the midsection, lifting you up and placing your butt on his right shoulder. You were expecting to be carried in his arms but sitting on his shoulder was way more fun already. You felt like a bird resting on his broad shoulders.

“Thanks, you big softie.” You pat his head to make your point.

He moves his right arm to hold your hips, keeping you stable and you use his arm as a grip. “I’m not doing this for you.” He grumbled but the way he made sure you weren’t going to fall off said otherwise.

He waited for you to give the word and he started to make his way back, you on his shoulder and enjoying being really tall.

[dark-twist-fairytales]

Is it 2 am? Yes, absolutely. Angsty headcanon time:

Everyone processes trauma and everything differently, right? Some better than others. We've seen mental states be better than others, so I propose:

Kai bottles his trauma in a very tight jar, unhealthy and ignoring it for so long, eventually that jar will have to break.

It's been a non-stop go for all that we've seen of him.

Whenever that jar finally cracks and breaks, Kai goes completely numb. He's suddenly so much calmer in his actions, his voice doesn't raise in octaves anymore when he's wildly inconvenienced or even joking annoyances, and he's completely mellowed out. Not in the same way as Jay, where he bounces back within 3 to 5 business days (jab to season 9), but in a very different way.

Kai's feisty attitude is completely gone. For weeks. His mind trying to process the sheer amount of shit he's seen, all that he's lost and gained over the years, and so so much more. The anger, the happiness, the sadness, the act he displayed. Events replaying over and over, the amount of damage done to his body.

Kai's barely a human being at that point, falling into a mild depression while his mind practically recalibrates itself. He's watched the other's heal and grow and become more and better... Now? Maybe.. Maybe it's his turn.

Until one of the other's gets injured in battle and suddenly Kai is sobbing in the medical bay from the sheer fucking worry over them. It could be as small as a slash to as large as broken bones/metals, he's going to sob because now everything is out. That jar got destroyed. It's long been destroyed. The only thing standing between himself and healing is constant worry and fretting over the other's.

An eventual agreement comes around: Lloyd takes himself to therapy, if Kai just talks with/to them.

Yes, they both hold up to their end of the deal. No, Kai doesn't tell everything, but what he does say is enough.

[blindmagdalena]

Writer Tag

thanks for the tag @venus-haze and @sehtoast 🖤 technically i have two AO3 accounts (my og one with all my supernatural fics) but i'm just gonna use my homelander/the boys one for this.

How many works do you have on AO3? 31

What's your total AO3 word count? 225k

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Bit By Bit We Fall In Love

First Time's the Charm

Say It

Eat Your Ego, Honey

Truly, Madly, Deeply

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? yes! although i didn't used to for some reason. lately my feeling is that they took the time to comment, so i always try to take the time to show appreciation for that.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending? definitely A Troublesome Transition. i don't really do angst or character death all that often, but this one was cathartic to write.

What’s the fic you've written with the happiest ending? lol pretty much all of my fics have pretty happy endings. maybe Don't Fret Precious ( I'm Here ) ? it's a darker fic that definitely had the potential to be very angsty, but the reveal at the end and the devotion that these two lunatics have to one another is pretty sweet... maybe? LOL

Do you write crossovers? nah

Have you ever received hate on a fic? i got one "wtf is this" type comment on a fic on tumblr once, but i was pretty quick to block the person. i think mostly people are just surprised Homelander has the fandom he does

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? yes. very much so. pretty much any kind. i feel like i'm fairly well known for schmoopy sentimental sex and dirty talk though

Have you ever had a fic stolen? not that i know of!

Have you ever had a fic translated? yes! Hide and Seek was translated into spanish.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? sort of! All That Glitters was a fic collab with @anon-nee, for which they were absolutely instrumental in the worldbuilding and keeping me motivated to keep writing. huge shoutouts to @jethrowest and @irenadel and everyone who consistently lets me blow up their dm's with my wips and helps me when i'm struggling to put words on the page. 🖤

What's your all-time favorite ship? homelander x all these incredibly sexy oc's my friends make

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will? Puppet Master. i had really big plans for this one, but unfortunately it got lost in the shuffle and i've since repurposed the ideas i had for it.

What are your writing strengths? i think my strengths are characterization and keeping the world feeling grounded/true to the source material.

What are your writing weaknesses? i have a lot of insecurities about my fics being boring or not eventful enough. a lot of the times i focus so much on interpersonal relationships, i don't think there's really enough happening in the story. i'm also bad at bringing in ensemble casts. my fics definitely focus very heavily on just the two leads.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? i tend to avoid it unless it's very simple established pet names/phrases or something. i use italics and descriptors if they're not speaking in english. if the POV character isn't meant to understand, i'll just describe how the characters are speaking to one another in that language.

What was the first fandom you wrote for? yu yu hakusho on quizilla LOL i was a HUGE weeb. also wrote for inuyasha.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to kimiko/annie..... they deserve each other......

What's your favorite fic you've written? probably Eat Your Ego, Honey. it's my first multichapter fic, and i'm DETERMINED to finish it. i really love Layla, and i'm so touched by how everyone has responded to her. oc's can be a bit of a sore spot for me, but the reception to that fic really keeps me going and makes me so, so happy. plus i just think it's some of my best writing.

No pressure tags: @xieyaohuan @socially-awkward-skeleton @hom3landr @kosmochlor @irenadel @amostimprobabledream uhhh anyone who has an AO3 okay if you wanna fill this out just say i tagged you lol

[celestie0]

i HATE reading ongoing fanfics with a passion but i made an exception just 4 you 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 your works r so good i found you from kickoff and i just caught up to the recent chapter of ihm. I JUST WANT TO READ MORE ITS SOOOOOOOOO BAADDDD ive been looking through your page to get every single crumb that i can get. (and yes, i do follow you)

okay now that i actually think about it, i technically found you on ao3 from your rolex!gojo oneshot but i didn’t know that you wrote that fic until like a few days ago. and i was like so mind blown when i found out because it was one of the first few fanfics that got me into ao3/tumblr in the first place (specifically gojo x reader fics because im a sucker 4 that man. i literally cant read anything else)

BUT ANYWAY i really like your writing and i’m super excited 4 new chapters!!!! at least until angst comes in ihm (or kickoff, if there’s gonna be another angsty part) ugh i literally do not know how i’m gonna function when the time comes because whenever i read angst i just NEED to keep reading more until things get better in the story so i can like rest in peace or something??? i dont really know either 😞😵‍💫

omg stop thanks so much <3 as a fellow dislike of ongoing fics reader, i'm so grateful that you picked up my ongoing fics!! xD i think we've all had that fic that we were heavily invested in and then the author suddenly dropped it so we just avoid ongoing fics like the plague after that 💀💀💀 aaa thanks for the love for my stories <3

OMG yes i've had quite a few people tell me they found me through luxury & lingerie kind of unassumingly and then started reading my series. i guess oneshots have good reach haha.

i'm so happy to know you're looking forward to more! and yes there is another angst arc in kickoff mmm will probs begin in two chapters from now, and then ihm will have quite a bit of angst scattered throughout. i always downplay the angst level in my fics bc i feel like in comparison to some other fics i've read my angst is pretty mild haha but i'll just have to see how my readers feel ab it :0 fret not tho babes all my series will have happy endings!!

[toasecretsanta]

From @tsarinatorment for NatureGuardian using the prompt Percy has heart to heart talk with Nico about everything (Happy or ANGSTY)

Nico frowned as he perched on the porch of the Big House, listening to the chaos of the infirmary.  Will had firmly kicked him out, pointing out that due to his early fade out from the battle, he’d been away from Apollo’s summoned miniature plague and therefore hadn’t caught it – and his boyfriend wanted it to stay that way.

Not that Nico could say he particularly minded not being in the thick of things, especially when that involved almost the entire camp’s population sneezing and snivelling so badly that none of them could stay on their feet, but he did mind that Will was running around and treating everyone else near enough solo, what with Kayla and Austin as two of the worst-affected, and Apollo himself being… well.

Will was a much better healer than Lester, even if Apollo clearly cared, and was trying.

Still, Nico wasn’t happy about the whole thing, and the company that had just appeared from the direction of the lake.

“Hey,” Percy said, grabbing one of the porch chairs and spinning it around before straddling it backwards.  His hair was wet, so clearly he’d let it get wet on purpose during his clean-up of the Colossus.  Nico suspected it was to drive away the hay fever fumes.

He grunted back at him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Percy.  Percy had been his hero since he was a kid, even if Nico had managed to shift the hero-worship-crush nonsense his younger self had had on the son of Poseidon.  He just didn’t want to deal with Percy right then.

Or at any point in the near future, really.

“This Apollo thing is a mess,” the older demigod said after a few more moments, obviously not getting the hint that Nico didn’t really want his company right then.

He grunted again, shrugging because Percy wasn’t exactly wrong, and looked back towards the infirmary again.  Occasionally, he could catch a glimpse of Will as he flitted about between beds.

“How’s Will holding up?” Percy asked him.  “Given… well…”  He trailed off awkwardly.

“He’s coping,” Nico muttered.  Badly, he added silently, which was another reason why he didn’t like being banished from the infirmary while Will fretted over everyone else and bossed his turned-mortal dad around.  Will was going to burn himself out and Nico hated the feeling of helplessness he got whenever that happened.

“Ah,” Percy grimaced, apparently hearing the silent addition.  “How about you, Nico?  We haven’t spoken in a while.”

There was no way Percy was dumb enough to not realise Nico didn’t want to have this conversation, but he stayed slouched on his backwards chair as though he didn’t have a clue, and part of Nico wanted to push him off, just to break the cool hero fa��ade Percy had going on.  He’d seen him flailing frantically enough times to know he wasn’t so much a cool hero as just another demigod.

Unfortunately, the annoying little-kid part of Nico that had been making itself known more and more since he’d officially started living at camp and socialising with demigods – occasionally even those whose names didn’t start with Will and end with Solace – still saw Percy as the cool hero, and wouldn’t let him even give Percy a small nudge.

“Surviving,” he said instead.  “Not dissolving into shadows much anymore.”

The smile Percy gave him was genuine, because of course Percy was genuinely glad that Nico wasn’t about to fade from existence.  It was the sort of smile that would’ve made his stomach do backflips and butterflies, and drag yes out of his mouth to everything Percy said a year ago.  Now, it just gave him phantom butterflies, barely there but enough to remind him of what had been, before he’d met Will and discovered what a reciprocated crush felt like.

Discovered the difference between loving someone, and the idea of someone.

“I’m glad,” Percy said.  “Glad that you’re doing better, I mean.  I was a bit worried when I didn’t see you in the fight.”  The phantom butterflies dissolved as Nico’s stomach twisted unhappily at the reminder that he’d been near enough useless in the fight.

Percy, for all that he’d turned up to save the day again, had moved on from camp.  Sure, he dropped by every so often, but everyone knew he was going to Camp Jupiter at the end of the summer with Annabeth.  Nico didn’t blame him for wanting to live somewhere that was near-guaranteed to be safe from monsters taking opportunistic pot-shots, he didn’t.  Besides, another full summer at camp being reminded that he’d once had a crush on the heroic Perseus Jackson sounded like hell.

But Nico was uncomfortably aware that that left him as the camp’s resident Big Three kid, with all the expectations that came with it.  Percy was a front-line fighter, Thalia had been a protective pine tree for years, and Nico…

Well, Nico should be a front-line fighter, except he was also more of a guerilla warrior – or would be, if he could shadow travel without passing out almost immediately afterwards.  He didn’t regret the journey back from Greece with the statue, but he hated what it had done to his ability to travel through the shadows.

He hated how much it worried Will, too.

“I wasn’t needed,” he deflected, which was a lie in as much as his shadow travel had been the fastest way to get the flying chariot away from Sherman’s control, but otherwise true because he hadn’t been. Not when Apollo had already rescued all the demigods and had a plan all sorted that didn’t include him.

He pretended not to see the way Percy’s sea-green eyes darkened in disapproval.  “You’re always needed, Nico,” he said, and Nico scoffed.

“I wasn’t needed then,” he repeated, clarified.  “Apollo had it in hand just fine without me.”

The noise Percy made proved that his excuse wasn’t flying at all.  “No he didn’t,” he said.  “That guy did not have that in hand at all.”  Nico glanced over to see him sending a look at the infirmary, one that was usually reserved for people Percy didn’t really respect much.  “Apollo’s not the worst god, sure,” he continued, “but he’s still…”  He trailed off, scrunching his face up as he clearly tried to search for the word he meant.  “Flighty.  He did help us out once, I guess, but… he was kind of lame every other time I’ve met him.  This week very much included.”

Nico’s one encounter with the godly Apollo had included the first time he’d been treated decently since discovering he was a demigod, and now that the rose-tinted glasses he’d once viewed Percy with had shattered, Apollo’s kindness stood out even more amongst the sea of betrayal, abandonment, and dismissal he’d received that day.

Still, he couldn’t quite disagree with Percy’s assessment.  “I suppose,” he said.  “He’s definitely not the worst, for a god.”  Apollo cared, or was at least doing a very good job of pretending to.  Will was struggling with a lot of the current mortal-god situation, but the one thing he seemed to have accepted without any problems was his dad’s personality, so Nico was inclined to let that point stand unchallenged.  “Or a mortal-god.”

“He was on the front lines,” Percy agreed.  “And isn’t he trying to help Will now?”

Nico snorted.  “Trying to,” he said, not bothering to mention that Apollo was still doing a better job than he would.  Despite Will’s best efforts, he was not a natural at helping patients.

“It’s his own fault if he gets sick,” Percy pointed out, “given he summoned the thing in the first place.”

“As long as it doesn’t make Will ill,” Nico grumbled.  Percy sent him a teasing grin.

“If Will gets sick, you’ll just have to look after him,” he said.  “Not that I think I’ve ever seen Will get sick.”

“It happens,” Nico said shortly, although admittedly whenever he had seen him ill, it had been because he’d pushed himself too hard.

Like he was threatening to do again now.

“You’ll know better than me,” Percy admitted easily.  “In that case, good luck!”  Finally he stood up, kicking his chair to one side haphazardly.  Nico watched him wander towards the Big House, where Rachel’s shock of red curls stood out in the fading evening light.  “You’re good for each other, I think,” he added after a moment.  “I’m glad you’re happy again, Nico.”

Was Nico happy?  Not right then, with his boyfriend stuck with a bunch of ill kids of his own volition.  But overall?

“I’m getting there,” he admitted under his breath as Percy disappeared.  “I’ll get there.”

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

To Have Loved and Lost Part Eight

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: George Russell x Reader

Rating: M

Notes: Hiiiii welcome baaaaaack thank you for reaaaaadiiiiiiiing this chapter is hecking looooooooong

Warnings: Still slightly angsty but not nearly as angsty as the one that i wrote, what, 87 years ago; Gilded Age Manners™; pining; The One That Got Away; not a traditional happy ending

Bonus points if you catch the Gone with the Wind reference in this chapter

Summary: It was as if his entire world had been tipped on its head. He’d squared facts away with himself years ago. His affections had been mislaid; his hopes were dashed, and he’d been thrown over for a far richer man. In his youth, he had put the letters that he had received away rather than burn them, and for what? To someday rub her face in them? To tutor Larry in false hopes, in the often fickle affections of the female sex? 

The ball at Mrs. Fane’s was where Larry began to put the pieces together. 

The two of them had each given him individual pieces of the puzzle—one, an edge, the other, a middle. One by one, a picture built clearly in his mind. 

It had started with his father’s remembrance—a bitter little smile as Gladys fretted over a dress. 

“The pout reminds me of a girl I once knew,” He’d admitted, watching Gladys turn to and fro, eyeing herself in the mirror. “She used to say that fineries made her uncomfortable, that she looked awful in them. As if she was,” He chuckled, “‘A mule in a horse’s harness’.” 

“A girl?” Larry asked. “The one before mother?” 

Discomfort had flashed across George’s face so quickly that if Larry had so much as blinked, he might’ve missed it. His father's typically calm demeanor had replaced the upset just a moment later, and he’d given a short nod. 

“Yes.” 

The admission had been a surprise—and the phrase that his father had uttered had been so unusual that it had stayed in Larry's mind. 

Hearing it again was jarring. Larry had only been trying to pay a compliment to the latest family to be drawn into their orbit. His mother had implored him to take a turn or two with a spinster cousin—just a couple of dances, Bertha had insisted, something to flatter the poor woman.

They’d made easy enough small talk during the following two waltzes, and Larry hadn’t excused himself the once the songs had ended. Instead, he kept his hold on her arm, steering the two of them toward the refreshments table. She seemed a quick woman, smart, and clever, with none of the spirit that he’d expect of a spinster. 

“Your dress is lovely.” 

He had meant it sincerely. But she’d chuckled, and his own smile had faltered.

“There’s no need for exaggeration, Mr. Russell.” 

“Exaggeration?” 

“I look like a mule in a horse’s harness.” 

It was as if another puzzle piece clicked into place. Larry couldn’t help but stare, his face going hot with realization as his gaze darted between her, and where his parents were conversing on the other side of the room. As soon as he saw his father begin to glance in his direction, he guiltily turned away, plucking up a glass of lemonade and taking so hasty a swig that he nearly choked on it. 

She regarded him with confusion then, brow furrowing. 

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Russell?” 

“I am,” He plastered on a smile. “I apologize, I thought I…Where was it you said that you were from?” 

Her face twisted with slight confusion. “All over,” She shrugged, “But, most recently, our family settled up in Albany.” 

“They’re not from Albany, then.” 

“No, no,” She chuckled, casting her gaze around. “Nothing as grand as all that. Franklin and I were raised in a very small town out West. Of course, it boomed when oil was found.” 

“Of course. Whereabouts? I’m sure my mother mentioned, but I seem to have forgotten.” 

Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the glass, raising it to her lips as she admitted, “Stevensville.” 

And then she took a long sip, as if she needed to wash the taste of the town’s name from her mouth. 

--  

“Did you enjoy yourself?” 

“Very much,” Gladys smiled gratefully, “But I’m awfully tired.” 

“You ought to get up to bed,” Bertha urged, “We have a meeting with Miss Barton in the morning.” 

“Of course. Goodnight, father. Goodnight, Larry. Goodnight, mother.” 

George watched as Gladys ascended the stairs. Larry followed not far behind, and Bertha excused herself to speak with Mrs. Bruce about tweaking arrangements for the following day. That was more than alright with George. He made his way to his study, recalling his evening of stolen glances.

She had looked lovely. The dress had suited her, though she had seemed a touch uncomfortable. He smiled at the thought. She always hated fineries. George hadn’t meant to watch, and he was certain that every look had gone entirely unnoticed by her—especially when she’d taken a turn with Larry. She certainly danced better than she used to. George had taught her—or, tried to—when they’d been together in Stevensville. It had started as a friendly endeavor, before their feelings for one another had flourished. She’d asked him, and he couldn’t help but oblige. 

He’d taken her hand, unable to help noting the dry roughness of her palm from her hours of work, and led her out to the field of high grass behind the boarding house. He’d shown her the steps one by one, encouraging her as she tripped over her feet, and urging her on as her steps became more smooth. He’d seen a spark of joy in her eyes, a wide smile turning her lips up. It was a look that he’d quickly become addicted to. 

George opened the door to his office, glancing down the hall before shutting the door behind himself. He’d received a small parcel from Clay before they’d left for the ball, and hadn’t had a chance to open it before they’d gone. Now, he crossed to his desk, opening the drawer where he’d left the bundle of papers. Clay’s note was on the top in his neat scrawl. George couldn’t help but smile a little. He hoped that Clay was home getting some rest, the poor devil. He’d been in Stevensville for nearly a week chasing down the answers that George had sought. 

George took up his letter opener, slicing open the top of Clay’s note and drawing it from the envelope. His eyes skimmed the contents, catching on mother’s death certificate, boarding house, post office, and unsent letters. 

Unsent letters…

George’s eyes dropped to the remaining stack of letters. He set down Clay’s note, reaching for the first time-aged envelope. He skimmed her familiar handwriting, eyeing the address—the first boarding house that he’d stayed in once he’d arrived in New York. He opened it gingerly, unfolding it as though it may disintegrate in his hands if he wasn't careful.

Darling George—

I trust that you have, by now, safely arrived in New York. I do hope that I’ve written this to the correct address. I did check it against the one that you gave me at least four times. If I’m wrong, I shall never live it down, and I hope that you won’t be upset with me. I am trying, love. 

Everything seems so much more difficult without you here. In truth, nothing has changed, but I feel your loss so greatly. Days seem to move far slower—evenings go at a snail’s pace. I find myself searching for you in the face of every stranger. Please send for me once you’re settled. I would be there now if only you’d let me leave with you.

George couldn’t finish it. His heart had begun to pound in his chest. He dropped the letter on his desk, taking up the next and opening it with far less care than he had the first. 

My dear, George,

It’s been three weeks since I’ve heard from you. I can only hope that it’s because you’ve been terribly busy, and not because you’ve forgotten about me. I have my bag packed, and I’ve saved enough fare for the train. I will come the moment you call. I hope that New York is treating you well. 

He dropped that one without finishing it as well, fumbling fingers reaching for the next one as his blood ran hot. He tore the next one open with such vehemence that the letter itself wound up with a small tear in the middle as he opened it, the crinkling of the paper clogging his ears—

George—

Are you hurt? Are you unwell? I find myself wondering if you’re perhaps laying in a gutter somewhere, unable to ask for help. Perhaps your fingers have been crushed and you’re unable to write, or you’ve caught some deathly cold and your throat is too raw to dictate a letter. Or perhaps you’ve changed your mind about our life together. 

I implore you to send me any signal that you’re well, even if it is to cut ties. I’ve been losing sleep for worrying

He dropped it atop the other unfolded letters, opening the next, and the next, and the next. As he reached the bottom of the pile, he dropped into his chair, his hand raising to undo his bow tie and yank open his collar as his face flared with heat. God’s teeth, when did the room become so hot? When did his hands begin to shake? 

He wanted a drink. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to find some way to go back to Stevensville, to take her with him when he’d first left. It could’ve meant scandal of her family, but they could’ve found a way—a rushed, courthouse wedding to appease propriety. George pushed a harsh breath out through his nose, his hand raking through his hair. 

It was as if his entire world had been tipped on its head. He’d squared facts away with himself years ago. His affections had been mislaid; his hopes were dashed, and he’d been thrown over for a far richer man. In his youth, he had put the letters that he had received away rather than burn them, and for what? To someday rub her face in them? To tutor Larry in false hopes, in the often fickle affections of the female sex? 

George lowered himself into his seat, scrubbing his hand across his beard. He found his gaze drifting toward the clock. It was far too late, far too late, but—

For the first time in a long time, he was unable to control himself. He hopped up, snatching the letters and binding them up in twine again. He rounded his desk, yanking the rope to call downstairs. He wasn’t sure quite what his plan was—if he got the butler, or if he caught her in her night clothes—Poor thing, she’d likely feel the need to redress, and after the ball, too, but he couldn’t wait until morning. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“The carriage, Church.” 

He glanced up, just catching the sight of Church’s startled expression before he nodded, “Yes, sir.” 

He took a step back, nodding and closing the door behind himself. George reached down, fingers fumbling to do up his bow tie and rebutton his collar. If he was going to turn up at such an unfortunate hour, he could, at least, keep from seeming as though he was in his cups. 

--  

“Miss?” 

You turned in your vanity seat back toward the door with an expectant frown, brows raising. “Yes, Kate?” 

“There’s someone here to see you.” 

Your brow furrowed, eyes darting toward the clock. At this hour? It must be a very great emergency. 

“Who is it?” 

“It…” Kate glanced over her shoulder nervously before skulking deeper into the room, whispering, “It’s Mr. Russell. He’s waiting in his carriage.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, and your face twisted with confusion. Surely it couldn’t be the younger Mr. Russell; you hadn’t left anything at the Fane’s, and you knew better than to expect that you’d somehow aroused the passions of a young man with two waltzes. You cleared your throat, turning back to your vanity as heat rose in your face. 

“I see,” You nodded. You needed a plan of attack. You needed to dress, see him inside and make this as quick and painless as possible. You cleared your throat, leaping up. “Help me dress.” 

“Should I wake Mr. Hughes?” 

“Thank you, no. If Mr. Russell wanted to speak with Mr. Hughes, he would’ve asked for him. Have Barker invite Mr. Russell inside.” 

--  

It was a herculean labor, but you were hurrying down the steps of the rented house within fifteen minutes. You tightened your coat around yourself, glancing warily up and down the block before you poked your head into the carriage. You could just make him out in the low light of the evening. 

“May I invite you inside?” 

“Your man already tried,” George nodded over your shoulder. “Please get in.” 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mr. Russell.” 

“What causes your concern? Your reputation?” George’s brows rose. “We won’t move from this spot, but I need to speak with you in private.” 

“We could speak privately inside. No one else is awake.” 

“Your servants are, and servants talk.” 

“But footmen don’t?” You arched a brow. George’s lips twitched before he opened the door, forcing you to step back. 

“Please,” He urged, holding a hand out. Your stomach flipped as you glanced toward it. You suddenly had a flash to your past—to the fields of high grass behind the boarding house in Stevensville, and the low hum of his voice marking out the pace of a waltz. You hesitated a moment more before you took hold of his hand, letting him help you up and inside. 

You settled back in the seat opposite his hesitantly, glancing around the plush interior. You would have to get Franklin one of these. You froze, realizing that you’d been staring—and that Mr. Russell was watching you, still. You forced yourself to sit up straighter, flattening your expression and clasping your hands in your lap. 

“You can hardly expect me to stay out here in this way for long, Mr. Russell. This is highly irregular and incredibly improper.” 

For a moment, Mr. Russell said nothing, and it was a fight to keep from wringing your hands. Then, you watched him reach into his inner coat pocket, fishing around for a moment. You heard the rustle of papers, and you frowned. 

“Surely any contracts you’re entering into with Franklin can be handled by—” You fell silent once you saw the parcel in his hand. Your brow furrowed. He held it out before you could ask for clarification. You reached for it, careful to keep your gloved fingertips from brushing his as you took hold of them. You looked down, brow furrowing more deeply at the sight of the letters, your heart skipping in your chest. You knew that handwriting—you knew that address. 

“...Where did you get these?” You breathed. You tipped the stack toward yourself, throat drying. “You’ve opened them.” 

“I did, but only tonight.” 

“Tonight?” 

“An associate of mine recently recovered them.” 

The fact made your stomach churn. George pushed on: 

“They were at the post office in Stevensville. It seems that your mother paid and ordered any communications between the two of us stopped and held.”

You couldn’t help it, then. You slouched back in your seat. 

“I thought you’d always had them,” You admitted quietly. 

“I thought you’d abandoned me.” 

“I thought the same of you.” Your eyes flitted toward George, then away again as you cleared your throat. “Have you anything else that you came here for?” 

“None.” 

“Well.” You set the letters aside, and stood, climbing down from the carriage. “Then I’ll thank you to come back when the sun is up, and at a regular time, Mr. Russell.” 

“And what would you like me to do with these?” He leaned forward, taking up the letters and holding them out. 

“Read them, burn them, line a birdcage with them. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“You’ve nothing to say?” 

“On this matter, no. I am resigned.” 

Mr. Russell’s hand landed on yours the moment you closed the carriage door. You hurriedly yanked your hand back from the door, face flaring with indignant heat. 

“I could never imagine you as resigned.” 

“No?” Your brows raised. “Not as resigned, but you could imagine me as a fickle, unfaithful, uncaring shrew? Perhaps you could imagine some way for the two of us to turn the hands of time back and keep my mother from filling your head with lies. But I know better than to believe in miracles, and I think I’ve had quite enough of your imagination for one evening, Mr. Russell. Goodnight.” 

You turned without waiting for an answer, striding back toward the house. You fought to keep your composure in front of Kate, thanking her for her help and service, and—

“Please do not mention this to Mr. Hughes.” 

“No, ma’am.” Kate took a step back toward the door, froze, then took a step forward again. “But if he should ask?” 

“Tell him that he can take the matter up with me directly.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Thank you again, Kate. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

She smiled on her way out, and you did your best to find it genuine—but you could only imagine the way the staff tongues would be wagging. You could practically see the way they’d eye you at breakfast, the smug sidelong glances and nudges as you gave the day’s orders. Of course, you hadn’t been in the carriage long enough for anything of substance to happen, but that didn’t matter. In future, you’d have to ask Mr. Russell to refrain from taking any actions that would put you in a compromising position. 

Well, in future, you were certain that your interactions with Mr. Russell would be fairly limited. 

-- 

“Of course, my theory is rather far-fetched—“

“On the contrary!” Marian insisted. “The prospect is intriguing.” 

Larry ducked his head bashfully, turning to face the park’s path. Gladys and her ladies maid were not too far ahead of them. He couldn’t help but wonder at the way they were taking turns, glancing back toward him and Marian every few moments before leaning in and giggling with one another. 

“Do you really think that she and your father knew one another in Stevensville?” Marian pressed on, seemingly unaware of the intermittent attention that they were receiving from out ahead of them. 

“It’s certainly a possibility. Of course, the phrase that my father mentioned may simply be a local colloquialism, and I may have the wrong end of the stick in this matter.” 

“There must be a way to approach the matter delicately.” 

“Approach?” Larry’s brow furrowed as his steps slowed. “You don’t really mean to bring this matter to her?” 

“Why not? Perhaps she and your father could be friends again. Strengthening their bond could strengthen the business between your families.” 

Larry’s lips pursed as he considered. 

“Perhaps,” He conceded. He glanced down to find Marian watching him curiously. He chuckled nervously, brow furrowing. “What is it?” 

“Mrs. Fish mentioned a production of Romeo & Juliet coming to the city. It will be performed at one of the more reputable theaters. Aunt Agnes is not a fan of theater, but she considers Shakespeare’s works significant. Perhaps we could go, and invite Eleanor. We would need chaperones, of course,” She leaned in, lowering her voice a touch. Larry couldn’t help his smile widening at the sight of the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 

“Of course,” He conceded. “But if we’re wrong?” 

“Then we've all simply spent a pleasant evening at the theater without consequence. But if we’re right?” 

Larry thought for a moment, his stomach twisting with nerves. If they were right…Perhaps all hell would break loose. 

--  

The theater was a grand space. The box’s interior was plush, with cushioned red velvet seats. You’d perhaps unfairly expected it to be something of a squeeze with your evening gowns, as well as Eleanor and Marian’s, but the seats were spaced well enough. You sat in the middle of the three seats in the back row of the box, seated somewhat awkwardly between the two Mr. Russell’s; Larry sat on your left, closer to the stage, and George on your right, further from it. Eleanor sat just in front of you, in the very front box seat, and Marian was to her right, in front of Mr. Russell. 

You never attended much theater. It was considered obscene by your mother, and Franklin had only had a single occasion to take you to while you were in Chicago. That play had been dreadful—long, and boring. It had been a battle to stay awake.

This invitation had taken you by surprise, but you’d been glad for it. It had become increasingly difficult for Eleanor to be left out of social events, and she’d been growing antsy and moody, having to spend so much time at home. She seemed bright and eager now, unable to keep still or contain her giddiness.  She was peering around the theater in wonder, pointing the various features out to Marian—the gold filigree decorating the walls and ceiling; the fineries of other theater patrons; the grandness of the stage. For your nerves and discomfort, you couldn’t help but smile at Eleanor’s joy. 

“Are you familiar with the play?” Larry asked softly as he leaned toward. 

“Not particularly,” You admitted, shaking your head. 

“It’s a tragedy. A tale of star-crossed lovers.” 

The words made your stomach flip. You swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to shift in your seat. It sounded familiar. You fought the urge to glance toward Mr. Russell, to see if it pricked the same memory, the same interest. You saw the flash of his cuff link out of the corner of your eye, and your hands tightened around your fan. You could push the feeling away—you would push the feeling away. The evening was certain to be a long one if you couldn’t manage it. 

--  

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.”

It was as though a spector had sprung your past and put a scare into you. The utterance of that line made your heart leap into your throat, your face going hot. Your grip grew so tight on the fan that you were certain you would break it. You felt faint, almost—as if you were set to swoon back in the chair, only to be awakened by a dose of smelling salts. A cold sweat broke on your brow, and you raised your glove to dab at the few beads. You fought to keep your breathing steady, and even, biting the inside of your cheek and forcing your eyes to remain on the stage, even as the play moved on and simply washed over you. 

“Are you quite alright?” 

It would be an innocent enough question from anyone else, but coming from George Russell, it felt like a targeted barb. You could see Marian and Larry tipping their heads to glance at you in your periphery; you were grateful that Eleanor is so immersed in the play that she didn’t catch on Mr. Russell’s query at all. 

Your stiff nod was your only reply. You didn’t trust your voice in this moment, certain that opening your mouth would let out the wail building up behind your lips. 

It was in the past. 

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.” 

It was a time that you had known once, and would not know again. 

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.”

The presence of the man who had once murmured those words, who had once pressed a cuff link into your palm as you’d given him your best ribbon, was purely and painfully coincidental. 

You managed to hold completely still and keep silent throughout the remainder of the first half, but as soon as the curtain closed for intermission, you were out of your chair, murmuring, “Excuse me,” and leaving the box before either man had a chance to rise to their feet. You hurried to step into the hall, walking at double the polite pace, desperate to find some air or quiet as the theater began to fill with chatter, and the hall flooded with people. 

-- 

You were almost certain that the small side balcony that you found was not meant for you. For the stagehands, perhaps. It was littered with cigarette butts, overlooking an alley that reeked of piss and garbage. Still, it was quiet, and secluded, and it gave you the space that you needed to quietly shake apart. 

You shed far fewer tears than you thought you would, your hands grasping so tightly to the railing that you were certain the skin would become irritated beneath your gloves. You were unsure how long you had been out there, but you were certain it was well past intermission. 

“There you are.” 

The interruption nearly scared you out of your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, tightening your hold on the railing. 

“You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“Neither should you,” Mr. Russell argued. 

“Who is watching the children?” 

“Mrs. Fane is looking after them.” 

Well. That was a small relief—but it was certain to get back to Mrs. Russell, and Mrs. Van Rhijn.  

“Are you well?” Mr. Russell plied, and a strangled laugh escaped your throat. 

“I will be fine in a moment.” 

“The second half of the play has started.” 

“I will return presently.” 

You expected and hoped to hear the retreat of George’s feet. Instead, you heard a soft sigh, and the gentle thump of his dress shoes against the balcony’s wooden slats as he grew closer. 

“You ought to go back inside, Mr. Russell.” 

“Not until I am certain that you’re well.” 

“My wellbeing no longer any concern of yours.” 

You nearly flinched away from his hand as he rested it on your shoulder. Rather than draw it away, he slid it down a touch, turning you to face him. You kept your gaze set stalwartly on his bow tie, even as you longed to meet his eye, to try and ascertain what he may be thinking. 

“You’ve been crying,” He murmured. 

“I haven’t,” You grumbled petulantly. 

“You have. I’ve seen that look before.” He raised his hand, gently curling his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up. You glanced away still, stubborn in your upset. 

“For the sake of our families,” He said softly, “Might we put this quarrel behind us?” 

“I have no quarrel with you.” 

He sighed again, tipping his head into your gaze. You were desperate to look away, but his dark, knowing eyes held to yours, and you were powerless to draw yourself from it. 

“We were young,” He insisted, “And we were lied to. I am sorry my reception of you was so cold when we first met in New York. I did not know any better.” 

The words made your lower lip tremble, a fresh wave of tears springing up in your eyes. He let you pry your chin from his grip and turn your head then, reaching into his pocket and proffering his handkerchief. You took it with mumbled thanks, dabbing at your eyes. 

“And I am sorry that my mother acted as she did,” You managed after a few moments. 

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. You couldn’t know.” 

“I should’ve suspected,” You shook your head. “I should’ve known. I should’ve tried harder to find you.” 

He made no argument, simply watched as you dried your eyes before you held the handkerchief back out to him. He waved you off lightly, and you drew it back to yourself, balling the fabric up in your hands. 

“Would you like for me to call for your carriage?” He offered. 

“No! No,” You shook your head. “Eleanor would insist on coming with me—She’d be devastated if we left before the play ended.” You sniffled softly, rolling your shoulders back and forcing a neutral expression. “Go on back inside. I’ll be there in a moment.” 

“If you’re not, I’ll come and get you myself.” 

The warning was a teased one, and you were stunned to find Mr. Russell smiling at you, just a little. You were stunned that it made you smile, too. 

“Go on,” You urged again, nodding him back toward the door. He turned, giving you one last look before leaving. You took the chance and the quiet to raise the handkerchief, blowing your nose properly. Lord above, could it truly be that simple? Things between yourself and Mr. Russell would never be the same, but perhaps you could step forward together in this way, with mutual respect, mutual understanding, and a true mutual want for the well being of one another, and your families. 

It seemed almost too good to be true. 

--  

“Did you enjoy the play?” Marian plied.

“I did,” You nod before nodding toward where Eleanor had fallen asleep on you with the swaying of the carriage, “And Eleanor did as well. Thank you again for extending the invitation.” 

“Not at all,” Marian smiled. It was a moment before she offered, “Mr. Russell said that you had a slight headache at intermission.” 

A good cover. You would have to thank him for that later. “I did,” You fibbed, “The excitement of the theater overwhelmed me, I think.” 

“And you’re quite well now?” 

“I am. Mr. Russell was kind to check on me.” 

Marian nodded, but in the low light of the carriage, there was a look in her eye that you just couldn’t place. Whatever it was, it disappeared as the carriage hit a rough patch in the road, jolting Eleanor awake. 

“Are we home yet?” She mumbled, and you smiled. 

“Nearly, darling.”

“Oh…Wake me when we are?” 

“No. I’ll leave you to sleep in the carriage.” 

“Auntie,” She groaned, burrowing more deeply into your shoulder, and raising a hand to plug her ear as you and Marian laughed. 

--  

“Father?” 

“Mm?” George turned back to look at Larry as he passed his hat off to Church. 

“You’re certain she was quite well?” 

“Yes,” George said firmly. Larry had asked him twice before in the carriage, and he was beginning to grow weary of his prodding. “She merely had a headache from the excitement.” 

“It seems rather a small thing to incite such a reaction.” 

“There are some things, Larry, that you and I are used to that she is not.” 

“I suppose,” Larry conceded, looking down as he removed his gloves. “She seemed in far better a mood when she returned.” 

“I had an attendant fetch her some water. The headache abated.” 

“That’s a relief. I was certain she would want to leave.” 

“She said that she didn’t want Eleanor to miss the play.” 

“She is quite kind.” 

“...She is,” George nodded, lowering his hand to absently pat the pocket that was now missing its handkerchief. “Thank you for joining us, of course.” 

“I was happy to.” 

“I hope Miss Brook enjoyed herself?” George tacked on with a knowing smile. It widened as Larry cleared his throat and turned his head briefly, his ears going red with embarrassment. 

“I believe she did. Excuse me—Goodnight, father.” 

“Goodnight, Larry,” George chuckled softly. He turned away, not making it a point to watch his son go. As he headed for his room, he couldn’t help but pat the pocket where his handkerchief had been. She still had it. That was hardly a crime, but the monogrammed piece of cloth could draw questions. It was a folly to leave it with her. If she was seen with it—

No, of course she wouldn’t be. She was surely too careful, too wise and world-weary to allow herself to be seen with it. Her first instinct when he’d appeared to comfort her had only been for the children, not for her own well-being. He admired that about her. He could see it now—where she had lost or chosen to give up her chance, she was trying to give Eleanor every opportunity, every comfort. 

It was commendable. She’d grown into a kind, beautiful, clever woman. 

He sighed softly as Watson helped him to ready for bed. 

“Is something on your mind, sir?” Watson plied carefully. George shook his head a touch. 

“I suppose my mind is still on the play,” He admitted. “And how one’s heart and mind can change.”

Tag list: @foxilayde ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @amneris21 ; @nominalnebula ; @missredherring

[natasha-in-space]

hi!!! can I request a school ver seven and MC maybe confessing to each other? I wanna write a bunch of school ver mysme stories but I just don't have any time 🥹

Sooo, I actually ended up writing this promt in the canon timeline for mm, and not as an au... I just had this idea for a possible scenario, where you get to meet Saeyoung before he ever got the chance to join the RFA, and the rest was history. SO! I used his college fake name 'Chilyoung' for this drabble. This is kinda angsty... But, with the happy ending. Enjoy! :)

Today was going to be the day. The day you will finally overcome all your fears and take the leap of faith instead of fretting over every little thing that could possibly go wrong.

Your rapid heartbeat thundering all the way up into your temples, you paced through the quiet corridor, nervously fiddling with the sleeves of your shirt and waiting for him to leave the classroom. Your school day was over a few hours ago... But, you refused to leave, fighting against your inner demons and anticipating the moment you'll have to spill your heart free. And what a cliche situation this truly was... confessing your feelings to your school crush that has suddenly popped up into your life like a wild hurricane, sweeping you off your feet before you could even blink or shield yourself against the whipping wind.

Chilyoung was a boy bathed in secrets and mystery, being a transfer student with a truly genius mind. Granted, you did not think of him much at first. To say he was distant is to say nothing at all. He was someone who shocked almost every teacher and student with his exceptional abilities, but he also treated those around him coldly and seemingly indifferently. He sat and walked alone, refusing to be a part of any company friendly enough to outstretch their hands to the new student. It didn't take long for your classmates to give up their numerous attempts at befriending him, preferring instead to create a whole plethora of rumors that could potentially explain Chilyoung's withdrawn nature.

Some were sympathetic, while others cruel.

It wasn't until one fated day when you were paired up with him in order to work on a new school project, when you first interacted with him directly. You didn't have much of a choice back then, really. But, you kept an open mind. After all, your redheaded classmate was notorious for his outstanding skills and creativity. You just needed to find a way for you two to get along! And, well... the rest is history.

It's not like he became your best friend right of the bat, quite the opposite of that, actually. In the beginning, you were the only one babbling away about this and that, asking him various silly questions and trying to learn at least a tiny bit more about him. You quickly found out that trying to fish anything out about his personal life was not something he particularly enjoyed. For someone so closed off, his emotions were strangely easy for you to read.

You could always see it all in his eyes.

They would darken and lower onto his long fingers whenever you'd press the wrong button. On the opposite end, regardless of how neutral his face may seemed at first glance, his golden eyes would practically sparkle if you'd ask him to explain something he found particularly interesting about a math problem or some random fact about the universe. It was... cute. And, somewhat sad. Chilyoung was so very lonely... And yet, he refused to let anyone in.

You wondered why. Perhaps, today's the day you finally get to solve the elusive mystery by the name of Chilyoung Kim.

You were jolted out of your thoughts by the unmistakable deafening sound of the last bell ringing, making your heart start to race anew. Soon after, the doors to the computer class were flung open and a sea of laughing and chattering classmates filled the entire hall, eager to end their hard day of learning and blow off some steam with their friends. You paid no mind to them, though. Your eyes were too focused on trying to locate the one boy you were so desperate to see today, searching for a bright explosion of fiery red among the group.

And, there he was, coming out of the classroom as one of the last students to leave, with his pensive gaze studying a few notes he was meticulously placing into his notebook. He was always a diligent student, as you slowly learned about him. While he definitely was a smart one... that did not mean that he did not have to work hard. You could see the determination, the resignation in his eyes as he worked his way through yet another complex problem on his hand.

There was something he was working towards, something that pushed him to try as hard as he did.

Either way, you gulped, taking a single steadying breath and calling out after him once the hall grew quiet enough and everyone has already rushed off to their individual lockers. The sound of your voice crying out his name had him stopping in his tracks seemingly in an instant, his head whipping into your direction so quickly, you got a bit worried he might have strained his neck a little.

Oh Jeez... were you too loud?

You couldn't read him as he stared at you, obviously trying to figure out your intentions just as hard as you were trying to do the same with him. Well... not like you could back down from this now.

"Why are you still in school?" He asked, squinting his eyes a little in clear suspicion. "Your lessons ended hours ago."

"Uh- W-Well yes, but... I... had a very important question I needed to ask you." You stammered, suddenly feeling your cheeks burn from the realization of just what you were planning on doing. Oh, God, you were so nervous... But, a part of you refused to run. A part of you kept your trembling legs glued to the wooden floor, whispering somewhere in the corners of your mind, that there was no reason for you to be so afraid.

You wanted to get closer to Chilyoung, whatever this may mean for you two. You wanted for him to know just how much you care about him. You wanted... for him to know that he's not alone. Because you knew his heart desired for it strongly and desperately, regardless of the indifferent facade he put up in order to protect himself for some unknown reason.

"You could have just texted me, you know." He murmured, clearly taking notice of your frazzled state. You took a small breath of relief as his gaze visibly softened, his shoulders relaxing under his shirt and his attention now focused solely on you. This may not be a lot, but it's a sign that he does care. And, you needed to see that right now.

"Well... What is it? Is there something bothering you?"

Yeah, how pretty your eyes look.

You shook off the unwanted thought and clenched your hands into tight fists, deciding to try out a bit of an unconventional route to test the waters. Or, maybe, you were just trying to pull yourself together before you messed everything up. "I... Yes. But... It's a bit personal, so... I don't want for my other friends to tease me about it. And, I know that you're not that type of guy, so I can trust you with this. There's... Um, I really like one of my classmates. It took me some time to figure out my feelings for sure, but now I'm confident that I want us to be closer to each other. But, I'm terrified of pushing them away and ruining our friendship. They... mean a lot to me, you know?"

It felt weird, saying all of this in such a peculiar way. But... You just wanted to take a look at his reaction before you would make a choice to just come out and say it how it is. So, you stood there, your lips pursed into a thin line and your gaze fixed on him with an intensity you haven't felt before.

His expression remained blank for a while, his eyebrows slightly raised as he listened to your makeshift story in all its entirety. But then, you could notice his lips twitching, just enough for a resemblance of a pained frown to take its place on his freckled face, before he swiftly regained his stoic composure once more. However, you did not miss out on this small slip-up of his. And, once he did come up with a reply, his hands were clenched around his notebook way harder than they needed to be, his fingertips turning a shade of sickly white.

Chilyoung took a shaky breath, suddenly lowering his gaze onto the floor, just like he always did whenever you hit a nerve. A gesture you grew so familiar with, and yet, he still had no idea about just how perceptive you really are, when it comes to his self-expression. "...I'm not the one you should consult with about romantic relationships, Y/N. But... If that person means a lot to you, and if they truly make you happy... You should let them know that. You never know when will come the day you'll be forced to say goodbye to them, regardless whether you want to do it or not. Even if they may not understand you... You might regret keeping this truth from them for the rest of your life."

You blinked, not at all expecting to hear something of this nature from him. Your heart skipped a beat. This... felt way more personal than a mere advice for your crush.

This felt like something being spoken from a personal experience of his. And this thought... It made your hurt ache for him in more ways than one. Right now, he looked like the loneliest human alive. Chilyoung, too, seemed to catch onto the particular way that his words sounded, hurriedly continuing with a different narrative from before.

"-And, you deserve to be happy. You're... a good person, Y/N. If they make you happy, then... It's all I- It's all you need."

You took a step closer, all of your fears seemingly gone in an instant. "Chilyoung... I... I was actually talking about you. You're the one I like. That's... That's what I really wanted to talk to you about... I know you don't get along with anybody here, but I want to know more about you. And... I want you to know how much I care about you."

"You-" To your shock, he recoiled, uncharacteristically stumbling over his own legs in the process. He looked... almost terrified, staring wide eyed at you with thousands of conflictive emotions shown clearly on his usually indifferent face. "No. No, you can't. This is... No."

He sounded so hurt and scared, it almost made you question whether this was ever real or not. You never saw Chilyoung act out so openly and emotionally towards anyone before. But... you were not at all happy with the way that it happened.

"Chilyoung...? Hey... It's okay if you don't feel the same, really. I just... I wanted you to know that there's someone who really cares about you. That's all. I don't need anything in return, I promise." You tried to reassure him, slowly following him down the corridor. His reaction was... strange. It's one thing to feel upset about not being able to return one's feelings, and it's completely another to react as if you just got told the grimmest news possible.

But, your attempt did not help much. He shook his head vigorously, his breath coming out in short panicked gasps, all of his stoic facade long gone. "No, no, no, you don't understand, you can't! I can't! I can't- I can't do this! Why me? Just why the hell you chose someone like me!? Of all people!? Are you really thaf stupid!?"

His words... hurt. But, what hurt more, is just how distressed he sounded, how desperate and high his soft voice got, how utterly terrified he looked. Why is he acting like this? You reached out with your hand, at this point, disregarding everything to do with your confession and simply hoping to calm him down a little. "What are you talking about? I told you, it doesn't have to be so complicated... It's going to be okay."

A sound akin to a choked sob reached your ears as he backed even further away from you, refusing to look you in the eye, his voice dropping to a broken half-whisper. "I'm sorry. I don't have any other choice. Just- Know that it's not your fault."

Before you could utter a single word, he ran. He ran so fast, it felt like his life depended on it. And, you were left standing there, alone, confused and equally heartbroken both for his heart and your own.

The next day, Chilyoung did not come to school. And the next. And then the day after that. And the week right after. As well as the months that kept following on.

You thought you'd never see this redheaded boy again. That he'll simply remain as one of the first people that have ever made your heart flutter to life. But... it all changed once you noticed a strange app you did not remember installing onto your phone, years in the future.

Maybe, it was fate for you two to find each years down the line. A chance for you to make things right. Which is why you refused to let him go ever again.

[comet-ribbon]

My version of the Roleswap AU

Roleswap aus aren’t uncommon and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.

But I’ve had this idea in the perspective with Woody and Jessie in this AU where Jessie is the protagonist of the Round-up gang.

Their own personalities will stay the same, the only thing it will change are their circumstances they would face in different events and the different timeline.

(Warning from here because it gets angsty and also trying not to make it too depressing but don’t fret, because like in canon, things get hopeful!)

In this Woody’s story, he got a kid and enjoyed spending time with him. He witnessed how his kid grew into an adult but he even how he got a terminal illness, witnessing his death. (You can interpret whether this kid could be Andy or Andy’s unknown dad like in that theory)

His owner could have died in his 50s, making the timeline the same as in canon probably?

So once that happened, maybe his own kids or relatives, thought of giving away Woody out of respect of his passing that he’d be better off with another kid as maybe they weren’t interested in him.

That leaves Woody so heartbroken by what he’s seen and he grieves in silence inside the box, he wishes there were more time to be with him, though even when he grew he was cast aside, he stood still until he could come and see him again, which he did until his dying days, he’s in the denial phase.

But as time went on he accepts his new fate.

What he didn’t expect is that in the end he ended up being a collectible and for him? felt like a relief. Since because of his trauma, he’d prefer going in Japan and not get through another suffering event by having a new kid.

He meets bullseye and he gets a bit happier by the comfort of having another friend. Like a dog- human relationship. Then a bit later he meets the prospector, acts like a father figure to him and gives him the comfort he needs when they're out of the box. They talk about in one thought of how when they get Jessie, the collection of the roundup gang would finally be complete and Woody would feel happy by the idea of being in the museum.

And this is where this AU comes to play because like in canon, Jessie is the protagonist of the TV series, making her immensely popular, like the Barbies! Who would have thought? 

By that thought that would surely distract his past and just be appreciated by the people to see him and the others.

And the canon-like present timeline story would be starting. They meet Jessie and over next scenes, she would help Woody as well.

Like in canon, he would get through it and accept that even though this person he cherished is gone, doesn't mean that he wouldn't be sad forever. His love for his last owner won't compare the new one he'll have now, but is another type of love, by loving another person and feel happy. After all, Andy (the owner) would have felt so content that another child would have Woody with him and be his friend. I'm sure, he would have let Woody be happy with another person on his hands. This Jessie would help him, and tell him that this new kid she has would gladly like to play with him. And things get hopeful for our cowboy doll in the end :)

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(And maybe he would bond with Buzz and become a couple later-BUT WHO KNOWS) 

So yeah! My thoughts on it so far! Any feedback and thoughts are welcome :)

[highlifeboat]

You got me hooked on mercenaries mode being angsty from the daughter's perspective. And I just can’t help but think, in the game, Miranda gives the basically nuclear kill order to kill everyone in the castle. (If I remember correctly)

What if that kill order had gone only to Alcina, and when Miranda said everyone, she meant everyone.

But of course Alcina isn't going to kill her daughters, she was ready for treason the second Ethan shot holes in the wall and killed one of said daughters and Miranda didn't have a care to give. Alcina threw a vanity and went "to hell with it, revenge it is!" And rebelled against Miranda to try and kill Ethan.

But Miranda wants the slate clean if she's going to bring back her daughter. No failed experiments are allowed in the presence of her grand and perfect daughter. Her Eva. And she has to start somewhere. So she starts with the deadly Lady Dimitrescu

She figures, to repay Alcina for all of her loyal years of service (and because Miranda is a sick twisted person), Miranda had given Alcina an ultimatum.

Either Alcina kills the girls, or Miranda will come over there and do it herself.

Because after all, Miranda only gave the girls to Alcina when they proved to be failures. And such failures cannot be tolerated in the new world she's planning on making.

And both Alcina and Miranda know if Miranda kills the girls, she'll make it hell.

So, Alcina has two choices, mercy kill her daughters before Miranda gets to them or try to protect them only to let them suffer a slow and torturous death for Alcina's failure to do as Miranda ordered.

Alcina is shown to be angry and pissed off in her grief, so no wonder why she seems absolutely ruthless when she kills her daughters.

The girls realize their mother is a monster. They'll never know she was trying to protect them from one.

Holy FUCK this hurts. I love it. I LOVE THIS.

Because imagine the aftermath.

Alcina has killed the children she'd sworn to protect. The girls she'd raised from "infants". The ones she always promised she would never hurt, and never allow anyone else to hurt. Her poor daughters, who loved her unconditionally. Who she loved more than anything. Who cried and screamed and questioned why? Why was she hurting them? What had they done wrong? Who would never understand she was giving them mercy, saving them from something far more physically painful.

Her poor little girls, who felt nothing but betrayal and never stood a chance against her.

Miranda comes to make sure the deed is done, prepared to end thing herself, but walks in on the scene of Alcina cradling the crystalize busts of her children. She's a sobbing mess over them by this point, choking out apologies and begging for forgiveness. Praying her daughters won't resent her wherever they are now.

And Miranda, not caring for the sentiments, scoffs a little. Alcina wants to lash out at her, but she doesn't. As her daughters stood no chance against her, she would stand little chance against her own "Mother".

Miranda tells her not to fret, that in a matter of moments Alcina will be joining them. Despite her own sense of betrayal, Alcina isn't surprised. She doesn't want to live in a world without her precious daughters. And perhaps this is what is owed. Miranda approaches, the Dagger of Death's Flower in her hand. Alcina can see it glinting in the light. She swallows.

And, for what feels like the first time since her mutation, Miranda gives her praise. Says that she's happy to know Alcina still had enough of a head to make smart decisions. She's happy with the work Alcina has done that day. Perhaps even cups her cheek with one hand and tells her she'll grant the mercy of a quick death before plunging the dagger into Alcina's throat

And it burns. Far worse than Alcina ever could have imagined. The busts fall from her arms, Miranda pulls the dagger out, simply watching the black blood ooze from the wound. To her, Alcina is just another failure. A blight on her new world.

All Alcina can do is prey she'll see her daughters again when she join the Black God, and pray even harder that they'll forgive her for what she's done.

[kitkatt0430]

Can I request the angsty prompt "She was unconscious when I found her." for Kamisco plsss. (i got it from a prompt generator)

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Flash (TV 2014) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kamilla Hwang/Cisco Ramon, Allegra Garcia & Cisco Ramon Characters: Kamilla Hwang, Cisco Ramon, Barry Allen, Chester P. Runk, Allegra Garcia Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bombing, Kamilla is injured, but it'll all turn out okay, Hospitals, Cisco is just a 'little' panicked, (by which i mean he's holding together, but he's freaking out internally) Summary: There are times Cisco regrets giving up his visions. Today is one of them.

I hope you enjoy this somewhat angsty fic where Kamilla gets hurt and Cisco frets a lot. :D

[sonseulsoleil]

Diane Duane????? In my notes???? Uh, hi?? I've read some of your Star Trek books! This is wild!

And this post certainly got a lot more traction than I anticipated. I wasn't expecting to start any kind of discussion. I'm responding to this reblog because it seems to have started it all, but some of the things I have to say are directed at various other comments and tags I've seen and not this reblog specifically.

I made this post at about midnight, after binge-watching season 2 of OFMD and in the throes of its emotional damage. This post was never meant to be taken seriously, as though I actually want 2x08 to resolve everything. I'm sure it won't! There's not nearly enough time for that! And to the other people in the notes talking about Game of Thrones, this wasn't me fretting over the potential for a bad finale or anything like that. I trust David Jenkins (and Neil Gaiman writing GO 3, for that matter!). I write myself, so I know both writers are just as invested as I am in seeing that happy ending, eventually. I was just goofing when I posted this, truly.

I fully understand that stories require conflict and road blocks. I understand characters much be challenged in order to grow and to show who they are. I understand that the happy ending isn't nearly as rewarding when it is rushed, when it feels unearned. Especially, I think, as it pertains to romance, which I'd say both Good Omens and OFMD are. There's a reason will they/won't they is such a popular trope. Watching two characters overcome obstacle over obstacle so they can eventually be together forever is DELICIOUS.

In the case of OFMD, those obstacles are mostly internal and emotional, which is more frustrating to me personally, but no less compelling. I've been giggling and kicking my feet through the entirety of this season! And I loved Good Omens 2, as well! It was basically Act 2 of a Jane Austen novel, and I love Austen. I love watching or reading about my faves suffering a little. I love when shows and books hit those angsty emotional beats just right, and both of these absolutely have! This certainly wasn't me complaining or dissing either one!

Tumblr is where I come to, well, lose my mind completely, about these characters, to be overly emotional and wail into the void, and that's all this post was. Because I really love these characters--hell, I've loved Crowley and Aziraphale since I was 15 and first read the book and I'm 27 now--and I want them to be happy. They deserve to be happy. And if I wasn't rooting for their eventual happily ever after, watching them suffer and overcome obstacles and angst over each other wouldn't be nearly as interesting or fun.

dear god please just give the pirates their quiet seaside inn and the angel and demon their little cottage in the south downs before I lose my mind completely

[danpuff-ao3]

The Making of: White Lies & Silver Bells

In 2022, I got way too excited and signed up for way too many fests. I ended up dropping several with the support of my friends and therapist. My stress was at an all time high and I needed to prioritize myself.

By December, I had one fest left to do, that I was determined to finish come hell or high water. It was Hoggywartyxmas, and it being an exchange made me all the more reluctant to drop it. Besides: it was such a chill fest all around, it felt silly to drop that one, when there were so few requirements at all. I could write a drabble in a day and submit it last minute, if needed!

But...well...White Lies & Silver Bells ended up being more than a drabble.

Not much more, mind you. But I digress.

It helps that I was acquainted with my recipient. I was actually really pleased! "DarkTony, yes! I can write Snarry...and oh! They love bottom!Snape!!!!" There were several items in my to-do list that I contemplated writing for this one. I figured my recipient would be pleased with any one of them.

But as the deadline drew nearer and nearer...I began to fret.

You see, during NaNoWriMo, I decided to go as stress free as possible. My good friend Nina (@vulnerasanenturmyprince) questioned if NaNoWriMo was even a good idea, overwhelmed as I was. She was right to ask. 50k in a month is a lot! But I argued my case: it won't be a big deal if I don't finish (which was a lie, I would totally have beat myself up about it), and like the past few years it was my plan to "go rogue" and write in several projects. So it would be easy to count up 50k across the board.

And by November 1, it was @consistentsquash's encouragement that I decided to include meta towards my word count. November was super chill. I allowed myself to write whatever the heck I felt like! I got a bit of fic writing done, but most of it was towards meta, and I had a blast. I got so much done! I surpassed by NaNoWriMo goal!

...and by the end of the month I realized that the Hoggywartyxmas deadline, December 5, was fast approaching. And I'd not even started.

Whoops.

Soooo I emailed the fest mod and asked for an extension. And felt super guilty about it (as I do.) But TRS was super nice. I got a week extension. And with that...I finally started to work!

What I settled on was a foot fetish fic I'd been mulling over for a while. I had a very vivid scene in my mind and I figured I could write that fairly quickly.

But...while I wasn't required to stick to any of my recipient's prompt ideas, my silly OCD Brain wouldn't let it go. So I perused the prompt list for anything I could combine with my foot fetish (...fic...my foot fetish fic. Not my foot fetish...👀) and the opening line of my fic is from one of their prompts!

Minerva could not believe Severus had done this

Gave me a chance to write a bit of outsider's perspective, which I always love! Especially judgey outsiders! In the end, I'm not sure how smooth the whole thing is. I almost feels like, by having that Minerva POV at the start, that there needed to be more on the whole...but oh well. That's my endless worries at play. I'm actually really happy with it, even if it's not perfect, or if it could have been better.

So yes. A brief glimpse at an outsider's POV. Then...onto the fun! Some sexy holiday smut. Me finally writing the foot fetish of my dreams. Trying to ride the line of fluffy and smutty and angsty without any one overpowering the other. (Not sure how well I succeeded, but I sure tried!) I indulged in the Snarry banter. I luxuriated in the sexy (and gross) details.

But there was a very important surprise ahead of me. This bit I shared with my friend Beth and as we got to chatting about it, I realized just how meaningful this part was for me. And for more than just being my favorite snippet.

Cho was pretty. So was Ginny. And Cedric, and Draco. They were still life paintings. All lovely, and correct. Harry claimed crushes as though taking a test. This is the right answer, isn’t it?

Severus is abstract art. A sculpture of strange angles, and odd colors. The sort of art Harry can’t make heads or tails of, but steals his breath all the same. 

Bethy mentioned the "subjectivity" of art, which was certainly the point I was going for! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I mentioned how my partner and I have different preferences when it comes to art. My partner prefers more realism in his art. He wants a rose that looks like a rose, and a duck that looks like a duck, and the more that they look like their real life counterparts, the better! My man is very science-minded and technical, so with art I think he appreciates most the ability to create lifelike works.

Whereas for me, I love absurdism and surrealism and abstract. I love art that looks a little funky, or even a little confusing. (Have you seen Dr. Seuss' Midnight paintings?? I'm in love!)

All forms of art are valid, as are all preferences. And if you know me, I love recognizing that Severus Snape isn't classically, traditionally handsome. I love the idea that no one (or hardly anyone) would find him attractive, but Harry does.

So that subjectivity was part of the point, but in the writing it also gave me an opportunity I've longed for: demisexual Harry.

If you don't know, I'm asexual myself. My journey to realizing that began with a fanfic. It was a Supernatural series called The Writing on the Wall by DasMervin (MrsHyde); 500k+ words of Destiel featuring demisexual!Cas. It was a tag more than anything. The story itself was super gritty and angsty and real, and there was no pause for lectures on sexuality. The tag intrigued me. I Googled the term. And I read the fic. And I thought. I thought a lot.

From there, I joined asexual Facebook groups. I searched the term on Twitter, and Google. I read the Destiel series again, and again. It took years for me to figure myself out. I identified as demi for a while, until I'd learned enough about the asexuality spectrum to fully settle on asexual (albeit sex favorable.)

In my post "Fandom & Self-Discovery (or, To Tag or Not To Tag?)" I sort of struggled with the idea of tagging characters as asexual or demisexual without it being very "obvious" in the fic, which I never saw a good way of doing.

Until now.

I'm not sure how clear it is to readers, but to me...to me it was everything. Because the art analogy is what I always use when talking about my asexuality.

Before I learned more about the ace spectrum, I identified as bi or pan, because (as an Avengers fan), I was equally admiring of Scarlett Johansson and Chris Evans.

But that was the trouble...my feelings about famous actors, and singers, and models. While my friends were drooling and fanning themselves, I was...well, sort of mimicking the behavior. It didn't feel like a lie, so much as everyone was being hyperbolic. Until I began to realize..."I think it's real?" And I didn't feel that way. Attractive people didn't stir any feelings in me, other than an appreciation for beauty.

That is what we call aesthetic attraction, by the way. I wasn't looking at Scarlett Johansson or Chris Evans as juicy steaks, I was looking at them like paintings or sculptures. They were the beauty of roses, or sunsets, or pottery, or architecture. Beauty natural and manmade, it didn't matter. I liked to look at them, sure. But that was about it.

It was after writing that bit that I realized "oh!! I can have a demisexual Harry!!!" But it was only talking to Beth that I fully realized just how much it meant to me to be able to include that, and the way I included it. As a nod to my feelings and my experiences. No wonder I love that part so much!

The foot scene went off without a hitch. It's exactly as I envisioned it. But what's most important about this story, to me, was that special detail that I didn't expect to include until I was in the middle of writing it.

Some extra (TMI) information/inspiration. While I was first inspired to write my own foot fetish fic from a Snupin fic called The Scent of Honey by swtalmnd (highly recommend), the idea stuck out to me more from my partner's feet. I swear I don't actually have a foot fetish (though I once dated a guy who did), but my partner has the softest feet! As in...genuinely I've never touched softer skin in my life?? It's a shame he's so ticklish. I can't look at his feet without him squirming! But my partner wears these hardy leather boots all day everyday, so I figure they're just cooking to perfection in there. And since I always imagine Severus wearing black leather boots all day...combined with the relatively popular obsession with Severus' hands...shouldn't the man have great feet, too???

Another addition I enjoyed was the end, with the bouquet. Listen, I love flowers. I'm happy for any reason to sneak them in! Red chrysanthemums symbolize deep love and passion. White gardenias symbolize secret love, trust, and purity (purity of love, is my thought.) That bit was also not in my original plans, but came to me when writing. Harry's desire for romance and to properly pursue Severus prompted the idea of a beautiful bouquet. And since Harry was too distracted to actually give his gift, and it was probably best Harry not be present when Severus opened said gift, it gave me an excuse to wrap up with a Severus POV. Which gave me a bit of extra angst for flavoring!

I had my worries about this fic. Whether it all worked together. Whether I needed more to tie it all in. Or whether I should cut out my extra scenes so that nothing would feel missing. Blah blah blah. Me overthinking, or a grain of truth? Who knows. In the end, I liked everything I had written too much to cut any of it. And I had no real thoughts for additions. So I gave it to friends to look over to assure me it was not, in fact, garbage, and that I should not, in fact, set it ablaze. With their support I sent it off for submission!

My OCD self was a bit concerned with the timeline. What if the fic is posted after Christmas?? I can't post a Christmas fic after Christmas! I had to remind myself I posted some of my holiday stories insanely early (The Christmas in Hogsmeade series, for example!) Don't ask me to try to explain why my brain is the way it is, I really don't know. 😂 And is this even worth mentioning? Probably not. But it is part of the process.

I struggled with the: "this is Hoggywartyxmas so I should write an xmas fic!" versus "but what if it goes up after Christmas??" and "reveals won't be until January, so I can't even put it on AO3 until after Christmas!!!!"

Another concern I encountered was how out of place this fic felt among the other submissions. 🙈 So many excellent works this year, but uh...not much shameless smut. It's probably for the best I was more worried about pleasing my recipient (and myself) than thinking about the rest of the fest. It wasn't until it was posted on LJ that I went "...huh. Wow I look like a real horndog, don't I?" 😂 Ah, well. A tad embarrassing, but I consoled myself that the AO3 crowd would enjoy it once I could post it there.

And much as I may dislike it, my mental health always plays a big role in my writing journey. I have that fun combination of GAD, OCD, and ADHD. I'm full of worries, perfectionism, impulsivity, lack of focus, overthinking, and so on. So I guess the main takeaway is...all of that gives me extra challenges when creating. But I persevere all the same. And I submitted this fic fully knowing the timeline would make me twitch a bit.

But I can ignore that, and add this to my Holiday Self Rec list to repost each holiday season from now on!

Wow this was a weird one. I overshared way too much. If you read all of this, hi hello, hope you enjoyed. We have to be friends now because you know way too much. 🤣

[highgaarden]

in the woods, somewhere; He doesn’t want to tell her that he is tired of haunting her, that years have passed and the world is creaking with the weight of them, and that he loves, he loves, he loves her—

written for @klaroline-events​’ june kc bingo + ghost 2021 words, canon-divergence, romance 

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In another city in another country in another world, almost, a dead girl scrubs her dead lover from her skin in bubbles that smell of lavender and bergamot, eucalyptus and lemon oil. She wants new skin, a skin that has been taught to forget all things skins were sometimes sentimental about: silly things like the learned touches on her knees, the feeling of lips in the hollows of her, the cold of whispers in the swoop of her ribs.

She mourns the loss of her body, her heart, how they yearn to be covered by a man so burdened with age he should be ugly from it, but he is beautiful, beautiful, and she mourns him, too. Mourns the love she had planted in his chest like a garden grown from twigs and other broken things. Mourns his churlish grins, the quick of his fingers winding in her hair, mourns the ache in her teeth whenever he shows her his wrist like a quiet, quiet secret.

She mourns him, she buries him, and then she sinks lower into the water to drown in her pretty petal ocean.

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As all fights go, Caroline could hurl a vicious one, with fists and kicks and screams and bloodshed, but Klaus can deflect and duck and appear and vanish. When he comes back she is always curled in a corner, throat hoarse and nails bleeding, and he is always sorry.

“I love you,” she’ll say.

“I want you to die,” she’ll say.

And he always says, “No you don’t. No you don’t.”

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Somewhere dark and green, Klaus kisses her, a suffocating she has not felt since Katherine had pushed her last breath out of her. He holds her to a tree and curls his fists into her hair and fits himself against her so well, and there is an unravelling inside her.

She stumbles out of her stupor, dazed and blinking, and he looks back at her like he doesn’t quite know what’s happened either.

“That was a really stupid promise you just made,” she says breathlessly, for want of something to say—her lips are trembling, her knees.

“I know,” Klaus says, so brilliantly rueful. “Gods, do I know.

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A story needs a beginning, a middle and an end, but the story of Caroline and Klaus, the dead girl and her dead lover, start in the moments in between. He already knows her name when he meets her on her second deathbed, and the sound of him already puts pinpricks in her heart.

“I know you,” she says.

“I’ll heal you,” he says.

“And then I’ll be yours, and then my friends will die, and then the world will end.” She’s stubborn, once-golden curls a flaccid yellow on coiled around cracked lips. “Leave the poison in me. I’m dead anyway.”

He sends her a gaze so intent and curious one could forget that he is the one who put her in this bed to begin with, who put fangs in her and veins around her best friend’s eyes and a knife in Elena’s chest. He hovers over her like a ghost, flicks the bell on her charm bracelet like he expects choirs to erupt. He looks at her fondly, like they’ve known each other for years.

“Stop that,” she snaps. “You don’t get to sit on my bedside on my freakin’ birthday and harp at me about roses and cities I’ll never see, about music I’ll never learn the names of, about food I can’t even enjoy because all I crave now is blood.” She coughs, probably spittles over him some, but whatever, she’s dying.

It resounds in her like a gong, and she claws desperately at her sheets, wants to call for her mother, doesn’t want Klaus’ face to be the last one she sees before she bites the dust, kicks the bucket. She wants the sooth of her mother’s fingers in her hair; instead she gets the apple-white of Klaus’s brandished wrist.

“Go ahead,” Klaus says invitingly. “It tastes just like wine, I’ll bet.”

“I hate you,” she says, she cries. She’s so close she can taste it festering in the gaping maw in her neck, the one that’s bubbling with the scent of poison and wolf. “I want to die.”

“No you don’t.” He props her up against him, cradled almost gently in his arms, and she feels his hands in her hair massaging, she smells his wrist like her last supper laid out before her, and her mouth waters. She parts her lips, her fangs push out, she’s so miserable and she’s so hungry. “No you don’t.”

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In the woods, somewhere:

Klaus had told her about cities greater than God and cathedrals that swallowed you whole. She supposes one day she’ll see them with her own eyes, not in his mouth, always wondering which ones were made up truths and which ones were lies meant to lure her out of this town.

She looks at him, and she’s been told that it isn’t good to look at Klaus Mikaelson the wrong way, or the right way, or in any sort of way, but when Caroline looks she pierces, she wants, and she takes. She takes his heart and his teeth and his blood, collected in little vials in the grooves of rotten roots, and he tries not to look pleased.

It is a strange sort of understanding that they have, that the trees listen to. She is older now, but still young enough to know that nothing lasts forever, not really, and Klaus – Klaus just wants her to remember him when she leaves.

“Absconds,” he corrects himself after a fashion. “Like a lady in the night, gone forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” and it’s a promise as much as it is a confession to misery, “because somebody needs to keep Elena from you.”

Klaus looks thoughtful. “What if Elena doesn’t need keeping?”

“You mean: what if you killed her.”

And Klaus grins then, his eyes crinkling, his hair curling around his perked ears. “You are an absolute delight.”

“Flattery isn’t a ticket to massacre, buddy.” Caroline picks her way expertly through the dead roots in the forest floor, the muck of flattened leaves and jagged little stones. “She’s almost eighty, her birthday’s next week, and you are not writing her into your twisted little recipe book of Easy Make Hybrids, Holiday Edition.”

In this page of the book they are friends, somehow, and I’m sure you’re wondering how they end up the way they do—but as all good romances go, there is never a clear distinction when one crosses that threshold, is there? Caroline will wonder this herself, one day, in her perfumed tub in her smarting, raw skin.

“I do like you,” Klaus says, and Caroline wonders, too, if this is a step up from I fancy you. It’s a boyish admission, shy, almost – she peers at him sidelong, and scoffs.

“Flattery!” she announces to the woods. It rustles in agreement.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Klaus says reproachfully. “Why won’t you consider my offer?”

Caroline stops in her tracks, suddenly, and he almost bumps into her if not for the isms that make up the vampire parts of him. She turns now to properly look at him. Klaus looks at her the way he always does, like there is something stirring just underneath the stillness of him, the slow beat of his undead heart. And she asks, honestly, “Aren’t you tired of haunting me?”

“Not for a minute.” Klaus tilts his head. “What if I promised to stay away from Elena?”

“You’ve made this promise before.”

“What if I promised to stay away from you?”

And this, this catches Caroline’s attention. He looks like he means it, and there troubles the part of her that is always trying to catch him in a lie, the part that longs to just try him, to call his bluff. She is older now, she’s no longer a prey to disillusionment, but Klaus—he is older now, too, but the world no longer marvels at it. Everyone’s older now.

“What do you want?” Her eyes narrow. Her heart races.

Klaus hums, Klaus smiles, and Klaus says: “A kiss.”

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When Caroline says Klaus is terrible at keeping promises, what she really means is that he keeps them.

She counts the vials of his blood, counts the different ways they catch sunlight.

She counts how many days have passed.

How many years.

Some twenty years later Elena dies, and she moves to a different city in another country in another world, almost, where the cathedrals swallowed you whole. Whether the sketch of rooftops around her were greater than God she doesn’t know, but one day Klaus finds her in a little café in the oldest part of the city and he sweeps her up and he kisses her the way he had in those woods so long ago, and this, if she had payed attention to anything other than the part of his teeth and the taste of his tongue, this is the beginning of their undoing.

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“I love you,” she says, vicious like her temper, spiteful, because these are words that aren’t true and Klaus knows that.

“No you don’t,” he says, and he tries to shush her, tries to cover her mouth, but the words keep coming, and he pushes away.

He doesn’t want to tell her that he is tired of haunting her, that years have passed and the world is creaking with the weight of them, and that he loves, he loves, he loves her—

“And if you’ll stop being stubborn you would shut that pretty mouth of yours and just listen—” His hands shake and he stills them with a quick flex, “I did not kill Regina, I did not order anything on her—”

“I did not spend a hundred years in Mystic Falls to watch Elena’s great-granddaughter fall prey to the kind of shit she went through,” Caroline hisses through her teeth. “You knew. You knew about Regina and you didn’t tell me—”

“Because you would have gone back,” Klaus says, furious and miserable, and – and just listen, love, listen—

“And if I had, she wouldn’t be DEAD!” She roars, and these are words that Klaus doesn’t understand, tears she’s shedding not because she’s seen the face of her friend die for the umpteenth time, but this. This is proof that Klaus, no matter what he says, no matter what he does, he will always be the monster she’d met on her second deathbed, will always put pinpricks in her heart.

Klaus reaches for her but she slaps his hands away, the room spinning around her with names Klaus finally sheds: Tristan, Genevieve, Marcel, an old curse, a new prophecy, the weight of the full moon, Regina. Regina, the final doppelganger, the last of the Petrova legacy.

“You couldn’t just let it go,” she whispers.

“We’re the same, Caroline,” he whispers back, and her heart breaks.

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This is not the ending, nor is this the beginning, but this is Klaus and Caroline sitting in the same room they had sat in so long ago, her second deathbed and his first lie. Only this time, she is holding a match.

Everyone they know is dead, after all.

“This way, we can start again.” She does not shake when she exhales.

Klaus says nothing, just breathes her in, eyes bright and wet and disbelieving - he loves her. The dead girl and her dead lover dance slowly in the middle of the room, the flame flickers between them, wavers, but never goes out. She could drop it any time, and the idea torments him as much as it tickles.

And then everything is on fire.

Caroline holds her hand out and he takes it, and she leads him out of there, tears drying on her face, the tail of his coat simmering and singed. She has new skin, she tells him, and he has new blood in his veins, and she’ll bet that it will not taste like wine.

[bittersweetbark]

Hoo boy, I'm SO going to do that now, interview myself and not go to bed! :D Thanks for the tag!

1. How many works do you have on A03?

28 - Three or so are short tweet fics but some are rather long so it averages out.

2. My total Ao3 word count:

112,069 - woot, it has a 69 ;)

3. What fandoms do I write for?

Yes it's plural fandoms, even if barely: Most of it is of course The Witcher - but I just wrote a short OFMD fic right before the second season came and killed my love for it, and I wrote the first and only fic on Ao3 for the game Tails of Iron.

4. Top 5 fics by kudos:

Stray (167), The Gentleman will be removed from the situation (163)... - LOL, those are the latest and the first -, Petty Theft (100), Boxed (77) and Spelling it out (77)

5. Do I respond to comments?

Hell ya. I would probably ignore negative comments but never got one. To bot comments I respond by reporting them.

6. Fic I wrote with the angstiest ending:

Uh. I don't do angsty endings. I'm treating myself to happy endings. :) The angstiest *parts* has State of Mind but SPOILER they both survive killing each other. "Rings" has reportedly made someone cry! But it's just sad, really.

7. Fic with the happiest ending:

They really all have happy endings, everyone gets to come multiple times many of them are happy and even funny.

8. Do I get hate on fics?

Not specifically on fics, just generally on Tumblr for not shipping the One Correct™ ship.

9. Do I write smut?

LOL yeah :)

10. Do I write crossovers?

Not REALLY. Not as in universe1 characters meet universe2 characters. But - there's the Teletubbies fic, but that's just Emhyr's shroom trip. "Jane Eyre and Wyverns" is Emralt on a scaffolding of the Jane Eyre plot. "The Gentleman" starts out with the OFMD "run me through" scene and the OFMD fic is inspired by Jaws. If those count as crossovers then I do them often. (Also: Goncharov)

11. Have I ever had a fic stolen?

I don't know :'D Not that I know of.

12. Have I had a fic translated?

No.

13. Co-written a fic?

Melittele's knees, NO. There's no "Tim" in "team". I would be fretting about letting the other person down and then accidentally write everything myself.

14. My all-time favourite ship -

Hm, that's a tough one 🤣 just kidding. (It's Geralt/Emhyr.)

15. The WIP I want to finish...

The Dijkstralt.

...and doubt you ever will

Nonsense.

16. My writing strengths?

I don't know - I write things funny - that's a strength if it vibes with you and annoying if it doesn't, I guess.

17. My writing weaknesses?

What is this, a job interview? I'm so good at writing I have difficulties meeting my own high standards, of course. :P Dunno. Making the sentences? With words 'n stuff. Using full stops...

18. Thoughts about writing dialogue in another language for a fic:

Hä? Nee. Prätentiös und ärgerlich.

19. First fandom I wrote for:

Very short drabbles for Battlestar Galactica (Adama/Tigh smut).

20. Favourite fic of mine:

Yes. :) There are a few I like less than the others, I *could* say which one I like least, but I can't choose a fave.

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thanks for the tag, @herbalinz-of-yesteryear and @jawanaka <3

Tagging @keyrousse @marvelousmadmadammim @traumschwinge @bittersweetbark and whomever else wants to do it!

1. How many works do you have on A03?

Twenty two.

2. What's your total A03 word count?

316,936

3. What fandoms do you write for?

The Witcher, mostly. Cyberpunk sequel of Broken Pieces is something I'd love to write, but for now I'm happy to just watch the movie in my head.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Blood Ties, Broken Pieces, I Will Find You, Found (hah), and a tie between The Ghost of You and Splinters.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Almost always. I have a few saved in the inbox that I hold close to my chest in moments of need. Talking to people in the comments is the biggest joy of sharing the fics.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Blood Ties, I guess? I'd like to think the endings of my fics fit into the witcherverse in spirit.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hmmm. I'm gonna say Splinters?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No(t yet).

9. Do you write smut?

When I'm inspired. It's been A While.

10. Do you write crossovers?

No

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, my Cahir/Ciri piece and Ties were translated into Russian

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Ciri/Tankred of Kovir, because nobody else thought of that. Also, smug boi is love.

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Ties sequel, liberating Temeria and dealing with Redania. How the hell did I ever manage to write politics?

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue by a mile

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Currently: writing itself

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

There are very specific situations when that's needed, and I don't see myself ever writing it

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Blood Ties forever and ever and ever

Thanks! <3

[genshindreamer]

In the end - Zhongli x Reader

Hello lovelies. This is for @xiaosmoon and her lovely valentines event. It's angsty because I can't allow characters to be happy I guess. Also looking back it does match with some of the other prompts but this is just where my muse lead me.

Prompt: Day 1- Cheek Kisses

Synopsis: He had watched you die again and again, this time was different however.

TW?: Angst, Elderly reader, implied reincarnation, character death at the end

💞💟💖💘

Zhongli hummed as he prepared the soup for his darling, (Name). He had been doing this for a while now, after they got sick. He had good practice with this, as it was not the first time he had seen them in this state. It is what happens when you fall in love with a mortal again, and again, and again; you had to watch them die, again, and again, and again. Sometimes they were younger, this time they had made it to the ripe old age of 83.

Zhongli knew their time was running out, but he wanted to be selfish and just hold onto them a bit longer.

Well, technically he already did that, didn't he? Always tracking them down reincarnation after reincarnation.

Ah he could remember when they met....

------

They had met in his youth, before even the Archon war. Their family had been potters and they were selling their goods in town square. He had approached the stand innocently enough, and that's when he saw the (Hair Color)ed beauty. And just like that, he was no longer there to buy just a pot for a plant he was intending on buying.

"Excuse me." Morax said.

"Oh! Lord Morax!" Your mother turned and freaked out for a second before pulling herself together.

He let out a small chuckle. "No need to fret, I'm simply here to get a pot for my new flower." He said.

"(Name)! Come here. Help Lord Morax." Your mother ordered you.

You approached and averted your gaze. Gods, the man in front of you was utterly beautiful. of course, he was a god. Naturally he'd be the most beautiful man you'd ever seen!

"Er...how big is this flower?" You asked after recovering.

"It should grow to be about this big." Zhongli spread his hands a bit.

You nodded and pulled out a golden pot. "This should suit your needs." You smiled.

He nodded. "And the Mora needed?"

"300." You said.

Morax nodded and created the necessary Mora and handed it to you. "Say, would you like to attend Lantern Rite with me?"

-----

That had been many centuries ago now. He walked into their room and came across your now aged appearance.

You coughed and looked at him.

"(Name)...why are you up?" He asked.

You leaned against the pillows. "Zhongli...come here..." You said with your weak voice.

Zhongli approached and took your hand in his.

"It's time..." You said softly.

"No..the doctors said..." He frowned.

"Its time." You repeated, reaching up and cupping his face in your hands. "Let me go..."

Zhongli felt the familiar sensation. Crying. "(Name), I..."

"Let me go...stop searching.." You said. "It isn't healthy to hold on for too long."

"(Name), I can't let you go..." He choked out.

"You can, you will." You said. "Its time, let me go. Promise you won't try and find me."

Zhongli pondered before sighing. "I-if that is what you want. Never again..."

You smiled and pulled him close, kissing his cheek softly. "Thank you...Morax..."

He swallowed thickly and watched as you ate the soup in shakey hands. He sighed...pondering your words.

-----

Oh how that cheek kiss brought him back. You two had been out on one of your very first dates, just before the archon war. It was brewing, and Morax knew it.

You walked with him, your hair blowing in the breeze by the beach you two walked along.

He chuckled in amusement as he watched you collect the various seashells along the beach. "Having fun?"

You nodded excitedly and showed him your haul.

He looked up at the sun and sighed. "I promised your father of have you back for Dinner..."

You pouted but nodded. "Of course."

He lead you back home and you kissed his cheek. The first time you had done that. "Thank you...Morax..."

You closed the door.

-------

You passed away quietly in your sleep a week later and Zhongli attended your funeral as he always did, plus he worked for the funeral parlor so...you know, kind of would have been there no matter what.

He walked up to your grave after everyone left and kneeled down, placing a bouquet of flowers. "Thank you...(Name)..." He said softly.

He stood up, for the first time in milenia, unsure what to do. He swallowed and walked off, back to the house to sell it. It wouldn't be needed. He'd leave for some decades and return, lest anyone suspect his real identity.