#for someone who threatens to turn him into a stew

[dusty-fat-boy]

I didn't get to show you guys any thing at the time due to no access to the internet, but I recived a text from my grandmother once I was in Florida with an update on my boy and I damn near laughed myself to death.

Grandma, on voice note: in this picture, he is wondering if he should eat it or not.

Grandma, sending another picture with a voice note attached: in this one he decided, yes im going to eat this! Tasty!

[ssahotchnerr]

Hello! How are you doing?

I don't have anything extremely specific (sorry, I'm just leaving work and haven't really thought about this).

But if you want to, how about jealous Aaron who has the, very rare, opportunity to go pick up the reader from her job and see her all smiles with another coworker? In this case I was thinking that there might be a age gap between them and the male coworker is more of her age? So a bit of jealous and insecure Hotch?

If you feel comfortable with this of course!

Have a good day 😊

in comparison

cw; fem!reader, age gap, insecure :( and jealous!aaron, some angst, small suggestiveness, fluff <3 wc; 1.2k

You were exiting the building with a few of your colleagues, partaking in what appeared to be an entertaining conversation from Aaron's line of sight. The liveliness on your face was vivid, undoubtedly enjoying whatever the whole of you were collectively discussing.

You looked comfortable, relaxed, happy. You molded into the group well. One of your male colleagues in particular was inching a bit too close, a near awestruck expression on his face as a laugh escaped you. If he took one step to his right, his shoulder would be touching yours. While you were clueless, he was enamored.

Aaron felt his eyes harden involuntarily, a jealous heat swarming through his body; he wanted to march over there and assert his role as yours. However, the feeling wasn't long lasting. A profound sadness climbed up his spine, as he gained a different perspective.

It wasn't that you didn't fit into his life. On the complete contrary: you were the perfect addition.

But something about seeing you with others, with someone closer to your age, was daunting. Intimidating. It sickened him how natural the visual appeared. Reality has smacked him in the face numerous times over the years, he wouldn't be surprised if it happened again. That somehow, someway, you would prefer the latter. The one that had nothing to do with him.

As you walked towards Aaron's car, you glanced back at your coworkers, offering a wave and a smile as they jointly headed to the parking lot. His window was opened a crack, and he heard you call back towards them, "Have fun tonight!"

Aaron exhaled a breath.

"Hey." You chirped as you slid into the passenger seat, leaning over the center console to place a kiss on Aaron's cheek. He was rather stiff as you did so, causing you to lightly scrunch your nose in confusion, pulling away slowly. Something was up.

"Hey," He echoed, greeting you with an almost forced smile. The abruptness of his thoughts had unsettled him deeply - he couldn't shake them. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be." You responded hesitantly, searching his face as you buckled your seatbelt. You added after a moment, happy to be in his company and the emotion overtaking your heart. "I missed you today."

But your words went unnoticed, as he had already reentered the void that was his unwelcome thoughts.

In result the car ride home was silent, Aaron's pout unfaltering. His mind was plagued by the image of your coworker being in his place, driving you home, or the two of you huddled together amongst a night out with friends. It caused an uncomfortable, sad pit in his stomach.

"You missed a turn."

"What?"

Your statement jolted him back to earth. No he didn't... did he? His eyebrows furrowed in a line, reassessing the current surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary, all familiar street signs. When he confirmed he, in fact, did not miss a turn, he turned to you, only to find a knowing smirk plastered on your face.

His eyebrows quirked softly, obstructing the line drawn above his eyes. "What was that about?"

"To get your mind off whatever you're stewing about."

A smile threatened his lips, due to your witty expression and observation, "I'm not." His tone found a slightly lighter note - amusingly guilty. Anything but convincing.

"Aaron, darling, you're gonna break some teeth if that," Your playful demeanor dropped for a moment, your eyes tracing back and forth, as if you were in a trance. "Jaw of yours tightens anymore."

Your brief distraction eased a notion of his jealousy, he still had that effect on you, thankfully. He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his stare forward.

"So what is it?" You asked, "Did you have a bad day?"

He shook his head.

"Bad bout of cases?"

Aaron grimaced, his knuckles letting up only to secure his fingers over the wheel again, "They're always bad."

"Something I did?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but only silence came out. His hesitation caused your face to fall, your shoulders dropping and posture succumbing to the back of your seat.

"No honey, no you didn't do anything." He was quick to reassure, feeling entirely worse. "I can assure you."

Your eyes met his, needing more.

He sighed defeatedly, surprisingly not afraid to bluntly admit, "I'm jealous."

"Jealous?" You froze, but then it clicked. You gestured behind, as if your colleagues were somehow tailing the two of you. "Of...?"

Aaron bit his lip, nodding slowly.

Your expression lightened, a soft and genuine wonder in your eyes, "Why?"

"Are you okay with this?" Confusion arose on your face once more, so he clarified. "This. Us. You signed up for a lot, quickly at that."

Truth be told, the two of you had progressed at a rate neither of you expected, due to the sheer infatuation you possessed for one another. That, too, had been natural.

"I'm divorced, widowed, a father - I come with baggage. My 'going-out' are days long gone. I don't want you missing out."

"Aaron." In a way, you could laugh. It tore your heart into pieces he was thinking this way, doubting himself but he was clueless in an adorably, idiotic way. In summary, he simply never gave himself the credit he deserved. "What could I possibly be missing out on?"

"You could be spending your weekends out, socializing, with people closer in age. And yet, you're..." He came up with an example. "Making pillow forts. These are supposed to be the best years of your life. I'm terribly boring in comparison."

"Hey, I make a mean pillow fort."

He gave you a look.

Your hand grabbed his bicep affectionately, clinging onto it as if you were knocking some sense into him. "I chose this. I chose you. Jack is the addition to my life I never knew I needed. And I don't want to be out galavanting bar to night club to bar. I jump at the opportunity to deny a night out to spend it in. With you. When have you ever seen me wanting to go out and party?"

An expression of distaste flashed across your face at the concept, and Aaron's head tilted to the side as he considered your point.Yeah, that was true.

"I'm a homebody. And if there's anything I've realized over the course of the past months, you're my home. You."

Aaron let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"I know what I'm in for. And I embrace it with open arms. I want it." Your face was content, even more so than when you were talking with your colleagues. "I love you. And I love the life we're creating. It's so special, beyond my wildest dreams."

"Really?" A boyish, hopeful expression graced his face.

"Really. I wouldn't want it any other way. I can promise you. This- you're everything I could ever want."

Aaron's hand found your thigh, giving it a gentle, loving squeeze. "I love you too, sweetheart."

You beamed in response - you'd never get tired of the words leaving his lips.

"That one guy though," Aaron raised his eyebrows, taking a quick glance at you. Envy began creeping back, "He seemed interested. Wasn't a fan of that."

You scoffed, unbothered. "I'm into men, not boys. Which again, you are the utmost depiction of." Your delightful smirk resurfaced, admirably looking him over. "Believe me, I couldn't be more satisfied."

He wanted to play into your suggestive remarks, but he needed further confirmation. Once more. "You sure?"

"Oh, I'm positive."

Finally satisfied himself, he surrendered, "Okay."

"In fact, I can think of a few ways to show you just how much later."

[wholoveseggs]

Festive Frustration

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}{Five Days of Fluffmas}

{Elijah Mikaelson x Reader} When a chaotic Mikaelson Christmas party threatens Elijah’s carefully curated elegance, it’s up to you to remind him that some messes are worth embracing.

♡♡Happy Fluffmas♡♡

839 words - Warnings: flufffff, holiday party chaos, frustrated Elijah, spiked drinks, Klaus-induced pandemonium && soft dances under twinkling lights...

@starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv

@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming

@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse

@cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2

@itsjulzandmydiamonds @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury

@amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28

@sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @sekaishell @b1tchy

@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson

@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer @nina6708 @evasmlp

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight @blacknightrises @poppet05 @sweetieseven

@xoxo-shy @nova-j @decaffeinatedparadisepost @fandom-princess-forevermore @theotherworld97

@origshipfan @cocoabliss @eternalnoble @darth-laeka

You could tell Elijah was upset. His jaw was tight, and he kept flicking his cufflinks, a sure sign that he was done with the chaos around him. The Mikaelson Christmas party, which started as a refined and intimate event, had spiraled into something else entirely.

The decorations, once perfect, were either being knocked over or trampled on. The music had gone from Christmas classics to the tasteless modern ones you knew he disliked. To top it all off, someone had spilled wine on the rug, and Elijah’s patience was hanging on by a thread.

He stood by the Christmas tree, his shoulders stiff, glaring at a woman who nearly knocked over a tray of glasses.

You sighed, knowing you couldn’t let him stew in his frustration all night. He needed a drink and a distraction. Preferably one that involved you.

Grabbing a glass of whiskey from the bar, you wove through the crowd toward him. His face softened slightly when he saw you, though his frustration was still obvious.

“Hello, my love,” he greeted, his voice warm but strained.

“I thought you might need this,” you said, handing him the glass.

He took it, downing the drink in one go. You winced as his grip tightened around the glass, wondering if he’d accidentally shatter it.

“Thank you,” he murmured, setting the empty glass on a nearby table and running a hand through his hair.

You glanced around the room. The noise was deafening, and the elegant ambiance Elijah had worked so hard to create was long gone. “This isn’t quite what you had in mind, huh?”

Elijah’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “It’s mayhem,” he muttered. His eyes followed Kol, who was enthusiastically encouraging two guests to drink from the now-spiked punch bowl.

“It’s not that bad,” you said, trying to sound optimistic. “At least people are having fun.”

“If this is your idea of fun, I fear we have very different definitions of the word,” he replied dryly.

You laughed softly, but before you could respond, a loud burst of laughter and squeals erupted from the dance floor. Both of you turned toward the commotion to see Klaus spinning two blondes in opposite directions while a third clung to him, laughing uncontrollably.

Klaus was in his element, his face lit with mischief as he orchestrated the chaos. The women stumbled, colliding into other dancers, who then spilled their drinks, creating even more pandemonium.

“Of course,” Elijah muttered under his breath.

One of the blondes, clearly emboldened by alcohol, attempted to climb onto Klaus’s back. He caught her effortlessly, grinning like the devil himself as he twirled her around, nearly taking out a nearby couple.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. “He’s having a great time.”

“At my expense,” Elijah muttered.

The music changed to an obnoxiously loud dance remix of Jingle Bells and Klaus raised his arms triumphantly, shouting, “Now this is a party!” The room erupted in cheers, as though Klaus himself had blessed the event.

Elijah pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe I share blood with that man.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging on Elijah’s sleeve. “You can’t let Klaus have all the fun.”

Elijah hesitated, glancing at the crowded dance floor, then back at you. “I’m not sure that’s the solution.”

“It is,” you insisted, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the crowd.

Reluctantly, he followed. His hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth of his touch made your cheeks warm, and you smiled up at him as you began to sway.

“I don’t recall half these people being on the guest list,” he muttered, his gaze scanning the room.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “Rebekah might’ve invited... a few extras.”

His brow furrowed. “This was supposed to be a refined event, not-”

“A disaster?” you teased.

Elijah sighed, though his lips curved into a small smile. “Something like that.”

“I think Kol has spiked more than just the eggnog,” you added, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

Elijah scoffed. “Of course he did.”

You rested your head against his chest, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay, Elijah. You can’t control everything. You did a great job planning this.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but you felt the tension in his shoulders begin to ease and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“You always know how to calm me,” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

You smiled, looking up at him. “It’s a talent.”

As the two of you swayed under the twinkling lights, the chaos of the party seemed to fade into the background. For a moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Thank you,” Elijah said, his dark eyes meeting yours. “For reminding me what truly matters.”

You grinned, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Elijah.”

And just like that, the party didn’t feel like a disaster anymore.

[seungkwansphd]

contusion confusion

pairing: seungcheol x afab reader word count: 4K synopsis: your clumsy lab partner left a bruise on you. seungcheol seems disproportionately upset by it, but it makes way more sense once you understand why. themes: college au, best friend seungcheol, double sided repressed feelings, possessive and jealous seungcheol. warnings: smut, mentions of bruising/marking, mention of reader being smaller than seungcheol.

a/n: i started this literally one year ago and lost steam. and then blonde.fucking.scoups comes along and truly does a number on me. anyways, bon appetit, LOL

“What the hell happened to you?” Seungcheol’s eyes widened as you stretched your legs across his lap on the sofa.

“What?” you blinked at him, taking your eyes off of the television momentarily.

“What’s this bruise from?” he asked, resisting the strong urge to touch the bluish purple mark just above your elbow.

“Ah, that!” you shrugged, “I almost tripped the other day in lab. Mingyu grabbed me, but he might as well have let me fall! Who knew someone could bruise you just from grabbing you! Like how strong is that dude even?” you rolled your eyes. Grumbling, you returned your attention to the screen.

Seungcheol stewed next to you. While he had no real claim or reason to be upset at your lab partner, every time you brought him up, it made him want to strangle someone.

Mingyu was so tall that you had to readjust the titration burette between replicates. Mingyu was all sweaty because he had come to lab right after the gym. Mingyu didn’t cover his face while sneezing.

Seungcheol eagerly awaited next semester when he wouldn’t have to hear about this man anymore.

Swallowing, your eyes flitted nervously to your best friend’s hands, which were stroking your calves absentmindedly as he watched the show. While just a mindless gesture on his part, you were struggling silently with the way it made your insides turn just slightly into jelly.

“Cheol, that tickles!” you finally pulled your legs away, curling into a ball against the armrest of the sofa.

“Oh, sorry,” he smiled sheepishly at you, seeming distracted. It almost seemed like your friend was sulking, but you couldn’t understand why. You were watching a sitcom!

…

“There you are!”

You looked up to see your lab partner standing over your table, clutching the straps of his backpack.

“Oh, hey Mingyu,” you furrowed your brows at him, “Did you need something?”

“I thought we were supposed to be working on our lab report today?” he cocked his head at you, wondering if he had gotten the time wrong.

“Oh shit!” you cursed, “I’m so sorry Gyu, I totally lost track of time!”

“That’s okay,” he laughed, “It’s not that big of a deal. You want to work on it now?”

“Sure!” you nodded, glancing at Seungcheol and Jeonghan, who were immersed in their computer programming assignments. “Do you mind if Mingyu joins us? We have a lab report.”

“Yes, we heard,” Jeonghan rolls his eyes at you, “Sure that’s fine.”

“Thanks,” Mingyu nods before taking the seat next to you.

“Did you start anything for it yet?” you asked, pulling your lab notebook out of your backpack.

“Whoa, did I really grab you that hard that day?” Mingyu exclaimed, seeing the purple bruise on your arm.

“Yes, it fuckin’ hurts too!” you squinted at him, annoyed.

“I didn’t think you could bruise someone just by grabbing them. I guess I’m just super strong, huh?” Mingyu preened.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you threatened to punch him.

Jeonghan observed Seungcheol’s shift in mood with mild interest as you and Mingyu muddled your way through your lab report.

“I need some coffee or I’m going to rip my eyeballs out,” you announced after calculating mole fractions for far too long. You stood from the table to move towards the cafe in the library. You tapped your fingertips on your wallet mindlessly as you calculated how many shots of espresso you could consume without your heart bursting out of your chest.

“YN!” a familiar voice greeted you as they tapped your shoulder.

“Ah, hey!” you smiled at Bina, your lab partner from last year. “Ugh, I’m working on a lab report and it is giving me flashbacks to last semester!”

“Oh my god, please don’t remind me!” she rolled her eyes. You two had barely managed to scrape through that class. Unlike you, it had been her only chem requirement, so she was free of the horror of lab reports now. “Who’s your lab partner this semester?”

“Mingyu Kim,” you scrunched up your nose slightly, “God bless him, but he is such a klutz.”

“Wait, no. Mingyu? The Kim Mingyu?” Bina paled slightly.

“Why? Do you know him? Is there tea?” you looked at her with wide eyes.

“No, god I wish. He’s just so hot to me! I’m jealous, I would slog through another semester of chem to be his lab partner.”

“Would you?!” you gaped at her, thoroughly alarmed. “You’re sick in the head over this man,” you laughed heartily.

“No, probably not,” Bina chuckled after giving it some more serious consideration. “But I’d think long and hard about it.”

“We’re sitting over there if you wanna stop by and say hi. I’ll introduce y’all,” you offered before placing your order with the cashier.

“I might do that,” she craned her head to see exactly where your table was. “You’re sitting with Seungcheol too? My friend is infatuated with that man. They’re in Comp Sci together. Can she come say hi too?”

“S-sure,” you answered blankly. You had no stake or claim, but something in you wanted to scream ‘NO!’ when you heard Bina ask that question.

“You’re the best, we’ll be over in a bit,” Bina smiled brightly at you, giving you a squeeze.

“Okay, I’m ready to resume crying,” you announced when you returned to the table with your beverage.

“Okay, good, cause I’m ready to take a break from crying,” Mingyu looked up at you pitifully. “I think I figured out 4. So then if we can figure out 5, then we just need to pull together some nonsense for the discussion.”

“Okay, okay,” you nodded determinedly. By some miracle, question 5 was just some simple dilution practice, so before long you and Mingyu were typing furiously, chipping away at the remainder of the lab report.

“Hey YN!” Bina’s voice pulled you out of a sentence about how (DUH) important it was to switch pipettes between samples.

“Oh, hey Bina! What’s up?” you waved excitedly at your friend, eager to do some meddling for her.

“Not much, how are you? Long time no see!”

“Yes, luckily you’re done with your chem requirements, otherwise you’d be here crying with us,” you laughed as Mingyu and Seungcheol looked on at you with interest. Jeonghan had long ago put on a pair of noise canceling headphones and was ignoring everybody. “Mingyu, Bina was my lab partner last semester. And she was a lot better than you are,” you couldn’t help but tease.

“Hey!” Mingyu pouted.

“I mean at the very least she’s my height, so I didn’t have to readjust the biuret every time we titrated,” you rolled your eyes playfully at Bina.

“It’s not my fault you’re both short,” Mingyu protested, eyes flickering to Bina for some support.

“If it makes you feel better, I was terrible in lab too,” she offered up sympathetically, “YN is my patron saint of chemistry. Did she ever tell you about how I exploded two crucibles one time?”

“No!” Mingyu looked at her with interest, “Was YN also very mean to you and made you finish your work way ahead of time?”

“Yes!” Bina giggled excitedly, “Like why can’t we pull all nighters like normal people?”

“Hell no, I’m not disrupting my sleep schedule for y’all. No thanks,” you shook your head stalwartly. “Anyways, you two should exchange numbers so you can complain about me on your own time,” you chuckled. Bina and Mingyu seemed to agree and set about that task enthusiastically.

“Ah, sorry I’m being rude, this is my friend Hayoung! We’re in a writing foundations class together so we were working on that.”

“Hi,” she waved at everyone shyly.

“Hayoung, what’s your major?” you asked.

“Computer science, focusing on human & computer interactions.”

“Ooh?! Love me a girly in STEM! These two are comp sci as well! Do you all know each other?” you asked, mostly Seungcheol as Jeonghan was still intent on ignoring you.

“Maybe? You look kind of familiar, but I don’t talk to many people in class,” he chuckled honestly.

“I think we might have a class together?” Hayoung smiled.

“Oh wonderful! You two should exchange numbers too! Maybe you can work on comp sci stuff together,” you suggested. They weren’t really giving you too much to work with, if you were being honest.

“I’d actually love that,” Hayoung’s eyes creased into a smile, “I don’t know that many people in the major.”

“Is it because they’re being sexist?” your eyes widened and you raised a fist theatrically, “I’ll fight them all for you. Cheol, you will too, right? Jeonghan’s not much use in a fight, if I’m being honest,” you commented quietly, glancing at the target of your teasing.

“Sure,” Seungcheol’s face creased into a real smile as he watched you whisper about Jeonghan animatedly.

Hayoung and Seungcheol exchanged phone numbers as you watched on excitedly. Hayoung was clearly pleased, but Seungcheol was making a face as if he had tasted something odd, but was too polite to say anything about it.

“Bina is so cute!” Mingyu remarked happily after they both left, “Lucky you with your cute lab partners!”

“Yeah,” you rolled your eyes at him, “I love doing unpaid babysitting in the lab.”

…

“Cheol, can I crash on your couch?” you spoke after he picked up your call.

“Yeah, of course! Are you okay?” Seungcheol’s brow furrowed, worried.

“Yeah, I’ve just been sexiled,” you grumbled, starting your walk towards Seungcheol’s apartment. He met you about halfway and the two of you caught up on the walk back.

“How are things with Hayoung?” you asked, not quite making eye contact.

“What?” his hand slipped as he was moving to turn the doorknob.

“Hayoung, did you guys ever meet up to work on comp sci together?” you asked, lips pursed as you followed him into his apartment.

“Oh, no, she texted me but I forgot to text her back,” Seungcheol shrugged.

“Text her back, you jerk!” you poked Seungcheol insistently, “Hayoung’s cute! And she likes you.”

“That’s good for her,” Seungcheol grumbled, irritated at your attempt to push him towards someone else. Maybe his cause was truly hopeless.

“You’re acting weird,” you glanced at him oddly before flopping down on the couch.

“No, you take the bed,” Seungcheol ignored your statement and plopped down near your feet, tapping your legs lightly.

“No! I’m not gonna kick you out of your bed!” you protested.

“No, seriously, sleep on the bed. I always wake up before you anyways. I’ll end up waking you up if you sleep out here.”

“I-,” you tried to think of another excuse, but he wasn’t your best friend for no reason. He knew you just as well as you knew yourself. “Okay,” you acquiesced, hopping up from the couch to walk into his room, “Do you need anything from here before bed?” you turned to ask him, hand on the doorframe.

“Nope, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, thanks again for letting me crash,” you smiled at him before pulling the door not quite closed behind you.

Once inside, you dropped your bag and helped yourself to a t-shirt and pair of shorts from Seungcheol’s drawers. You laughed at the way you were swimming in the shirt.

“I look ridiculous,” you laughed, walking back out into the living room. “Cheol, look,” you spread your arms out to your sides, showing Seungcheol the way that his t-shirt just swallowed you.

“I-,” his brain stopped for a few moments. He wouldn’t say anything, but he could in fact see your nipples as you tried to show him whatever you were showing him. “What?”

“Your shirt is too big on me,” you folded your arms over your chest, irritated that he had been listening.

“Oh yeah, well I’m bigger than you,” he replied curtly.

“Well, yeah,” you glanced away from him. He was in such an odd mood today! You grumbled just a little bit before flopping down on the bed. You were tired.

Tossing and turning, you fought for a long time to push down the arousal that was building in your gut. Being enveloped by Seungcheol’s scent was making your brain go haywire. You could feel yourself throbbing and you bit down on your fist in an effort to try and distract yourself, but that hadn’t worked. Glancing nervously at the door, you contemplated seeking some relief, but the idea of doing it in Seungcheol’s bed while he was just outside the door inspired guilt, worry, and worst of all, excitement. 

You managed to ignore yourself for about ten minutes before your left hand snuck down between your thighs, stroking them softly. Sinking deeper into Seungcheol’s pillows, you closed your eyes and imagined your best friend’s hands softly caressing and spreading your legs apart. You were embarrassed to hear the wet sounds of yourself opening up, but not embarrassed enough to stop. Your right hand came to tease the sensitive undersides of your breasts as your fingertips stroked languidly through your folds.

In the living room, Cheol wrestled with whether to disturb you or not. Several minutes ago, he had noticed that one of his textbooks was still in his room. He’d been planning to get ahead on a problem set, so it wasn’t as if he needed to disturb you, but he also didn’t see himself falling asleep anytime soon. Chewing his lip, he noticed that the door was still slightly ajar and decided to retrieve the book as you must not have gone to bed just yet.

When his eyes first landed on your face, your brows were knit up in utter concentration as your hands worked feverishly under the covers. Your front teeth had your lower lip pinned down as you bit back the loudest of your desperate noises. Seungcheol’s pupils dilated as he registered what was happening. Frantically, he tried to back out of the room, but his sweater caught the edge of a pamphlet that had been hanging off the bookshelf, sending a handful of items clattering to the floor.

“Fuck!” your eyes shot open, panicked as you met Cheol’s gaze, “I’m, you-, help!” you squeaked, pulling the covers over your face as you wished to vanish off the face of the earth.

Seungcheol’s mind went blank as he walked towards you, placing his hands over yours to pull down the covers. You peered up at him through your eyelashes, so overcome with embarrassment that you failed to register the look of hunger in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry Cheol, I didn’t, I shouldn’t have done that here!”

“What?” he cocked his head to the side, brain not really functioning.

“It’s your bed!” you looked at him as if he was crazy, “I just-, you smell so good,” you spoke without thinking.

“I…,” he looked you up and down, “You’re telling me I inspired this?”

“Shit, I shouldn’t have said that, oh my god!” you groaned, trying to shrug under the covers again. Seungcheol’s large hands held you still and you watched in disbelief as he brought your left hand up to inspect it. The shine of moisture on your fingers was mortifyingly telling, but he surprised you to your core when he brought your hand to his mouth and sucked your wet fingers inside.

“Huh?!” you choked out, eyes fluttering shut as he tongue stroked between your digits, tasting you thoroughly.

“You should’ve told me about this sooner,” he told you, voice gravely with desire, “I’ve been torturing myself trying to ignore how much I think about you.”

“Oh?” you blinked at him in disbelief.

“Yes, oh,”  Seungcheol rolled his eyes at you, “Now let me help, as you requested.”

His fingers wandered. His eyes widened slightly when he felt just how wet you were. The rumble that emitted from his chest almost sounded like a purr and you found yourself quickly breathless at his ministrations.

“Cheol,” you moaned, melting slightly as his substantially larger fingers swirled dizzyingly through your folds. He smirked down at you, more than pleased to hear your saying his name in that manner.

“So needy,” he chuckled, eyes flicking over you.

“Well I was halfway there when you walked in,” you teased him and his eyes flashed at you, a subtle warning.

He raised one eyebrow at you before sliding his fingers inside of you. You choked on your breath at the intrusion, though your legs parted asking for more.

“You-, your fingers!”

“Mm, how do they feel?” he smirked at you, confident.

“I knew they’d stretch me out, bigger than mine,” you panted and his eyes widened at the realization that this wasn’t the first time you’d imagined this.

“You think about me a lot?” he raised an eyebrow at you, now cocky.

“No,” you lied, glancing away to avoid his eyes.

“My thick fingers spreading you open,” he continued anyways, smirking when he felt the way you reacted around him.

“Seung-,” you whined, overwhelmed at the way he teased you.

“God I like hearing you say my name like that,” Seungcheol shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Can I see you?” he asked, other hand itching to peel back the comforter.

You nodded wordlessly. You were slightly mortified to reveal yourself to him in this way, but his other hand quickly distracted you. You watched his eyes rove across you appreciatively until they trained in on your bruise, his jaw clenching.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he exhaled sharply.

“Why? It wasn’t on purpose!”

“No, it’s not-,” Seungcheol paused. “That’s not why. I was annoyed because the idea of getting to be the one to leave marks on you has rendered me…basically unable to produce coherent thought.”

“Oh? OH,” your eyes widened, gears in your brain turning. “I mean…all yours, Cheol,” you smiled sheepishly at him.

“Really?” he groaned, looking at you appreciatively as he thought about exactly where and how he’d like to mar your skin.

“Seungcheol!” you snapped at him as he continued to mumble to himself.

“Maybe a handprint here?” he grazed your upper thigh with his palm, eyes dancing mischievously at you. “Or a necklace of hickeys,” he growled as he nipped at the base of your neck. He had decided to seize the opportunity to tease you, and as much as you liked it, you only had so much patience.

“Cheol, please,” you pouted, grabbing at his collar, “I can’t take anymore of this.”

“Yes princess,” he pulled an old nickname out of the vault. You melted.

“Mmmpf!” he smothered your next protest with a kiss.

“Seung. Cheol!” you moaned desperately as his hand grabbed your thigh, hard.

The strength in his grip set your nerves alight and your head fell back against the bed, arching your chest up towards him. His mouth took the opportunity to latch onto the underside of your breast, biting down firmly. Your hand fisted itself in his hair.

It was so much sensation. It was so good.

“Hn,” he pulled back with a breathless smile. His eyes flicked down to the spots where his mouth and hand had been and his lips curled into a cocky grin at the bright red marks. With any luck those would be bruised nicely tomorrow.

“That was…a lot,” you murmured as you caught your breath.

“In a bad way?” Seungcheol’s brow furrowed with sudden worry.

“No,” you smiled at him, slightly fuzzy, “In a good way. A really good way.”

“Really?” his eyebrows raised back up with delight. “So you won’t mind if you bruise a little?”

“I don’t think I’ll mind even if you bruise me a lot,” you answered after some thought.

Your best friend’s eyes darkened. The way you had rearranged his words hit the possessive button in his brain like crazy. His lips nibbled and nipped their way down your torso while his hand came to cup your breast. His grip was on the hard side of firm as his lips latched onto a spot on your inner thigh. His tongue stroked across the sensitive skin as he sucked firmly.

Your thighs parted of their own accord as you squirmed at this building onslaught. As you shifted, you could hear the wet sounds of yourself spreading. Open and inviting.

“Cheol, please,” you tried to pull him towards you. “Please,” you panted.

Seungcheol, the bastard, increased the intensity of his sucking before releasing his lips with a loud ‘pop!’. The jolt of the disconnection sent a shiver through you and the spot where his mouth had been now felt woefully cool.

“Pretty,” he looked at the red mark appreciatively. The thought that you would be reminded of this encounter over the next weeks sent a streak of pride through him that was unexpected.

“Seungcheol!” you grabbed his face by his cheeks, directing his attention to you. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to kick you out and take care of it myself!”

His eyes widened and he chuckled sheepishly before reaching over you to pull a condom out of the nightstand. You watched, almost painfully aroused, as he undressed and unrolled the condom over himself. His cock bobbed proudly as he pulled his sturdy torso over you, slotting himself between your thighs.

You sighed when his cock came to rest against your core. You could already tell it was going to be good.

“Seungcheol, please,” you placed your hands around his jaw. “Need you.”

He nodded, reaching down to slip himself inside of you. A soft gasp escaped you as his head pushed in and you couldn’t help but relish in the stretch. Seungcheol took his time sinking into you. The whines and gasps that you made were way too good to be rushed.

“Cheol,” your hands clutched at the back of his thick neck until he was pressed flush against you. “Fuck,” you exhaled into his ear.

Seungcheol’s hand was gripping your hip so hard as he struggled to keep control of himself. Of all the things that he found overwhelming, the way you pulsed and squeezed around him, the little sounds you made as he had pressed into you…the worst of all was the way you smelled. His hand fisted itself further in your hip as he inhaled you, a most intoxicating scent.

You clenched around him as his hand tightened. He was sure to bruise you there, too, and you couldn’t wait. Knowing that you’d be able to see these marks as evidence that this wasn’t another crush induced dream made you feel crazed in a different way.

“You feel perfect,” Seungcheol groaned against your skin as his hips started to move. “I just knew it.”

Clench.

You hooked your legs around his hips as he pumped into you deeply. Each thick stroke pushed you dangerously closer to the precipice and you were ready to fall off the edge.

“Cheol,” you pulled back slightly to meet his blown out gaze. “I’m there.”

“Go ahead,” he encouraged you, aching to feel you come apart around him. “Be good and come for me.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as you let go. Your hands clutched desperately at his shoulders as your pussy fluttered around him. You didn’t even know what kinds of sounds you made as you simply didn’t have the presence of mind.

“So good,” he smiled, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against yours. “So good,” he grunted before his hips shuddered and he emptied himself inside of you.

You wrapped your arms around his torso as he slumped down on top of you. He smiled when you gave him a squeeze with your entire body.

“So you’re kind of possessive, huh?” you chuckled softly after you’d regained your sanity.

Seungcheol squeezed his eyes shut with a laugh. He hadn’t realized it, or maybe it was just because it was you, but yes. Yes he was.

[enigmaedid]

Boom!Shadow is absolutely evil for no reason, and that's what makes him so absurdly entertaining. Sonic doesn’t even bother denying or refuting accusations because, honestly, what’s the point? Shadow will believe the first thing he hears, get irrationally angry when it turns out wrong, threaten to blow up the universe in retaliation, and then, without explanation, change his mind entirely. Why waste the effort trying to connect with someone like that? Sonic’s got better things to do—he has a brain, after all, unlike Shadow, who seems to operate solely on misguided rage and over-the-top dramatics.

Sonic, with his sharp wit and easygoing nature, would absolutely take Shadow’s impulsive, overly dramatic tendencies in stride. He wouldn’t waste time arguing with someone who’s so quick to leap to conclusions and act on them—especially when Shadow's solution is always something over-the-top, like destroying the universe or brooding in the corner about betrayal that didn’t even happen.

It’s both hilarious and tragic: Sonic understands Shadow better than Shadow understands himself, but he knows there’s no reasoning with someone who’s determined to be wrong and angry about it. So why bother refuting the accusations? Let Shadow stew in his own mess—Sonic has a chili dog to eat.

Shadow’s whole "I’m evil because I feel like it" vibe is an endless goldmine for exploration. It makes their relationship as rivals (or allies or more) so compelling because Sonic can be patient, clever, or downright trollish in his approach, while Shadow inevitably spirals into chaos. And somehow, they always meet in the middle when it matters, like they’re two sides of the same coin.

This sums up Boom!Shadow so well—he's such a caricature of his usual brooding self that his absurdity becomes the highlight. It's like he’s a self-parody, taking everything that makes Shadow "Shadow" and cranking it up to eleven for no discernible reason other than sheer chaos. His irrational anger and snap decisions are so overblown they border on comedic genius.

And Sonic? He’s just sitting there, probably eating a chili dog, watching Shadow unravel, like, "This is your circus, and those are your monkeys, dude. I’m not getting involved." It’s a perfect dynamic because Sonic’s refusal to engage only fuels Shadow’s fire, making him even more hilariously unhinged.

The best part is that Sonic clearly knows how ridiculous Shadow is but lets him dig his own grave every time. He’s clever enough to realize that trying to reason with Shadow would be like arguing with a storm—pointless and exhausting. So instead, Sonic just leans back and lets Shadow spiral, knowing full well that, eventually, Shadow will blow up the metaphorical universe and then quietly put it back together like nothing happened.

[acozysoulwrites]

Buried feelings | Astarion x Tav

Description: Astarion recalls being buried alive when Tav finds a man in the graveyard suffering the same fate. This leads to lots of emotions he isn’t sure what to do with.

Not anyone could say they’ve been buried alive. Even fewer could say that they’d been buried alive for a year. Astarion wondered if anyone else at all could say that. He could. Sometimes he had nightmares of being back in that coffin.

Sometimes it only took the smell of freshly dug dirt, or a stroll past a graveyard to stir the dread deep within. He hated how weak these simple things made him feel.

Earlier today, Tav led them through the graveyard in the lower city. Karlach found her parents gravestones and said a few words to them. Astarion wasn’t sure what he believed, but he could tell she felt the things she spoke.

On their way out, they noticed a freshly filled grave, a pipe stuck from the mound, and Gale was the first to notice the faint cries for help that erupted from it. As Tav dug into the shallow grave, Astarion’s throat tightened, his mouth grew dry, and he fought the urge to look away as the all too familiar feeling crept into him.

“It’s probably nothing, we should just go” He scowled, a glint of desperation flicked across his face.

“Star, if someone’s in there…” She gave him a look, the same look one would give when begging their beloved to keep a stray puppy or kitten, and despite how badly he wanted to be anywhere else right now, a sigh escaped him, and he submitted.

“Go on then, since you need to be everyone’s hero” Astarion grumbled, guilt running through him at the hurt expression that crossed Tav’s face. He meant to speak those words more softly just now.

The shovel soon came into contact with something hard. Surely enough, a coffin. Karlach helped Tav pry the lid open, before it could even open half way, a man shot up, nearly knocking the two back onto their arse. He gasped for air, clenching his chest as panic filled his frantic gaze.

Astarion stayed back while the other’s spoke with the stranger, asking him all sorts of questions and receiving few answers. His mind was elsewhere, it was distant and stuck. He couldn’t help but feel anger. Why hadn’t anyone noticed him? Not once during all those years did anyone come to his rescue, not a single God, not an angel such as his beloved Tav, no one. For a year, he waited, cried, and begged. Screaming as loud as he could until his voice was but a rasp and he swore he could taste blood.

Suddenly, tears were gathered at the corners of his eyes, glistening in the sunlight, they threatened to fall as he looked upon the man they’d saved. The man with a second chance at life so much earlier than Astarion had been given his.

Tav was finally satisfied with the explanation the man gave her as to why he had been buried, and she turned. Astarion watched as the man scurried off into the bustling city, gifted another chance at life. Surely he wouldn’t waste it on getting into squabbles with the higher ups.

“Gods, what an idiot” Tav scoffed, earning nods of agreement from Gale and Karlach.

“Can’t believe the things we run into sometimes” Karlach chuckled.

Astarion remained quiet, and it wasn’t until he felt Tav’s eyes on him that he spoke. He quickly fixed himself, his face fell, his eyes rolled and he spoke.

“Are you quite done saving every sad sop you come across?”

Karlach and Gale laughed and walked on, they were tired and heading back to camp. Astarion began to follow, but Tav stopped him, her hand gently grabbing his arm.

“Star…”

“I’m fine, love” He affirmed, his typical response to her pity. Pulling away from her grip, he takes off in camp’s direction.

-

The sun had begun to set. The smell of Gale’s stew traveled through the air, exciting those who actually ate in camp. Tav sits by the fire, listening as Lae’zel and Shadowheart discuss the gods and other religions. She couldn’t help but smile at their relationship and how it had gone from hate to well… whatever they were now.

As the others in camp chatter and buzz about the day’s adventures, Tav feels a sudden emptiness where someone is missing. Astarion. She stands, brushing herself off as she glances around camp. Her vampire companion was no where to be seen, so she knew where he must be.

“Star?” Tav pushes the flap of his tent open and finds him lying in the dark with only a candle by his side.

She creeps inside, letting the flap close, leaving the sun behind as she settles next to him.

“Talk to me”

Astarion’s eyes flick from the fire to his hand, then back again. “I’m fine”

Tav raises an eyebrow, her disbelief so strong that Astarion can feel it, and he sits up. “That’s not true.”

Astarion shoots her a look, but it falls short when he sees the genuine concern in her eyes. “It’s nothing” He had lost all fight in disguising the discomfort that lie deep in his heart.

Tav sighs and she scoots closer, when he doesn’t scuffle away in disgust, she settles close to him. He was doing it again, shutting down. He did this when things were too much in his head, he locked himself within. It was the only way he knew, the only escape.

“Is this about earlier? That silly man who got himself buried alive?”

He doesn’t move and that answers her question. Tav’s heart breaks. Gods, how she wishes she were around back then, how she wishes she could have found him. She’d have dug him up with her bare hands if that were all she had.

“My sweet, you know i’d have come for you, you know i’d have saved you in a heartbeat”

Astarion’s lips part, anger sparks like a dying fire inside him. “You… You didn’t though” he frowns, eyeing her as guilt sets in, he knows it was impossible, that she didn’t know, and a part of him fears he didn’t deserve to be saved, not then and not now.

His voice wavers as he speaks, “No one did.”

He knew he couldn’t blame Tav for the abandonment, yet a part of him seethed. It clawed at him from the inside. He wondered if she’d ever passed him in the streets of Baldur’s Gate, if she’d have noticed the lifelessness in his eyes as he gazed her hungrily. If she’d have turned and ran from him and his plans to take her into the night, back to Cazador like many others before.

Tav reaches out and places her hand onto his cheek, she rubs her thumb gently underneath his eye, just across his cheekbone.

“You know, some people don’t deserve to be saved”

Her words send an ache through him, the next words she’d speak would surely come with a heaviness. He didn’t either, did he?

“But you? You deserve it most” She hums

With this, he leans into her touch, warmth spreads across his face and into his limbs and he nearly goes weak under her skin. His hand slips around her wrist and he holds her there, taking in her scent, listening as her blood runs through her veins.

“It gets better, i promise” she whispers, pulling him into her arms, she leans back and he lays atop her, his arm around her neck as he hugs into her body.

“You seem so sure” He hums, inhaling deeply from her neck.

“As long as i’m here, i’ll make sure” Tav hums, placing a kiss atop his curly hair.

[little-glitter-kitten]

I Think The Apple's Rotten Right To The Core Pt 6

Prologue: As your brother, Caleb always took great pride in the fact that he was always the first to notice the little things when it came to you. When you were hurt, when you were sick, when you were lying or keeping a secret. What will Caleb do when he notices just how much his precious little adopted sister has grown? Can he fight the filthy, rotten feelings threatening to ruin all he holds dear?

(Caleb x Reader, no use of 'Y/N, AFAB reader, size difference.)

TW: Pseudo-incest, dub-con, somnophilia, sexting, semi-public sex,  possessive Caleb, Obsessed Caleb, Yandere Caleb.

YOUR POV:

You sit at the dinner table, trying your best to make conversation with your Grandmother while studiously avoiding Caleb's eyes.

You swear you could feel every time his gaze landed on you, the weight of it feeling almost as heavy as a physical touch. Your breath would catch in your throat whenever your eyes locked and you were beginning to grow frustrated.

You were more than frustrated, actually.

After Caleb left your bedrooom and went to help set the table like nothing had even happened, you spent the next five minutes wiping the traces of his cum off of you. You didn't even have enough time to bring yourself to orgasm before Grandma was calling for you to come downstairs and eat.

To say that you were pent up was an understatement.

Caleb was busy telling your Grandma about his old high school friends while you pushed your salad around your plate and tried not to sulk.

"...they split a few years ago and went their seperate ways. Last I heard, she was back in her parents house and unemployed but he met someone else and is now engaged." He told them.

"At least he got his happy ending, though." You said nonchalantly, stabbing a piece of lettuce with more force than was necessary. "Too bad about her."

You felt his eyes snap back to you and you swear you could feel your body grow heavier under Calebs intense scrutiny. You risked a glance up to see him looking at you, rubbing his chin as though pondering something.

"Well, maybe, if she wasn't so intent on playing the victim card, she would realise that good things..." You felt his foot slide up you leg under the table. "...come to those who wait."

Just as suddenly as it appeared, his foot was gone and Caleb had risen from his chair to take his dishes to the sink. Leaving you to sit and stew in your rapidly swirling thoughts.

After dinner, the three of you had retired to the living room. Grandma and Caleb sat at opposite ends of the three-seater while you occupied the wingback chair that sat perpendicular to the couch. It was known as your chair and no one would dare sit in it while you were home.

Relaxing into the seat, you mindlessly scrolled on your phone as Grandma continued her latest knitting project and Caleb lay back on the sofa, watching the TV.

Though the room was filled with a comfortable silence, you were anything but comfortable. You were using your phone as a way to distract yourself from the man sitting right 6 feet away from you, who seemed to be completely unaffected.

Just as you were beginning to feel your nerves settle, your phone vibrated in your hand, a drop-down notification appearing and informing you of a text from Caleb.

You steal a glance at him, his eyes focused on the TV but his phone sat in front of him, face down on the couch. Looking back down at your phone, you begin to read.

Caleb: 'Is my sweet, little pipsqueak sulking the corner?  ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀)'

You ignore him and continue scrolling but it wasn't long before you see another text appear.

Caleb: 'I can see you've read my message. Giving me the silent treatment, pipsqueak?'

You knew it was incredibly immature of you but you knew how much he hated being ignored. Looking up at him, you find his gaze already on you. With a bored expression on your face, you lock your phone screen and place it on the chair in front of you before turning your attention to the television.

Very quickly, you felt your phone buzz once...then twice....then three times.

Looking over, you see him typing furiously, his brow furrowed in a mix on concentration and...anger?

Feeling like you may have pushed him to far, you pick up your phone and read the messages.

Caleb: 'Is this because we didn't get time for you to have your fun?'

Caleb: 'Because, it sounds like you had plenty of fun last night... I heard you taking care of yourself after I left the room. How many times did you come? I counted at least 6. Well...from what I could hear from your bedroom door, anyway.'

Caleb: 'You always were a brat when you didn't get your way.'

You couldn't help the audible scoff that escaped your mouth. The nickname 'brat' was always his go to when he was upset with you.

Beginning to feel pins and needles, you uncrossed your legs to give them a stretch before crossing them again. Risking a glance at Caleb, you blanched. The tips of his ears were bright red, the creases between his eyebrows becoming more pronounced and the veins in his neck standing out.

Is he really that angry from a bit of silent treatment?

Caleb: 'Did you seriously just flash me after ignoring me, pipsqueak?'

As much as you wanted to reply and deny it, you were too stubborn to concede defeat and stop the silent treatment. You sat, watching Caleb's typing bubble appear, holding your breath.

Caleb: 'You little cocktease! If you know what's good for you, you will lock your door tonight and pray to God I don't get in.'

[sweetteaanddragons]

I Could Not See to See

(Title taken from Emily Dickinson's "I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died," a poem about the transition between life and death. It felt appropriate.)

(Summary: Morgoth's darkness blots out even the stars. Maedhros loses hope that any of them can survive this.

Some six thousand years later, Elrond refuses to lose hope when it comes to bringing home everyone that he can.)

The last time Elrond saw a star in Beleriand was when he was thirteen. After that, the Enemy’s smog grew too thick; only the sun’s light was fierce enough to bleed through it, and that only weakly.

He was also thirteen the first time Maedhros turned to him around the campfire and said, “When you die - ”

Elrond was not sure precisely what his face did at that moment. He thought Elros would have gone for a weapon if their hands had not been so occupied with the first bowls of hot stew they had been able to risk for three fortnights.

It helped that the most threatening thing Maedhros was handling at the moment was the ladle for said stew. It helped, too, that it had been a very long time since Maedhros had been the most immediate threat to them. He had slain three wights for them only that day and taken a nasty slash to the leg in the bargain; Elrond did not think he would so lightly turn and slay them now, especially while the leg was not yet well, and Elrond, for all his youth, was already the best healer among them.

Still. It did not stop Elros’s grip from changing ever so slightly on the bowl of stew.

“If,” Maglor said hastily, sitting down between them and Maedhros and heavily stressing the word. "If you die.”

Maedhros - the greatest swordsman Elrond had ever seen - looked down at the cut on his leg that even he was not quick enough to stop. Not when surrounded by so many enemies; not when protecting two more vulnerable targets; not when so many plants have shriveled beneath the choking smoke and animals have grown so scarce. “If,” he said sardonically.

He did not complete his thought.

It was two years later before Maedhros turned to them again and said, “When you die.” He paused there for an interruption, but there wasn't one.

Around them, what remained of the Feanorian followers were doing their best to make camp as far back from the mouth of the cave as they could. Outside, the rain hissed down, and there was something evil hiding in its whispers.

There were fewer of them than there were before the rain began to fall.

Maglor was still there. Maglor was by the mouth of the cave, singing up a draft to push back against the winds greedily pushing the rain farther inward. His mouth grew tight at his brother’s words, but he didn't stop the song.

“When we die,” Elros prompted from where he was leaning against the rough stone, wincing as Elrond inspected his wrist, swollen from his fall in the desperate scramble up the mountain.

“I don’t know where you’ll go.” The words were flat, but Maedhros’s eyes were as worried as he ever let anyone see. “You might be counted Men; if you are, there is little I can do to advise you, save to say that if there is any danger where Men go, you should certainly seek your kin.”

“Tuor, Turin - ”

“Huor, Hurin - ”

“Nienor, Morwen - ”

“Yes,” Maedhros interrupted before Elrond and Elros could get too far into their game of seeing who could remember the most ancestors. “Though if it comes to it, I’d recommend more toward appealing to Beren and Luthien and less toward Turin. I know little of his curse, but from what little I did hear, you will not want to tangle with it if it still remains.”

Elros refrained from pointing out that at least hiding behind the edges of a curse would be a familiar state for them. Elrond suspected that even someone not half entwined with Elros’s mind could guess it, judging from Maedhros’s weary twitch of the lips.

“But if you are counted as elves, that is another matter. Mandos’s Halls will be safe; I cannot speak for what you will find when you are released from them.”

The part of Elrond that still remembered being six years old and watching as his father sailed away in desperate hope of Aman’s salvation wanted to protest. Aman was perfect; Aman was untouched.

But he was not six years old anymore, and he had heard enough speculative whispers by now to know that just because the fires of Alqualonde must have long since burned out and those first darkness-fueled riots long since ended, it did not at all mean that all in Aman must be at peace. Conflict would not have ended with the Noldor’s exit.

“Stick together and use your best judgment as to whether it is better to be Sindarin princes or Noldorin princes or anonymous children of nowhere in particular. But before that - ” Here, he broke off and with a sharp gesture summoned Farande over from the throng of people investigating the back of the cave for danger. “Before that, you must get there, and if the wraiths and spirits that have haunted us this past month are any indication, that may require more cunning than it once did.”

Farande saluted as she drew near. “My king,” she said, before turning to them and taking on a tone Elrond had never heard her use before; she sounded like Maglor when he was teaching. “Mandos’s call is loud, but even in the days when all there was to oppose it were some leftover traps, Melkor’s was tempting.”

It took Elrond a moment to process this. His hands paused in their gentle prodding of Elros’s wrist. “You’ve died before?”

Elros peered around him curiously as though the information would somehow make Farande look different than she ever has before.

“On the great journey to Aman,” she said. Her tone did not invite further questions. “After the final blow, your spirit will linger about your body for a few moments in confusion; already, you will begin to hear the calls. They will tug at you. When I fell, Mandos’s was by far the stronger.”

She said nothing about what she suspected about now.

The hissing whispers in the rain seemed to get louder.

“The Enemy is cunning,” Maedhros said. His eyes were suddenly very hard to look into. “He lies well. It is not surprising that some fëa may have become confused by him.”

“Can you teach us what Mandos’s sounds like?” Elros asked Farande. “So we don’t get confused?”

She grimaced. “I will sing up the best memory I can for the company,” she promised. “But it will not be perfect. And without knowing what form the Enemy’s lie takes, I cannot promise it will be close enough. Which is why, when you fall, you should keep your fëar as near as you can to your bodies until I can come find you.”

Elrond recoiled a little. “But houseless spirits - ”

“Not houseless,” she said. “Namo is too stubborn to give up the call so quickly. He will not cease calling for some time; certainly not so little as it will take for me to find you. I can guide you after that.”

Elrond supposed this might work; he had seen communication with the dead before.

But it had always been the Enemy’s dead, bound closer to the world through his magics, and the communication had always been on the order of as forcefully as possible shooing them away. He was not sure Farande would be able to find them to speak to him - unless she didn’t need to, he supposed; if she went to their bodies and assumed they yet lingered, she could speak well enough, although how she would hear them describe the sounds they heard -

Elros’s mind had already raced further ahead. “That will only work if you die in the same battle as us,” he pointed out. He didn’t bother asking what would happen if he and Elrond didn’t fall in the same battle; the idea was too unthinkable. “What if you don’t?”

She raised one scarred eyebrow, almost laughing. “You think you will outlast me, little prince?”

“No,” Elros confessed freely. Farande had been fighting since before elves first saw the light of the Trees; it was hard to credit the rumor he had heard that she was once a healer when her hands were so quick with her blades. “But what if we fall in a fight and you don’t?”

“I will,” she said, all laughter gone. “I swear it to you as I swore it to my king, little prince: I will. And I will lead you home.”

For just a moment, Elrond stared at her in blank incomprehension.

“It won’t take me long,” she promised, her hand, just for a moment, brushing up against her own neck. “You know how quick I am with a knife.”

Elros recovered quicker. “You can’t,” he protested. “Namo won’t let you out, not after - “

She laughed in earnest then, high and clear. “I will be twice slain and thrice a kinslayer. Namo will not let me out regardless, and I would not want him to; Aman was never for the likes of I. No, his Halls shall suit me fine, and I can think of no better mission to bring me there.” 

She bowed to Maedhros and went back to her work, still laughing as she went.

Elrond stared after her. He could not seem to swallow.

“If that was a ploy to get us to train harder,” Elros said from behind him. “Congratulations, it worked.”

Maedhros didn’t smile.

(It did not take someone as perceptive as Elrond to see that Farande had made no preparations to depart.

“Your sons yet linger,” she told him. “I would not leave them alone.”

“No,” he agreed. There were others who had said such, and he was glad of it. “I worry for them.”

“I will defend them to my last breath,” she promised.

“I have never doubted it! On these shores, you shall keep them safe if any can. But Elrohir . . . Elrohir, at least, will sail, I think. I am not sure about Elladan, but I think he will sail for his brother’s sake. They will sail, but the sea is wide, and my sons are not sailors. I do not know that any Cirdan’s folk will yet linger when they decide to try it.”

Farande said nothing.

There were many who had said they would linger a while longer. He worried for them all.

But there were few he thought as likely as Farande to let themselves fade to echoes beneath the trees.

“You promised once to guide Elros and I west if it came to it,” he said softly. “I ask no oaths, Farande; you know that. But is it so greater a thing to ask a different guidance home?”

She swayed forward - swayed back. Swallowed, as she looked down to the courtyard where Elladan and Elrohir played at fighting and laughed below.

“It was no home to me,” she said at last. “It - could be, for them.”

“It could be for you,” he said, softer still. “Surely there is yet some untenanted valley in Aman where our people can gather again.”

The laughter swelled louder below. It had been long since he heard it from them so light and so free.

She swayed forward.

“I will sail them west,” she promised. “If you ask it of me, my lord, then yes; I will get them home.”)

[bu-blegh-ost]

When Chip tends to distance himself too much, Gillion never gives himself enough space. And every time one of them leans too hard into his own bad habits, the other one is here to bring back the balance.

Chip turns away from people when he needs them most. When he messes up or has a hard time with something, he hides and alienates himself. He stews in his own emotions and unable to process them properly, he spirals until he builds a terrible and completely false image of himself that he gets consumed by, allowing no one to get close enough to help him see himself more clearly. He begans thinking of himself as a problem, as a person unfit of being loved or cared for and someone who will eventually lose everything he gained, often chosing to leave himself in order to spare himself an inevitable heartbreak of being chased away, that he always thinks is coming. And by doing so, he fails to see how much he is loved, needed and appreciated. He refuses to let himself see. The distance grows. But there is always someone who chases after him. Gillion. No matter how far Chip may try to run, Gillion will always be there to catch up to him, to close the distance he creates. To bring him back from the dark cloud he traps himself within and force him to see what everyone else see in him. A person so dear and precious to all of his friends' hearts. And it turns out Chip can see it most clearly, when he catches a glimpse of himself inside of Gillion's eyes.

Gillion, never focuses on himself. He never spares the time to truly know his heart, and so he never grasps what it means to give himself space to stop and foucus on what he's feeling. Even when his heart races with panic, when his wounds are too great to ignore and when he feels himself slipping closer and closer to an inevitable break in his psyche, he attempts to scramble and squeeze himself between the problems of others to snuff out his own tears that threaten to spill, to push it all back inside. Gillion himself always decides to move on from terrible things that happen to him, completely neglecting the fact that neither his mind or his body had the time to recover. But every time he does that to himself, there is someone who will always notice. Chip. Chip, who for some reason keeps reminding Gillion to breathe, when he forgets to. Chip, who reminds him to go to sleep or to sit down, and only when Gillion listens and does just that, he realizes that his legs nearly give out underneath him. Chip, who grabs his hand and stops him when he rushes off too fast. And Gillion doesn't really understand why he does it and why it seems to be helping him so much. He doesn't truly get it, nor does he know how Chip always seems to know when he needs it. But Gillion doesn't have to understand to be grateful for it. And he is. Despite it all, he always is.

[ladykailitha]

Steve's Rewind

Just an idea I had stewing in my brain, buckle up this is going to get angsty as fuck. Thanks to my discord for helping me with some of the fiddlier details.

Here we go.

The Harrington family were once a clan a powerful magic users, though their bloodline is diluted now they barely have the smallest spark of it left in their blood. It allows them to use the device left to them by their ancestor. Althenea’s Life Spool, or the Spool most of the time.

It allows the user to go back and do over one event at the cost of one year of their life. In addition they remember the previous timeline. It is handed to the eldest child on their 16th birthday.

Usually only members of the Harrington clan remember previous timelines, but when Steve meets El, he finds out that the experiments done to her and the other children make it so she can see the previous timelines, too.

She commends him for the two times he’s used it so far.

The first time was on Nov. 12th, 1983. The night he went to Jonathan’s to apologize about the camera. The first time, he ran. Their screams ringing in his ears as he flees. Only now all the Byers family is dead, along with Nancy and the Mind Flayer breaks through to the surface world, screaming like a banshee.

He doesn’t know what will happen if he runs back into that house, but he knows at least he’ll have tried.

And while it doesn’t work out perfect, he’s pretty satisfied with the results.

On Oct. 31st, 1984 he thinks about using it again, but doesn’t. He doesn’t know what event started the relationship with Nancy to go south. So he leaves it be and silently deals with the broken heart.

On July 5th, 1985. Steve learns that El can see the previous timelines too and asks him to rewind so Hopper lives. Steve tells her about the cost and she turns pale. He asks her if she still wants that and she shakes her head. No. That would not be fair.

Then on Mar. 29th, 1986, she comes to him again. This time it’s all of Hawkins that swings in the balance and he agrees. He was just waiting for her to return so that they could plan out what needed to be changed.

So they hatch out a plan: Give everyone an extra twenty minutes to get into place. Towels in the vents of the trailer. Time for Hopper et al to kill the demogorgon, time for Jason and his cronies to find the Creel House, come up empty and leave, time for El to get into a better place to protect Max. Steve stocks up on flares and torches to bring as much heat as possible to the Vecna fight.

They win, Eddie and Max escape unharmed, Vecna and Upside Down falls. Everything is good for awhile.

Eddie and Steve start dating and they’re really happy. Until Steve arrives to their favorite gay bar a little late because of work and finds Eddie in a corner with another guy and just leaves.

When Eddie stumbles home that night Steve tears into him and threatens to break up with him.

Only Eddie starts crying.

Like full on sobs and the truth comes out, that guy had roofied Eddie and was assaulting him.

Now Steve is devastated and cleans Eddie up, putting him to bed. Then he calls El. Tells her he’s going to rewind the events of that night. And at first she argues against using the device for something so trivial especially one that didn’t end in someone’s death. If he wouldn’t do it for Hopper, what’s so different about this moment.

He reminds her that Hopper is alive, that his being in the Russian prison camp is part of the reason they were able to defeat Vecna and she concedes. Asks again why this is worth a year of his life and he explains that it’s not about his relationship with Eddie. They talked and Eddie already forgave him and said that he would have done the same thing. It might take a bit, but they’ll be fine.

No, the reason Steve wants to do this is because Eddie has suffered so much. Because none of the other Party members got introduced to this shit by watching a nice girl who had done nothing wrong, twisted and torn apart before their eyes.

That the witch hunt and getting off the murder charges had put a dent in Eddie’s confidence. This would destroy it entirely.

This is about a person who deserves a boyfriend who would give up everything for him to show him how loved he is, even at the cost of one year of his life.

El eventually agrees.

Steve goes to the back of the closet and pulls it out. But Eddie finds him, tells him he overheard him talking to El and he won’t let Steve do that. He’s not worth a year of his life.

Steve kisses him gently and explains what it is and what it’s done. Sometimes things work out for the better, sometimes they don’t. But always, always, always the change is worth it to the user. It’s why after nearly five hundred years the Spool has not been used up, because the string is finite, it will run out one day. But each person that has been gifted it knows the change is always worth it.

Once his father rewound cheating on his mother. The demogorgon that killed Barb, killed her instead and the world ended. He hated having to go back rewind that moment, but he knew the consequences of that moment needed an empty house that day.

Eddie sighs in relief. The moment can be rewound. So he puts his trust in Steve. That his boyfriend whose family has had this device for literal centuries knows the cost better than anyone, understands what hes’ doing.

Steve rewinds the moment and they are stronger together for it.

Steve will use it only use it one more time, when the birth of their daughter kills Robin who was their surrogate. They wait a year and everything turns out fine the second time.

Then on Julie Barbara Munson’s 16th birthday, her papa gives her his most precious item. A small spool of red thread.

[itsabouttimex2]

Yandere Older Brother Ne Zha

Ne Zha definitely cherishes his position as your older brother, whether by blood or bond.

Maybe you’re a gift from the Celestial Realm, a reward for his centuries of faithful service. Maybe you’re a younger celestial being who he was assigned to train. Maybe you’re just a mortal who found their way to him and lent him a hand when he needed it. No matter the situation, he comes to see you as a personal responsibility.

He switches frequently between being brotherly and fatherly. He has centuries of experience and training, and takes a very personal role in ensuring you grow into a upstanding member of either realm.

He’ll train you both in the usage of an armillary sash, and a weapon of your choosing. In all likelihood, it’ll be some kind of polearm. His heart swells with pride to see you diligently practicing with your weapon, mimicking his movements closely.

Not that he intends to ever allow you to use those skills. In times of emergency, he spirits you away to his dwellings, hiding you safely away.

In the case that he can’t tuck you somewhere safe and secure, he’ll simply resort to the prompt and outright destruction of whatever would dare to threaten you. He trains you to turn your head and cover your eyes in the situation that he must fight with you around.

Watching someone get their windpipe crushed by a heavenly sash isn’t very child-friendly, after all. If you find yourself paralyzed by fear or awe, he’ll dash to your side at the speed of light, wrapping your eyes and ears with his sash before turning back to the enemy.

Strangulation is bad. Death by dozens of stab wounds from a dual-tipped spear is worse, but it’s the price his opponents pay for fighting him in your presence. Anything to keep you safe and sweetly innocent, after all.

Ne Zha’s not always so stern and dangerous, though. In fact, you happen to be the person is kindest and most loyal to. He spends as much of his time with you as he can. Part of his daily routine is to brush and style your hair, and that doesn’t change as you age. When you’re young, he styles it to match his own, twin buns tied with silk ribbons. As you grow older, he does allow you to change your hair as you please, so long as you look presentable and clean. Even as his beloved little sibling, you must be a proper member of Heaven, putting appropriate time and effort into your appearance.

The only exception to this rule is when you are sick, in which case you are bed-bound and warmly tucked in at all hours of the day until your condition improves. He feeds you by spoon, nothing but nutritious soups and stews made with high quality ingredients. (You can convince him to get you a box or two of Pigsy’s noodles if you behave yourself, though.)

His devotion to you goes beyond guiding your personal appearance and tending to your illnesses. He’s more than a little manipulative, subconsciously guiding you to see the danger in everything around you so that you’ll always fall back on him for safety and comfort. He tells you a (true) story about a man cutting off his finger with a kitchen knife and succumbing to the infection afterwards when you’re just a little too young for such morbidity, leaving you scared and nervous around sharp utensils. Reasonably, you keep away from such equipment afterwards, just as he planned. He tells you about people who were cast from the Heavens for being disrespectful, thrown out and never let back in, separating their families permanently. As a result, you tend to your appearance and mannerisms more carefully. He tells at length you about Sun Wukong, who defied the Heavens and rampaged about, and was captured and then imprisoned for hundreds of years under Five Phases Mountain.

Ne Zha’s intentions are good, of course. He wants to teach you to behave and be polite and dutiful, because the Heavenly realm where you both preside has many rules and laws to learn, and so very much protocol that must be abided by. He just wants to raise you properly, and hopes that the stories he tells you will aid him in doing so.

They do, in part. You are much more conscientious of your actions and behavior, yes. You’re very polite and well-behaved, to the adoration of the elder celestials around you. It’s hard to see any wrong in his methods.

Until you start coming to him in the dead of night, sobbing and shaking in fear from nightmares. You tearfully recall as much of the bad dream as you can, speaking of being trapped and then crushed until you couldn’t breathe. Your brother scoops you up into his sinewy arms, rocking you back and forth as he shushes you and wipes away your tears. He tucks you under his own covers, comfortably covering you up. Ne Zha allows you to sleep in his bed that night, warmly snuggled up to you. He cherishes you too much to send you back to your own room, choosing to spend the night holding you instead. His worries melt away as you tightly cling to him, sniffling yourself to sleep.

They return in full force as this routine becomes a habit. Night after night you wake up screaming and crying, plagued by persistent night terrors. And, as it would be, every nightmare is related to one of the gruesome and disheartening stories he’s told. As it turns out, fear isn’t the most effective parenting technique.

Once he realizes the sheer impact his storytelling has had on you, a sprig of guilt takes root in his heart. His intention had never been to terrify you, only to warn you away from dangerous things and rebellious behavior. The result spreads much further than that, unfortunately for him.

Diligently, he works to abate these issues and soothe your concerns and fears. Returning you to a proper sleeping schedule isn’t easy, especially when you wake up crying every night, but remaining by your side and reminding you that he won’t allow you to come to harm. With enough time and effort, he manages to purge most of your worries.

Most. Not all, of course. He’s of the belief that one should have a healthy fear of Heaven and it’s wrath, after all. If your fright keeps you well-behaved and safely tucked under his thumb, all the better.

If the seeds of fright that remain teach you that his side is the safest place for you in all the realms, who is he to remove them?

With all the things he’s done to protect the realm, and by extension, you?

You aren’t wrong to feel that way.

[zachsbees]

Hi yes so I have a hanzo headcanon id like to share.

When hanzo first joins overwatch, for obvious reasons, most of the other members don’t trust him. Some more openly than others. But it’s something hanzo expected. Whether it hurts him or not, he understands. Maybe even respects them more for it, for their loyalty.

(And it does hurt. He probably doesn’t even realize that their coldness stings because of his own emotional constipation, a lack of understanding when it comes to his own feelings, but it damages all the same in its own quiet way)

I think it’d be Cole that’d be the one to make his distaste most known, sneering and passive aggressive. Genji is one of his closest friends; he got to see firsthand exactly how horrifically hanzo mutilated his own brother. Family is a sensitive topic for him. How could he ever even consider trusting a kin slayer?

Regardless, hanzo can handle their different flavors of distaste. It takes a lot more than some mean spirited words (and a particularly threatening warning from Cole) to break him. He’s not there for them anyway; he’s there for genji alone.

But I think Cole would end up taking it a step further into violent territory, maybe not even fully aware of it. Like. Maybe they’re sparring or something and things start getting a little too violent. Hanzo isn’t an idiot; he sees exactly what’s going on almost immediately. How cole’s face darkens with vengeful anger. How his blows become sharper, deadly intent growing with each miss. Cole is getting lost in his own anger— bubbling to the surface after a lifetime of stewing.

Because it’s not just about hanzo’s mistake. It’s about cole’s anger over losing the people he cares about. His own insecurity.

And hanzo? He isn’t about to let that shit fly. There is no honor is dying to a teammate in a petty brawl, or potentially getting each other killed during a mission over a grudge that leaks onto the battlefield.

Which is exactly what hanzo lays out, plainly, bluntly, and in much more sophisticated words than I can come up with. But this next line I thought up, this is important, the one that brought this idea to me in the first place:

“You will not steal my brother’s revenge from him. I will not allow it.”

And he’s deadly serious. Because the only person that hanzo would ever let kill him would be genji. Period. And he will wait for that day for the rest of his life.

Hanzo then proceeds to gracefully kick cole’s ass to the mat. Cole is talented, he was in blackwatch and trained under Gabriel after all, but he’s not as good as a man who’s been trained to be an assassin from birth.

The gunslinger has a bit more respect for hanzo after that, albeit begrudgingly.

(And if you wanna get yeehan with it, maybe he’s a little turned on too. I could see him being into someone who can kick his ass, and hanzo would certainly look gorgeous doing it)

[the-pen-pot]

She was hardly the first potential bride who had arrived at Camelot: chattel on her father's arm to try and tempt the prince – but Merlin had a horrible feeling she might be the last. Uther and the woman's father were deep into negotiations, and as for Arthur...

He did his duty, as was expected of him.

Merlin hated it, and it was Gaius who bore the brunt of his grumbling complaints.

'Lord Arnell has huge stretches of land to the west which would extend Camelot's border by miles. Their wealth would be added to the citadel's coffers. It is a good match.'

'For Camelot, maybe! Not for anyone else. She nearly brought Gwen to tears yesterday. I thought Morgana was going to stab her with a fork. She sneers at the servants whenever she thinks Arthur's not looking. I'm sure I saw her try and kick one of the barn cats. She's awful. If she ends up queen, everyone will leave just to escape her.'

Gaius looked at him over their dinner, his gaze dropping to where Merlin worried the bread to nothing but crumbs beneath his anxious fingers.

'Even you?' That snowy eyebrow lifted as Merlin swallowed hard, trying to imagine it: putting the castle to his back, turning away from destiny...

Leaving Arthur.

'No.' The word escaped him, cracked and brittle and aching. 'No, I suppose not.'

'Fear not, my boy. There are many pitfalls between negotiations and an actual wedding day. Perhaps there'll be no need for your jealousy.'

'My what? I am not jealous!'

Gaius merely smiled at him and returned to his stew. 'Of course not. Now eat your vegetables.'

******

'I've never been so tempted to push someone down a well,' Gwen confessed as they made up the guest beds, switching old sheets for new ones fresh from the laundry. Her lips pursed, and there was a sharpness to her gaze that Merlin knew to heed. Of all of them, Gwen was the first to offer strangers a kindness, but it seemed even her good nature had found its end. 'Lady Felicity. There's nothing felicitous about her!'

He hummed in agreement, stifling a yawn. He'd been awake all night, staring at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling and losing himself in the twist of his thoughts. 

He hated it when Gaius was right.

He was jealous, and not just because Lady Felicity's presence meant that he and Arthur couldn't squabble and banter as they always did. He missed far more than that, like how Arthur would pinch the cuff of his tunic or knock their shoulders together, ruffle his hair or smile at him in that way that made Merlin's heart surge in his chest. He missed the evenings they shared in front of the fire, now lost to feasts in their guests' honour. It would not be better once they were wed, either. Then, day's end would be their time as husband and wife, getting on with the necessary business of heirs.

Merlin's stomach gave a threatening roll, and he cursed himself for letting it come to this. Only he could fall in love with someone so slowly he failed to notice until it was staring him in the face. Only he could lose his heart to a person who could never, ever return his feelings.

Perhaps he could convince himself that Arthur could love him, but he could not believe that the son of Uther Pendragon could love a sorcerer. Arthur knew his secret; he had done for months now. At first, it had been dreadful, all cold looks and bitter recriminations. Merlin had told himself he should be grateful Arthur hadn't chopped his head off and that asking for anything more was expecting too much.

Yet as time went on, they'd managed to work their way back towards friendship. More than that? It seemed impossible. He'd seen how Arthur looked at him sometimes: all creased brows and ill-hidden dread – as if Merlin were some great monster, tame for now, but still deadly.

'Merlin? Are you all right?'

He twitched, surprised to find Gwen at his side. He had not noticed her walk around the bed. Now she watched him with big brown eyes which, he suspected, saw far more than he wanted to give away.

'I'm fine,' he lied, and wished he could make it true.

******

So it went on for weeks, the negotiations, the polite, distant efforts at wooing... Merlin trying to bury his feelings so deep down in himself that he forgot they existed at all. Not that it worked.

The others were worried. He declined trips to the tavern with the knights, too listless to muster a decent excuse. Any smiles he managed to summon felt wobbly on his lips. He picked at his food, so much so that the creases on Gaius' face had deepened dramatically. He attempted to put everyone's mind at rest, but it was almost impossible to speak around the ache that had taken root within his chest. 

He kept trying to pull himself together. Sometimes he'd manage it for an afternoon, but come nightfall, it all rolled over him once more, leaving him hollow. He tried to tell himself that it was hopeless. Even if all this with Lady Felicity came to naught, there would be another. One day, a queen would sit at Arthur's side, and Merlin would have to learn to accept his lot in life. Friendship would be enough; he just needed more time to make himself believe it.

'Do not tell me you like her!'

Merlin stopped at the end of the corridor to the Royal Wing, raising an eyebrow at Morgana's command. She jabbed a finger in Arthur's direction as if she longed to poke his eye out, the two of them facing off in the hallway. Arthur was a vision of studied indifference, but even he had the sense to sway out of range of her fingernails.

'My opinion matters little.'

'Why are you doing this? You've never had a problem dodging suitors before.' Morgana lifted her chin, all bristling challenge. 'Why are you taking this woman seriously when I know someone else has lain claim to your heart?'

Merlin didn't think the ache could get any worse, but with those words, it intensified a hundred-fold. His mind raced, trying to figure out who had caught Arthur's eye. Perhaps he didn't know him as well as he had believed, if he had been pining for someone and Merlin remained oblivious.

'Morgana...' He watched as Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders rounded and his back bowed. He looked like a man defeated: one without hope. 'I am not discussing this with you.'

She shook her head and turned away, stopping in surprise when she saw Merlin hovering uncertainly near the top if the stairs. Something sly crossed her face, there and gone again, before she called over her shoulder, 'Fine. Perhaps you'd rather discuss it with Merlin, then.'

Arthur jolted as if he'd been shot with a crossbow bolt, his eyes widening as Merlin offered Morgana a shallow bow. By the time he looked up again, Arthur had reined in his expression, stuffing that sliver of alarm behind a mask of smug arrogance.

'Eavesdropping, Merlin?' he demanded.

'Didn't really have to. It's not like Morgana was making an effort to be quiet.' To his relief, he sounded almost normal. 'I thought I had better get you ready for this feast.'

Arthur sighed, deflating miserably at the prospect before inclining his head and turning towards his chamber door. 'How much of that did you hear?' He gestured along the corridor after Morgana's departed figure.

A good servant would probably have claimed ignorance, but he had never bothered with etiquette and he wasn't about to start now. 'Do you like her?' he asked, letting his question stand in as an answer.

Arthur made sure the door was shut behind them before responding, 'Does anyone? She is rude, entitled and has very little to recommend her except the lands and wealth she would bring to the marriage. I thought her hostility might be down to her attempting to rebel against her father, but it does not seem that she had the wits for it. The only thing going for her are her looks, and they will not last forever.'

'Nor will yours.'

'At least I have a brain to compensate.'

'Do you? Where are you keeping it, under the bed?' He laughed as he dodged Arthur's half-hearted swipe in his direction, his heart lifting from the hollow in his chest. For one, brief moment, he thought it might be all right – maybe he would survive this after all. Then the rest of Morgana's words came back to him, and he felt how his own expression wobbled on his face.

Hastily, he turned towards the wardrobe, retrieving Arthur's finery from its clutches. He'd had the good sense to check it that morning, making sure there were no stains or tears that needed his attention. Now, the velvet whispered its accusations against his fingertips.

He heard the splash of water in the basin as Arthur washed his face and hands. It was a comforting, normal noise, and Merlin busied himself arranging suitable garments atop the changing screen. He would be better off holding his silence, for once, but he'd never had much luck with that. A demand hovered on the tip of his tongue, something that urged him to ask who it was that Arthur loved, but he choked it back.

'Morgana's right.'

'Never say that to me again,' Arthur retorted, his voice flat as he poked his head around the screen to glare in Merlin's direction. Yet even as he spoke, his expression slipped into grudging agreement. 'Lady Felicity is a good match, as far as such things go. She would bring a lot to Camelot.'

'And make everyone miserable in the process. A queen should be loved, shouldn't she? Or at least respected by her people and her king. No one is going to even try and like her when it's obvious you feel nothing for her…' He trailed off, swallowing hard. 'You shouldn't do this just because it's what your father wants.' He ducked around the changing screen, reaching out to help Arthur into a fine white tunic. It clung to his shoulders and skimmed his hips, strikingly pale in contrast to the luxurious dark trousers that clad his legs.  'Especially not if your feelings lie elsewhere.'

It felt like a stupid, daring thing to say, sending a shiver of unease rushing down Merlin's thighs. A part of him wanted to run away. The Lady Felicity was bad enough, but at least he had the consolation that Arthur seemed to hate her as much as everyone else. Now there was this other person, unseen and unknown but important to Arthur all the same.

He concentrated on tying the tunic's laces, watching the gold-encased tips of the string as if mastering a knot was the most challenging task in the world. He worried that if he looked up, Arthur would see every emotion written across his face, and it would be the last wedge between them to drive them apart for good.

'I wish it were that simple.' Arthur's fingers on the back of Merlin's hands brought a halt to his fretting with the laces before he could tangle them irretrievably.

He frowned at that, tilting his head as he tried to puzzle through those words. What did that mean? Arthur spoke as if there was more standing in his way than a potential marriage to Lady Felicity. Was the one he loved somehow unsuitable?

 'You've never shied from a challenge before,' he managed at last, retreating to let Arthur tuck his tunic into his waistband even as he reached for the jacket. It was a bold, dark burgundy, almost black in certain lights. It made him look both resplendent and dangerous, not that Lady Felicity would appreciate it.

'I should be putting the needs of my kingdom before my own desires. That is what a good prince does.' He sounded as if it were a mantra he'd repeated often over these past few weeks, and Merlin finally found the courage to shoot him a scathing look.

'No, a good prince realises that what he feels, his kingdom will feel. If you are unhappy with your wife, Camelot will be worse for it. Whoever rules at your side one day should support you, not seek every opportunity to make your life miserable.' He pulled the jacket onto Arthur's shoulders, checking that it lay smooth across his back, the skim of his hand steady and sure. He tried to tell himself that it was part of his job, but Merlin couldn't help but enjoy the fleeting, guilty touch.

With a sharp inhale, he retreated, reaching desperately for something to say: a way to remind his own, stupid heart that this was an impossible situation. 'I could turn her into a frog if it would make things easier?'

'Don't you dare.' Not even a trace of mirth gathered in Arthur's face, and Merlin winced as he gripped his wrist, tight and desperate. 'No magic, Merlin. Promise me.'

'I – yes, Sire.' He swallowed hard, pulling his arm free and stepping back, pretending to ignore the familiar look of dread and horror on Arthur's features. He appeared as if the very idea repulsed him, no matter how much Felicity deserved it.

He had only meant it as a joke, but clearly Arthur didn't see the humour. 

'We should go. The feast...'

Arthur led and Merlin followed, trying to ignore the heavy, bitter ache of his own heart.

******

Lady Felicity and her father left Camelot three days later, much to everyone's collective relief. Merlin watched them depart from Arthur's chamber window, his shoulder propped against the castle's stonework as their horses carried them out of sight. Rumour was rife, but no one had any real answers. All anyone knew was that the King's enthusiasm had noticeably cooled and that any talks had fallen apart not long after.

He should be relieved. Instead, he could only think about Arthur and the mysterious person who had won his heart, whoever they may be. Someone who made matters "not that simple", apparently. That could mean anything, but when Arthur wanted something, he usually went after it without hesitation and damned the consequences. The fact that he hesitated now...

Merlin sighed and shook his head, resuming his chores in his usual, haphazard way. It was no good dwelling on it. He'd been content, once, with the promise of Arthur's friendship, and he could be again. He could look on, benevolent and happy, as Arthur loved someone else. In the end what other choice was there? He'd already decided he could never leave, not even if Lady Felicity had been the one Arthur wed. He just needed time, that was all: space to pack away all his feelings once more and remember life before he'd looked them full in the face.

The creak of the door made him look up to see Arthur step over the threshold, already unbuttoning his jacket so he could cast it aside. The warm fire chased off the chill of a blustery day, and Arthur moved to stand near it, stretching his hands out towards the flames. He had been down on the castle steps to bid their guests farewell, bestowing upon them all the grace of Camelot hospitality. Now, that handsome face seemed relaxed and soft: relieved.

He could hold his tongue, Merlin knew that. He could enjoy the peace while it lasted, but he'd never been good at following his own better judgement. Instead, he painted a tone of studied indifference over his words as he asked, 'So, will you pursue them, then? Whoever it is who has caught your eye?'

'Merlin...'

'Now that Lady Felicity is no longer a problem and you're not torturing yourself with the idea of duty.'

'Merlin!' Arthur sighed, pressing his fingertips to his brow as if fighting off the sudden bloom of a headache. 'I've told you before: it's not that –'

'"Simple". What does that even mean? Is it just that your father wouldn't approve? He doesn't need to know. He hasn't, in the past.' Arthur did not indulge in dalliances often, but when he did, with ladies or the occasional, visiting knight, discretion was always his primary concern.

The noise that escaped Arthur was a ragged, mirthless scoff. 'To say my father would disapprove is an understatement, and it's not just that. What could I offer them? A secret relationship? One that we would have to hide from a gossiping court? One where I could not make any promises, not until the throne was mine and even then...?' Arthur trailed off. 'No. I – no. I respect them too much to ask that of them.'

Merlin pursed his lips, frowning into the depths of the wardrobe as he hung up the clean washing. He could say nothing, agree with Arthur's assessment and leave it at that. Maybe if he liked Arthur just a little less, he would, but he hated seeing him like this: grim and pale as he faced down what he believed to be the impossible. Besides, that wasn't Arthur talking about a quick tumble. That was him considering the future: someone else in the place that Lady Felicity had coveted.

He was thinking of forever, or at least the hope of it, and deciding it was something he could not have.

'Isn't it up to them, as well as you?' He fiddled with the seam of the tunic in his hands. 'You don't know the lengths someone will go to for you unless you ask. If they cared for you, I think they would understand.' If they didn't then they weren't worth his time, Merlin thought uncharitably. 'They should at least get the chance to make the choice, shouldn't they?'

His words appeared to be the wrong thing to say. Arthur's pallor only intensified. He turned away from the fire, moving towards the window. 'That would involve informing them how I feel, and – I –' He stuttered to a halt, which was unusual enough, and Merlin's heart wrenched miserably.

He had never seen Arthur like this. Clearly, whoever he was enamoured with was more than just a passing fancy. He had hoped that maybe Morgana had been mistaken about the depths of Arthur's sentiment, but she obviously knew what she was talking about. She had seen something that Merlin himself had overlooked, and he felt even more a fool.

'I do not think that they love me in turn. I'm not sure that they ever could, and any confession may well push them away from me forever.' He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists where they hung at his side. 'No, it's better this way. Perhap once I take the throne – once I have the power to prove to them the kind of man I am... But not before.'

With a soft sigh, Merlin set aside the washing and drifted across the room. If Arthur did not appear so genuinely broken up about this, he would let it slide, but he could not. He'd been the occasional voice of reason for far too long. He was not about to stop, even if it broke his heart to advocate for another when he wished he could claim Arthur's love for himself.

'That could be years, and if they are unaware of what you offer, they will not know to wait for you. They could find someone else, or leave the citadel. Something could happen to them...' Merlin flinched, because now Arthur looked positively sick.

'Stop.'

The plea was quiet but heartfelt, and Merlin claimed his silence anew, at a loss for how to make any of this better. It didn't help that his own feelings had become a churning mess, aching and grieving, envious and pained. He wanted to hate this nameless, faceless beneficiary of Arthur's admiration and respect, but he could not muster the energy for spite. Instead, he merely felt stupid and defeated, because he had thought he'd known Arthur better than anyone and it turned out he was completely clueless.

'Will you at least tell me who it is?'

Arthur looked up at him, his lips pink and parted as something unknowable shadowed his gaze. For a moment, Merlin hoped perhaps he had made some sort of breakthrough – that Arthur would confide in him again, as he had done before the secret of his magic came spilling out. Yet the brief flutter of his hope was short-lived. A jerk of his head snuffed it out, and Arthur's reply closed the door on the conversation.

'Just leave it, Merlin. It doesn't matter now.'

******

He couldn't leave it. Arthur's words were like a scab in his mind. He kept picking at them, turning them this way and that to try and find a place where they all fell apart and started to make sense. Perhaps, if Arthur had reclaimed his usual prattishness, he would have managed to set it to one side, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that something weighty trouble Camelot's prince.

The stormy anger of autumn bled into the solemn chill of winter. Ice frosted the windowpanes and grim sleet made the world an inhospitable place. It drove the knights from the training ground, and they conducted their drills in the great hall instead, their swords chiming like clarion bells. Arthur, in particular, threw himself into the activity as if he were doing battle with his inner demons each time. The knights met him, men of equal in force and fervour, letting him expend his energy upon them until they were bruised and aching from the effort.

'Fix him?' Gwaine begged, his hand heavy on Merlin's shoulder. He gave him a gentle shake, his eyes huge and imploring. 'Before he breaks us?'

Merlin managed a faint snort at that, shaking his head in disbelief. He was propped against the wall, trying to ignore how the cold seeped through the stone and made its nests in his bones. He felt no warmer than something found in a crypt: entombed and wretched. Even Gwaine's usual dramatics didn't do much to raise a smile, and it did not pass beneath his friend's notice. 

'Maybe you can fix yourself while you're at it. You've not had a fight, have you? The pair of you?'

'No, nothing like that.'

Gwaine grunted, casting Arthur a narrow-eyed glare across the room. Not that he noticed. He was too busy battling Percival, harrying the larger man with the silver sweep and spark of his blade. 'He's been out of sorts for weeks, and you've not been much better.' He slung an arm around Merlin's shoulder, giving him a quick shake before curling him into a clumsy embrace that smelled of sweat and chainmail.

'Gwaine!' Arthur's command was more a snarling snap than anything else, all clenched jaw and bared teeth. 'I don't recall giving you leave to stop training.'

Gwaine sighed, casting Merlin a look and lifting one eyebrow meaningfully. 'See what I mean? He'll be the death of me.'

Merlin managed a little twist of a grin, shoving him playfully back towards where the knights worked in their pairs. Gwaine had only been joking, but it wasn't like Merlin had failed to notice how hard Arthur pushed himself these days. Even now, his efforts only seemed to redouble as if something drove him ever onwards, chasing at his heels and offering him no peace or rest.

That would not do. What had happened with Lady Felicity had clearly been a catalyst, taking Arthur's equanimity and stirring it into something he struggled against, day and night. Merlin had done as he asked and held his silence for several weeks, but it only seemed to make matters worse.

He had been selfish, Merlin thought grimly. Arthur's insistence that he dropped the matter of whoever had won his heart had come as a relief. It let him live in this frozen moment, one where his desperate hopes had not been crushed brutally underfoot. It was nothing more than a fantasy, and it did neither of them any good. Arthur could not carry on as he was, and Merlin? He could not keep fooling himself that his own feelings ever stood a chance of being requited.

With a sigh, he tipped his head back against the wall, staring up at the distant rafters as he resolved to set his own heart aside. It was what he should have done, right at the start. Now?

Now he had to hope it was not too late to make Arthur see sense.

******

The fire crackled in the hearth in Arthur's room, adding its glow to the candlelight. A thick, winter's night had settled beyond the windowpanes, and the wind howled around the turrets, making its voice heard. The wreckage of dinner lay upon the table, and Arthur sat in the fur-shrouded chair in front of the hearth, a cup of wine dangling from his hand and his gaze fixed on the flames in the grate.

Merlin busied himself with his usual chores, trying to find the words to broach the subject. He stacked dishes and left them outside the door, promising himself that he would take them down to the kitchen later. Tidying Arthur's desk, he skimmed the documents on its surface, but they offered him little in the way of inspiration. In the end, before he could decide on an angle of attack, Arthur shifted in his seat, stirring himself from his thoughts and asking a question of his own.

'Is it Gwaine?'

'Is – what?' Merlin blinked. He'd frozen like a deer in the hunter's sights, unsettled by the shadows that gathered in Arthur's eyes and grappling to understand the thread of the conversation.

'You've been miserable for weeks. Normally, I can't make you shut up, but these days you barely string two words together. You don't laugh, either. You don't wake me up with ridiculous, trite, chirpy nonsense.' Arthur pursed his lips tight, jerking his head to the side as if to dismiss his own little tirade. 'Guinevere thinks you're heartsick. Is it for Gwaine?'

Merlin blinked. He had not realised that his own behaviour had been so obvious or that Arthur could be so observant. Gwen was no surprise; she could read people with ease. Of course, she'd taken one look at him and decided he was pining. He hated that she was right. The fact that she'd discussed it with Arthur? He did not know what to do with that information.

'Gwaine's a friend. A good one.' He felt like he was fishing the words out of himself, dredging them up for Arthur's approval. 'He flirts with everyone. You know that.'

He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't the tight, anxious way Arthur pursed his lips or the frown that puckered his brow: something twitching and wretched that he quickly tried to hide behind an impassive mask. 'But you are heartsick?'

It was unlike Arthur to talk about emotions. He normally avoided sentiment, couching any affection in horseplay and banter. He was certainly not the type to bother with a heart-to-heart. Yet here he was, making an effort for Merlin's sake because despite everything – his arrogance and his pride – Arthur was a good man. A good friend.

Why couldn't that be enough?

'It doesn't matter,' Merlin managed, clearing his throat and shaking his head. 'I'll survive, which is more than I can say for the knights if you keep thrashing them in training. Elyan's not walked right all week after what you did to his knee, and Leon's started to flinch every time you pick up a sword.' He hesitated, moving around the front of Arthur's desk before leaning back against it, curling his fingers over its edge. 

'They are warriors,' Arthur pointed out. 'They can take it.'

'But maybe they shouldn't have to? You've been like it ever since Lady Felicity left. Since I assume you're not pining for her –?' He smirked when Arthur shot him a dark look. 'Then I guess it's over whoever Morgana was talking about.'

'Merlin... Please.'

That was what did it. Not his name, spoken in such a low defeated tone, but the "please" that followed. That, more than anything, told Merlin that he could not leave it alone, no matter how much Arthur begged for his silence. He'd already surrendered once and look at the result: Arthur lost and hurting, punishing his knights even as he punished himself for wanting someone so fiercely and, in his head at least, so helplessly.

'What if they said yes?'

'What?'

'The person, whoever it is. What if you're wrong? What if you miss out on a relationship with them just because you were too afraid to speak up?'

'Are you calling me a coward?' Arthur demanded, incredulous. His empty goblet hung from his fingertips, tilting in a mimicry of his disbelief.

'Would that work?'

'No!' 

Arthur sighed, setting the cup down and rising to his feet. He turned his back to Merlin, bracing his arm on the chimney breast. For a long time, there was a prickling, brooding sort of silence, and when he spoke, it was directed at the hearthstone like a confession. 'I would fight for them. If they said that they felt the same way, I would upend all of Camelot to make them happy. I would weather any storm, but...' He trailed off with a shake of his head.

'But you're afraid to ask them, because you think they'll say no.'

'I'm not afraid,' Arthur retorted, glancing over his shoulder. 'Not for myself, anyway.' He looked Merlin up and down, something sharp honing his gaze. 'All this advice you offer me, but you don't take it for yourself? What's stopping you from pursuing the one you want?'

It was a pathetic attempt at deflection. Merlin wasn't even going to credit it with an answer. 'This isn't about me.'

Arthur turned back to the fire, and his next words were nothing more than a whisper, so quiet that Merlin almost believed he imagined them.

'Yes, it is.'

He froze, his hands tightening reflexively around the edge of the desk. The polished wood offered him no splinters, which was a small blessing. He was not sure he would notice the pain if it had. His mind was too busy racing, shaking off its frantic, fruitless whirl of self-pity and plunging forward into the bright light of desperate, breathless hope.

Perhaps he was never meant to hear those three words, spoken as softly as a confession could be. Maybe they had simply slipped out of Arthur, impossible to suppress, but now that they had been uttered, Merlin could not let them pass unnoticed.

'What does that mean?' He swallowed, pushing himself away from the desk and taking one shaky step forwards. A thousand questions tangled in his throat like a briar, and his next breath was an unsteady shudder in his chest, torn between elation and the soul-deep fear that he'd heard him wrong or somehow misunderstood.

He did not think he had ever seen Arthur look so pale, the colour seeping from his face as he realised his murmur had reached Merlin's ears. He glanced towards the door as if, for the first time in his life, he was contemplating running. Yet it seemed he mastered the urge. Instead, he lifted his chin, folding his arms across his chest.

'Nothing. It doesn't matter,' he rasped, tearing his eyes away as Merlin took another step closer. 'Forget I said anything.'

Merlin managed a slow shake of his head. He kept remembering what Arthur had said back when Lady Felicity made her departure, going over those words again and again, but now it was as if he heard them for the first time. Arthur had not merely mentioned that he feared that they did not feel the same way; he spoke as if it was an impossibility – almost unthinkable. He talked of taking the throne, of having the power to make change, and now Merlin couldn't think of anything else. 

'No.'

He had told Arthur, when Lady Felicity put Camelot to her back, that he should confess his love for whoever it was who had stolen his heart, regardless of his doubts or the troubles they may face. He'd given that advice to Arthur as his own chest ached and squeezed, but he'd not thought to take heed of it himself. He had written it off as impossible because he'd believed that Arthur loved another.

But what if he had been talking about Merlin all along? What if they'd both been stupidly pining away, craving each other and never realising that everything they wanted was within arm's reach?

And all either of them had to do was ask for it.

'Arthur... Why do you think they couldn't love you?' He swallowed hard, snatching in a sharp, startled gasp before forcing himself to press on, terrified that he had misunderstood but so very desperate to believe he'd got it right. 'Why do you think I couldn't love you?'

It was as if someone had cut Arthur off at the knees. He visibly sagged, reaching out to steady himself. Every last scrap of his mask fell away, revealing the turmoil beneath: the ebb of his choking despair and the rising tide of his wretched hope. He looked at Merlin as if he could barely believe what he had said. His response was a long time coming, and when it did, it was a wreck of misery.

'Because you have magic, and I stood by as my father slaughtered people like you. I helped. You were so convinced that I would send you to the headsman that you hid what you were from me for years – and I cannot blame you. If our positions were reversed, I don't think I would have done anything differently.' He bowed his head, speaking to the flagstones beneath his feet. 'I consider myself deeply fortunate that you're forgiving enough to call me a friend. To think you ever might feel anything stronger...' He pursed his lips, cutting himself off. 

'You prat,' Merlin breathed, trying not to shake. He felt like he'd been holding back this great, heaving tide of emotion, and now the dam had broken. Except rather than leaving devastation in its wake, the rising waters restored everything to life. A world that had turned drab and dreary filled with colour once more, and his next gasp of air felt as if it might actually sustain him. 'What about me? How do you think I felt, looking at you and knowing that you couldn't possibly love someone you've been taught to despise?'

Arthur was already shaking his head, jolting forward to reach out. His fingers plucked at Merlin's sleeves and hooked over his shoulders, cradling him as if he were something precious. 'No. No, that's – I don't hate anything about you.'

'You look sick every time I mention my magic.' That was the thorn that still struck him to the quick: the one niggling doubt that would not give him a moment's peace.

'No.' Arthur crowded closer, hesitantly reaching up to cup Merlin's jaw. 'No, that's not why. It's not because of what you can do, but because of what would happen to you if you were ever discovered. It's not safe. It won't be, not until my father's reign has reached its end. I thought that, once I was king, I could prove to you that those times are over. I could make Camelot safe for you again: your home, truly.'

'It already is my home,' Merlin managed, though he could barely hear his own voice over the thud of his pulse in his ears. He had assumed that getting Arthur to return magic once the crown was on his brow would be the work of years. He had been prepared to spend time and allow compromise – to show him, piece by piece, how magic was integral to the world, both the good and the bad. Instead, Arthur stood before him, promising him everything.

'How can you think that, when every moment your life is at risk simply because you exist?' Arthur's fingers flexed against Merlin's cheek as if he were savouring the feel of his skin and heat even as he considered pulling away.

'Because it's where everyone I care about lives. My friends, Gaius and you. It's more "home" than I've ever known, Arthur, because of the people who share it with me.'

He tangled his fingers in Arthur's tunic, twisting the fabric so that he could not make his retreat. He could see it in his eyes, that accursed nobility that suggested he would try and turn his back on this for Merlin's own good. He wasn't about to let Arthur destroy this before it had begun in the name of Merlin's safety.

'Don't get me wrong,' he managed. 'You absolutely should allow magic's return when you take the throne, but don't do it for me. Do it for your kingdom, and for yourself, and for everyone else who suffers its loss.'

A frail smile curled Arthur's lips, and the look he gave Merlin was both fond and a touch baffled, as if he couldn't understand how Merlin's mind worked, sometimes. Yet it faded a moment later, dimming even as the silence between them grew.

'When I found out about your magic, I knew I should have been furious. I was, on the surface at least, but underneath that? I've never been so scared. Not of your power, but of the very thought that I might lose you.' Arthur's voice was little more than a strangled whisper spilling from his lips. 'That my father might catch you, or that you would choose one day to walk away and live the life you deserved… That you looked at me and saw nothing more than an enemy.'

'Arthur…' Merlin swallowed, trying to think, trying to breathe – trying to find the right thing to say that would make Arthur see how wrong he was. They hovered on the cusp of something, and maybe it would not be easy. Perhaps they would have to fight for it every step of the way, but a life at Arthur's side and in his arms would be more than worth it.

'I love you, you idiot.' It escaped him in a rush, and he rushed on before Arthur could do more than blink at him. 'It's you I'm heartsick over, because first there was Felicity and then someone else – someone I didn't know and you'd never mentioned, and I hated it. Hated them, because I would rather see you happy even if it meant I never got to have you and –'

Arthur's fingers brushed against his lips, soft and hypnotised, stemming the spill of his words and beckoning him back to silence. His touch felt like a brand, and delicate tremors raced through Merlin's body as if Arthur were stirring him to life.

'You love me?'

Merlin's heart shivered with joy. He could hear Arthur's disbelieving hope, as if he had thought the world was fixed and certain, only to find some new facet within it, shocking and vivid.

He suspected that Arthur's upbringing had been harsh and devoid of affection – that he had been taught that sentiment was a sign of weakness. And yet in this, just like the magic, Arthur was struggling to overcome what he had learned at his father's knee. He was fighting to be the good man Merlin believed him to be and the best king that Camelot would ever have upon its throne.

He leaned forward, pressing their brows together so that Arthur could see the truth of his response in his gaze. His answer was a whisper brushed against Arthur's lips: tremulous and fragile but growing with strength at every moment.

'I do.'

Arthur's sandy lashes fluttered as if he were absorbing Merlin's confession, folding it away next to his heart. It was like watching him come back to life – a wound healed – and golden wings of elation rushed through Merlin's frame as Arthur's response whispered against his lips: a beautiful benediction.

'I love you too.'

The kiss was soft and thrilling, shy and daring in equal measure. It felt like both the start and end of something, and Merlin was happy to take that step. He'd spent so long thinking that Arthur would be lost to him. To realise that, instead, Arthur's heart had been his all along?

It was almost too good to be true.

And there, in Arthur's warm chambers, the love that had been flourishing between them took firm root. Nothing would tear it asunder, nor shake the foundations of the kingdom that they would build together when the time came. They had each other, heart and soul.

That would never change.

[khattikeri]

the thing about wei wuxian’s victims is that calling them wei wuxian’s victims in the first place is nebulous.

that isn't to say those who died or were bereaved after nightless city or the first siege of the burial mounds weren't hurt by wei wuxian’s retaliation. but calling them "wei wuxian’s victims" while ignoring that cultivation society scapegoated and hunted him down, and that wei wuxian never attacked without being threatened first, is a massive oversimplification.

sure we have minor characters like the cultivator who lost his leg or the cultivator who lost his parents, and sure mxtx writes them as part of a mob of more unreasonable people who were largely not even present for these events, but the thing is... there are major named characters who were present, or who had loved ones there, and their grief and pain are given full attention by the story. they're called jiang cheng and jin ling.

my sister/my mother died at nightless city because of you! except no, jiang yanli actually died because an entirely different nameless cultivator stabbed her, and she intentionally pushed wei wuxian out of the way to protect him out of sincere love. it wasn't the first time. she already demonstrated this when she stood up for him and called him her blood brother in front of her fiance and his family at an event they were hosting, when she had zero backing support and could've easily been dumped and had her marriageability ruined for speaking out of turn.

who's to say that jiang yanli's death wasn't the only instance of cultivators dying at nightless city from friendly fire during all the chaos? we don't know. the one thing we do know for certain is that once it was all over, the survivors attributed the (dubiously counted) thousands of casualties to wei wuxian alone.

saying that wei wuxian was the sole cause is overly convenient for cultivation society. in particular the major sects politically did not want to help the wen remnants and were content to mistreat them in forced labor camps. they thought that wei wuxian was too dangerous with his unique ghost path of cultivation and use of resentful energy, so they gathered everyone up and tried TWO different times to assassinate him. the first time just killing wei wuxian alone. the next time, taking all the remaining wens out with him.

there's a lot left unsaid about these major battles and sieges which leads to a lot of our discourse as fans to begin with-- we have such limited information about all these major events of the past! and unfortunately for us, that's the point!

that's the thesis of the book! the details of the pain and grief you go through don't actually matter! regardless of it, you have to eventually move on. you have to actively choose good, to do what you think is right for the sake of doing the right thing, and not just to act based on your idea of fulfilling debts or deserving to be repaid a certain way!

what everyone claims as indisputable facts about wei wuxian are actually skewed not only by rumors, but by politics. mxtx doesn't depict these various randos to give them a brief beat of sympathy. nor does she do it just to make wei wuxian look better.

they are there because they are also angry and bitter, stewing in the past looking for someone to keep blaming (wei wuxian; the cultivation world decided thirteen years ago it would be wei wuxian) and demanding recompense from him. jiang cheng does the same for the entire damn book.

jin ling breaks the cycle; in spite of the rocky start he eventually chooses to trust wei wuxian and argue on his behalf even in front of his elders. even though he's the heir to a major sect. even though he has been taught his entire life to despise and be angry at wei wuxian for orphaning him.

mdzs is a complex story. it also happens to be a black and white story without gray morality. there are many what-ifs, actions that went poorly or circumstances that would've shifted the course of events if only things had gone well for everyone, but nobody acts in a legitimately morally grey way.

throughout the novels there is a clear delineation between good and bad, righteous and wrong; wei wuxian is clearly the former in both cases not because mxtx wanted to more easily depict her protagonist as a good guy, but because she consistently bases these dichotomies upon the fulcrum of hypocrisy.

supporting the use of resentful energy via ghost cultivation to kill your political enemies in wartime and then immediately turning on the person doing so for you once the war is over, blaming all evils on him and trying to get him killed because he's trying to help the few survivors of the opposing side (both because it's the right thing to do and to pay back a life debt he secretly owes that only two or three people know about, oops)-- that is hypocrisy.

if wei wuxian does it and we like it, it's expected of him and he deserves no praise, though he handles it all with charm and stride befitting the son of the illustrious cangse-sanren.

if wei wuxian does it and we don't like it, he's a murderous evildoer, the ungrateful and dangerous son of a servant (whose name we conveniently never say even though we all know who wei changze was).

mdzs is a book about the hypocrisy of the upper class. mdzs is a book about grief. mdzs is a book about society and rumors and politics and the pitfalls of chasing after what you are "owed". mdzs is a book about love and sticking to your own path and principles. wei wuxian is its protagonist, and by the novel's own values, he is indisputably good.

[bunnakit]

PART 1 | PART 2 (you are here) | PART 3

San had gone looking when Wooyoung hadn’t joined them back inside. He’d nearly broken every bathroom stall door off their hinges, had interrogated the bartender enough to receive a warning from security, and had nearly crumpled the heavy metal door that led back into the alley. Flanked by both Yunho and Seonghwa he sank to his knees on the damp asphalt, cradling a little hunk of plastic to his chest. 

Wooyoung’s phone, shattered with a broken SIM card beside it. 

His heart stilled in his chest and his blood turned frigid, a shiver running through him as the tears welled up in his eyes so quickly the warmth of them almost burned as they trailed down his cheeks. How could he have left him here? This part of town wasn’t safe and they weren’t exactly unknown. He was the fighter capable of protecting himself, not Wooyoung. 

“San, stay calm,” Seonghwa urged, warm hand sliding over San’s bare shoulder. It both settled his nerves and made his skin crawl. “We’ll find him.” 

“Someone came here and took him-” San choked on the words and clenched his hands into fists, uncaring of the way the various pieces of metal, plastic, and glass bit into his palms. “He could be anywhere. Seonghwa he could be-” 

“Shh, Yeosang and I will find him San, I promise.” Normally, San would balk at such an impossible promise but nothing happened in this city without Seonghwa or Yeosang’s knowledge. They were information brokers and the very best in the business, operating under the guise of Blue Bird Deliveries. If anyone could find Wooyoung (or those who had taken him) it would be them. 

“Please, Seonghwa.” He finally turned his wet gaze to his two friends, Yunho reaching out a hand to help San to his feet. 

“Jongho and I will do what we can as well. It may not be much but you know we’ll all help, San.” 

Steadfast, reliable Yunho. San should have known he wouldn’t be alone in this but it was hard to remember sometimes. He’d been alone for so long before the incandescent ball of fire that was Jung Wooyoung entered his life and lit up every corner of his heart with laughter and joy. He didn’t want to go back to the dark. 

Only monsters lurked in the dark. 

And with time, the monster emerged. 

Each day San became more unsettled, more volatile, until he became a legend of a new kind within the ring. Where the Mountain had been known for his sportsmanship and kindness he now became known for his ruthlessness and bloodshed. San went into every fight looking to draw blood, to use his fists to vent the ache that had seeped into every ventricle of his heart. 

It was after one such fight that Yeosang approached him, polite as ever in his delivery outfit with his helmet tucked beneath his arm. “San, Seonghwa and I found something. We think.. Well, you should come see this.” 

San decidedly did not like the sound of that but he welcomed any news about Wooyoung at this point. It had been weeks now and he felt his manager and boyfriend’s absence like the loss of a limb. 

So San followed Yeosang dutifully, driving the battered van that still contained Wooyoung’s clothes, his favorite blanket, his skin care, everything an artifact that constructed who Wooyoung had been behind closed doors. The lingering scent of his half-finished bottle of cologne lingered both as a balm to his soul and a poisonous miasma threatening to pull him under. He pushed it all to the back of his mind as he pulled in beside the building Seonghwa and Yeosang had co-opted as their hideout, surprised to see everyone else loitering around the space as he was led into what looked to be some kind of office or surveillance space. 

“Hi San.” Hongjoong greeted, arms crossed over his chest where he sat on the arm of a sofa beside Mingi. San only offered a nod in reply before coming to stand behind the computer chair containing Seonghwa. 

“What is it you wanted to show me?” He bit out harsher than he meant to but it was so hard to reign in every bubbling emotion stewing in the pit of his stomach. 

“San, maybe you want to-” “Now, Seonghwa. Please.” Hwa only nodded, sparing an indescribable glance in Yeosang’s direction before pressing play on the footage in front of him. 

It was grainy, scan lines distorting the picture now and then, but San knew the sight well enough to decipher what he was looking at. It was the back alley, two figures pressed against each other exchanging impassioned kisses he still felt the imprint of on his lips. He didn’t think his heart could hurt worse but he was proven wrong again, a violent twist in his chest nearly bringing him to his knees. 

He cursed his past self as he watched him walk inside and leave Wooyoung in that alley where he slowly slumped against the far wall. Why did he look so sad? Why was there almost an aura of despondency surrounding him? Everything had seemed fine, it had all seemed- 

San’s jaw clenched tight as he watched Wooyoung produce another phone, one he didn’t recognize, and complete a too brief call. His nails pressed into his palms as he tightened the fists at his side, watching as Wooyoung destroyed the very phone he had picked up that evening, snapping the SIM card before walking away. 

The view switched abruptly, faster than San could rein in his simmering emotions, and showed an angle from just down the road where Wooyoung entered the vehicle; not shoved, yanked, or forced. He just.. got in and drove away. The video cut out, the ambient static disappearing and leaving only the ragged inhale and exhale of San’s breath to fill in the space left behind. 

“No one in the city knows anything about a man named Wooyoung, he’s never managed any fighters, never done any dealings before he showed up a few months ago.” Seonghwa spoke carefully, not wanting to set off the proverbial bomb at his back. 

“Okay.” Barely audible, San answered and nodded slowly. A stillness spread through the room as if waiting to see if the bomb would diffuse or burst with a deadly shockwave. 

“San?” Jongho spoke up, concern pouring from the single syllable. “Did he say anything to you that night?” 

The tic in San’s jaw wasn’t comforting but eventually he spoke; “He said he loved me, more than I could know, but you don’t-” He cut himself off, swallowing the flood of spit beneath his tongue. “You don’t walk away from someone you love like that.” 

The anger had trickled away, leaving a hollowed out husk behind. He felt like a puppet with his strings cut, detached and directionless.

“You don’t, not if you really love them, and that’s why we think maybe Wooyoung didn’t walk away - At least not because he wanted to.” Yeosang said as he came to lean against the desk that held all the damning information. 

“Is it so hard to believe he just left me? Got sick of it all and took off? It wouldn’t be the first time.” Don’t. Don’t go down that trail, only brambles and stinging nettles pave that road and San had been down it far too many times. 

“Honestly? Yeah. San, anyone with eyes can see how much you mean to each other. I don’t think he would just walk away from that. You said it yourself, one of the last things he said to you was that he loved you. You wouldn’t say that to someone if you were just going to leave them, not unless you wanted to be cruel and Wooyoung couldn’t even squish a bug.” Mingi offered, brows pinched in concern in that way that made his eyes seem even bigger and so full of love for the people around him. San didn’t know if he was aware he was doing it, but he snaked an arm around Hongjoong’s waist as he spoke and pulled the man closer to him. 

Yunho laughed softly and San’s eyes snapped over to him, watching as he tried to hide his smile behind his hand. “Remember when he almost crashed the van because there was a spider on the dash? And then you two had to pull over and make Yeosang get it.” 

San felt the muscles of his face twitch, the memory of a smile desperate to break free. 

“Or that time he got scratched to shit taking in a pregnant cat, and then he cried when she gave birth in his lap. He didn’t even care that it ruined his clothes.” Jongho provided and San dropped his head to hide the reluctant smile that broke over his face. 

No. Jung Wooyoung was anything but cruel and San regretted ever doubting him. 

“So what do we do now?” Hongjoong wondered and all eyes turned to San, waiting with bated breath for an answer. It took him a while to gather his composure but the response was as firm as Damascus steel when it came.

“Now we find him and bring him home.”

[thereceptioniststyles]

Thin Ice

The remainder of the week dragged on at a torturous pace, each moment an agonizing eternity. I sat there, feigning indifference to Harry's kiss with Grace, but inside, I was seething. Every attempt to appear aloof and desirable was a facade crumbling under the weight of my madness. Finally, Friday crawled its way into view, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Weekends were my sanctuary, a respite from the torment of Harry's wandering eyes and suffocating presence. In the safety of my apartment, with only my cat for company, I could finally exhale.

December arrived, cloaking the world in a blanket of snow. The journey from my car to work became a treacherous dance on slippery ice, each step a battle to maintain balance and not fall to the ground. With every breath, I exhaled clouds of mist, each one a reminder of the bitter chill that permeated the air, mirroring the frostiness in my heart.

Lost in my thoughts, I trudged along the sidewalk, oblivious to the approaching figure until their touch jolted me from the depths of my mind, sending me crashing to the icy ground below.

"Oh, Ayla, love, I'm so sorry," Harry's voice pierced through the haze as I struggled to regain my composure.

Wincing, I attempted to pick myself up, but my limbs flailed uselessly until Harry extended his hand, pulling me to my feet. Though I was tempted to drag him down with me in my embarrassment, I refrained, my pride wounded enough.

"It's fine, Harry," I muttered through gritted teeth, my words as sharp and cold as the winter air. That enveloped

Standing before me, Harry's hands rested on my shoulders, his gaze scrutinizing as he pressed a light kiss to my forehead.

"You're a champ," he declared, his concern seemingly genuine.

"What do you want?" I snapped, the frustration boiling within me. I had strived for elegance and grace, yet here I was, sprawled on the ground like a clumsy fool.

"Just wanted to catch you before we tackle the day at work," Harry replied, his tone light.

"Why's Grace coming in later?" I inquired, unable to mask the bitterness in my voice.

Harry chuckled, his amusement grating on my nerves. "She left my place last night. Just a quick visit."

My blood simmered beneath my skin, ready to erupt.

"You know, Harry, being with you is like being in a damn car crash," I spat, my words laced with venom. "One moment, everything's smooth sailing, and the next, I'm slammed with the impact."

Harry stood there, stunned by my outburst, yet offering no resistance as I unleashed my pent-up emotions.

"Keep going," he encouraged, his voice carrying a hint of challenge.

"Why would you kiss me if you're just going to mess around with someone else?" I demanded, gesturing angrily between us. Tears threatened to spill over, betraying the storm raging inside me.

"I can't control what you think, Ayla," Harry retorted, his words slicing through me like shards of ice. "It was just a kiss. Grace is just a distraction. You have a talent for blowing things out of proportion. Grow up. No man wants a woman who acts like a child."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me to stew in a whirlwind of emotions. His scent lingered in the air, a bitter reminder of what could never be. I knew I couldn't face another day at work, trapped in his presence for eight agonizing hours. Today, I would break.

I grabbed my phone and fired off a quick text to Callie, concocting a story about a fall on the way to work and a trip to urgent care. It was a lie, of course. I had no intention of subjecting myself to the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the local clinic. No, my plan involved retreating to the sanctuary of my bed, cocooned in blankets, nursing wounds that were more emotional than physical. At least there, in the warmth of my covers, I could hide from the world.

As I trudged back to my car, frustration bubbled within me, threatening to boil over. With a primal scream, I unleashed my pent-up anger, pounding my fists against the unyielding metal of the steering wheel. Angry at myself for allowing things to reach this point, furious at Harry for his obliviousness to my worth, and seething at the universe for its cruel twists of fate.

The short drive back to my apartment was a blur of rage and resentment. I parked with a forceful slam, the sound reverberating through the quiet street. If I was going to be consumed by fury, then the whole world would bear witness to my wrath.

But even before I reached the elevator, my phone buzzed insistently in my pocket, interrupting my storm of emotions. With a sense of grim inevitability, I glanced at the screen. "Baby," read the text, a sickeningly sweet endearment that now tasted bitter on my tongue.

Part of me longed to turn the car around, to storm back into that office and unleash hell upon Harry. I wanted to shatter his complacency, to show him that I was not to be trifled with, that beneath my disguise of poise lay a warrior waiting to be unleashed.

But I hesitated. Instead of succumbing to the urge to confront him head-on, I made a different choice. A calculated one. If Harry wanted to play games, then I would play along. I would give him a taste of his own medicine, a bitter pill to swallow. And perhaps, in the twisted dance of our relationship, I would find some semblance of control amidst the chaos.

My fingers hovered over the screen, a storm of conflicting emotions swirling within me. I could feel the weight of Harry's words pressing down on me, his insidious manipulation threatening to drown me in a sea of doubt and desire.

With a trembling hand, I composed a response, each keystroke a battle against the tumult raging within me.

"I bet you like playing these games," I sent, my words a thinly veiled challenge, a gauntlet thrown down in the twisted dance of our relationship.

Seconds stretched into eternity as I awaited his reply, my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat of anticipation.

And then, there it was, his response illuminating the screen like a damning confession.

"I do."

The simplicity of his admission sent a chill down my spine, a stark reminder of the depths of his depravity.

But before I could formulate a reply, another message from Harry invaded my screen, each word dripping with poison.

"I like it. Almost as much as you liked when I kissed your forehead. I bet you wished it was your lips."

His words cut through me like a knife, slicing through the facade of indifference I had so carefully constructed.

I was stunned into silence, the weight of his implications crushing me beneath their unbearable weight.

"If you come over tonight I can show you what it feels like, in case you forgot."

His audacity left me reeling, my mind unable to comprehend the depths of his depravity.

Harry was sick, twisted, a puppet master pulling the strings of my emotions with callous disregard for the damage he wrought.

He knew the power he held over me, the way his words could unravel me with a single utterance.

And worst of all, he was right.

As much as I despised him, loathed the hold he had over me, a part of me yearned to succumb to his sick little mind games, to lose myself in the chaos of his embrace.

He knew all too well how to push my buttons, how to exploit my weaknesses for his own twisted pleasure.

And in that moment of painful clarity, I realized just how deep I had fallen into his web of deceit.

I was trapped, ensnared in his toxic embrace, unable to break free from the chains he had forged around my heart.

With a heavy heart and a trembling hand, I resigned myself to the inevitable, knowing that no matter how hard I fought, Harry would always be one step ahead, a puppet master pulling the strings of my shattered heart.

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