#he probably curses Dream under his tongue but still considers it all worth it just for him

[webonchin]

dream canonically makes him getting laid everyones problem, one way or another, so it's no surprise that when he returns from visiting his immortal "friend" on the waking word he doesn't bother to hide it

A bit spicy dreamling under the cut:

[thebiscuiteternal]

“Paper Scraps”

Post-Canon, Angst, Hurt/Comfort...ish?, Reconciliation, Discussion of Suicidal Ideation, Ghosts, Implied Sangyu, Mo Xuanyu Gets To Be Mourned, Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang Are Going Through It

Series Link on Ao3

__________

"To what do I owe the surprise visit?'' Nie Huaisang asks, and his voice is so devoid of emotion that Wei Wuxian has to bite back a shudder, suddenly very much aware that he is treading in completely new and potentially dangerous territory.

Nie-xiong is as dead as his beloved elder brother, and the Headshaker was nothing more than a mask. All that's left now is Nie-zongzhu, whom he knows nothing about and threatened the last time they actually spoke to each other in person.

Still, he sucks up his nerve and plasters on one of his usual careless smiles. "We need to talk, you and I. Just you and I."

"Wei Ying-"

He holds up a hand to cut off Lan Zhan's protest. "How about it?"

"And what, exactly, do you think there is for us to discuss, Wei-xiansheng? Have I not been behaving well enough for your liking?"

Ouch.

"Okay, I deserved that," Wei Wuxian says as he waves off his defensive husband and friend a second time, suddenly wishing he'd just snuck out and come alone.

Then again, that probably wouldn't have gone well either, judging by the wary looks he keeps getting from the handful of Nie disciples who linger defensively near their sect leader.

Okay... okay. No more trying to joke around. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, then straightens his back. "I'm here about Mo Xuanyu."

Nie Huaisang’s face betrays nothing, but the fan in his hand snaps shut with enough force that it's audible throughout the room. “Everyone, please escort our other two guests to the main gardens so that we may speak privately.”

“Zongzhu-” one massive bear of a man starts to protest.

At the same time Lan Zhan moves in front of Wei Wuxian to growl “We are not going anywhere,” and the tension in the room ratchets sharply to hair-on-end levels as the situation threatens to turn into a standoff.

Wei Wuxian pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off a building headache, then reaches out in an attempt to tug his husband back. “Lan Zhan. I’m the one who requested a one-on-one meeting, remember? Literally just now?”

“He cannot be truste-”

“Wei-gongzi, he might-”

“Enough,” Nie Huaisang snaps, the unexpected whip-crack of his voice making them all, a few disciples included, jump. “Let me remind all three of you that you came here and none of you are required to stay. In fact, today would be much improved if you didn’t.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian hisses.

Lan Zhan doesn’t budge, hand still tight on the hilt of Bichen. “If you harm Wei Ying-”

“Yes, yes, you and the Ghost General will cut me open and hang me with my own entrails just to start with,” Nie Huaisang replies irritably, giving a dismissive wave of the closed fan. “I’m well aware.”

Judging by the startled and utterly appalled looks that cross Lan Zhan and Wen Ning’s faces, that had decidedly not been on the list of options of what they might potentially do. But the descriptive suggestion does work to knock them off guard, and Wei Wuxian bites his tongue hard to keep his expression neutral as the two of them are herded out without any more fuss after Nie Huaisang makes a short gesture to his disciples. “You did that on purpose.”

Nie Huaisang turns without responding to the jibe at all and walks off towards another door.

Ouch again.

He trots after the other man and falls into step beside him as they enter a hallway that’s clearly not for public use. Part of him wants to ask where they’re going, if just to break the uncomfortable silence, but he keeps his mouth shut.

They finally stop at a door that, when Nie Huaisang slides it open, leads to a tiny garden so deep in the sect's keep that the back wall of it is cut into the mountain itself.

And in that little carved out cave, shielded from wind and rain and snow, sits a funeral tablet on a table shrine.

Wei Wuxian involuntarily sucks a sharp breath through his teeth at the sight of it, his hand coming up to clutch at his chest. Guilt wells up hot and stinging and bitter in his stomach, then higher into his throat. Dizzy, he sways on his feet and is only vaguely aware of the hands that catch him.

Once his resurrection had been revealed, everyone simply accepted him as “Wei Wuxian”, not “Wei-Wuxian-In-Mo-Xuanyu’s-Body”, seemingly having just... forgotten that the face he has now once belonged to someone else. He had grown so settled into this body that until the dreams had begun, he had barely given Mo Xuanyu a second thought.

But right at this moment, staring at the name carved into that tablet, held up by the one person left who had remembered- had loved the original owner of this body enough to memorialize him, he has never felt more like an invader in it.

His vision, gone fuzzy from the sickening torrent of emotion, slowly begins to come back into focus and, for just a moment, he is staring through Mo Xuanyu’s eyes into the worried expression of Nie-xiong before the lingering memory clears to the more neutral face of Nie-zongzhu.

He is on the ground, his head in the man’s lap, and the sudden urge to cry hits him hard. “Do you hate me?” he asks without meaning to, voice coming out plaintive and half-strangled by his effort to hold back the tears.

“You were the one who decided there was nothing left between us worth salvaging.”

“I did. And it was stupid. But that’s not what I mean, and you know it. Do you hate me for having this face?”

There is a pause, then a quiet sigh. “No, I don’t.”

“Why?”

“If it wasn’t you, it would be someone else. Or something else. Yu-er was…”

Nie Huaisang turns his head away, expression softening into a complicated mix sadness and pain, and Wei Wuxian finds himself thinking that while ‘his’ Nie-xiong might be dead, Mo Xuanyu’s Nie-xiong might still exist somewhere deep under the protective layers of Nie-zongzhu.

He swallows hard, then makes himself sit up and looks again at the tablet and its small offerings.

“Determined,” he says quietly, finishing the sentence. A tiny wet laugh bubbles out of his throat. “I thought… I really did believe that you had forced him into it,” he continues, and in the edge of his vision, he sees Nie Huaisang flinch at the accusation. “But no. No. He... really was determined to see it out to the end.”

“How do you-”

“Ah.” He scratches his cheek, then scoots to face the other man. “That’s actually the reason I needed to talk to you. I’ve been seeing- fuck, dreaming his memories, I guess… though they were more like nightmares, considering what was in them-”

“Wait,” Nie Huaisang says, holding up a hand. “When did this start?”

“Mmh. Just a little over ten months ago, I think? Or maybe closer to eleven. The first one was of your visit right after his mother died.”

Nie Huaisang goes slightly pale at that, though whether it’s from the admission of the length of time or the contents of the memory, Wei Wuxian can’t tell.

He gets an answer when Nie Huaisang gets up and rushes to the table, returning with something carefully cradled in his hands.

It’s a spirit pouch.

His hands are shaking as he holds them out to accept the tiny burden, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s gaping like a fish. “Huaisang…” he chokes out when he finally manages to find his voice again, but that’s as far as he gets.

“I… have studied a lot of ways of finding and contacting the dead,” Nie Huaisang says, and Wei Wuxian nods along numbly because that makes a ridiculous amount of sense, given the circumstances. “I know what the ritual notes said, but seeing that there was still something left of Da-ge after everything that had been done to him…”

He reaches out and touches the pouch and Wei Wuxian finds himself thinking of a gentle hand ruffling his (but not his) hair.

“I’m just sorry it took me two years to get up the nerve to go looking.”

But you went, Wei Wuxian thinks. You went.

He’d never even considered it. It had never crossed his mind at all.

“Eleven months ago, right?” he asks, voice still a little squeaky.

“Mm-hmm. I should have written to you about this long before now, but it seemed like every time I’d prepared myself to send the letter, something would happen that would remind me that… well.”

That we’re not friends anymore.

That you want nothing to do with me.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and rests his hands in his lap, still holding the pouch as if it’s made of porcelain instead of cloth. “I probably wouldn’t have read it,” he confesses quietly. “Or I would have, but I wouldn’t have believed you. I would have thought it was a ruse, a setup-” A tiny, wounded laugh escapes his mouth and he tilts his head back to stare up at the sky. “Maybe that’s why I started having the dreams. His way of telling me I’m an idiot.”

“A little drastic on his part if it was.”

“Can’t say it wasn’t necessary.” The pouch gives a jangling, discordant little hum when he pets it, the fracturing of the soul within vastly different from what he’d felt from Xiao Xingchen. The pieces feel smaller and fewer, yet heavier. “Oh,” he murmurs when he realizes why.

“Oh?”

“The array was designed to consume the resentment of the caster based on negative memories of the person or persons they wanted to curse. That’s why the memories of you and the flashes of his mother were so vivid when the rest of them weren’t. That’s why you were able to find these pieces. He really did see you two as the only bright spots in his life, so those memories were spared.”

Nie Huaisang makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, and when Wei Wuxian turns his head, the other man is looking away in a clear attempt to hide his expression. “He was wrong.”

“A year ago, I would have agreed,” Wei Wuxian mumbles. “After everything he showed me, though… I don’t think he was. I get it.”

He takes a deep breath. He has never talked about this, not with Lan Zhan, not with Wen Ning, and certainly not with Jiang Cheng, even if they are taking tentative baby steps towards being less awkward around each other. He’s not sure he should be talking about it with Nie Huaisang either, but-

“I know what it’s like, just wanting everything to end. Deciding the whole world can go to hell. Maybe I didn’t intend for the backlash from breaking the seal to kill me, but I sure didn’t fucking care what it would do to me one way or another. Nothing and nobody could have saved me by that point. You couldn’t have saved him even if you’d dragged him home with you like Lan Zhan wanted to do to me.”

“Wei Wuxian-”

He ignores the little flutter in his chest that they’ve at least moved back to an address that feels less precarious than the icy ‘Wei-xiansheng’. “Let me finish, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So... So... Ah, fuck,” he mutters, gently shifting the pouch so he can scratch the back of his neck, trying to catch the lost trail of thought. “You know… I never questioned the clothing I woke up in when I was resurrected. As brutal and nasty as the Mo family were and as disgusting as that little shack was, it should have come off as weird that I was wearing such nice robes.”

There is a quiet sniffle, and Wei Wuxian pretends not to see Nie Huaisang wipe wet eyes with the edge of a sleeve as he continues talking. “He appreciated those. Appreciated that you tried to take care of him.”

He raises the pouch to eye level, and it gives another little crackly hum. “And clearly he still appreciates your efforts, considering his method of dragging me here to make me apologize for thinking the worst of your relationship. So, I’m sorry for that.”

Nie Huaisang gives a watery little chuckle and swipes at his eyes again. “Accepted. Is he… Is he alright? I only know how to contact souls, I don’t know anything about tending to them.”

“Honestly… I’m not sure what can be done,” Wei Wuxian admits as he begins another examination. “There’s really so little of him left, I don’t know what will happen if a purification ritual is attempted. He seems to be more stable as he is than Xiao Xingchen was, but there’s no guarantee he’ll stay like that. Still, I owe it to him to find some way to help him out, so I’ll do what I can.”

“If it would be easier for you to take him back to the Cloud Recesses for study, then… then you should,” Nie Huaisang says, and Wei Wuxian is a little bit impressed that he was able to make the offer despite how much it must have hurt.

“I think he’d be much happier staying here,” he says, then tentatively adds, “But that would mean visits, plural, and while I’m definitely going to have a very long talk with them about all this, I doubt I’ll be able to come without either Lan Zhan or Wen Ning… probably both at first.”

Nie Huaisang rubs his temples with his fingertips, his expression cycling through a complicated series of emotions too quickly for Wei Wuxian to follow, then he sighs. “We’ll figure something out,” he says as he reaches out and takes back the pouch.

Wei Wuxian can’t help smiling at the tender way he cradles it against his chest as he gets up to approach the funeral tablet and put it back in place. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

[much-obliged-timothy]

Got the urge to write some Devil May Cry tonight, so have a family dinner that goes about as well as you’d expect

*

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Nero said, for probably the millionth time that day.

Kyrie continued to hum and ignore him, checking on dinner to make sure it wasn’t burning. Nero followed her around the kitchen, silently fuming.

“Kyrie, let’s call it off,” Nero said. “Hell, it’s not like I owe the bastard a timely warning. He can find his own dinner.”

“He’s your father, Nero,” Kyrie said, which had him wincing. She gently pushed a stack of plates into his hands, folding hers over them and squeezing. “Set the table, please.”

“Kyrie-”

“It can’t hurt to try,” she said. “I wouldn’t do this if I thought you really didn’t want to. But you agreed, Nero. We can call it off if that’s what you want, but I know you. You’ve found the family you always wondered about.” She gave a small smile. “And you’ve always been too curious for your own good.”

“He cut my arm off,” Nero said, flexing the fingers of his regrown hand. “Not much of a start to the whole parenting thing. Definitely not the dad I used to dream of having. No, you and Cre-” He bit down on his lip, then pressed on, because it wasn’t right to deny Credo’s memory just because it still hurt. “You and Credo are my family.”

“And we still are,” she said, squeezing his hands again. 

Nero looked into her eyes for a long moment, then let out a quiet string of curse words. He let her squeeze his hands once more before pulling them away to go set the table.

She’d suggested they have the twins over for dinner, wanting to get to know Nero’s family. She’d met Dante before, but now that she knew he was Nero’s uncle, she was even more eager to spend time with him.

And Vergil.

Nero set a plate down with too much force, relieved when it didn’t break. This whole dinner was going to be a disaster. He wished he’d never agreed to it.

But he had agreed to it. He didn’t want to think too hard on what that meant.

And Vergil had agreed to come. He definitely didn’t want to think too hard on what that meant.

So rather than think, he busied himself helping Kyrie. She’d been working hard on the meal since this afternoon, wanting everything to be perfect. His mouth dried up every time he tried to tell her how much the effort meant.

She knew what this meant to him. Or, at least, what it could mean, if things would just go right. Nero didn’t want to dash her hopes alongside his own, so he stopped pointing out how awful this was likely to turn out. At least the food would be good. Maybe he’d even make Dante a to-go dish if he helped kick Vergil out when shit hit the fan.

All too soon, there was a knock on the door. Nero went to answer it, leaving Kyrie to put the final touches on dinner.

“Smells good,” Dante said, poking his head in and sniffing as soon as the door was open enough for his head to fit through.

Nero pushed his face back. “You can’t eat it all, you mooch.”

“Who’s going to stop me?” Dante scoffed.

“Kyrie,” Nero said simply.

Dante sighed. “Yea, alright. That’ll do it.”

He stepped into the house, the movement revealing Vergil behind him. Nero couldn’t help but glare a little, though he did step aside to let Vergil in.

He couldn’t untangle his own feelings. He’d longed for a family as a child, and now here they were. But of course the crazy, power-hungry asshole that cut Nero’s arm off also had to be his damn father.

Vergil’s gaze traveled around the room, his expression revealing nothing but his usual judgment. Nero gestured to the couch.

“Have a seat. I’ll get drinks,” he said. He doubted even alcohol would lighten Vergil up, but it was worth a shot.

He fetched three beers, tossing one to Dante, one to Vergil, and popping the last for himself. He wished he’d gotten something stronger.

“Where is Kyrie?” Dante asked, lounging on the couch. Vergil was trying to shove Dante’s feet away from himself, but Dante was persistent in his role as annoying brother. 

“Finishing up dinner. It’ll only be a few minutes,” Nero said. He was too anxious to sit, so he leaned against the wall, lightly drumming his fingers on his beer. 

That few minutes turned out to be Dante carrying on a full conversation almost by himself. Nero jumped in a few times, but Vergil never spoke.

“It’s ready!” Kyrie called, saving them from the whole thing carrying over into awkward territory.

Dante hopped off the couch, making sure to kick Vergil in the leg as he did so. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Nero said. 

“Even more reason to pick up the pace, kid,” Dante said, shooing him in the direction Kyrie’s voice had come from.

Nero led them to the table, where delicious looking food was laid out for them. Kyrie smiled, kind and welcoming as always. Only the way she twisted her hands together gave away that she was feeling any of the anxiety Nero did. 

He couldn’t meet her eyes. If this failed...Shit. He didn’t want it to, but he knew it would hurt him. And Kyrie knew that, too. 

“Take a seat wherever,” Nero said, claiming his usual seat. Kyrie sat next to him, pressing her leg to his. He’d survive, even if this whole dinner went to hell; he could make it through any hell with her support. But that irritating flicker of hope was hard to douse. 

“Looks delicious,” Dante informed Kyrie as he began to pile his plate. “I’m coming here more often.”

“You’re welcome any time, Dante,” Kyrie said.

“Please don’t tell him that,” Nero said. “She didn’t mean it. You’re not welcome any time.”

Kyrie ignored him. “As are you, Vergil. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Kyrie.”

Vergil was eyeing her with the same judgmental expression he’d had when he came into the house. Nero wondered if he’d been born with that expression on his face. 

Finally, Vergil spoke. As soon as the words left his mouth, Nero wished the asshole had just stayed quiet the whole night.

“You don’t look like you can fight,” he said.

“I can’t,” Kyrie said, patient, unbothered. “I don’t want to.”

Vergil scoffed quietly. “Then you don’t belong in Nero’s world.”

“You couldn’t even let me eat before you go getting us kicked out?” Dante said in exasperation.

“If Nero plans to continue fighting, then she doesn’t belong with him,” Vergil said, as if it was the most obvious statement in the world. “She becomes a liability.”

“I’m sorry you think that,” Kyrie said.

“You don’t owe him an apology for his own shitty thoughts,” Nero said, temper lashing to the surface.

But Kyrie rested a hand on his thigh, shaking her head. “No, Nero. I mean it. I am sorry he thinks that. I feel bad for him.” She met Vergil’s eyes, unflinching under his cool gaze. “Who loves you, Vergil? Who grounds you? Who worries for you when you go running into all your fights?”

His eyes narrowed further. He didn’t answer. Nero doubted he could.

Kyrie nodded, like she’d expected the silent hostility. “Nero has that. When the world comes apart under his feet, I’m there to grab his hand and hold him up until he can find steady ground again. When he goes into battle, I pray for his safe return. If he comes home injured, I tend to him. When he can’t love himself, I love him. Maybe he didn’t have parents growing up. But he never went a day unloved since I met him.”

“And when an enemy captures you and he has to risk himself to save you? Will your love and support be enough then?” Vergil mocked.

“It was enough before,” Nero said, resting his hand over hers. “You fight for power. I fight for the people I love. And I’m the one who kicked your ass.”

Dante let out a sharp whistle. “He’s got you there, Verg.”

“It’s foolish human sappiness,” Vergil said, shaking his head. “She puts him at risk. It’s as simple as that. Someone who doesn’t want to learn how to fight is a weak point for a warrior like Nero.”

“It’s a damn shame Kyrie worked so hard on this meal just for me to punch you in the face and throw your ass out of my house before you try any of it,” Nero said, slamming his hands on the table and standing up. “You don’t-”

Kyrie tugged him back into his chair. “What he was going to say, is that you don’t get to come in here and decide anything about our relationship. Establish your own with Nero before you go judging the two of us. Part of me hates you, Vergil. The part of me that found Nero bleeding to death with his arm ripped off? I don’t know if it can ever forgive you for that. But I’m trying, for his sake. Maybe I can’t run around stabbing demons all day. But don’t you come into my home and tell me I’m weak. You should be grateful I have the strength to bite my tongue and try to give you a fresh start.”

They stared each other down for a tense moment. Finally, Vergil reached out and scooped food onto his plate.

“I will not waste my time arguing this. Nero can live with the consequences when they inevitably catch up to him,” he said.

He fell silent again for dinner as Kyrie carried on a conversation with Dante, trying to urge Nero and Vergil into it. Vergil resisted expertly, but Nero allowed himself to be part of it.

When they were done eating, Vergil stacked the dirty dishes and pushed them off to Dante, who found himself being sweetly pressured by Kyrie to help wash them. No doubt hoping to be invited back for another meal, he complied.

But it left Nero and Vergil alone at the table. Nero considered getting up to go help just to escape Vergil, but then decided there was no use in being cowardly now. He’d never been afraid to piss people off before. Might as well not start with his father.

“You ever come in my house and talk badly about her again, you better take a damn good look around on your way out, because you won’t ever step foot in here again,” Nero warned. 

“She’s as stubborn as you, that’s for sure,” he grumbled.

Nero opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. Some part of him thought that it might have even been a compliment.

His anger dissipated just enough for him to think over the argument. Had Vergil been...concerned?

Nero leaned back in his chair. “Some things are worth the risk. I’d give my life for hers.”

Vergil was silent for a long moment before saying, “Then you take after your grandmother.”

Nero opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just closed it and nodded, too stunned to know how to reply to that.

His grandmother. A woman who died to protect those she loved. Whose death set Vergil on the path for the search for power, because he’d been too helpless to protect his family when they were under attack.

When Kyrie and Dante returned, they seemed to expect tension or an outright fight between father and son. Instead, Nero and Vergil sat in an almost companionable silence, their drinks almost finished.

Nero got up to see the twins to the door, Kyrie following him. He took her hand in his, their fingers sliding together with a familiar ease. He allowed his thumb to trace a pattern over her smooth skin, her hand soft against his rough, calloused one. 

“Thanks for the meal, kid,” Dante said. “Ah, guess I should be thanking Kyrie, actually. I doubt Nero cooked.”

“He helped,” Kyrie said, smiling. “Thank you for coming. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“Hey, I never say no to free food,” Dante assured. 

“Next time, I’ll buy something stronger than beer,” Nero said.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Vergil said, turning his back on them and leaving out the door.

Dante clapped Nero on the shoulder. “Think you’re winning your old man over. And if you’re not, Kyrie sure is. Catch you later.”

Nero shut the door once he was out. “He’ll...come again. That was his way of saying he would.”

“Is that a good thing?” Kyrie asked, voice soft.

“I think it could be.” Vergil had suffered the loss of his mother. Maybe he was an asshole about it, but Nero thought that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to see his son suffer a similar fate. “He’s a dick. But there might actually be something like a heart in that chest.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know if a man like that remembers what it means to love someone. But I think he remembers what it’s like to care.”

Nero held her close. She looked up at him, her smile easing the anxiety he’d felt all night.

“Maybe he just needs a reminder,” she said.

He kissed her head. “I’ll help cook next time. I think I’m actually gettin’ the hang of it now.”

They stood there together, holding each other in the aftermath of a night that had turned out better than Nero could’ve hoped for. He’d try with Vergil. Vergil might suck at it, but he was trying in his own way. Nero could try to.

And even if he failed, he’d always have Kyrie.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

On Doriathrin Isolationism

I’ve seen a fair number of takes in the Silm fandom on the topic of either “the Noldor are horrible imperialists” or “the Sindar are horrible isolationists”, so I thought it would be interesting to take a closer look at Doriathrin policy.

Firstly, how isolationist are they, following the creation of the Girdle of Melian? They still have close relations with the Laiquendi of Ossiriand, and some of them come to Doriath. They still have close relations with Círdan and are in communication with him. They’re fairly close with the children of Finarfin: Galadriel lives in Doriath, the others visit, Finrod is close enough with Thingol to act as an intermediary between him and the Haladin, and Thingol is the one who tells Finrod of the location for Nargothrond. The dwarves continue travelling to Doriath, and trading, and living there for long periods to do commissioned craft-work, through long periods of the First Age, even after the Nirnaeth - the Nauglamír Incident could never have happened if not for that. All these people can pass freely into Doriath. So we’re not talking about Doriath cutting itself off from the rest of the world, not by any means. We’re talking specifically about its relations with three groups: 1) the Fingolfinian and Fëanorian Noldor; 2) the Edain; and 3) the Northern Sindar.

Every time I try to write this post it gets really long, so here I’m going to focus on Doriath’s relationship with the first and third groups, other Elves, and leave the Edain for a separate post.

Doriath and the Northern Sindar

Thingol’s attitude towards this group is the least excusable, and something I wasn’t aware of until I got my hands on a copy of The Peoples of Middle-earth (HoME Vol. 12):

[Thingol] had small love for the Northern Sindar who had in regions near to Angband come under the dominion of Morgoth, and were accused of sometimes entering his service and providing him with spies. The Sindarin used by the Sons of Fëanor also was of the Northern dialect; and they were hated in Doriath.

Now, to be clear, Thingol is wrong about the Northern Sindar being shifty. They’re the ones more commonly described in The Silmarillion as the grey-elves of Hithlum. They make up a substantial portion of the people of Gondolin. They include Annael and his people, who raise Tuor. (Presumably others live in, or moved to, East Beleriand along with the Fëanorians, as the Fëanorians speak their tongue.) 

Here is what I think probably happened. We have statements in The Silmarillion that Morgoth captured elves when he could, and that:

“The Noldor feared most the treachery of those of their own kin, who had been thralls in Angband; for Morgoth used some of these for his evil purposes, and feigning to give them liberty sent them abroad, but their wills were chained to his, and they strayed only to com back to him again; therefore if any of his captives escaped in truth, and returned to their own people, they had little welcome, and wandered alone outlawed and desperate”. 

If Morgoth also captured some of the Northern Sindar - who, living closer to Angband, would be more at risk of this than Doriathrim, Falathrim, or Laiquendi - there could, as with later Noldor prisoners, have been some who were under his control and attacked and betrayed other elves. The Doriathrin Sindar, living further from Angband, might have been unaware of their capture, conflated this with deliberate and willful treachery, and so mistrusted the Northern Sindar.

That does not excuse Thingol’s attitude. He is stereotyping, and he is claiming kingship of all Beleriand while writing off a substantial portion of his own people, and this is unacceptable. One cannot claim rule of a people while simultaneously disdaining them and forswearing respinsibility for them. It is little surprise than the Northern Sindar largely joined themselves with various groups of Noldor and would have been glad of their arrival.

Doriath and the Noldor

This case is more complicated. I don’t like conflations of Thingol’s attitude towards the Fingolfinian and Fëanorian Noldor - or the Edain, for that matter - with anti-immigration sentiment. The basic concept of immigration is that you want to go to another country and live as a member of that country. When you enter an existing realm, claim its territory as your own, set up your own government, and justify it on the basis of “you’re not militarily able to stop us” that is not immigration. That is called an invasion, or annexation, or something of the sort. (Even if the realm in question is currently under invasion by enemies! Imagine if the British, after D-Day, had tried to annex half of France.)

(I will also note here that Thingol did not abandon the rest of the people of Beleriand prior to the Noldor’s arrival. The First Battle was the Doriathrim fighting alongside the Laiquendi. When Morgoth’s invasion became too large to fight on every front, the creation of the Girdle was the right choice. When assaulted by an overwhelming enemy force, the best, and indeed only militarily possible, option may be to withdraw as many of your people as possible to your fortress (as Thingol does - many of the Laiquendi and as many as possible of the grey-elves of Western Beleriand are evacuated to Doriath) and buckle down for a siege.) 

And the Noldor didn’t come with the Sindar’s benefit in mind. (As I have noted before, they were not even away of Angband’s existence. The Return was focused on fighting one very dangerous individual, regaining the Silmarils, and setting up realms in - if we’re being generous to the Noldor - presumably unoccupied territory. If we’re not being generous, the aim can equally well be read as setting themselves up as the rulers of the elves of Middle-earth. If their goal, or even a tiny part of their goal, was “rescue the Sindar”, then they could have pitched that to Olwë to get him on board - “help us rescue your brother from Morgoth” is a way stronger argument than “you owe us, you cultureless barbarians”.)

So, given that they’re annexing his territory without even considering that it might be someone else’s territory, it’s very understandable that Thingol isn’t pleased by the Noldor.  

On the other hand, Beleriand does benefit from the Noldor’s presence. Maedhros is quite correct when he points out that Thingol’s alternative to having the Nolder in northern Beleriand would be having orcs there [ironically, the Fëanorians do more harm to Doriath than orcs ever do, but that’s far in the future]. So given that the Sindar and Noldor have a common and very dangerous enemy, Thingol should at least try to work wth them. His deliberate isolation from the Noldor even prior to finding out about the Kinslaying comes across as prideful and petty. I am thinking particular of the absolutely minimal Doriathrin participation in Mereth Aderthad, when Fingolfin was specifically seeking to build a Beleriand-wide alliance, something that was in all their interests; and, addtionally, of not allowing the Nolofinwëans into Doriath. It automatically precludes any high-level negotiations or, just as importantly, any amount of in-person interaction that could lead to greater understanding. I can understand Thingol’s attitude towards Mereth Aderthad on some level - Fingolfin is in effect acting as though he is High King of Beleriand, something Thingol would resent - but it is nonetheless shortsighted.

It’s also worth noting, though, that acting with more tact and treating Thingol as King of Beleriand - as in fact he was throughout the Ages of the Stars - would not necessarily have posed any great difficulty or impeded Noldoran autonomy in decision-making in northern Beleriand. Notably, Thingol is on good terms with Finrod, gives him the location for building Nargothrond, and has no problems with him setting up a realm governing a large swath of West Beleriand. And yes, being relatives doesn’t hurt, but what stands out in this relationship is that Finrod treats Thingol with respect. He understand that Thingol knows more about Beleriand than him, and asks advice; when the Edain arrive, he’s the only one of the Noldor to consult with Thingol on his decisions (and that willingness to consult is what gets Thingol to agree to the Haladin settling in Brethil). And none of this prevents Finrod, or Orodreth after him, from having autonomy from Doriath in their decisions as lords of Nargothrond.

However, another interesting point is that Thingol’s early attitude towards the Noldor is not driven only by resentment of their infringements on his authority, but also by outright mistrust that doesn’t seem to be clearly grounded. Note that, after Galadriel tells Melian about Morgoth’s slaying of Finwë and theft of the Silmarils (which is well after Mereth Aderthad), Melian and Thingol talk, and Thingol says of the Noldor, “Yet all the more sure shall they be as allies against Morgoth, with whom it is not now to be thought they shall ever make treaty.” [Emphasis mine.] Which means that prior to this, he was genuinely worried about the Noldor allying with Morgoth! To paraphase The Order of the Stick, Thingol took Improved Paranoia several levels ago. (But he always seems to be paranoid about the wrong things. The Fëanorians are a threat, but not because of any possible league with Morgoth. Likewise, he is hostile to Beren because of dreams of a Man bringing doom to Doriath, but Thingol’s death and the first destruction of Doriath is instead set off by the actions of Húrin in bringing the cursed Nauglamír.)

So on the whole, neither the Noldor nor Thingol are behaving ideally in their early relations. After Thingol learns about Alqualondë, I find his hostility - especially to the Fëanorians - very warranted.  These aren’t some distant, once-related group of elves, these are his brother’s people! And “willing to betray and attack their friends” is not a quality anyone is looking for in an ally, nor something that is going to lead to trust.  

This also carries over to everything relating to the Leithian and the Silmaril. (Again, it is important to note with respect to the Leithain that Thingol states outright, after giving Beren the quest that he has zero expectation of - or desire for - Beren to obtain the Silmaril.  It’s a combination suicide mission and “when pigs fly” statement, and most people who say “when pigs fly” aren’t aiming at the invention of animatronic flying pigs.) In a theoretical world where the Kinslaying didn’t happen and the Fëanorians had no involvement in the Quest of the Silmaril, they might have had  a good shot at negotiating for it! (A much better shot than they had at getting it out of Angband, which they never even tried.) But of course Thingol would have no interest in handing it over to the people who, on top of the Kinslaying, also 1) betrayed his nephew and sent him to his death [that’s kind of on you as well, Elu], 2) kidnapped and attempted to rape his daughter; and 3) attempted to murder his daughter. And there should not be any reasonable expectation that he ought to do so! By their actions, the Fëanorians have forfeited any right to demand anything at all from Thingol, or from Beren and Lúthien, or from their descendents. 

(This is, in fact, the very point made in the Doom of Mandos: their oath shall drive them and yet betray them. Every Fëanorian action driven by the oath is counterproductive to them obtaining any of the Silmarils.)

Conclusion

In short:

- Yes, the Noldor are imperialist in their goals, but in they end they’re not ruling anyone who isn’t willing to be ruled by them. And the Northern Sindar who are part of their realms are people who Thingol had explicitly written off, which doesn’t reflect well on him.

- Doriath is not as isolationist as it is often portrayed and has close relations with many of the peoples in Beleriand. It also does participate in the wars against Morgoth (I’ll go into that in more detail in my Edain post). And they have valid grievances against the Fëanorians. However, Thingol’s deliberate snubbing of the FIngolfinian Noldor (and even before he knew about the Kinslaying), despite the evident benefits of planning a common defense of Beleriand, is selfish and petty.

[jaskiersvalley]

Shards of Ice

There was a lot of yelling in tags, reblogs and comments about Lambert needing to be loved following this post. You should have been more careful with what you wished for, because before things can get better, they need to get worse. But he gets his happy ending, don't worry.

CW: Suicidal thoughts

The room was cold and dusty but Lambert no longer had the energy to care. It was a room, his room, as barren as it was. He had survived trekking up to Kaer Morhen, at least he wouldn't be exposed to the elements so it was a bit better, even if there was no roaring fire. There wasn't even any wood in his room to start one. It would have to wait. Much like food could wait too, Lambert still had a few rations and some water in his pack, that would see him through the next couple of days while his leg finished healing. He so desperately wished he had something to take for it, even just a root to chew on for the pain but he'd run out of potions a while back and had been too caught in grief to even think about making more. At least he had a bed to lie on, that was better than the cold, hard forest floor. Lambert would take any small fortune as a blessing at that point.

Sleep claimed him and didn't release him until the sun was high the next day. Groggy, stiff from sleeping in his armour, and ravenous, Lambert pushed himself up. In the light of day his room looked no better, still just as empty and stale as when he'd walked in. If he could, he would have gone for a wash, anything to freshen up but his leg protested too much. In the end, he sat on the floor next to his bed, munching on a ration of cured meat, willing himself not to feel.

The others had to know he was back. He'd made enough noise, they probably even saw him approaching. But obviously he had no place in their lives. A dogsbody who was good for making their lives easier but didn't warrant anything in return. Not that Lambert did it to get something. But he'd always thought family looked after each other, took turns picking up the slack when one of them stumbled. As the day wore on and Lambert pulled his bedroll onto his bed for a bit of extra warmth, there was only one conclusion he could draw. While he had counted Geralt, Eskel and Vesemir as his family, they didn't think of him in a similar fashion.

On his own with his thoughts, Lambert had the chance to mull it all over. He had been a fool to think his fellow Witchers would consider him part of their family unit. Not even Lambert's own flesh and blood had done that. Just because Destiny threw them in the same cooking pot didn't mean were all part of the same cake. Though Aiden had been different. He had seen Lambert, all of him and decided that he was worth something. Desperate fury at the unfairness of it all had Lambert's lips wobbling even if tears were beyond him. He raged against his lot in life and the fact that the one possible good thing had been ripped from him. Nobody wanted Lambert and, when he found someone who did, they were violently snatched from his grasp.

With nothing do do but sleep and heal, Lambert didn't bother keeping track of the days. While his food and water lasted he would be okay. And when it ran out, he'd decide what he wanted then. Time stopped existing for Lambert, he was either asleep or wallowing in misery. It wasn't like anyone actually cared that his behaviour was very unbecoming of a Witcher, let alone a fully grown man. Lambert figured that if nobody wanted him at his best, it didn't matter what he was like at his worst.

A soft knock woke him from his slumber. It was better to sleep than get lost in his head. Why someone would try to take his only solace from him was beyond Lambert and he woke with a snarl. His leg still pulsed with pain, his room was still cold though he had managed to somewhat air it while the sun was high so it was maybe a little less chilly.

"Lambert?" Eskel's voice called as the door opened. "You missed breakfast again."

All Lambert heard was that he hadn't provided breakfast once again. He'd been back for probably a few days but soft foods and warm honey hadn't magically appeared on the breakfast table for the others. Well, it served them right.

"Go away!" He growled low in his throat.

"I just wanted-"

"Fuck off!" Lambert didn't let Eskel finish. Whatever Eskel wanted, he could get for himself. "I don't want you! I don't need you! Just leave me the fuck alone!" He threw his gloves at the door, followed by his bracers which clanked loudly against the wood, barely missing Eskel's face.

For the first time in his life, Lambert got what he asked for. The door closed again and he was alone. A strangled scream mixed with a sob in his throat and he curled up on the bed, heart and chest aching worse than his leg.

Time had no meaning, Lambert stayed curled up under his blanket, eyes open but not seeing. He'd had enough. Enough pain, enough rejection, enough loneliness. His rations were dwindling but he couldn't even find it in himself to finish them off. There was no point, it would only prolong his suffering.

Another soft knock on his door but he didn't even bother acknowledging it. He was done, the others could get on with their happy little family, they didn't need Lambert in any capacity, that had become obvious in the last few days.

The door opened and Eskel stepped in, an armful of logs and a bag of kindling in hand. He didn't say anything but got a fire going and left. The warmth of the room didn't reach Lambert's heart. He stayed where he was, even when Vesemir stepped in, a bucket of steaming water and a couple of wash cloths. Lambert didn't even have it in him to growl when hands methodically stripped him and wiped the worst of the Path's grime from his body. Fingers deftly worked the bandage on his leg open and, like when Lambert was a kid who'd scraped his knee, the injury got tutted over. Vesemir left and Lambert wondered whether he was such a disappointment that the fact he couldn't even heal from a simple bite had sent the man he'd once considered his father figure turning away in disgust.

For some reason Vesemir was back with a tray. It smelled like medical supplies but Lambert couldn't understand why. Firm hands worked over his leg, cleaning out the wounds, wrapping them. Finally, a vial was tipped against Lambert's lips and he swallowed, hoping it was poison to put him out of his misery. He fell asleep with the sweet bitterness of the potion still on his tongue and decided that maybe this wasn't such a bad way to go.

Unfortunately he woke up again. This time Geralt was in his room, a bowl of broth warming by the hearth. Lambert finally found his words.

"What the fuck do you want?"

He pretended not to see the way Geralt flinched and looked away. It filled him with a sense of perverse satisfaction, knowing that he repulsed his, well, Geralt wasn't his brother, not anymore. Not that he ever was actually.

"Eat," Geralt said, grabbing the warm bowl and holding it up. When Lambert made no move to take it, he fiddled with the spoon. "I can help feed you if you need."

Growling, Lambert snatched the bowl, ignoring the way it was so hot his fingers almost burned. The broth was good, seasoned with his favourites, not that the others would know, they never bothered to ask him. Still, it slid down his throat and warmed his belly, so close to his still stone cold heart.

Anger bubbled in Lambert's chest. The others couldn't even leave him be to make a dignified exit from this world. For some cursed reason now was the time they decided to bring Lambert back, even as he fought tooth and nail to be left. From then on, Lambert never woke alone. There was always someone in his room, never once commenting on his nightmares. Maybe they didn't notice, or thought it was just Lambert's regular dreams.

"Who is Aiden?" Eskel asked one night when Lambert woke, heart in his throat. "You call out for him a lot."

It wasn't something Lambert wanted to answer. He didn't want to trust Eskel with Aiden's memory. It wasn't something he had earned. However, each time Eskel was there and Lambert awoke from a fresh nightmare, he was asked the same question. There was only so many times that Lambert could hear those words before he snapped. At first it was just a gruff "nobody" then a "none of your business" to "a friend". It went on and on like that until Eskel had the full story, with Lambert held close to his chest and shaking like a new born foal.

When Lambert finally left his room, it was with Geralt hot on his heels. Something told Lambert that he knew about Aiden too. Those suspicions were only confirmed when, in the kitchen, Geralt casually said, "I'll come with you in the spring. We'll avenge him."

By the time spring came round, Lambert didn't feel quite so hollow. His heart had started to thaw out but the clump of ice that sat heavy in his chest could barely be called a heart anymore. Over the winter he'd been shown what it could have been like to be part of a family, to be wanted but he couldn't quite connect with the others anymore. The trust he'd offered had been twisted and warped until it was nothing more than a burnt silhouette of what it had once been.

Lambert was no fool. He knew Geralt travelled with him not just for revenge but also for Lambert's safety. It wasn't like Lambert was going to throw himself at the first chort he found. That was not how he wanted to go. But the others didn't care to listen to him in that respect. In a way, nothing had changed in that regard. Lambert's voice was still one to be ignored.

Winter came round quicker than expected. Lambert and Geralt turned north to Kaer Morhen and trekked up the mountain. There was smoke meandering through the air from the fires that had already been lit. It wasn't the Lambert had wanted to come back but he had nowhere else to go either. At least in the old keep he could actually survive winter in relative safety.

"Welcome home boys," Vesemir said as he stepped out the greet them, hugging Lambert first, then Geralt. "Eskel is already home and he's brought a guest with him."

Distantly, Lambert wondered how Geralt would react to Eskel having a guest. And maybe he was a little jealous that Eskel, despite his scars and menacing build, could find someone to winter with so easily. There was only one person Lambert had ever considered inviting home but that had only been a fleeting hope of the past, Destiny had made sure to quash it without hesitation.

"Lamb?" A familiar voice called and Lambert's whole chest hurt. His mind was cruel to play such games, taunting him with the one thing he couldn't have. "Lambert!"

A body barrelled into Lambert, arms wrapping around him tightly. Lips pressed against Lambert's and he tried to see who was stupid enough to mess around with him like that. It wasn't Eskel, his arms felt heavier around him. Eyes open for the kiss, Lambert saw an eyepatch and, as his assailant pulled away, a familiar green eye.

"Aiden." The word was a broken whisper of hope and disbelief. Lambert's hands cupped Aiden's cheeks, held him in place to be inspected, admired and committed to memory. "I thought you'd died. I'd avenged you."

"You're a real darling, thank you for that." Aiden smiled and placed his hands over Lambert's, warm palms holding glove covered ones in place. "But, by some twist of fate, I survived, more or less intact. Took a while to recover, Eskel found me in some remote temple, being healed by some monks. Dragged me back here as soon as I was able to make the journey."

Hands slipping from Aiden's face, Lambert pulled him in for a tight hug, eyes squeezed shut tight. He let Aiden go but only as far as keeping an arm wrapped around his waist. From where he stood, he looked over to the other three Wolves, standing together and watching them. Maybe, just maybe, they were more of a family than Lambert had dared hope. He wasn't certain yet, needed more time to accept that. But, for the first time in a long time, he had he spark of hope flickering in his heart.

[zevlors-tail]

Heyyy! Is it okay to request something? If so could I request nightmare comfort? I don’t mind which character!💕 I move a lot in my sleep and sometimes wake up 2 or 3 times throughout the night, I also notice when I’m about to wake up from a nightmare I kick my feet around like I’m running away. I’m also v cuddly and clingy (to my pillows ;~;) if not, that’s okay! Thank you 💛

A/N: I hope this was okay! Just some background real quick, I wrote the reader as a pro hero working at UA for plot purposes and for pairing purposes. I also hope I picked a character you like. I don’t actually have this character listed on my writing list but I remembered seeing a post of yours saying they were a comfort character for you, so I picked them because of that. <3 Hope this helps.

You tossed and turned, darkened images flashing under your eyelids as you dreamed of awful, twisted things. No matter how many times you’d seen them, no matter how many times the nightmares repeated themselves in your mind, you would never get used to the horrific scenes that unfolded while you slept. On nights like these, there was hardly any peaceful rest for you.

You woke up for the second time that night, legs kicking behind you as you cried out silently to no one and struggled to regain consciousness. You were so tired of the sleepless nights...and tired in general. Finally bolting upright, your breaths came ragged and shaky as you looked around quickly to gain your bearings. Your room looked just the same as it always did; hero costume hanging on the closet door handle in case of emergency, last night’s clothes strewn about on the floor, and bed sheets pulled halfway off the bed, no thanks to your restlessness. Familiar though it was, it brought you little comfort as you sighed, exasperated, and let yourself fall back down.

Nothing helped. Night after night, you saw the same things, different things, anything your mind deemed terrifying enough to pass as nightmare fuel. You’d tried everything you could think of to stop them. Warm milk before bed, listening to music while you slept, leaving the TV on for background noise, even sleeping during the day and drinking relaxing teas to calm yourself even though you didn’t like tea in the first place. But all of those things just seemed to make it even worse- the milk only made you feel sick, the music and TV noise only played into your dreams, and now you felt tired 24/7 with a wacky sleeping schedule. And the teas? Well, they were just gross. All of it did nothing to lessen the amount of terror you felt in your sleep, let alone calm you down before or after your awful dreams. And tonight, it was especially bad.

Your heart was still hammering in your chest, your hands balled into fists as you tried to forget the things you had just seen. It had been a very, very long time since your brain decided to plague you with such gruesome and horrific things, and you were suffering tremendously from it. Usually you could gain your bearings and force yourself back to sleep within the same hour you awoke, but tonight was different. Tonight, you couldn’t get back to sleep no matter how hard you tried. You felt more than restless, more than tired, more than exhausted with yourself and your mind. An hour passed, and then another, and another, and before you knew it your clock read 2:30am on a Friday morning as you lay there, wide awake, drained for all you were worth.

You needed something to do. You couldn’t just stay here and suffer; you needed move. Come on, you told yourself, it shouldn’t be that hard. Maybe if I wear myself down. Yes, that’s it, maybe a walk would help. Even if it’s past curfew...but, does that really apply to teachers? You sucked in a breath of air, mentally preparing yourself to get up. When you felt you were ready, you swung your legs over the edge of your bed and brought your hands to your face, rubbing harshly as if that could take away the stress you were feeling. It did nothing to help.

One random pair of pants and your favorite jacket later, you were headed out the door and on your way. The night air caused goosebumps to raise on your skin as you trekked around the dorms at UA silently, the only light illuminating your path from the round moon poised high above in the sky. The stars glittered over your head without clouds to obstruct their view, and the only noise you heard was the occasional chirp of a cricket and the hooting of the local owls that liked to nest in the trees nearby. Every so often you whipped your head around to look behind you and make sure you weren’t being followed, your nightmares leaving you spooked even on what should have been a peaceful walk. Was there any aspect of your life that they didn’t completely consume? Would you ever feel normal?

You were so busy looking behind you at the time that you didn’t notice the person in front of you until it was too late. Just as you were swiveling your head back around, you face planted into someone’s chest and let out a strangled noise of terror, suddenly sure that your horrid dreams had come alive and were out to get you. Which one was it? Who was after you now? You didn’t want to know. You turned tail to run shamefully- in the back of your head, you knew better. Heroes shouldn’t run, shouldn’t be scared of dreams or things that weren’t real. But you couldn’t help yourself even if you were a trained pro hero...your nightmares were getting the best of you.

A long arm reached out to grab at the back of your jacket, whoever’s hand it was preventing you from going any further. If your fearful stupor, you didn’t think to use your quirk to get away, nor did you consider that maybe the person keeping you from running away was not an enemy, but in fact an ally. You ran in place for a moment, arms flailing, tears forming in your eyes as you crumpled to the ground.

“Don’t touch me! Get away!” you pleaded, your small voice ringing out through the night. “Let me go, please!”

“Calm down.” a stern voice commanded from behind you. The deep tone and familiarity of it calmed you instantly, and you stopped struggling against their grip as they pulled you back towards them. “It’s just me. It’s Eraser, Y/N.” 

You let your body relax slightly but remained on edge, still not entirely sure that Aizawa was really behind you. What if it was another nightmare, or what if this wasn’t real? What if, when you turned around, he had a horrid looking face, or his head was twisted around, or-

“What are you doing out here this early in the morning?” Shouta asked you, interrupting your thinking. You said nothing, your thoughts rendering you speechless and bringing fresh tears to your eyes. You felt like words were stuck in your throat, like you were choking on your own tongue. “You’re shaking like a leaf,” he noted a few seconds later. After a long bout of silence on your end and a pause of uncertainty on his, he sighed and tried one more time to get through to you. “Y/N.”

As if your name was a spell to break the curse you felt you were under, you opened your mouth to explain yourself. “I was just- I wanted to walk...needed to get out of bed, and.” Even if it sounded disjointed, it was the best you could do. You were still too afraid to turn around.

“If I let go of you, are you going to bolt on me?”

“I don’t know,” you blurted out honestly. Really, there was no way of knowing what you would do. You felt glued to the sidewalk with jelly legs and and hardly any air in your lungs.

Wordlessly, Aizawa placed a hand on your shoulder as if to test the waters before slowly turning you around and pulling you into him. You glanced up at his face in terror as he did so expecting to see something surreal, but to your utter relief, he looked completely normal and like the Eraser Head you knew and loved. You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding, your face pressing into his shirt as you shivered. Suddenly, it was a lot colder out than it had been before. The sound of his heartbeat thrumming through your ear made you feel grounded and real again too.

Thu-thump. 

Thu-thump. 

Thu-thump.

“Come on, it’s cold out here. Let’s get you to the teacher’s lounge.”

You walked to the school together in silence, neither of you asking any questions or making any small talk, just grateful for the fact that UA was always open for teachers if needed. For Aizawa that was the usual anyways- he was always direct and to the point, and didn’t say much unless he had to. If he had any questions for you, he must have been saving them for later. For you, though, it was little odd. You were always chatting with the other teachers, always engaging with your students, always willing to share little bits of information anyone else might find useful or amusing. Always bright and sunny during the day, wanting to bring smiles to everyone and make them laugh. Lately though, Aizawa had noticed you just didn’t seem like yourself. You looked tired, more so than was normal for you, and had been more quiet and reserved. But who didn’t get tired every once in a while? Eraser didn’t really have the right to judge you or ask any questions about it anyway, considering his own sleep schedule.

“Here.” After you were situated on the couch with a spare blanket from the closet and a small couch pillow to rest your head on, Aizawa brought over a large, steaming cup of tea. You thought he had brewed it for himself, but it seemed he had other intentions as he set it down in front of you on the coffee table.

“I don’t drink tea,” you tried to protest, but he just shot you a look and sat next to you comfortably before pushing the cup closer to you.

“I know you usually don’t, but you should drink that. It’s completely herbal, not like what you’re probably used to, and it’ll help you relax and get back to sleep. I doctored it up with honey and milk, so the taste shouldn’t be too strong.”

He watched you with careful eyes as you gingerly picked up the mug and brought it to your lips, apprehension reflecting in your own orbs as you took a small sip. You made a small sound of surprise as you took another larger sip, not minding the taste as much as you usually did.

“It’s not that bad,” you admitted quietly.

“It’s my own blend. I made it for when I have especially rough nights.”

Silence washed over you both as you busied yourself with drinking the tea, Shouta’s eyes never leaving your face. After a bit, when your cup was a little more than half empty, he started up conversation with you again.

“So what were you doing outside at three in the morning?” Straight the point, as always.

“I was on a walk. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought maybe it would help.” You took another sip of your tea.

“Do you normally take walks at three in the morning when you can’t sleep?”

“Not often, no. Only when it’s-” You stopped yourself before  you could finish your sentence, not quite sure if you wanted to admit what you were going through. You hadn’t told anyone before, mostly because it felt like a private problem that you needed to deal with on your own, and something that you didn’t want to burden others with.

“When it’s...?” he prompted. His eyes desperately searched your face for any clues on what might be bothering you, though he already had an idea of what it might be.

“Ah, nothing.” You quickly swept the issue under the rug by trying to change the topic. “What were you doing out at three in the morning, hm?”

“I was patrolling the dorms, like I was supposed to.”

Oh. Well...that was...a pretty logical explanation. You weren’t sure what you were expecting.

“So I interrupted your patrol. I’m sorry.” You realized you must have pulled him away from what an important task, and suddenly you felt immensely guilty for causing him trouble. “I didn’t mean to take you away from that...”

“Don’t be. I got Mic to finish up for me after I took you over here, so it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Mmn.” You gave a quiet sound of acknowledgement, unsure of what to say after that, so you just kept drinking your tea. 

Aizawa stared off into the distance as if considering something, then brought his focus back to you as he spoke. “So, how long have you been having the nightmares?” 

Judging by the look on your face, he had hit the nail right on the head with his assumption. After seeing all of the little red flags, he had pieced the puzzle together in his mind and concluded you were suffering from something sleep related. And after seeing how you acted when he encountered you on his patrol, he thought it obvious that you clearly were disturbed by something lately, to which his guess had been nightmares, or maybe even night terrors. 

You remained quiet for a moment, your grip on the still warm mug tightening ever so slightly as you shrunk in on yourself. “For a while...” you breathed out.

“And how long is ‘a while’?” he pressed gently. He didn’t want to push you too hard.

“I don’t know...a long time.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“You’re the first person I’ve said anything to, since you asked.” You nervously took another swig of tea.

“You don’t have to talk about them unless you want to,” he offered, hoping his words implied his obvious invite to let you vent if you needed. You understood his intent, though you genuinely didn’t want to bring the subject back up. The less you thought about them, the better. If you rehashed the nasty things you’d seen earlier tonight, then they would just slink back into your dreams and cause you more grief than they already had.

“I appreciate that, Eraser. I really do.”

“Just call me Shouta.” 

There was something in his voice, something endearing, so full of care in the way he said it.

You didn’t need nor did you want to talk about them. For now, it was enough to be in the presence of someone you cared deeply about and that you knew cared deeply about you too, that understood your silence, that could hear the words unspoken by you when you felt you couldn’t speak. It was enough to just be close to him, a calm quiet between the two of you as you finally finished your drink. You set the mug back down on the table and leaned into the couch to rest your eyes, finally feeling somewhat safe to do so, and sighed as you snuggled into the blanket.

Shouta stayed with you while you drifted off safely under his watch, his lips turned up slightly at the corner as he watched you slip away peacefully. And at the first signs of any discomfort while you slept, he didn’t hesitate a single moment to pull you into his side and cradle you in his arms as he laid back with you, his hand supporting the back of your head while he held it to his chest. You woke briefly, just long enough to hear him murmur an apology for waking you before hushing you softly. His heartbeat reverberated through your ears and into your dreams as you cuddled into him, the sound calming you and lulling you back to sleep easily, and you finally felt at peace. Miraculously, the nightmares that had plagued you for so long gave you reprieve for the night, and you slept soundly on top of Shouta until school the next morning.

Your day carried on as normal after that, and you felt like your old self as you taught your students, genuinely excited to see your kids and engage with them through the course curriculum. The students seemed to sense this as well and were rather overzealous and giddy all day, which only helped to boost your mood more. After your classes were over and your hero work was done for the day, however, you headed home and lay down in your bed, fears and worries all coming back to you. What if you had nightmares again tonight? You didn’t think you could take another sleepless episode, especially after the peaceful rest you had last night. It had felt so good to actually rest, and now you had to go back to this?

And that was exactly how you found yourself in front of Shouta’s door two hours and a nightmare later, tears on your face and clothes haphazardly thrown on. He welcomed you with open arms and a “It’s unlocked,” which you were so grateful for, and the world just seemed right again as you curled up together on the bed, limbs intertwined as he held you close.

“Do you want me to make you some tea?” he asked.

“No, can we just stay like this?”

“Of course.”

From then on his door was unlocked every night. He left it that way for you, made sure to tell you that fact so you knew you were welcome there in his space. Every night you made your way to him. He calmed you down, made you tea if you so wished, and held you. And every night you fell asleep to the same sound.

Thu-thump.

Thu-thump.

Thu-thump.

You found that nightmares weren’t so scary anymore when you had someone to love you through it.

And love you through it, Shouta did, always.

[ufuckingpastry]

What Remained in Pandora’s Box

AO3 Link

Disclaimer:  This fic is based on the roleplay characters, not the content creators. None of the views or opinions explored in the fic reflect the content creators.

Chapter 1: Godkiller

Dream spat blood onto the obsidian, his shoulders heaving as he tried to breathe through the pain. Quackity watched him, perched on top of the cauldron. He idly wiped at the edge of the glimmering axe. The scar over his eye stretched grotesquely as he grinned. Dream wanted to rip that grin off his face and wished he had the claws to do so. His nails were dulled and bloody from scrabbling at the obsidian, sometimes to feel something, sometimes to escape the honed edge of Quackity’s blade.

“You know,” Quackity’s came through clear, bouncing against the obsidian and deafening in his ears. He lifted his gaze to glare daggers at him, hoping beyond hope they could slice more scars into his face. “I’m getting tired of this game, Dream. The stakes aren’t high enough anymore. The deals feel lackluster at best. And you.” The man glared, frowned his barely contained rage at him. He huffed out a breath and regained his grinning composure. “You’re better at this game than I expected.”

“I’m not giving you the book, Quackity. None of your deals are worth my time. Come back when you have something that I actually want.” Instead of spitting at him or shouting more curses, Quackity’s gaze flickered to the side and. He considered the floor below him.

“Something you… want?” he asked, careful, soft. Dream braced for whatever torture he held in his hands next. The soft voice always, always meant pain. It always meant the worst of what Quackity had to offer. Whatever he was planning, whatever he would do next, Dream hoped he would survive it (or hoped this time the end would come quick). “I’ve been thinking about that, Dream. What else I can do to you. What next torture Sam would let me bring in.” He laughed, gruesome and grinning. “You’ve nearly exhausted me, Dream! I have plans all over my walls of what I was going to do!” Quackity jumped off the cauldron and stepped forward.

“Every single plan I made for you, we’ve done! Every single thing I wanted to do to you, all but one—which Sam doesn’t have the backbone for. And Sam, poor Sam. Unable to stop another person from dying in this cell. I think he almost regrets it. Regrets letting anyone else get close to you.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned forward, the edge of the axe a gentle threat to Dream’s throat. “I even think he regrets letting me in now. This has been going on for too long, Dream. Something’s gotta give.”

“If you think it’s going to be me, guess again,” Dream snarled.

“I’ll make one more deal with you, Dream. And I know this is something you want. Something you want so desperately.” Dream waited. He waited for what Quackity had in store. He waited to know what deal Quackity was going to offer now. The only thing he wanted, wanted most in the world, was—

“Give me the book and I’ll let you go.”

Dream felt the floor drop out from under him, his breath gone out of him in a gasp. Quackity was no longer grinning. He watched. He waited.

“Sam wouldn’t let you,” Dream said in return.

“Sam? Sam’s losing himself more each passing day. First, he loses Tommy in this cell. Then poor old Ghostbur. And now, he’s losing himself. You should see the way he walks the halls. Did you know he took Ponk’s arm? And I know for a fact he regrets it every single hour. All that regret can’t be good for him. And, you know, I care for the guy. I care about him. I don’t want to see him in pain.”

“And yet you’re fine torturing me every day?”

“Dream, the thing about that is: I don’t care about you. I don’t give a damn if anyone on this server does. I don’t. I don’t give a shit. So, yeah. I’m gonna keep coming in here every single damn day, until you give me what I do care about. I care about the book. And Sam? Don’t worry about him. If it puts his mind at rest, I can convince him to do anything I want.”

Dream eyed Quackity, his chest heaving. His breath felt like knives ripping through his lungs. His hands shook uncontrollable. There was nothing he could do to still them and nothing he could do to stop Quackity from coming back over and over again. Except…

“You promise?” he asked softly, a faint glimmer of hope blooming in his chest. Quackity hummed, waiting for him to continue. “You promise that if I give you the book, you’ll let me out? That Sam will let me out?”

“Yeah. I’m only here for the book, Dream. And if letting you go is what gets me it, then I’ll do what I can.”

“The others won’t like that I’ve been set free.”

“Well,” Quackity said with a shrug of his shoulders. “That sounds like a you problem.” Dream hunched his shoulders. Of course, his promise would only extend to getting him out of the prison. Not anything further. Where could he go, though? He chewed his already raw lips, tonguing the scarred flesh. Maybe Techno would let him stay. He could tease him about being homeless again.

“So?” Quackity asked. “Deal?”

Dream’s gaze flicked up at him, studying his face. If… if he did this, there would be no turning back. There was also the possibility Quackity was tricking him. And if he lost the one thing keeping him alive, the one thing the rest of the server saved him for… for what reason would he have to keep existing? Unless… No, Quackity was smart. He’d see through a fake book. Assuming he had seen the original. He had, didn’t he? Otherwise, why would he know of it? Schlatt must’ve let him take a look at it once. Not enough to remember much, probably. Schlatt wouldn’t have let him study it.

Right?

Was that a risk he was willing to bet his life on?

Dream pressed his lips together, the pain grounding him. Did he even have a choice at this point? He breathed out, the warm air ghosting over his lips. Fine. One last time.

“Deal.”

Quackity’s eyes lit up, surprised, but that was quickly smothered with him leaning forward to grin. “I’m listening, Dream.” Dream held up a hand and closed his eyes, breathing in. He went into his head, deep into his head. It was not an image of him that appeared, not a personification of his thoughts as he searched his memory. No, it was him. In the flesh. Dream reached into his memory and pulled free the book. It looked normal, nothing revealing the secrets hidden within. Just like a normal book, if a bit tattered and worn. Dream reached in again and pulled out an image of the book, made it real with the powers XD lent him all those years ago. Then, he took the knowledge from the revival book and transferred it to the copy. But before the words settled into the pages, he adjusted a few steps. Not enough that it was noticeable, not enough that Quackity could sense something was wrong. Just… enough that any revival wouldn’t work. Not without… well. No one needed to know that part. He pushed the original back into his memory, then used a little more admin power to make the copy real.

Dream breathed out and opened his eyes. The process only lasted the amount of time it took for him to breathe, and then the revival book was in his hands. He lifted his gaze to Quackity, who was staring at him. His mouth parted, his attention focused solely on the book. His hands twitched like he wanted to snatch it out of Dream’s hands, but he held them back. Dream offered him the copy, his face blank as the mask sitting broken on the floor beside him, none of his deception present on his face.

“I’m just,” Quackity started as he snatched the offered book away. “Going to check it’s real, you know? Make sure you aren’t going to trick me.”

“Of course.”

Quackity flipped through the pages, his eyes skimming through the instructions. He snapped the book closed with a relieved sigh.

“So,” Dream said. “As you promised?”

Quackity tucked the book away in his inventory, then turned to Dream. His face was blank, like he was staring at a particularly boring wall, at maybe the slightest imperfection. He stood to his feet, still silent, and tilted his head. Then, faster than Dream’s tired eyes could follow, Quackity swung the axe down. Dream felt the blade slice through his flesh and the sound of the edge hitting and shattering his collarbone echoed against the obsidian walls. The sound echoed in his ears as Dream fell over, his utter surprise permanently slapped on his face.

And the world faded to black.

    “Let’s go!”

   “Where are you?”

   “I’m at….”

   Eyes flickered open. He stared up into the darkness, breathing out slowly. He couldn’t even see the ceiling; it was so far up. The floor was cold under his back. At least, he assumed it was cold. He really couldn’t feel anything, not even the warmth inside his chest. He decided, maybe, it would be best if he got off the floor and sat up. Maybe see where he was?

When he sat up, burning pain flared in the crook of his neck. He gasped and slapped a hand over his wound and—

There was no blood. He could feel the pain, yes, the burning, yes, even the slice in his flesh, but…

There was no blood. He stood up, feeling over himself, when something caught his eye. He held out his arms, gazed at them with a growing frown. He could see the floor beneath him, the bedrock scattered amongst the blackstone. He could see the floor through his arms. That, that wasn’t normal, right? He touched himself, touched his arms, touched the faded color of his sweater. His hands didn’t pass through him. He stomped the ground and, no, he didn’t phase through it. He was solid, just… transparent. Why? How?

And where was he?

He turned, seeing a hallway to his right. Curious, he stepped forward, stepped into it. His footsteps echoed against the blackstone as he made his way to the end. There was a pen, but no animals left in it. There were signs and item frames on the walls, but nothing sat in them to show them off. It was empty, devoid of life and warmth. He didn’t know what any of this was, nor why he was here. He didn’t remember anything from before he woke up here. He didn’t even remember his name, if he had one.

A chirp echoed from behind him. He spun on his heel and froze when he saw the enderman. He dropped his gaze immediately, somehow instinctually knowing not to look them in the eyes. But… something tugged in his memory. He glanced up again, tried to keep his eyes shifted just to the right of the—

The enderman chirped again, tilting its head. It had its eyes covered with a bandage. It also… didn’t look like any enderman he had seen before, not that he remembered seeing many, or any… Its face was split down the middle, black on one side and white on the other. Its hair and hands were split much the same way, and he saw a tail waving behind it, also split in color. He stepped closer to it, carefully and hesitant. Its head moved with his steps, tracking his movements. When he stopped in front of it, he reached up to touch the bandages, needing to stand on his tip toes to even hope to reach. A black hand rested on his wrist, the claws held away. The enderman vwooped, the sound a refusal if he ever heard one.

“Why are you wearing that?” he asked, curiosity winning out over self-preservation. But the enderman only chirped back. He wished he understood what it was saying. He dropped back on his heels, sad that the first thing he found in this place was someone he couldn’t even understand. The enderman touched his hand and then pointed at the portal. He glanced between the portal and the enderman, not understanding.

“Do you want me to go through? Isn’t that dangerous?” He said, gesturing at himself. He had no armor, no weapons, no tools. The enderman gave him a gentle smile and a glimmering netherite axe appeared in its hand. He jumped back immediately, the wound on his shoulder flaring in pain. “Don’t, please! Don’t hurt me!”

The axe vanished and the enderman immediately went to him, softly chirring and offering comforting pats. He calmed slowly, chewing nervously on his lip. It rubbed at his cheek where tears had formed and, for the first time, he noticed the tear burns on the enderman’s own face. It made something in him warm, a sort of kinship with the enderman. He didn’t know why, but when the enderman offered its hand, he took it. They walked through the nether portal together. He couldn’t feel the heat of the nether, but some part of his brain knew it existed and what it used to feel like. The enderman seemed okay with it. Now that they weren’t in the suffocating dark, he noticed the enderman’s outfit was that of a suit. That was strange, that it wore clothes. But endermen weren’t half white and black either. He just accepted that this was his life now, to not understand things even when they didn’t seem right.

The trip was uneventful, except for the ghast who nearly shot him off the single block wide path. The enderman was handy with its axe, though it seemed to try to warn him before pulling it out. He appreciated it, though he wished he could express his gratitude to it. He also… really did not understand how it saw through the blindfold, but he was comforted to know whatever threats came for them, he was protected and watched over. He almost felt his face break into a smile, but that fell when they came to another portal. The path turned to obsidian and he felt fear and anxiety creep into him at the sight of the blocks. The enderman chirred and held out its hand. He dragged his gaze from the path to the hand and took it. He closed his eyes for good measure and the enderman led him through the portal.

Even though he couldn’t feel the change in temperature, the change from the burning nether to the snow-covered land faintly glowing under the moonlight startled him enough that his breath felt like he had. The air burned in his lungs, but the enderman pulled him forward. It did not release his hand, except to defend him against the mobs that spawned in the night. But once they were slain, the enderman’s hand wrapped tight around his again and he was led further on.

Eventually, he saw smoke rising in the distance. Then they crested a hill and he saw a small complex. Two houses, plus another covered building that looked warm and inviting. Plus, at least twenty dogs relaxing in the snow. They lifted their heads at their approach, barking happily at the enderman. It patted some of their heads as they passed through. He wanted to pat them too and he wondered if he could feel their fur, but the enderman led him up the stairs. He startled at the polar bear tied to one of the buildings, but it ignored him for the most part. The enderman lifted its face to the house, vwooped negatively, then led him across the bridge to the other house. It rapped its knuckles on the door and waited. He waited patiently too, curious as to where they were and why. It knocked again, louder this time, and he heard sounds from above as someone groaned and presumably climbed out of bed.

“Techno, I swear to god if that’s you…!” a voice called out and he jumped back from the door. It sounded angry and he didn’t want anyone’s anger directed at him. Especially not after such a nice trip with the nice enderman! Speaking of the enderman, he glanced at it, hoping it would protect him. More sounds came from inside the house and the enderman… froze. Then shook its head.

“What…? Why is this?” it said. He stared openly as its mouth opened and closed. The mismatched hands came up and undid the bandage and he dropped his gaze away from the enderman’s eyes, but not before he caught sight of what those looked like. Red and green… Mismatched like its body. He heard the enderman turn, then yelp in surprise. He lifted his gaze, just to its shoulder so he wouldn’t make eye contact.

“Um,” he started, but the enderman (hybrid???) started speaking to the door.

“Hey, uh, Phil?” it, no probably, he? The enderman called.

“Ranboo? Why are you here, it’s 3am!” The door cracked open, but it seemed to still hide him from Phil’s (???) gaze. Ranboo quickly looked at the door, a worried expression appearing on his face.

“So, uh. We have a little bit of a problem.”

“What kind of problem? Wil, go back to sleep!” Phil shouted back into the house. There were more sounds from within, of another person descending a later. Probably the Wil-person? The door opened further and he got to watch the man who must be Phil look from Ranboo to him, his mouth parting in what he hoped was surprise and not… something worse. “Wha—?”

“Well…” Beside him, Ranboo threw out his arms in his direction and he lifted a hand in a wave. “We’ve got Gream now!”

[laur-rants]

Fic Update: Blood Wolf

Chapter 4

Fandom: Dishonored Ship: Daud/The Outsider, but I’ll heavily focus on the Daud and his Whalers relationship

Rated: Mature to Explicit, Strong Violence and Gore Ahead!!

Synopsis: Daud-Centric Prequel to Wolfbann. Origin Story, pre-canon. Centers on how Daud turned, and his subsequent marking by the Outsider and his formulation of the Whalers. Notes: There probably won’t be nsfw content in this fic, but it WILL be… violent. I want to play with my own boundaries of written violence and also Daud’s start wasn’t nearly as clean as Corvo’s. Their contrast on dealing with the werewolf transformation is one of the things I want to really explore, and Daud gets very close to falling off the wagon.

CHAPTER TAGS: His hands do violence, but there is a different dream in his heart. Alternatively, Daud talks to the Outsider, saves a girl, frightens a medic. AO3 link

Previous ::  First :: Next

—————————————————

Midnight, ???

The Month of Songs -- 1820

 Daud drew breath and it burned cold in his lungs. He checked himself; somehow, his clothes remained intact, untouched by… whatever had just happened to him. He lifted his gaze and when he inhaled again, it felt like gaseous seawater at the back of his throat. 

Where there once stood the Fink Manor, the house was now splintered, cracked, and floating into a vast, sky blue expanse. Though he was still standing in the pantry, the shrine humming next to him, the other two walls and the roof were destroyed as if by a bomb. A whale breached next to the stone platform this all stood on; it's massive eye met his briefly before disappearing down again. Daud felt his heart lurch. 

His hands flexed. He whirled back to the figure still watching him so adoringly. 

"What kind of game is this?" Daud asked, his chest still fighting to find air, still unsure if he was breathing water or not. The atmosphere was thicker here than it ever was in the waking world; not even the Serkonan summer had settled so heavily in his chest. Daud met those black eyes and refused to flinch. "Who are you?"

The entity just frowned, and something about that disappointment hit him like a carriage. He immediately regretted saying anything at all, especially something so pitiable, and he bowed his head in apology. A cold hand lifted his chin, forcing him to look back up into those glassy eyes. 

"Oh, Daud, you know who I am. Even if you never were the worshipping type…" A slender thumb ran over those wounds on his cheek and he shivered. "No, you're the gambling kind instead, aren't you? Betting with your life instead of coin. You've always been like this. Perhaps that's why I took such a liking to you in the first place."

"I don't understand," Daud said, his head feeling clouded under the touch of such an ancient being. "The Outsider is just a myth, a fantasy to keep children at home, to give nobles something to jerk off to, or to give the Abbey a scapegoat while they piss on the Strictures." He shrugged out of the Leviathan's hold, grabbing at the hand with his own. The Outsider watched the motion, his face full of glee at the contact. 

"Oh? It's not that complicated with me, Daud. You had a bet, remember? And I so wanted you to keep it." 

Daud frowned. He racked his brain, searching for the memory. As he did so, the Void around them warped, unbidden, and the Outsider smiled as a forgotten vision burst forth. Daud's eyes widened, looking up at two massive monsters fighting in a sewer. One was grey and malnourished, covered in boils and scars. And the other was a snarling mass of black fur, it's face glistening with dark blood that poured from fresh wounds that looked exactly like-- 

"What the fuck?" Daud's lip curled and he mirrored the black, wolflike creature of his memory. His tongue touched his teeth and found them sharp. The Outsider just grinned all the more. 

"I needed to save your life, or I would lose you before your story even began. So, I gave you the gift of your power a little earlier than others who have had the misfortune of being attacked by such a void-touched creature. Yes; you were cursed the moment those claws broke your jaw and split your throat, but I knew your tale wasn't so easily finished." The Outsider gave him a once-over, the gaze was so hungry it made Daud squirm. "You do not know your own importance and it is so splendid to behold."

There was a reverence there that Daud didn't trust, but it stirred something in his soul. "I'm just an assassin," he managed, taking a step away from the god of the Void. The Outsider just watched, but made no move to follow. 

"You will move the tides of the entire Isles, Daud."

"You sure about that," he sneered, his fists clenching. "I am cursed now, you said it yourself. Cursed. I am doomed to go mad, just like the beast before me." 

The Outsider held out his left hand. The smile he held was deadly. 

"Will you be worth my time, Daud?" 

Daud's lip twitched, wanting to refuse, but in the end, curiosity won. He relented.

"Bet," he growled, then gave his hand over to the Outsider to shake. As soon as he did, the back of his hand burned, seared as if branded with an iron. He hissed, not breaking his grip even as he turned his palm to see the back of it. There, glowing bright and smoking with arcane magic, a Mark appeared, one of an intricate arrow-and circle design. He stared at it, transfixed, as a new sort of power flowed through him. 

"My Mark," the Outsider said casually, running his hand over Daud's soothingly. "It will keep the beast of you at bay, give you the control you so desperately seek." He grinned, his eyes glittering maliciously. "But how long can you keep up that control? I wonder…" 

The god pulled Daud closer, dragging him in like the riptide. The Outsider smirked against his ear and Daud felt the shiver all the way down his spine. 

"Can you shape the world to your will, Daud?" He whispered, holding the statement between them like a secret. "Or will you be ruined by it?"

The Outsider pulled away, his smile far too knowing. 

"Until we see each other again." 

Then, as suddenly as he appeared, the Outsider was gone. His cold, suffocating presence fled from Daud and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the Void. Instead, he was in the very real Fink Manor, the weight of reality far heavier than the pressures of the deep. Daud swallowed, first retrieving the runes from the shrine before stepping back across the pantry threshold. 

The house was in ruins. The rampage he had caused nearly razed the building; a pipe from the kitchen was spitting water, the pantry wall was burst and the dog and handler were lying dead at his feet. Down the hall, he could see evidence of his huge body crashing through doorways with little remorse and forethought. Blood splattered the walls and limbs settled in places far and away from their original owners. 

It was the sight of a massacre, one of Daud's own making. He choked on the bile clawing up his throat. 

This wasn't his handiwork. It couldn't be. Assassins were meant to be clean, quick, quiet. A good assassin left no trace of themselves behind; a great assassin could even clean and dispose of the body before someone found the scene of the crime. The City Watch was founded to try and protect the streets, but they could do nothing against men and women like him. The best of them were, in all ways, untraceable. 

If anyone saw this house, they wouldn't see the work of a trained killer. They would see a contained storm, or perhaps a Tyvian fanged bear set loose on a dare. 

They would see the work of a monster.

Daud silently stepped through the wreckage, spotting a woman -- a maid, by the clothing -- with her throat ripped open, the lines jagged and unclean from where her trachea was bitten into. A wolfhound, ripped in two; the other half, he could not find, no matter how hard he searched for it. It left him light-headed, slightly nauseous, considering he vaguely remembered Eustace's arm in his mouth, the blood in his jaws -- 

He retched dryly. He fought the sick that threatened to come up, not really wishing to repeat what happened on the roof earlier. Certainly, he didn't want to know or see what would come up if he succeeded in vomiting. With a monumental effort he kept it down, gasping for breath and running a shaking hand over his face. 

The fingers of his left hand traced over the new scars on his cheek and the sensation sent an intense shiver down his face and neck, all through his arm. He jerked his hand back away from his face, hissing in discomfort. The Mark on his hand burned for a moment, reminding him of his newest annoyance. He flexed his hand; the Mark lit up, itching, begging to be used. 

He pulled curiously at the power beckoning to him. His fingers immediately morphed into long, black claws; he yelped, shaking his hand out in surprise. The claws disappeared-- but the power remained. He frowned, trying again. He focused on one spot near the stairs; the Void grabbed him at his request, pulling him forward in a rush and leaving a trail of ash in his wake. 

Daud's eyes went wide and his mouth hung open. He had traversed 10 meters in just a moment, the Void whispering in his ear as he did so. It was heady, thrilling; he grinned, feral, and tried the power again. 

He landed in a nearby living room where he had ripped a couch in half and knocked a woman in fine jewelry into a wall, breaking her neck. He was about to jump through space again when he heard a squeak, a yelp; he froze, looking to the sound. 

What he saw brought a vice around his heart. A child, a girl, trapped under some fallen wood and plaster from the ceiling above. She caught sight of Daud and when Daud caught sight of her, her eyes shone with tears, threatening to spill over. 

"Sir…" she said weakly, her voice bubbling up, full of pain and fear. He rushed over, pulling his glove back over his left hand. She squirmed, choking in sobs. "Is it gone? Is-is...where did it go? That beast…" 

Daud shushed her gently, trying not to let shock set into his features even as his limbs ran cold. Of course the child didn't recognize him as the monster she witnessed slaughtering her whole family. "Don't use too much energy now, I'll get you out of there." He gently moved some plaster and she squealed in pain; he shifted a joist to the side and clenched his jaw tight. 

A large nail had impaled her tiny calf, the wound covered in blood, the color of it darkening her slacks. He looked at her carefully; she was staring at her leg and when she went to grab it, he caught her hand in his. 

"Do not touch it," he told her quietly. "You'll make it worse. How long have you been injured?" She just gripped his hand tight and shook her head as her chest heaved with swallowed cries. Void, she couldn't be older than eight.

"I don't know… it just hurts," she wept, her hands bloodied, her face pale. "My mother, she-she…" the child gulped, fighting for air. 

She was spiraling. Daud put a hand on her head, trying to ground her. "Hey, I'm here, okay? You aren't going to die. Did--" his mouth went dry, and he tried again. "Did the monster touch you?" As he asked the question, he dug through a pouch on his hip, his eyes darting down to look for a familiar lime-green vial. 

"No, I got trapped and then the dogs came and then…" her face screwed up in agony, and Daud had a feeling not all of it was physical. 

Did it have to be a child? He hated this, hated thinking he had let a kid see something so needlessly brutal. "It's going to be alright. I'm going to get you out of here. I'm not going to leave you to die on this nail."  

Her eyes met his for the first time all night, searching for the truth. He didn't waver, opting instead to hold her little hand tighter. He swallowed, and when he saw the returning trust in her eyes, he pulled out a small dart and showed it to her. 

"This is a sleep dart," he told her, holding it out for her to see. "It will put you to sleep for an hour or so. It will sting a little, but it will help lessen the pain, and it will help me get you off the nail without it hurting. Do you trust me with this?" 

What other options did she have? He knew she had very few, and there was nothing she could do on her own. She would die of infection here. 

She nodded, but grabbed his hand before he could administer the dose. "Wait," she said. "What is your name first?" 

He blinked. "Daud."

She smiled. "Daud, like Dad." That settled very unpleasantly in his stomach, but he did not correct her. "I'm Emma, it's nice to meet you." 

He nodded. "Likewise. Now, are you ready?" 

She let go and nodded. He adjusted the dose in the dart and then stuck it in her arm. Her eyes drooped; in the next few seconds she was asleep, and completely unaware. 

Daud moved as quickly as he could. He had some bandages on him, as well as a few rags for quick wound wrapping, but nothing sustainable. He got up, using the Void to rush through the house and find the bathroom. He looted it swiftly; the first aid kit would have to do for now. He transversed back to where she lay, still stuck to the nail. He breathed, then got to work.

Daud had a very strict policy on children when it came to assassination jobs, one that put him at odds sometimes with his colleagues in the business. Other assassins would happily off a whole family to prevent leaks or future loose ends. In a way, it was self-preserving more than anything; a dead child could not speak of what they witnessed. Sometimes, the hit was on the child itself; easy to poison an unwanted heir, for example.

But Daud… he wasn't in this line of work to slaughter kids. He left kids alive; he took parents away from the home if he had to, so that it looked like an accident. He had even dropped a child off at an orphanage, an unfortunate leftover from a hit he and Rulfio once conducted. Rulfio had argued with him about it, but they both decided it was better than ending up dead, abused, or in the Golden Cat. 

Never kill the kids. Not if he could help it. Whenever he saw a child, he saw a young Daud, stolen from his home, made to kill and perform for coin until he finally roused the courage to off his own abuser. 

Then Daud had run off to become a killer of bastards just like the one who abducted him. 

He frowned as he tightened the tourniquet and eased Emma's leg off the nail. The wound spurted with blood and Daud quickly staunched the flow as much as he could, before quickly wrapping the leg with bandages soaked in disinfectant. Through it all, the girl slept, and Daud sighed. This would not be enough, he knew; he worked his jaw, the scent of the blood and rubbing alcohol strong in his nose. He packed back up, lifting the girl carefully before shifting her so she was cradled in his right arm. His left fist clenched and he ignored the claws itching their way free as he jumped through the Void once again. He traveled back up the stairs, back to Eustace's room; the whole time, Emma slept. He kept a bead on her heart, the beat of it steady in his ears. 

The bedroom was even worse than the rest of the house. Eustace Fink's body was wretched apart, nearly unidentifiable. Daud neared the pile of human viscera, trying not to think of how he had lost control, bursting forth and slaughtering the man. 

Never again, he thought to himself, but even as he held the girl tight, he did not know the long-term validity of those words. 

He spotted his whaler blade and mask; he grabbed both, carefully sheathing the sword, then, after a moment of hesitation, he clipped the mask to his belt. He then pulled the audiograph from Fink's remains and carefully swept the room for anything else of value. 

A safe with gold ingots and 500 coin. A few choice books, stashed away. Notes from his brother-- Daud paused at these, frowning down at the ledgers.

  Eustace,

Jerome changed last week; he will be ready for challengers soon, so get those hound fighters excited for our next event! The first week of the month of Clans will be best. I will test this brute against the others; as a former assassin, I cannot believe how strong his killer instinct is! Brimsley was right; the stronger the person turned, the more likely they are to survive to put on a show! I don't expect the others to fare so well, but now we know that we at least have a sure-fire way to lure Dunwall assassins into a trap.

Be careful if you come down to the ampitheatre to see this dog, however. I can hear it in my mind… it taunts me, hates me, tries to overpower me. I always just shock it back into submission; it's so weak it can't carry out it's bigger threats. But Eustace… please. Your mind is not as strong as mine. Do not be swayed. These monsters of the Outsider are no longer human, like you or I, no matter what it says to you. 

Here is the list of the next possible brutes I have selected, and also the date for the next Hound Pits fight. Don't forget the fliers, we need the noble's coin to keep this up!

 The snarl that ripped through Daud was so strong and loud it shocked even him. The girl stirred but did not wake; he looked to the body of Eustace Fink and no longer regretted his fate. 

They truly had found some giant monster, one like him perhaps, that had attacked someone and then that person had turned. And then the next person, and then the next until they trapped an assassin -- Spirits. He knew Jerome, had seen him in passing; he was from Potterstead, was raised into the profession, was cleaner than all of them. Surgical, even. 

And he had been tortured into blindness, forced to fight dogs, and then Daud himself had…

Daud bit down on his cheek until he tasted blood. He scoured the room once more, then pulled out a bolt from his satchel on his belt. Carefully, he set the girl down in a chair, then readied his wristbow. Three incendiary bolts flew through the room, igniting expensive fabrics, flammable wallpaper, the remaining useless documents on the table. He watched the fire spread, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it. He pulled the drag, then threw it into the growing flames.

Then, he secured his belt, carefully lifted Emma back into his arms, and left the burning wreckage of the home he single-handedly destroyed. 

------

It was another late night, one that Misha knew he would not be walking home from. It was well past midnight and even with the Watch prowling about, the Hatter's were likely to jump anyone unsuspecting, stealing money for months rent, or worse. So instead, he just sighed and closed the downstairs shutters, pulling the curtains in and locking the door. The one lamp still illuminated the front desk where his assistant had been sorting paperwork earlier; end of month books, on top of end of year numbers. His numbers had seen better days. Between the gangs clogging up the streets and his brothers getting caught up in hound fight gambling, he had lost more than he had recuperated. 

He missed his brothers. He did not miss them asking him for more coin every week of every month, effectively bleeding him dry. 

He had tried a few times to dissuade them, but all in vain. They were his brothers, two versus his one. They knew how to guilt him, especially with the death of their mother hanging over the practice like a cloud. So he had given them what they asked for, knowingly enabling them like a bar enables a drunkard, and hoped everything would be okay in the end. 

It wasn't okay. His brothers were presumed dead and he had no money for a dying practice. All he could do was try to set the remaining things right. Hiring the assassin gave him a grim sort of satisfaction, some twisted sense of justice. After the deed was done, he'd file with the Watch, see if their bodies couldn't be recovered. The hardest part was between step one and step two; waiting for the completed assassination.

As he headed up the stairs to retire to his office for the night, he stopped at the calendar on the way up. He looked at the final week of Clans-- then put an X over the 28th day, the last day of the month. Four other angry Xs precede the 28th, all counting down from when he and Daud had come to their agreement. He frowned, flipping the calendar to Songs. 

Daud had said that his job took time, but gave no frame of reference to ease Misha's worries. He sulked for a bit at the calendar on the wall before finally moving on, entering the office and lighting the desk lamp easily. He then -- as he had done so every night for the past four nights -- went over to the terrace and moved to unlock it, just in case Daud returned with news and wished to enter the way he had initially done. 

He didn't expect the man to suddenly appear before him in a swirl of ash and smoke. He also didn't expect the small, pale body Daud was carrying in his arms, either. 

And he certainly didn't expect Daud's face to be visible, his eyes burning, long scars cutting valleys into his otherwise young face. 

Misha gaped. He fumbled with the latch, pushing the door open to give Daud more access. The assassin pulled in a ragged, tired breath. 

"Daud--" Misha started, following the other man as he swiftly entered the office. "What happened? Is Fink--"

"Dead," Daud said, the roughness of his voice contrasting how gingerly he handled the body in his arms. "I need your expertise. Do you have a table?" 

Misha glanced towards the small figure and nodded, pushing open the far door; it led to a small operating room, separate from the others and one that he used for special cases. He turned on the light over the table as Daud placed a small child -- Void, a child -- down onto it. She was asleep but her breath was shallow, sweat beading on her brow. Her leg was bandaged, but it was already bleeding through, the blood dark and angry. 

Misha immediately let himself still, evaluating this new, sudden patient. His emotions detached, and his brow furrowed in focus. He quickly grabbed gloves and sharply demanded, "Tell me what happened."

Daud hesitated, then, "Nail. She impaled her leg on a nail. Got trapped in the home." 

"And you just took her?" 

"Everyone else was dead." He said it softly, as if full of remorse. Misha knew the time for questions was now past. Instead, he got to work. He unraveled the leg and pulled over a bowl, cleaning solution, and a syringe. 

"I used a sleep dart on her," Daud explained. "I don't know how much longer the sedative will last."

Assassin sleep darts, he knew, were usually sodium pentothal, and at the dose Daud probably used, the girl would still be down for a while. Still, a local anaesthetic wouldn't be a bad idea. 

"Here, be useful. My usual assistant isn't here so I will need your help cleaning this." Daud complied, then began the task of fetching anything that Misha asked of him. Sutures, clamps, saline solution, scalpel, magnifier, light. The girl whined in her sleep, and Daud, surprisingly, was there for her, holding her hand in a heavy glove. It wasn't long before her leg was properly cleaned and closed, the sutures staying as he carefully bandaged the leg back up. 

"If all goes well and the wound stays clean, her leg will survive," Misha sighed, pushing tiredly away from the girl and removing bloodied gloves. Daud just nodded, watching the girl carefully as she slept. A whisper tickled at the back of Misha's head and he grimaced, scratching at his hair. The movement made Daud's head jerk to look at him, inhuman and unnatural. 

It was now that Misha was actually able to get a good look at the face of his hired hitman. He had short black hair, styled back and out of the way, though now it was tousled and out of place. His eyes were a striking blue, but not in the way that left him feeling flustered. Instead, they were like ice, splintering into his chest and making him feel as if a wild predator was evaluating his continued existence. The scars on his face tugged as he frowned; the longest line cut from his right forehead all the way down over his throat,a and the second longest also sliced through his cheek alongside the first. The last two sat partially hidden under his chin, over his throat, and Daud's frown deepened as he caught the doctor staring.

Misha's face flushed. He was never one to hide his feelings well, and definitely not as easily as a hardened assassin. 

"Daud..." he started, trying to cover the intrusion. The assassin suddenly stood up, his hand flat on the table, challenging and threatening Misha to continue speaking.

"Go on, say it," Daud said, dangerously soft. "Others already have. They didn't have to be a doctor or an assassin to know I shouldn't have survived -- this." He waves at his neck, as if disgusted by the scars. 

Upsetting an assassin seemed to be a poor life decision. Misha chose his next words carefully. 

"You need to clean up, and you seem invested in the child. Would you like to stay the night, to at least be there when she wakes up?" 

Daud's face immediately closed off. Again, something itched at the back of Misha's head, and he tried to rub it away. A whisper, almost… indecision? Misha had not expected an emotion to come forth. When he questioned it mentally, it disappeared, so still he shrugged it off as imagaination. He watched Daud as he pulled his face out of the lamplight and back into shadow, his eyes still bright in the gloom. His fist clenched. 

"No, no, I'd rather not. I've already done enough to ruin her life." He looked around the office and then, finding what he was looking for, went to fetch it. 

Misha almost missed it; Daud's left hand twitched and then suddenly, in a rush of ash, he was across the room, and then back. Misha gaped as Daud scrawled words over the paper he had fetched, then handed the paper to Misha. 

"Outsider's eyes," he breathed out, but the look on Daud's face silenced him. 

"This address; when she's well, take her there. Tell them Daud sends his regards, and hopes Jason is well. Also--" 

He pulled a purse from his satchel, setting it down. "That's for the girl." Then he pulled out a whole gold ingot and handed it to Misha. "And this is for you."

Misha gaped. He'd never seen so much gold -- he shook his head, holding his hands up. "What--! I can't accept this-- Don't tell me that you are paying me for--" 

"Don't worry, I have another," Daud assured. "I made sure I'd be paid well for this too. Besides, I told you, 'half now--'" he pushed the ingot to Misha more insistently. "'half later.' Here's your half, later." 

Misha gulped. He had a feeling that Daud was not going to take no for an answer. He acquiesced, gently taking the gold, and the assassin relaxed. He stood back, giving Misha some space. 

"Don't spend it all in one place," he suggested, a dry attempt at humor. Misha managed a tired smile in return. 

"Am I allowed to offer my appreciation, now?" 

Daud said nothing. He looked away. 

"May we be blessed to never meet again, Misha Romanov." 

Misha, personally, did not see that as a blessing-- but perhaps, given Daud's line of work, it was for the best. He nodded, not wishing to argue with a man who could so easily murder him. 

"Regardless… Thank you, Daud." 

Those prickled whispers returned, just as Daud met his eyes. There was something mildly astonished in his gaze, and Misha tried not to push away the foreign white noise that invaded his mind. Instead, somewhere in there, he thought -- imagined, he reminded himself -- that he caught the faintest expression of " You're welcome."

As quickly as it built up, the emotion was gone-- and so was Daud. Misha blinked, putting a hand to his ringing ear. He looked to the open terrace and was suddenly filled with the urge to follow, to rush out to the balcony so he did, throwing the doors apart in his wake. He breathed the night air and there he was, on the opposite rooftop, eyes and scars burning, even in the dark. Daud looked back at Misha; their eyes met. 

Daud's left hand raised, smoking and black. His fist clenched. 

And in a flurry of ash and wind, he was gone.

[vegalocity]

Comforting Hugs and (platonic) kiss on the cheek. Min Yi falls and gets a boo boo so Huntsman has to Comfort her, much to his discomfort. Cause what you wrote with Uncle Goliath was adorable so now it's Uncle Huntsys turn. - Pixel Anon

Affection meme

4. Comforting hugs

8. Kisses on cheek

Whoops i tripped and it turned into feels how'd that happen

--

Huntsman had never wanted kids. He didn’t like kids, he didn’t trust kids, Kids always seemed to be more of a pain than they were worth.

Which was why he wasn’t particularly excited when everyone found out that Syntax had a kid. Some little wannabe detective whom was barely old enough for grade school yet somehow believed she was capable of solving any mystery handed to her but still needed to hold hands with a grownup while crossing the street.

Another thing he didn’t like about kids, they didn’t even have the skills to back up their egos.

The only positive thing he could scrounge together about Syntax's Daughter for a long time was that she seemed to be a rather tough kid. Always tripping and falling and scraping herself up in ways he was (pretty sure) a lesser child would have stopped everything to cry about, brushing the dirt off of her clothes and going back to whatever she was doing. At times Syntax or her aunt needed to pull her away and tell her to bandage up her injuries first and she’d protest over it.

So he’d give her that. She was tough.

That in no way meant he was alright with babysitting just because he was the only one without any plans tonight.

He’d be completely fair and say that he expected it tpo be a quiet night. The brat was in between ‘mysteries’ and was quietly working on one of her arts and crafts projects. He’d figured they’d have no real reason to interact until she’d tell him it was about dinner time and they’d… order in or something, he didn’t know what kids liked to eat.

But that didn’t mean he was okay with it just happening to him to be stuck with the brat all night until Syntax got home from whatever tech-related insanity the Monkie Kid and his ilk had pulled him into.

Though when he heard a yelp of surprise and pain, he’d assumed it was something like, the little gremlin tripping on her own socks or something and falling face first onto the floor or whatever. So he didn’t give it any mind as he continued to sharpen his lucky blade.

Though he didn’t hear any grumbles of annoyance as she continued on with what she was doing, or even laughter at her own clumsy actions. Then she was a little blur of black hair and pink jacket as she darted from the kitchen area to the bathroom, passing by as quickly and quietly as possible.

Now… That was… probably something….

The bathroom door shut with a thud, but he could pick up on sniffling and upset whimpering noises among the sounds of bottles clattering, every so often punctuated by more yelps of pain.

Then he smelled burning. It was coming from the kitchen and sure enough there was a skillet that had fallen to the ground, and a pair of eggs half sprayed along the stovetop, some parts very quickly turning to charcoal.

What had happened put itself together rather quickly and he cursed under his breath at the idiocy of children.

When he returned to the bathroom the whimpering had ended and was replaced entirely with the sniffling, and the rummaging of bottles was replaced with the running of the faucet.

“What are ya doing in there?”

“Nothing!”

“Bull. Open the door kid.”

“It’s okay! I’m okay!”

“Open the door before I break it. Minyi.” The child’s name felt weird on his tongue, but she had to know he was serious.

There was a pause, and then the door creaked open. The kid stood there, moving her hand from the doorknob to wipe at her eyes, the other hand held behind her back.

“You’re really gonna be a stupid kid and hide it from me?”

She rocked back and forth on her heels, her glasses were missing, probably dropped them when she ran in here, so she couldn’t hide her face like she usually did.

After another long pause where Huntsman debated what sort of threat he could make to a six year old without her father finding out about it and finalizing those vivisection plans he was sure he had squirreled away somewhere but constantly denied, the brat relented and held out her hidden hand, and sure enough the sleeve was rolled up to the elbow and the outer side of her hand front he base of her pinky all the way down to her wrist was an angry red.

“Dumb kid.”

She whimpered again and a fresh set of tears began to bubble out of her eyes and he rolled his. “Sit down. I’m not risking your Aunt’s wrath by not patching you up after you did something stupid.” The kid quietly did as instructed and sat on the edge of the bathtub as he opened the medicine cabinet. The burn cream was far too high up for her to have been able to reach.

She had started to cry properly now… Stupid kids crying their eyes out over dumb things.

“Please don’t tell Daddy or Auntie.” she squeaked out when he finally crouched in front of her, holding out a hand for when her own was placed in his.

“Why? You scared of admitting you burned yourself trying to make your own dinner instead of being the rational and smart kid they both keep saying you are?”

The brat kept crying as he finished wrapping up the wound until the entire area was covered over her left hand.

“I can’t cause any problems…” That… gave him pause.

Sure kids want to be good. They might be little shits but they rarely WANT to be bad kids. So if she’d said that she ‘wanted to be a good girl’ or whatever that would have made sense. But… ‘cause problems’?

“What are you on about?”

“Daddy and Auntie have enough problems, and I can’t be one too!” she looked up at him then, sniffing pathetically and hair falling in her face at her vehemence “I gotta be no problems at all! Cuz Cuz… I’m a trooper! And clever, and a delight to have in class!”

….damn here he thought obsessive perfectionism wouldn’t kick in until teen years.

“You’re six years old is what you are.” UGH… he knew what adults were SUPPOSED to do around crying children.

Didn’t mean he had to like it.

Huntsman offered his hand to the kid again, and she didn’t hesitate before sliding her uninjured one into his. He tugged her forward, and she stumbled until her little body collided with his. And to keep her from escaping he placed his other hand on her back. “Who ever told you you ain’t allowed to be a damn kid, huh?”

“Nobody…”

“Kids don’t just pick up ‘delight to have in class’ from nowhere, I'm guessing it was a teacher?”

“No!”

“Then who's messing with the development of clan young? It’s been decades since this clan has had any young, and if our only child in thirty years has had her development messed with…” the kid let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“...Nobody has to… people are always sayin' stuff about how scary it is that me an’ Auntie are the only humans in our family… that you an’ Uncle Goliath eat people… That Daddy used to be handsome but now he’s just….i forget the word… The teachers wanna keep an eye on me, they keep saying that ‘demon behavior’ might rub off on me. And it’s stupid!” She pulled away to look at him again and she’d stopped crying, her face pinched in a pout. “It’s stupid cuz you an Uncle Goliath are super cool! And Daddy is Daddy! But they’re all scared and they shouldn’t be. But…” she looked away again and Huntsman took the opportunity to lift her into the air to steadily walk them back out into the living room. “But if I start bein’ a problem then they’re gonna think its your guys fault. It’s not, but they'll think it. And they're gonna do bad things cuz they’ll think they gotta and It’ll be my fault because I made problems and I can’t make problems!”

….huh….

“Maybe I should show those grownups how right they are about how dangerous I can be, if it upsets you that much.” The kid looked back up at him and he made sure to bear his fangs properly. She’d probably get scared too and he could remind her how he and Goliath were actually in fact quite dangerous, and while her father would never dream of hurting her, those ladies probably had the right idea, too.

And then the little shit laughed at him.

“You’re silly.” But just like that her mood was better. She leaned in and before he could tell her to buzz off or drop her she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for bandaging me Uncle Huntsman. But I messed up the eggs still so I gotta make another dinner.”

“If you really don’t wanna cause problems-” he dropped her, she landed on the couch harmlessly. “-Just tell the grownup in the room that you’re getting hungry. Don’t just assume you know what you’re doing.”

She fingered the bandages on her hand again when she sat down properly in the seat. “Okay. Sorry Uncle Huntsman.”

“Just because you don’t want to cause problems doesn’t mean you have to do everything yourself. You’re literally a child.”

“Okay Uncle Huntsman.”

“Now out on one of your damn movies while I see if there’s anything edible left in this place.”

“Okay!”

More rebound than a beach ball apparently, that kid. Observant too, if she could connect probably idle chatter that… either teachers or parents of friends… would whisper about to not only her and hers, but also deduce the danger of her family being considered ‘scary’ and what she should do to combat it (whether it was a good idea or not)

He wondered how many of those scrapes she acted like she didn’t even notice were just her putting on a brave face because being seen as weak was suddenly something she thought she couldn’t afford to do.

… Minyi really was a tough kid, wasn’t she?

--

Send me stuff!

[flowercrown-bard]

A new us will begin (13/ ?)

word count: 4613

AO3

part 1   / part 2 / part 3  / part 4  / part 5 / part 6  / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12

content warnings: blood, injury, assault (not sexual)

The light of the midday sun bore down on Lark, as he strolled through the streets of Gors Velen and gave his hair an almost golden shimmer.

Golden, like the handful of coins that sat heavy in his purse. If anyone had told him a couple of years ago that he would one day have more to his name than a few silver coins at the most, he'd have laughed bitterly and shuffled off, dreaming of all he would have been able to eat if he'd owned that kind of money.

Now that he did, his stomach did a little flip whenever he looked at prices for things he didn't want to buy, but would be able to afford if he did. It still seems unreal to him, even after having lived like this for some years now.

He hummed a little tune, fiddling with the hem of the doublet that Desanka had gifted to him a month back. The blue colour was a little washed out and the sleeves were too big – perfect to hide things in, as Desanka had called it with a wink – but he wouldn’t have changed it for the world. Though it came nowhere close to being as extravagant as a real bard’s attire would be, it gave Lark the ability to walk among people without receiving strange looks for his ragged and dirtied clothes and sometimes, when he was brave enough to do so, he could even pretend to be a bard while wearing this and people would be more willing to believe the illusion. But more importantly than that: Desanka had gone into a town to get the garment for Lark. Despite the years they’ve been living together now, she still refused to tell him why she only rarely visited towns with him and it meant the world to Lark that she would do this just to give him something that made him happy.

The memory of that day and the confidence the doublet gave him, brought a smile to his lips that were humming a little tune. The melody was catchy, one of the ones you only had to hear once to have it stuck in your ear indefinitely, though he couldn't for the life of him remember where he had heard the tune or what words accompanied it. Something about coins? Or maybe he just imagined that because that was the thing he had been thinking about before.

It didn't matter.

With the tune on his lips and a skip in his step, he made his way past the Thief’s Bastion, grinning a little as he passed it, and towards the tavern where the promise of coin awaited him.

As always, when he reached a tavern or inn, Lark took a quick detour to the stables. There wasn't much sense to it, but he loved seeing the horses and maybe getting to pet them a little or sneaking them the treats he had once stolen from a particularly stingy and unfriendly vendor on a whim, only to realise a second too late that he didn't have a horse to give these treats to.

Besides, when he went to the stables, there was always the slim chance that someone had left their belongings with their horse while bargaining for a room at an inn or buying a drink for the road.

Lark kept humming as he passed the boxed, every once in a while stopping to stroke down the face of a friendly looking horse. One of them blew a warm breath at his face and nudged his shoulder. A soft grin spread across Lark's face and he petted the soft nose.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" he cooed at the brown horse. His eyes drifted over the animal and his grin became devious. "My my, and you're carrying some heavy bags." he kicked his tongue in mock disapproval, while he threw a quick glance at the stable doors and slipped into the horse's box when he was sure the owner wasn't coming back. "It's truly unfair of your owner to let you carry such heavy things like - damn, a sword?"

His brows rose up and he pulled the sword halfway out of the scabbard, only to reveal gleaming silver. He sucked in a sharp breath and put the weapon back as if he had burned himself. His heart was racing and he risked another glance at the door. If the owner was able to afford a blade made out of pure silver, they must be rich and influential. The best person to steal from - and the worst to get caught by.

Lark's throat grew tight as he fumbled with the clasps of the saddle bags. A triumphant sound escaped him, when he reached inside and almost immediately found a handful of small bottles. He pulled one out and held it against the dim light falling in through a dirty window. He squinted and gave the bottle a little shake, making the sluggish golden substance inside slosh around. Whatever this was, the unusual colour alone must make it extremely valuable. Never before had Lark seen a liquid of such a strange colour.

He leaned closer to uncork the bottle and take a sniff at its contents, but found his limps not obeying him. Something uncomfortable squirmed in his guts, an almost nauseating feeling of danger, warning him not to touch these bottles and commanding him to put them back. He ignored the strangely growly voice in his mind. He was a self-respecting thief, after all, and as such, he would not let a bad gut feeling derail him.

Shaking his head to get rid of the unsettling feeling, he dug around in the bag again and pulled out another bottle, stuffing it into his pockets, without trying to find out what it was he was bagging. Though it would be nice to know just what exactly he was taking with him so he could discern what it was worth, there was no doubt he wouldn't be able to make up what it was and get a decent prize for it when he sold it even so.

Spurred on by his find, Lark moved on to the next saddlebag, digging around in it carefully, trying not to disturb the order of the things in it too much.

A frown furrowed his brows as he pulled out a simple shirt that looked even worse than the ones he was used to wearing. There were holes in it and a strange stain covered its lower half. Confused, Lark brought it closer to his face and squinted at it. The dim light in the stable wasn't bright enough for him to be sure but it almost looked like... like blood.

Immediately, Lark shoved the shirt back into the bag and stumbled backwards till he hit the wall of the box. The horse snorted and nudged him again with its nose.

Lark paid it no attention. His heart was pounding painfully fast against his ribs. The fuck kind of person carried a silver sword and bloodied clothes around?

A distant sound snapped him out of his shock. A door being thrown open so harshly that it connected with the wall with a bang and the sound of quick, angry steps and mutterings came closer.

Lark couldn't see yet whom this deep and frustrated voice belonged to, but he didn't care to stick around and find out.

His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, as he pushed the door to the box open with trembling fingers, just enough to slip through and dash into the empty box opposite of the one with the horse carrying the silver sword. He cowered down and pressed his back against the wall, praying that the man, whose steps came closer still, wouldn't notice him.

Lark screwed his eyes shut tightly, as he heard the door to the box he had just been in open again. The two bottles he had stolen from him felt like they were burning in his pockets.

The man was going to know. He was going to realise that Lark had stolen from him and he had a sword and a bloodstains on his shirt. Lark didn't want to find out what such a person would do to him if he realised Lark had taken something of his. He shouldn't have come here. He should have just gone inside the tavern, where he had known he would get enough coin to last him and Desanka a while.

Oh gods, Desanka! She was waiting for him to come back. She probably wouldn't even realise that something was wrong until nightfall. And even then, there was no telling what she would think. As protective as she was of Lark and how much they loved each other, she still got that hint of trepidation and fear in her eyes every time he left for town or said something wrong, though he never could figure out what exactly he had said to set her off, as if she was still worried that he would leave her. He couldn't leave her!

Lark didn't dare to even do as much as look at the dangerous stranger, for fear of him somehow feeling Lark's eyes on his back and turning to find him.

"Come on, then," the stranger said to his horse with surprising softness,considering he had just cursed up a storm under his breath. "Can't catch a break. Gotta find the beast and then we can get our well-deserved break. If these shitheads don't short us again."

The clacking of hooves indicated that the man was releasing his horse from the box and leading her outside.

Lark held his breath, until the sounds had faded and he could be sure that the man was well and truly gone. Only then did he release a shuddering breath and got back up on trembling legs, still leaning against the wall until his heartbeat had calmed enough to let him breathe evenly and give him control over his fingers again. A thief with trembling fingers was a thief waiting to get caught and thrown in a prison. The though alone of sitting in a dark cell with rats and no food, was enough to make his skin crawl.

Taking one more deep breath, he straightened out his doublet and put on a smile that spoke of confidence he didn’t feel, before making his way out of the stables and into the adjoining tavern.

The Silver Heron was full of patrons, just as Lark had suspected, but instead of raucous laughter and shouts for more ale, a strange tension hung in the air. Not that Lark could blame them. If the man with the silver sword had just been in here, he wouldn’t have been having a good time either. But be that as it may, Lark needed those folks in here to be less tense and on guard. No one who was already suspicious of people around them, made an easy target for sticky fingers.

Lark let his eyes roam across the room; over the large windows letting in the midday sun, the decorative heron figures standing over a mantelpiece and the paintings adorning the walls. This was no shady tavern, no seedy place for never-do-wells and slackers to come. People who visited this sort of establishment for lunch, had coin enough to spare some for Lark, surely. If only they stopped shooting glares at the door and murmuring amongst themselves.

Well, good thing Lark knew exactly how to get people to ease up a little. He ran a hand over his doublet and through his hair and strode to the middle of the room, where he’d be able to see most of the people sitting at the tables.

For a moment, he just stood there silently, wearing a mask of calm confidence. The table with three burly men in fine clothing that didn’t quite fit the style of their unkempt beards, was the last to go quiet. Confused but curious, the patrons stared at Lark, waiting to find out what he was standing in the middle of the room for.

Lark preened under the attention, though a small part of him still wanted to flee from crowds. He threw a dazzling smile at the people and began to sing.

It was a song he had heard a bard sing a couple of weeks ago, when Lark had used the distraction created by the lutist to let his hands wander into other people’s pockets. And yet, even as he had made sure Desanka and him wouldn’t have to worry about coin for a couple of days, he had been mesmerized by the bard himself, so much so, that after only a couple of minutes, he had given up on his work and had sat down to listen to the musician, leaning forward with wide eyes and his lips moving with the lyrics of the song.

He had come back to Desanka that day, with less coin than he had promised, but with a new song to sing to her. She had clapped along and danced a little with him, but at the end of the day, laughter and music wouldn’t feed them.

Not until now. Lark new he was no bard. His doublet, though colourful was not as rich in embroidery and frills as an actual bard’s would be. He had no instrument to create sweet harmonies to his voice and his songs, like all of his belongings, were stolen from people better than him.

And yet, as his voice soared up or fell into a near-whisper, he saw a blond woman lean closer, a man with important looking papers spread out in front of him, ignore his work in order to listen to him and even the barkeep, who had been scowling at everything that moved, uncrossed his arms and tabbed the rhythm of Lark’s song onto the counter.

Lark took that as a cue to start moving. It was risky to try and steal from people while he was the one they paid attention to, but the attention made Lark dizzy and bolder than he probably should be.

Every note he sang chased away a bit of the fear that had flared up at him in the stables.

He moved with a graze he hadn’t known he possessed, as if this was something he had done a hundred times before. Lark winked at the blonde woman, bringing her bejewelled hand to his lips and slipping one of her rings off her finger unnoticed, while she was sighing and looking deeply into his eyes.

A spark of pride and excitement shot through him, when he slipped the ring into his pockets, unseen by anyone, though all eyes were on him.

He draped his arm around a young man’s shoulders, who blushed furiously, as Lark leaned closer, as if singing only to him, though the entire tavern was watching. His other hand dipped lower, sneaking into the man’s pockets and swiping a couple of coins.

With a roguish smirk that made the man’s blush deepen even more, Lark pulled away again, striding over to his next involuntary benefactor.

Strangely enough, though, before he could slip his hand into the tall moustached man’s pocket, the man did it himself, producing a noble and tossing it to Lark, who caught the coin, his eyes wide in surprise. The man inclined his head to him and continued swaying a little to the rhythm of Lark’s tune.

To Lark’s surprise and joy, the single coin he earned legally didn’t stay alone. Soon enough, other members of his audience tossed coins to him, giving him approving smiles or lifting their tankards to him in a toast.

Lark could have gotten drunk on the praise and a small part of him was filled with righteous smugness. He would bet anything he owned, that those people who were now so easily charmed by a young adult with a bright smile were the same ones who wouldn’t have wasted a single copper on the starving child he had been. It felt unbelievably good to rid them of their coin, whether they gave it to him willingly or not. Perhaps he even enjoyed it more when they paid him, if only so he could laugh silently about the knowledge that he had tricked them into liking someone they would have scoffed at, if he weren’t wearing a doublet and wasn’t prancing around, as if he belonged in their midst.

He finished his performance with a high note that got drowned out in applause and swept his arms to the sides as he bowed deeply. After he collected all of the coins littering the floor, he turned towards the bar, where the barkeep was already waiting for him with an ale.

“On the house,” he said gruffly, but with a warm smile beneath his bushy beard that lark returned brightly, as he snatched up the pint and took a swig, hiding his grimace behind the tankard. It wasn’t often that he got to drink ale and he still wasn’t used to the taste. One time, he had bought a bottle of the stuff for Desanka, just to see if she shared his sentiment about the drink. Her disgusted face when she had taken a too large swig had made Lark burst out into laughter, which then in turn had made her dump some of the ale onto his head, making both of them laugh even more. If she were here, she would look so smug when Lark hard to force down the gulp to not offend the barkeep.

“Thank you,” Lark said, when the bitter taste had disappeared somewhat from his tongue. “If you were so kind, I’d like to buy two hearty meals for the road, if that’s possible.”

He pushed three nobles across the counter and the barkeep took them and turned around to grab some bowls with lids, so that Lark would be able to carry them back to the camp in the nearby woods where Desanka was waiting for him. He couldn’t wait to tell her about his performance.

That is, he still had to wait a little longer, because there was no way, he would be able to finish his ale anytime soon. Small sips was all he could get down, so he’d probably be stuck here for a little while longer.

When the barkeep handed him the bows and a cheap bag to carry them in, Lark balanced them in one hand and grabbed the pint with the other to search for a table to sit down at. His mouth twisted in displeasure, when he realised that the only free table was right next to the one with the three men who had been staring daggers at the door earlier and who were now back to heatedly talking amongst each other, the anger and disdain pouring off of them almost palpable.

Lark didn’t intend to listen in, but as he sipped his ale and counted his coin, it was inevitable that he heard what they were discussing so animatedly.

“- greedy bastard asked for more money than his own life is worth,” the man with the longest beard hissed. “You heard how he refused to kill the beast for less than 150 nobles?”

One of the other men, the tallest of them with short cropped dark hair and a deep furrow between his brows, grunted in response and took a swig of his tankard.

“As if he really needed that coin! That silver sword of his would already fetch a nice price. Not to mention the medallion.” He gave his friends a smile that sent an unpleasant shiver down Lark’s spine and made him avert his eyes quickly. “I know a guy or two who would pay good coin to get their hands on one of those medallions.”

“Collectors?”

“Of course.” The unsettling grin got even wider. “I already sold a cat and a bear medallion to them. Got lucky and found the first witcher dead already. The second one wasn’t too hard to take out after he was already hurt from a fight.”

A different man, blond and a bit leaner than the one who had just spoken, ran a hand through his beard and threw a glance around the tavern, making sure no one was listening in. Lark tightened his grip around his pint to stop his fingers from twitching nervously, and did his best to look interested in the paintings of herons on the opposite wall.

“What are you suggesting, Leslaw?”

Leslaw leaned in closer to his companions.

“I think you know what I’m suggesting. Let’s get rid of the bastard. No one will cry over a witcher. Fuck, the alderman might even thank us that he won’t have to pay him after all.” He lowered his raspy voice until Lark had to strain his ears to understand him. “I say we wait for him to come back from the hunt and slit his throat while he’s tired from the fight.” Lark watched as Leslaw’s hand went to his belt and patted the dagger that was fastened to it. “The three of us should be able to handle him easily. We split the coin we get for the medallion and the sword and whatever else he has with him. Bet that horse of his isn’t cheap eitcher.”

The blonde man cocked his head in contemplation. “How about we wait a little longer? Let him collect his coin first. You’ve seen him. The way he behaves, I wouldn’t be surprised if he manages to piss of the town and get chased out.”

The words made Lark flinch, his ale sloshing onto the table, but he paid no mind to the mess. In an instant, his mind was roaring with phantom crowds, chasing him away, throwing rocks, hurling insults and waving pitchforks at him.

His throat grew tight and his hand pressed against his stomach, trying to get rid of a pain that wasn’t truly there. His breath came out in pants and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to fight off the images of an angry mob that made his heart race.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to focus back on the conversation of the strangers.

“- that’ll tire him out even more and we’ll make more profit if he has the 150 nobles he was promised.”

Lark’s stomach churned and he had to push the ale away, lest the smell made him even more nauseous. Knowing now, that these men were bandits, it wasn’t hard to recognise that the clothes they were wearing had likely not been bought by their own coin – or hadn’t been bought at all, but taken from travellers.

And now they planned on killing a man who was ridding the town of a nearby monster.

Lark’s hand clenched on the table and he could feel his entire body start to tremble from how tense he was. This wasn’t right. Yes, he had been terrified for his life earlier, when the man with the silver sword had been near, but this? Robbing and assassinating him? The thought alone made Lark want to throw up. He had to hold onto the table to keep himself from doing something stupid like going over to the man and demanding what gave them the right to hate the stranger and plan on doing such terrible things to him.

Doing so would only end in his death, or in him being beaten black and blue in the best case.

He knew he should just leave it be. Hell, he was a thief himself! What made him so much different from there men? Just minutes before had he stolen from people in this very room. He kept joking around with Desanka about how nice it was of them that they were helping people carry their bags, permanently. Right now, he had the bottles he had stolen from the stranger with the sword in his pockets.

And yet, the words of the men from the other table didn’t sit right with him. A surge of protectiveness that he couldn’t explain flared up in him. Lark glared at the tankard he had gripped tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.

The scraping of chairs across the floor made him wince and he whipped his head around, just in time to see the bandits get up and shove each other’s shoulders jokingly as they left the tavern.

Standing up as well was a split-second decision for Lark. Without knowing what he was doing, he followed them outside and into an alley leading away from the tavern.

“Hey!” He called out after them, cursing himself for his stupidity, when they turned around with expectant and annoyed expressions. “Uh…” Lark swallowed dryly, his eyes darting from one bandit to the other.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t do this. He had enough coin. He had a friend waiting for him. He had no way of talking these men, who were not only greater in number, but also clearly taller and stronger than Lark, out of attacking the man with the silver sword.

And yet, his insides burned with the knowledge that he had no choice. “I heard you talking in there.”

“Oh?” The blond man’s lips quirked up and he raked his eyes over Lark, assessing him with a mocking smirk. “We don’t need a fourth man. And if we did, we wouldn’t ask a short arse like you. Go back to singing your songs.”

Leslaw snorted and fixed Lark with an unsettling grin. “I don’t know, Sven. He could be bait. I heard rumours that a witcher is looking for a blue-eyed boy.” At the laughter of his companions, Leslaw’s grin grew wider. “You hear that, boy? One of the witchers is going to come and eat you.”

A shudder ran down Lark’s back and his fists clenched involuntarily, but he straightened his spine and stared Leslaw unflinchingly in the eyes.

“I don’t want to join you. I want to stop you.”

For a moment, the three bandits just stared at Lark dumbfounded. Then they exchanged looks and burst into laughter, which cut off, as Leslaw stepped uncomfortably close to Lark. Lark stumbled backwards but caught himself.

“Oh that’s adorable,” the bandit drawled. “And how exactly did you plan on doing that?”

Lark didn’t know what possessed him. If anyone had asked him, he would have said that it was the alcohol in his bloodstream making him rash, though he hadn’t drunk nearly enough to get tipsy.

And yet, there was no denying that what he did next, was the stupidest thing he could have possibly done.

He spat at Leslaw’s face and while the bandit squeezed his eyes shut to not get any spit in there and raised his arms to wipe the spit away, Lark threw a punch.

His fist never connected with its mark. The blond man, Sven, caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it painfully.

Lark let out a gasp, his knees folding beneath him to lessen the fire razing through his twisted wrist.

Sven let go of his arm, but before Lark had time to right himself, a kick hit him in the stomach. All air was pushed out of him. His hands scraped on the hard ground when he tried to catch his fall.

“Little bastard!” Leslaw spat and kicked him again. “The fuck do you think you’re doing? You want to end up like the witcher will?”

He grabbed Lark by the front of his doublet and yanked him up. Immediately, Lark’s hands came up to braze himself against the man.

“You’re friends with the mutant?” Leslaw’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’d want to protect his life? Well, listen to me, arsehole. Your own life is worth barely more than that mutants.”

Lark flinched at the words and his heart hammered rapidly in his chest. But not only because of Leslaw’s words and the burning pain in Lark’s side and palms. Oh no. His heart was racing, because Leslaw in his rage, gave no sign of noticing that Lark’s hands had wandered down and snatched the dagger strapped to his belt. With a flick of his wrist, Lark let the weapon disappear into the sleeve of his doublet, praying neither one of the other bandits had noticed the movement.

“You can count yourself lucky that we won’t kill you like him.” Leslaw shoved him off. Lark’s bag fell to the ground, the food he had packed spilling onto the street. “You’re not worth it, little rat.”

Lark’s eyes darted over to Sven and the third bandit. Sven’s hand twitched towards a pocket in his coat.

When Leslaw shoved Lark again, Lark made sure to direct his stumble straight into Sven, using the flash of surprise to dip his hand into the pocket.

He could barely contain his triumphant grin, when he found a small knife in it. The small moment of pride and triumph quickly got replaced by agonizing fire flaring up in his nose as a fist connected with it.

Lark didn’t know how long the bandits continued shoving him from one to the other, while hurling insults and threats at him. He didn’t know how many punches and kicks he endured, until he no longer had the fight in him to lighten the bandits’ load by taking their weapons off of them.

At the end, he was just a boy, cowering on the ground with his hands clutched over his head to shield his face from any more attacks. Blood ran out of his nose and the split on his lip.

He barely registered the bandits crouching down beside him to grab his bag. A whimper left Lark’s lips as they took his coin away from him and left him, each one giving him a last kick as a warning when they abandoned him there.

For what felt like an hour, Lark just lay there in that dark alley, trembling and flinching every time he moved and got hit by another wave of pain. Already, dark bruises were blooming on his skin.

And yet, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall of a house, cursing himself with every motion.

How could he have been so stupid? He didn’t attack people. Never! Not even when his own survival was on the line. So why on earth had he thrown that punch? Especially, when he had known that that wasn’t a fight he’s ever be able to win? Confronting those men at all had been foolish, but fighting them? He might have just as well signed his own death sentence. He was so damn lucky that they didn’t care enough about him to actually kill him.

And yet, he couldn’t find it in him to regret it. It didn’t make sense! Risking his life for a complete stranger, one that would probably not hesitate to cut him down, was madness!

He shook his head, but the feeling that he had done the right thing – that he should do it again, if he needed to – didn’t leave him.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing his thoughts to calm. He needed to breathe. He needed to get out of here before the bandits realised that Lark had stolen from them and came back to teach him another lesson.

With pain racing through his veins, he gritted his teeth and pushed off the wall, coming to stand on wobbly legs. The small weapons he had stolen clattered to the ground and in a fit of helpless rage, he kicked them away, until all he had left was Leslaw’s dagger. He stared at it and took up back, running his fingers over the sheath. The weight of the dagger felt unfamiliar in his hand. Too heavy, when compared to the prop dagger Lark owned. This weapon had been used to hurt before.

But it would hurt no more. The man whom this blade had been intended for would not die by it.

Lark’s expression turned to one of grim satisfaction. Someone as ruthless and determined to inflict pain as the bandits were, probably didn’t need knifes to win a fight – Lark was living proof of that – and it wasn’t unlikely they had more weapons stashed somewhere else. But for now, Lark let the feeling of triumph sweep over him. Though he might not have thwarted their plans, he had definitely inconvenienced them. Maybe it would be enough to give the stranger with the silver sword the edge during a fight. Whether he lived or died, Lark had done all he could to help him. He had no reason to keep thinking about him.

Lark just wanted to go home. He just he wasn’t alone and in so much pain. The feeling of maybe having saved the stranger’s life, didn’t help against the way his body ached.

Yet, as he made his way back to the woods outside the city, his pain miraculously lessening with each step he took, he found that he couldn’t stop thinking about the stranger and wishing against his better judgement that he would get to see him safe and alive. But what a foolish wish that was. Lark had other things to worry about.

Like the strange prickling in the back of his neck that wouldn’t leave him on his way back. And, as he should have realised as he walked deeper into the woods, he should have worried about the beast the bandits had mentioned was hunting in these woods.

[booksandseventeen]

School Project with Tsuki

☾ ☽Tsuki X Reader! ☾ ☽

The teacher stood with her hands on her hips, looking every student in the eye, “This next project is worth 50% of your grade.”

The classroom groaned. 

“You will be partnered up and during these last 6 weeks of school, you must go to 6 places neither of you have ever been before. Search the wonders of Miyagi and write a paragraph for each place you visit.” The teacher claps her hands together, “Consider this a great experience you can enjoy outside of school, as long as the places you visit was informational, I dont care where you go.” 

Tsuki sighed, his fingers twitching to put on his headphones and drone out the rest of this dreadful project. Partnered project were his least favorite part about school, but at least he could just tag along while Tadashi did the work, he could practically feel his friend vibrating with excitement behind him.

“Oh and before I forget, your partner will be the person that sits to the left of you~!” 

Tsuki blinked before glancing to the left. 

Empty. Of course his partner wasn’t even at school today. He raked his brain to try and think who sat to the left of him but he kept drawing a blank.

“Tsukishima, your partner isn’t here today but I trust that you can bring her the needed materials and tell her about the project, hm?” The teacher walked to his desk and set down a binder filled with information.

He pushed his glasses up, “Tch, what a burden.”

☾ ☽

“tell your partner I said hi!” Tadashi waved goodbye as they went their own ways, Tadashi to go home and Tsuki to visit your house, a torn out piece of paper with your address written on it. The paper fluttered in the wind and he sighed before continuing on.

The gate creaked when he opened it, weeds sprouted from the ground and a gnome broken in half welcomed him as he stepped on the overgrown stepping stones that led to your home. 

He knocked on the door and took a wary step back, unsure of who would answer the door. 

“COME IN!” The scream made him jump and he looked behind him almost as if the yell was meant for someone else.

He narrowed his eyes, felt his fingers tighten on the binder. All he wanted to do was drop off the stupid papers and hope his partner was fine with doing the project by themselves. 

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and stepped inside. The lights blinded him, a tv was playing on a random channel, a radio station played some sort of upbeat tune and he heard the thumping of feet above his head.

“up here!” the voice came from above. 

He took one more glance around before taking the steps two at a time, the hallway was just as lit as the living room, every door he passed had the lights on and he finally stopped behind the only closed door, music playing from a speaker somewhere inside.

The door opened, “Mom, did you-” she stopped suddenly. 

Tsuki stared down at the girl in front of him, she wore an oversized sweatshirt and joggers. Her hair was piled up on top of her hair. She leaned against the door frame, “You’re not mom.”

“Do I look like your mom?” he deadpanned

“Well, you got the condescending look down.” she smirked, “You’re in my class, what are you doing here?” she crossed her arms and looked him up and down. 

“Here.” He pushed the binder into her hands, “We’re partners for a project in school. It’s all in there, due in 6 weeks.” He turned to leave. 

He got as far as halfway down the stairs when the shock wore off and she thundered down after him.

“wait wait wait! You come to my house, tell me that we are partners for a project, and you expect me to do it all my myself?” She slides down the banister until she stops in front of him, making him come up short. 

“what else needs to be explained, shorty?” he looked down his nose at her. 

“You’re gonna pull your weight with this project, jolley green giant.” 

his frown deepened. “I don’t do partner projects.” 

She smiled up at him, “let me get my jacket.”

“what for?” he called after her.

“Because we might as well start now! You can borrow my sisters bike!”

☾ ☽ Week 1

It was on the tip of the tongue. Questions upon questions, but he bit his tongue, he refused to talk first. Instead the words just tumbled over and over again in his head. 

She biked beside him, a green jacket thrown over her hoodie and her bag thrown across her body. The full moon was the only light they had and the summer wind threw back her hair and he glanced at her to find that her eyes were closed. She was the most peaceful when her eyes were closed. 

He couldn’t take it anymore, the silence.

“Where are we going? You know we have school tomorrow.” his voice seemed unnaturally loud.

she looked over at him, the moon causing her eyes to seem brighter than usual “you’ll see.” 

Finally, they came to an overlook and parked their bike under a sakura tree. 

The ground crunched beneath their feet as they came to a railing. Tsuki stopped short and she reached up to close his mouth with her fingertip. 

It was a 360º view of Sanriku, the rhododendrons flowers blanketed the side of the mountain for as far as the eye could see, the sweet smell of flowers overwhelmed him.

she leaned with her elbows on the railing. “You know whats cool? These flowers are actually a blushing pink color. But at night, under the moon, they almost look violet.” she looked up at him. 

“some things look different in the dark.”

☾ ☽ Week 2

He woke up to the sound of his phone ringing, without thinking he blindly searched for it and answered, before he even brought it to his ear he could hear the notes of music.

“hey! you’re awake, skyscraper?”

“What the hell do you want, hobbit?” he grumbled and blinked blearily at his alarm clock, “it’s almost 2 am.” 

“Well I have another idea for our next location! But we gotta do it now, we can get in for free under the cover of night.” 

he could just imagine her. Walking up and down her room, lights on and music playing, twirling her hair around her finger, probably looking for a hoodie.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes! I’ll come pick you up after I find a hoodie.....”

☾ ☽

“Are you kidding?” he deadpanned.

“What? it’s perfect! Now help me push this thing.” she bent down and grabbed the end of the kayak, moving it only a couple of inches before she gave him a pointed look.

Sighing, he bent down and helped her move the kayak until it was even with the dock and she could jump in. 

“Come on! This is a two person thing.” 

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

the moon reflected her profile into the still water, a fish flicked the surface and her face rippled. He took a step into the kayak.

She smiled at him and tossed him a paddle.

They glided through the water, him paddling on the right and she on the left. He sat behind her, his legs splayed on either side of her so he could fit. 

Again, the silence bothered him.

“Do you ever sleep?” he asked suddenly.

If he wasn’t paying so much attention to her he would have noticed her back stiffen. 

“why do you think I dont?” 

He shrugged but realized she probably couldn’t see that. “Oh I don’t know, maybe because you always seem to be up in the middle of the night, I’ve never seen your house without any lights on.”

She stops paddling but he keeps going. He can’t see her face, and for once, he wishes she would turn around.

“I...just don’t like to sleep.”

“who doesn’t like to sleep?”

she picks up the paddle again, disrupting the surface one stroke at a time. “someone who has too many dreams.” 

☾ ☽ Week 3

It was a Saturday night and he hadn’t heard from her all week. He turned off his computer and looked at his phone. This was peak time that she should be calling him, but what if she didn’t call? Then they would be a week behind the project. He paced his room, his phone clenched in his hand. He clicked on the buttons angrily.

No answer. He tossed his phone on the bed and laid down. Ten minutes later he was pacing again. He cursed and grabbed his phone and jacket. Silently making his way out of his house.

☾ ☽

*tap, tap tap*

She awoke with a start, her lights momentarily blinding her before he realized where she was at. She leaned out of her window and stared down at Tsuki, his arm cocked back to throw another rock.

“what are you doing?” she half whispered half yelled.

“Tch, idiot, I don’t want to be behind on the project so grab your hoodie and come on.” he walked away, leaving her to stare at him open mouthed. 

“where are we going?” she asked him as they grabbed their bikes and walked down the road. 

“you didn’t answer your phone.” he said, ignoring her question. 

“I had it on mute, hoping to catch a few Z’s.”

Immediately he felt bad, he had woken her up. But then he remembered that she had also woken him up before as well. “i’m sorry.” he heard himself say anyway.

She shook her head, her hair piled on top of her head, “don’t be. I’m thankful you woke me up, I was just starting to dream.” 

the rest of the ride was in silence until he finally brought them to their next location.

“a park.” she said with a smile, getting off her bike the rest of the way.

Before them lay a green field, a playground that was surrounded by strange, different styles of twisting metals and granite rocks chiseled to reveal a figure.

“A statue park.” he corrected, “artists all over Miyagi enter their statues and art in hopes of getting picks to have it displayed here.” 

Together they walked through the swaying grass, the silver of moon casting the statues faces into grimaces and sneers. She shook her head in wonder as they walked among the stones and metal.

“I like this one!” she said, pointing at a woman with a ring of drums around her that acted like a skirt. Tsuki watched as she played an offbeat tune on the statue. He laughed.

“look over there!” she suddenly pointed and grabbed his hand, running towards an exhibit. He looked down at their joined fingers, his large palm easily overwhelming her small one. He tightened his fingers. 

A large, plush cushion lay suspended in the air by a steel tractor type, a gossamer fabric hung over the top. The two of them climbed into it. “I think i’m supposed to unlatch something.” he heard her say, but he was too busy looking at the fabric laid over top. 

faint, dark lines were carefully drawn through the fabric, making it so that he could see the constellations in the sky. There was a loud click and he was suddenly thrown on his back as the large cushion suddenly swung in the air.

“WOOHOO!” he looked over to see her wobbling on her legs, the air rushing to meet her face.

“this is so cool!” she gasped, and slowly made her way over to him as the cushion swayed like a pendulum. She laid down beside him, her head on the his shoulder and his arm immediately went around her. 

“Im afraid to fall asleep.” she whispered after they had been laying down together for while, he had honestly thought she had fallen asleep.

“go ahead.” he grunted, he felt her shake his head.

“I can’t...I might dream.”

“what do you dream about?”

“...someone.”

he tightened his hold on her. “It’s just a dream, if it looks like your dreaming, i’ll wake you up.” he promised. his lips brushed against her hair, not hard enough for her to feel it, but close enough for him to close his eyes and inhale her scent.

And that’s how the workers of the park found them the next day, curled into one another, the cushion still swinging, the morning light not bothering either of them.

☾ ☽ 1 day later

He stood in front of her house, the flowers he had picked up on the way there dropped from his hand. 

A red, ugly foreclosure sign was the only thing he could see. 

She was gone. 

☾ ☽

Part 2

[tony-is-my-daddy]

Date me please

So recently I reblogged this post and I know it’s like two years old but it inspired me so here’s a little something I wrote while sleep deprived at 3am. Forgive me if it sucks.

~~

Peter was completely zoned out, barely even paying attention to the lecture because he found his teacher much more interesting than what was coming out of his mouth. He watched as the man walked around, explaining something to the class and while Peter enjoyed the deep tone of his smooth voice, he couldn't comprehend what he was saying.

He's had a crush on his Physics teacher ever since he first set his eyes on him so... since freshman year. Well, maybe this wasn't even a crush anymore because his feelings towards the older man have only got stronger and now here he was, as a senior, still having a hard time speaking whenever Mr. Stark asked something from him.

But could you blame him? The man was the dictionary definition of perfection. Handsome face, a pair of deep brown eyes and he could even pull off a goatee that, let's admit it, doesn't look too good on other men. His dark hair was starting to go grey and while that would disgust a lot of people, in Peter's eyes it only made him even hotter. And not to talk about his seemingly perfect body, not too muscly but definitely not what men his age usually looked like. Peter adored the way those shirts stretched around his shoulders and chest and how his pants fit perfectly around the parts he wanted to see the most.

All in all, Mr. Stark looked like a god and Peter was in love with him.

He was snapped out of his trance by the harsh sound of the bell ringing and with a sigh, he started packing his books into his backpack.

"Alright kids, don't forget the test next week. Have a nice day," his teacher said, leaning agaist his desk as he watched the students get up and walk out of the classroom.

"Wanna go to the next class?" Ned asked as he got up as well. Peter looked up, still sitting in his chair as he tried to pack as slowly as he could.

"Um, go ahead, I'll catch up."

"Alright, just don't be late."

"Never."

Ned was one of the last students to walk out of the room, leaving Mr. Stark alone with Peter. When Peter finished packing, he stood up and turned to Tony with a shy smile on his face.

"Pete! Hey kiddo, how are you?"

"Oh um... I'm good. How are you, sir?"

"Just as usual for old people like me," the man laughed. "I saw you kind of... zoned out during the lesson. Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Oh yeah, just a bit tired," he lied.

"You know, I've noticed that you do this pretty often but I never dared to ask about it because no matter if you pay attention or not, your grades are always up, so I didn't think it was necessary." Tony pushed himself away from his desk and took two steps forward towards Peter, who did the same. Now they were much closer and Peter had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from saying anything inappropriate. "But now I really have to ask, is something bothering you? You know you can tell me anything."

"I-I know, Mr. Stark, but I don't think I should be sharing this with you of all people," Peter said nervously. "Maybe my therapist but not you," he added quietly.

"Woah, is there something wrong at home? Should I call someone or-"

"No! Mr. Stark, I should really go to class now but I promise everything is okay. Please don't stress yourself because of me, it's not worth it, it's silly anyway."

Peter walked towards the door with quick steps, his head hanging low while he murmured curses under his breath. He was stupid, so so stupid. Why did he have to say that, it wasn't even necessary and now Tony thought there was actually something wrong with him. He was stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Wait," Mr. Stark said just as Peter's hand reached for the doorknob. He turned around and looked at the older man. "Your 18th birthday is coming up, right?"

"Y-yes, in two weeks, but how do you-"

"Do you have any plans? I mean, that’s pretty big, you’re basically an adult now. Maybe a party or something?"

“No, I don’t have many friends or a lot of money for these kind of things. I guess MJ and Ned will come over in the morning and we’ll spend the day together. But why are you asking, sir?”

“Well... I know people your age probably don’t want to spend time with people my age, but uh... would you mind if I invited you for a dinner? Just to celebrate, you know.”

His breath hitched and he knew his eyes lit up even though he tried his best to keep on the straightest face possible while his heart was beating out of his chest.

"Y-you want me to have dinner with you?" he asked, trying to suppress a happy smile.

"Yeah. I mean, I know I'm not supposed to have a favorite student but... come on," he joked and Peter laughed. He was Tony’s favorite... "So would you like to? Have dinner, I mean."

"Um yeah, yes, I mean. It's so nice of you, sir, you really shouldn't-"

"I gotta pay back for all those apples you brought to every class of mine when you were a little freshman." Tony smiled at him fondly while Peter was literally on the verge of crying. He remembered that?

"That was because you're an amazing teacher and you really deserved it."

"Well my doctor was definitely happy about it, finally I wasn't only eating things that were fried in a gallon of oil."

The bell rang again, interrupting their conversation and then Peter realized he was late from his third period. "Oh god, I should go to my next class. Thank you again, Mr. Stark, sir, you're so nice for inviting me and you really shouldn't have- I already said that, sorry. So um... have a great rest of your day and uh bye," he sputtered.

"Have a nice day Pete. And don't forget to breathe!" his teacher called after him but he was already out of the classroom, running up the stairs with a huge grin on his face as he played the conversation in his head over and over again.

Tony Stark, the man he's liked for nearly three years just invited him for a dinner.

~~

When his birthday did come around, Ned and MJ came over like they promised and they stayed for a bit longer than expected since they didn’t know Peter had other plans as well.

When they finally left, Tony texted him (yes, his teacher has had his number for years, so what) to get ready for the dinner. He almost freaked out because he had to get ready in such a short span of time and he literally had to look perfect because duh, it's Tony Stark. He didn't quite achieve the look he wanted to, but he didn't look awful so that was acceptable considering how quickly he had to do everything.

When Tony got to his place, he just buzzed in and Peter was running down the stairs after saying bye to May.

The man looked... breathtaking. As always, of course, but now he was formally dressed up in a light blue button up shirt and a navy suit jacket that he left unbuttoned.

"Wow, Mr. Stark I really wasn't expecting you to look... this formal. I should've dressed up more."

"Oh come on kid, you look great. Besides I only told you where we're going half an hour ago so it's good you even had time to get this well dressed." Tony opened the door to the passenger seat of his car and Peter got in after a quiet "thank you".

When Tony got in the car and started driving, the tension between them got even stronger. They were in a moving vehicle together, neither of them could get out nor could they get interrupted by anyone walking in. It was awkward, so awkward because for a while, they didn't say anything, just sat in silence while staring at the road in front of them. Peter's mind was racing, though. He hasn't really thought about what this dinner meant, he just knew it wasn't normal for a teacher to ask a student out for dinner. That was usually a date thing, but they weren't on a date now, were they? They couldn't be because that would've meant Tony liked him back and that would never happen, not even in Peter's wildest dreams.

After a while, Peter decided to break the silence and ask the question that was eating him up on the inside.

"Mr. Stark, what is this? What are we doing right now?"

There was an awkward silence and the boy could see Tony's knuckles gripping the steering wheel go white. "Well, we're going eating. It's your birthday, we have to celebrate properly."

"Do you celebrate each one of your students' birthdays like this?"

"No, of course not."

"Then why am I an exception?"

Tony let out a heavy sigh and cleared his throat to win more time for himself, basically driving the boy mad.

"Look Peter, I only wanted to start this at dinner where I didn't have to pull over in the New York traffic for you to run away from me but... if you really wanna talk about it now then we're going to talk about it now." He kept silent for a while, probably only to push Peter's buttons even more. His head turned away from the road only for a second to find Peter's honeysuckle eyes, then turned back, but that second seemed like minutes to Peter. "I might have misunderstood your signs and if I have, tell me now before it gets awkward but... the way you act around me makes me think you like me."

Peter groaned and buried his hot, red face in his palms. How did he notice, how long has he known, all his questions were left unanswered as Tony kept going.

"You know, you always stare at me during class, I just act like I don't notice your eyes on me because I have to teach thirty other students there."

Peter was so embarassed, he wished the ground underneath him would open up and swallow him whole or the seatbelt around him would choke him to death, anything just to not hear what else Tony had to say.

"Look, Peter, if I'm wrong tell me right now. If you don't like me then please save me from more awkard moments and just say it."

"Y-you're right. I l-like you... a lot," he stuttered quietly.

"Wait, really?" Tony asked again, sounding shocked. But not like a bad shocked, more like a happy shocked. And when Peter finally uncovered his face to look at the man sat next to him, he saw that he was indeed smiling cheerfully. "Oh god, that's so good because, you know, I kind of like you too. Have done for a while."

Peter pinched his forearm hard just to see if he wasn't dreaming. He didn't dare to believe what the older man was saying, it simply seemed too good to be true.

"Say something," Tony asked when he didn't say anything for a while.

"You're... you're not joking, are you?"

"You think I would joke around with losing my job, Peter?"

"No, I'm sorry, I just... this all seems so unbelievable because I've liked you for so long and why would you like someone like me? It makes no sense."

Tony laughed. "You're really not aware of how kind and smart and sweet you are, Pete? You don't see how beautiful you look? How perfect you are?"

"I'm in no way perfect, Mr. Stark."

"I think I get to decide whether or not you’re perfect. And I think you are. Oh, by the way, kid, we're going on our first date right now, I think you can call me Tony," the older man smiled.

Peter felt himself blush a light pink again, his heart almost bursting out of his chest with happiness. "Okay. Tony."

[writingsbychlo]

heart under construction (05)

word count; 5373

summary; sam gets to take you out on that date, and he almost messes it up, but you manage to find yrou way back to one another again.

notes; I wanna give sarah a huge thanks because she made this gif!! she made it!! i love it, so give her some love too. @dylinski​ is an angel.

warnings; semi-public sex, unprotected sex, heavy drinking.

Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, Sam pouted as he continued to sit outside of the bar he’d watched you disappear into a good fifteen minutes ago, his brow furrowed. He could totally just storm in there right now, break it up, drag you out, but he really wasn’t sure how you’d react to that.

He had every chance to make a move, he’d spent the day on a date with you, and he hadn't even had the balls to fucking kiss you at the end of it. He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning as he thought back on the moment, his cowardice and the shitty excuse for a few final words he’d given, and he slumped angrily into his seat.

He couldn't see into the bar, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. By now, you were probably curled up in a cosy little booth in the back as you sipped cocktails and let another man kiss you because he’d been too much of a fucking wimp to do it when he had the chance.

The radio hummed lowly, a song he was familiar with from playing earlier in the day beginning to creep out into the car, and he reached over, punching his finger roughly into the button on the dash to turn it off.

“I love this song!” You were practically beaming, bouncing in your seat as the two of you sped down the highway towards Ikea, and Sam reached over, cranking the volume on the music up as you turned to him, giving him a sweet smile before beginning to belt out the lyrics, carefree and happy as you sat in the car beside him.

He couldn’t help himself, but soon he was joining in, the pair of you singing at the top of your lungs to every song that came on the radio as you drove along, the pure joy buzzing around in the air around you both within the car, and the car journey flew by, Sam throwing the car into park as you both stared up at the dark blue building in excitement.

Snatching the keys from the ignition, Sam was out of the car before you had even unclipped your safety belt, and he was holding the door open for you with a cheesy wink, your laugh making it all worth it as you took his outstretched hand, allowing him to help you from the vehicle. Your arm had linked through his as you made your way to the store, the side of your body pressed up to his, and he turned his head, nudging his nose against your temple with affection.

“So, how about some lunch first, yeah?”

“Yes! I love the Ikea café!” He grinned, placing a kiss to your cheek before ushering you into the busy building, watching as you dashed ahead while following the smell of food.

You had shared a tray, letting him carry the food while you balanced the drinks in your arms, the two of you sprawling out along the comfortable leather seats as you ate. Conversation had flowed easily, from one topic to another, never slowing or becoming dull, and Sam realised he could quite literally listen to you talk about anything and not get bored.

You had forced him into people watching, the two of you giggling at people as you watched them pass by, trying to carry ridiculously large boxes of flatpack furniture, or mother's arguing with children about things they weren’t buying that the kids were absolutely insistent that they did need. You made up stories for the weird purchases you saw people buying, and you had started a competition for who could find the worst item combination someone was buying.

He had won, upon spotting someone buying a truly hideous lampshade and a clashing lamp base that he was sure had never been, and would never be, in style.

Once you had finished eating, you had grabbed one of the paper pads from the wall, the box of little pencils sitting beside it, and he had laughed at you as you grabbed a handful. You had one in your hand, one in his, before you had tucked a pencil behind your ear and one behind his, too, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you told him how much you liked to collect the mini-pencils, and he half considered just stealing the entire box for you.

His chest was practically aching from how much he had laughed, and he was sure he hadn't stopped smiling since the moment he’d picked you up, finally knowing which little house belonged to you as he leaned against his car, watching you bounce out of your house in a cute little sundress and dash down the driveway to hug him tightly. He could still feel your arms wrapped around him, the smell of your freshly applied perfume when he’d buried his face in your neck, and the fit of you in his arms when he’d hugged you back with just as much enthusiasm, swaying you from side to side.

You had trekked through the entire store, trying and testing everything from kitchen furniture to sofas. You had a list, front and back, covered in all the product codes of things that would look perfect in the house, and match the beautiful theme that had been crafted. You had lay next to Sam for a while on what you had called your ‘dream bed’, a king-size bed with drawers underneath, reading lamps fastened into the headboard and a plush mattress that he felt he might actually just sink into.

Lying on the display bed that was out, you lay next to him, staring up at the roof as your hair fanned out around you on the bed and he just watched you, admiring how much he enjoyed simply laying with you. He could picture lazy mornings with you just like this, or late nights after work when the both of you were tired. Laying in bed and cuddled up, before you spent the night curled up in his arms to sleep.

He liked this bed, a lot. He did not hesitate to write down the coding for the product so he could find it when he came back one day to pick up furniture.

Reaching out, he took your hand in his, weaving your fingers together, and you paused your aimless rambling, your head falling to the side to look at him, close enough that your breath washed over his lips as he smiled softly, and you only returned the look, squeezing his hand tightly in yours as he stared at you.

When you had been ushered on by another family wanting to look at this bed, your hand had remained locked in his, holding you close to him as you completed your journey. He had been sure to sneakily tuck three of the four small pencils you had stolen into your purse before you’d reached the door, so the member of staff asking for them back couldn’t take them. With a smile, he hadn't over the final pencil, your face burying in his shoulder to quiet your giggles as the two of you walked away across the car park, and his arm dropped to your waist to hold you close.

You had folded the little list neatly, tucking it into the front pocket of his jeans for him as you rambled on about how much you loved the coffee table he had chosen, and how perfect you thought it would look with a blue striped rug underneath it, in the centre of the living room. He wasn’t listening, instead, he grabbed you by both of your hips, pushing you up against the edge of his car as you reached it. His body was almost flush against yours as he looked down at you, your words dying in your throat as you looked up at him.

He was nervous, his heart beating against his chest, but you soon wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers toying with the slightly too-long hairs a the base of his neck as he dipped his head down, his eyes closing as he heard you let out a little gasp at his close proximity. His nose was bumping against yours, his lips so close to you that they brushed when he tilted his head, his tongue catching against your lips when he licked his own, and he felt frozen in this moment of intimacy, your heart pounding just as fast as his, he could feel it, his hands sliding from our hips to your lower back.

Your phone was buzzing absentmindedly in your purse, and he growled slightly under his breath, pulling back and clearing his throat as his nerves got the better of him, tension flooding his body as he stiffened and stepped back. “This was.. really fun. Super fun. We should hang out more often.”

Your jaw dropped at him, and he hated himself instantly.

‘We should hang out more often.’

What the fuck was that about?

You only nodded, your gaze dropping from his with dismay as you reached for the handle to the car, opening the door for yourself and climbing inside, and he watched as you clipped yourself in silently, pulling your phone from your bag to check your notifications. He stared out across the other cars, running a hand over his face and cursing at himself before rounding the car, getting into the driver’s seat and glancing at you as you replied to whatever messages you had received, your fingers flying over the keyboard and he scrambled to try and find a way to fix this, because once again he had ruined the atmosphere around you both.

“You, er, you wanna’ come back to the house? Jake is there.”

You looked up at him, the polite smile that made his gut twist uncomfortably was aimed at him as you shook your head, tucking your hair behind your ear and waving your phone at him a little. “Can’t. One of the dads from the princess prom was hoping I would get drinks, he has some questions about his kid, he has autism and he wanted to know a little more about the teaching methods, so I said yes.”

Sam felt like his skin was crawling, and he twisted the keys to start up the car, his eyes facing forward as he nodded stiffly, jaw clenched. “Right. Of course. I’ll drop you off, I suppose. Where is it?”

You gave him the address, and he tried not to snap the steering wheel. He knew that pub, he’d met some of his tinder hookups there for drinks. It was nice, it had a homey feel, and low lights and private booths. It was a date pub, you didn’t go there unless you were hoping to get some kind of action, and from your innocent smile he assumed you didn’t know that, but he was willing to bet this guy did.

The drive there was tense, and he missed the easy-going bliss that had been the drive you had shared last time. Now, the radio played quietly as he drove in silence, your body facing away from him as you looked out of the window.

If he had just had the guys to kiss you when you were right there, in the moment with him and only him, you wouldn't be going out with another guy right now, and he fucking hated it.

You had got out of the car, checking yourself in his mirrors before smoothing out your dress, and he gave you a tight smile, all while feeling like someone had pushed a hand straight into his chest and torn his heart right out of it.

“You look beautiful. You always do.”

Then, he had watched you leave, flouncing up and into the bar without looking back, mumbling a cheery ‘thanks for a great day, see you later, Sam!’ and you were gone. This hadn't been how he wanted the day to end, and the second you were gone, he threw the car into park, staring at where you had gone, hoping you might come back out, saying you changed your mind, that you wanted to be with him instead and that whoever was waiting inside of you could get lost. But you didn’t, and Sam sniffed, wiping angrily at his eyes and punching at his steering wheel in his rage as he sat in his seat, defeated.

This was exactly why Sam Taylor didn’t do relationships.

As the clock ticked over into twenty minutes, he decided to let his rage cover his drowning grief over the situation as he forced the car back into action, pulling away from the curbside and onto the road, scowling at himself and his life as he headed for his destination. It was another fifteen minutes before he was slamming his car door shut, not even bothering to lock it from the half-assed job he’d done of parking on the driveway before he was storming into the house with the heavy box tucked under his arm, glass bottles jingling with his hurried steps.

Slamming the front door shut behind himself, he heard Jake curse, choosing to ignore it as he stormed up the stairs, straight past his brother who had excitedly come to ask him how it went, and made his way to the top floor. Dropping the box on the balcony floor, he used his keys to tear it open, shoving them deep into his pocket before taking one of the beers from inside, uncapping it quickly and dropping to the floor with a huff. Raising the bottle to his lips, he chugged a good half of the contents of the bottle before he even bothered to kick off his shoes, or take off his jacket.

Once he was finished with the first bottle, he placed it neatly before him, dragging a hand over his face and finally turning to face his brother, who was texting avidly with a concerned look on his face. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Jake pressed, standing up from where he was leaning in the doorway and Sam bit down on his bottom lip, before reaching into his crate of beers and pulling out two more bottles, offering one to his brother.

“No.”

Jake accepted it, the two of them sitting in silence for a while, and Sam adjusted himself to stare out at the horizon. Pastel shades decorate the horizon, the sun burning brightly as the last of the shimmering air floating began to settle down, and neither man spoke until long after the sun had sunk below the horizon. Jake was still nursing the same bottle of beer, concernedly watching his brother, who was now on his fifth, and gripping the almost empty bottle in a grip so tight his knuckles were white.

When a cool breeze indicative of the night closing in swept over them both, Sam sighed loudly, swilling the rest of the beer in the bottle around before downing it, turning to face him with tears lining his eyes. “She’s on a date. With another guy. Because I’m a fucking coward.”

“That’s not fair, you’re not a coward!”

Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes and tilting his head back to look at the final fading shades of colour on the horizon as deep blue and black took over, sparkling stars in the clear sky shining out brightly. “I didn’t kiss her. She was right there, it was so clearly a date, and she was letting me kiss her, and I didn’t. I said ‘we should hang out more often’.”

“You’re a fucking moron.”

“I know that, Jake.” He growled his words out, eyes narrowing in a glare as he looked at his brother and Jake shrugged, finishing his beer and adding it to the collection before them. The distant sound of a car door slamming caught both of their attention, the much louder sound of the front door slamming made both of them sit upright, until the hushed giggling of a very familiar void caught their attention.

Turning to look back at the stairs, they glanced through the open glass door to see you hauling yourself up the stairs, a dopey and elated smile on your face as you tripped and stumbled, finally reaching the top and finding the confused faces of both the males looking at you.

“I had a thought!” You announced loudly, making your way toward the open balcony and standing in the doorway, staring at the horizon. “If you swapped the first letters of your names, you would be ‘Sake’ and ‘Jam’. You could use both names in a sentence. Like, for fuck’s sake, where’s the jam?”

You cracked up giggling at yourself, your body swaying slightly and Sam simply stared at you, Jake hopping to his feet as his hands landed on your shoulders. “How much did you drink?”

“A fair amount.” You beamed, tapping at Jake’s nose with the tip of your finger, before your eyes dropped down, widening and filling with joy as though you’d only just remembered that Sam was there. “Sam! Hi! I missed the sunset, but I want to watch the stars. Can we watch the stars?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” His words were slurred and he watched as you dropped yourself down onto the floor beside him, shuffling yourself along the wall to get comfortable and he used his foot to nudge the half-empty box towards you. “Beer?”

“Love one, thanks.”

“Right, well, I’m leaving. Good luck with your hangovers!” Jake sighed, shaking his head fondly at the both of you as he grabbed his jacket, making his way down the stairs and leaving the both of you in silence. Sam waited until he heard the engine of Jake’s truck spark up, pulling out of the driveway and setting off before he finally swallowed down his pride and turned to you.

“You seem happy. Did your date go well?” He could hear the venom in his own voice as he spat out his own words, but he was too drunk to care, and it would seem that you were decidedly drunk too, because you turned to him, practically beaming as you shook your head.

“It was absolutely atrocious.” You shook your head, sipping at the bitter beverage you held before leaning forward, stacking all the empty bottles up into a pyramid, rather content with your creation before you glanced at him over your shoulder. “I don’t think you want to hear about that though, do you?”

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut before plastering a smile on his face and looking at you. “I’m trying to be a supportive friend. You can talk to me, tell me all about your date.”

“Okay, well, he sat way too close to me and was wearing far too much cologne, and he stared at my tits, like, the entire night, and then he tried to kiss me when I was getting in a taxi.”

Sam winced, taking large gulps of his drink. “You’re right, I didn’t want to hear that.”

“Why are you drinking?” You questioned carefully, and he sighed, taking another sip before biting down on his bottom lip.

“Because I didn’t kiss you when I had the chance.” He picked at the label on the bottle, coming away with the slight condensation on the cold glass. “Why did you drink?”

“Because you didn’t kiss me when you had the chance.” Your reply was not what Sam had expected, and he looked at you carefully, watching as you chewed on your lower lip. Reaching over, he took your bottle from your hands, placing it on the cold stone with his own, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, using his thumb to pull your lip from its prison as he ran the pad delicately over it.

“Did you kiss him?”

“No.”

“Good.” With that, he gave up on his hesitations and fears, leaning forward to press his lips to yours in a delicate kiss, a surprised gasp leaving you as his nose bumped against yours. He could sense your surprise, your body stiffening under his hold, before you relaxed, fingers lacing into his hair and holding him tightly to you as you returned the affections and he thought his heart might actually burst from his chest this time. “I’ve been wanting to do that pretty much since I met you.”

His words were mumbled against your lips, and you giggled, nodding in agreement as your foreheads pressed together. “Please do that again.”

“With pleasure.” This time, he was more confident, his lips slanting over yours with force, his hands sliding down from your face to your hips, your fingers tightening in his hair. He was soon nibbling at your lower lip, your lips parting for him as his tongue slipped into your mouth, playing with your own.

It was messy, and sloppy, and a combination of whimpers and moans as the two of you pawed at one another. Your fingers slid down, nails dragging through his scruffy beard and eliciting a growl from him before landing on his chest, curling the material of his shirt up into fists and your hands scrunched up.

The kiss was dominating, and rough, the two of you panting into one another's mouths as your skin burned deliciously from his assault on your mouth and the stubble on his cheeks. The hands on your hips tightened as you shifted, and without pulling away from your mouth, he navigated you, lifting you carefully from your position and all but dragging you into his lap, large palms on your thighs guiding you until you had a leg on either side of his.

Your foot caught on one of the bottles, the glass clinking and fizzing sounding in the air as liquid spilt from the bottle, running in streams towards the edge of the platform and dripping away to the ground so far below. The two of you snapped apart, chests heaving as you giggled at the spilt bottle. “I’m sorry I knocked over your beer.”

“If I ever care about spilt beer more than having you in my lap, I want you to shoot me.” He muttered, trailing kisses along your neck, and your chest shook with silent laughs, soon replaced with moans as he began to leave wet trails along your skin, sucking and nipping at your flesh as he left little red marks dotted along your flesh.

“You say that like I’ll be in your lap often.”

“I sure hope you will. My lap is exactly where you belong. Or by my side. Or under me. As long as you’re with me, I really don’t care.” He groaned as your hand slipped back into his hair, tugging harshly until he left your collarbones, your lips landing back on his and he hummed happily, parting his lips the second he felt you trying to lick your way into his mouth.

His fingers dug into your thighs, so tightly they’d leave marks and his hips bucked up involuntarily into yours, moans falling from both of you at the action and you returned the gesture by rolling his hips down into his. A strangled sound left him, and he could feel your grin against his lips as he sloppily worked his mouth with yours.

You did it again, harder, and he let out a low growl, his hands sliding to your hips to try and still you, and you only pressed down harder into him in return. His cock twitched, hardening rapidly as the sounds you made for him reached his ears, the feeling of you in his lap driving him wild. “Sweetheart, if you don’t stop then I’m going to lose all self-control, and I don’t think you want that.”

His voice was low, scratchy and raw as he tried to suck in desperate breaths between stealing kisses as your nails raked down his chest and over his stomach. “You know what I want? I want to know what it’s like to be fucked on a balcony.”

“Oh, shit..” Sam whimpered, his eyes sliding shut as he tipped his head up to catch your lips in a passionate kiss, swollen lips stinging pleasurably, your fingers playing with his belt buckle as you undid it, his hips lifting up and grinding into your covered core under your skirt as he helped you tug the belt free to be discarded. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured, or forced, or like we’re moving too fast an-”

“Sam, stop being scared. Why are you so worried about being so intimate with me?” Your eyes searched his, and he swallowed thickly.

“Because you’re not like the girls I’m normally with, and I don’t want you to feel like you are.”

“Hell of a line there, Taylor.” You smirked, pecking his lips before trailing kisses along his jaw, your fingers swiftly undoing the button on his jeans as you knelt over him, kissing at his neck and yanking the zipper down far enough to slip your hand into his jeans.

“Not a line, just the truth. You’re special to me.” He panted, his hips rolling up as he thrust into your hand, your fingers tracing his hard cock through his underwear as you squeezed at him, palming and rubbing his member until he couldn’t take it anymore. Taking his hand in your own, you lifted the edge of your dress, taking his fingertips and dragging them along your drenched panties, a deep sound rumbling in his chest as he took control, swirling his fingers around your swollen clit through the material. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re drenched.”

“That’s what you do to me.” You let out a cry as he pushed down on your clit roughly, a sly smirk covering his features, and he used his thumb to drag the sodden material to the side, swiping two fingers through your slick folds to part them, nudging against your clit as you moaned his name loudly for him. Easing a single finger into him, your hand shook from where you were teasing him through his boxers, your nails dragging against him through the material the second he slipped the second digit into you, joint noises of pleasure leaving you both.

He pumped his fingers faster, scissoring them and revelling in the wet sounds he could make with your juices as he fucked his fingers into you quickly. Your hips were rolling down into his hand, your mouth pressed to his in a series of frantic kisses as you whispered each other's names into your connected mouths, your hand tightening around him as he brushed against your g-spot. “Please, sweetheart, this is fucking torture.”

“You’re needy.” You teased, and he scoffed, but the sound came out more like a whine as you finally pulled back your hand.

“I’m only needy for you. Now please, just let me fuck you, honey.”

“Okay.” You looped your fingers into his belt loops, tugging the material of his jeans down until they were low enough to release his cock, a hiss leaving him as the cold air swept over him. Throbbing and red, precum oozed from the slit on his head and you let out a whimper at the sight, a strained chuckle leaving him. Inching forward, you leaned down, your fingers wrapping around him gently to line him up with your dripping core before you were sinking yourself down onto him.

Cries of joy left both of you, your foreheads pressed together and Sam could feel your breath panting over his cheek as your jaw hung slack, until your hips were seated snugly together. “You’re so tight, holy fuck.” He felt like the words were wheezed out of him, and he knew you could feel every throw and pulse of his cock between your walls because he could feel every flutter and squeeze you gave him. “M’ so not gonna’ last long.”

“Me either.” You whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before steadying your hands on his shoulder, his fingers flexing on his hips and he choked back a moan as you adjusted yourself rising up on your hips before slamming back down onto him, your eyes rolling back as his lips parted, a sigh leaving him as he thrust up a little to meet you the second time.

Adjusting yourself, you reached one hand out to grip onto the cold metal of the railing beside you, and your other was digging marks into his shoulder, even through the layers of material covering him. Tugging at the hem of your dress, he pushed it up until he had it bunched around your waist, watching the place where your panties were pushed to the side, his cock sliding into and out of your slick hole, covered in your juices and glistening in the night light.

He licked at the pad of his thumb, dropping it to rub rapid circles onto your clit as you squeaked, hips bucking against his with more force and speed as your body became weak, your walls clenching around him so tightly he could barely thrust up into you. You were shaking above him, crying out his name.

“K-Keep doing that.” You licked over your lips, and he grinned, picking up the speed as you locked your hips down into him, both of you spiralling towards your edges as you moved together in lazy but frantic movements, your bodies slamming together as each thrusted connection rocked you both, your nerves on fire. He could feel it in the pit of his belly, just watching you become unravelled above him, his name spilling from your lips in near screams as you pleased yourself on his cock, and he knew he was close.

“Gonna’ cum for me, honey? C’mon, I can feel how close you are. Let me fill you up, just cum for me, sweetheart.”

You nodded, a scream of his name tearing from your lips as bliss took over your body, your hands shakily finding his jaw. You moaned into his mouth, your tongues tangling together as you came, and he gripped onto you just as tightly, his cock twitching before he was breaking, falling over the edge with you and spattering your walls with streams of hot cum, a cry of your name carrying him over the edge.

You continued to move slowly through your highs, before you finally slumped against his chest, your skin shining with a thin layer of sweat, like his, despite the cool night breeze that was brushing over your both as you pressed together. Your arms were looped around his neck, his around your waist as he nuzzled into your neck, holding you close. “That was fucking incredible.” He mumbled, and you laughed tiredly, pulling back to kiss him softly, your fingers carding through his hair soothingly.

“Yeah, it really was.”

Silence overtook the two of you for a few minutes, nothing but the panting you made as you tried to slow your racing hearts and calm your breathing sounded out, until he groaned lowly, your fingers catching on a piece of hair and tugging a little. His cock, still buried within you, twitched in urgency as his half-hard dick seemed to be springing into action once again, and Sam could feel heat crawling up his cheeks as you giggled at him.

“Already?”

“Can’t help it, I’ve wanted this for a long time.” He mumbled, pouting his lips and growling as you purposefully swivelled your hips, clenching around him as you leaned in to kiss him, your teasing laugh at your actions making it more of a messy exchange of lips and tongues than a passionate kiss.

“How about we see what it’s like when you do me up against the wall inside, then?” You winked down at him, wiggling your eyebrows as his hands slid around under your ass, scooping you up in his arms as he stumbled to his feet, cock still nestled deep within you as you clung to him and laughed.

“Fuck, yes.”

[lovecomedy]

Fanfic recommendations nobody asked for

Those are my favorite wincest fic ever, just because. They are all complete. I’ll add the summaries together with my own two cents.

Consider the Hairpin Turn by cherie_morte. 27K Words

AU of 6x22: Sam's wall has shattered and the memories in his mind have splintered. When the Sam who remembers Hell tells him to go find Jess and be happy, Sam knows he can't stay while Dean needs him. But when the Sam from Hell says that Dean is already there looking for him, Sam leaves his memories of the pit behind to find him.

What he finds is a life he doesn't remember: a house that he shares with his brother (and has for years), a law career he thought he'd left behind at Stanford, and a relationship with Dean he never dreamed he could have. Life is almost too good to be true, at least until Sam begins to hear his brother's voice calling to him, begging him to wake up.

This is my favorite fic of all times. It’s beautifuly written. The way that it narrates Sam’s trauma of Hell is what keeps me coming back for more . Honestly it should be published as a book. Don’t worry, it has very happy scenes and there’s a happy ending

Welcome to the Neighborhood by ImogenPortchester. 2K Words

Dean thinks the new neighbors are interesting, but all is not what it seems.

Super short. Super heartbreaking.

Fics by leonidaslion

I mean first off, just read everything written by leonidaslion

Sing Your Hymns Like Angels In Defeat. 32K Words. 

And Lucifer Fell for a second time with the burning brilliance of a star. The Flare shone in his wake, and darkness fell upon the land ...

Dean goes blind, and I love how it describes Dean’s stuggles with it. You feel like you’re blind with him. Really, really, REALLY well written. Should probably also be a book

Fumbling in the Dark: Love Advice For the Romantically Impaired. 72K

True Love really is blind...

It’s basically a character study of every single episode of the first 5 seasons, with a wincest twist. Slow burn. Holy shit, is it a slow burn. 

Just Say My Name. 3K Words

Dean turns into a complete and utter nympho. It takes Sam a while to notice the difference.

Funny, lighthearted and porny

Hush. 2K Words

Motel walls are thin...

Discovery!kink. Sam and Dean try to have quiet sex while John is in the other room. At least, Dean is trying

Sam Winchester and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. 15K Words

Sometimes, you just shouldn't get out of bed in the morning ...

Fics by fleshflutter

Dark Side of the Moon. 20K Words

Cursed!Dean is deaf and blind. Sam deals.

The incestuous courtship of the antichrist's bride. 48K Words

Sam is trying to become the Antichrist in order to save the world. He has a small army of angels and demons, he has an adoring cult, he has a work of prophecy by Jack Kerouac, and he has Dean. Things are going pretty well until he accidentally signs Dean up as his Beloved Consort, a role that requires sex with the Antichrist on an altar. And that's when things stop going pretty well. Also, the soundtrack to the Apocalypse sucks.

I don’t like crack fics, but goddamn this one is FUNNY. You can tell a lot of thought was put into this freaking masterpiece

Captured by the Game by rivkat. 54K Words

AU. Azazel has given his favorite son a task: worm his way into the confidence of a hunter. It sounds simple, but Dean Winchester just might be more than Sam can handle.

It wasn’t real by NaughtyPastryChef. 1K Words

Sam is trying to explain to Dean where he was when Dean was stuck in purgatory. It starts with "I hit a dog" and then, suddenly, inexplicably, they both know exactly where Sam was.

Wonderful explanation for that arc in season 8 nobody can stand. Plus, time travel, which I’m always a sucker for

Backseat of My Brother's 67 Chevy by NaughtyPastryChef. 1K Words

Extended scene from "Baby". Dean's feeling proud of Sam's hookup until he hears that Sam tried to give that waitress his number. Uncharacteristically, he lets Sam force him to talk about it. 

Bury My Old Soul, and Dance on its Grave by  dreamlittleyo. 2K Words

Dean knows how far he can push Sam.

Antichrist!Sam and Consort!Dean. Codependent winchesters. Yeah

Graveside Blues by hunenka. 3K Words

He uses his body like a blanket, like a shield.

I like how protective Sam is of Dean here, and it deals with something I don’t see a lot such as the jealousy he would have of Dean’s bond with Amara

own it by orphan_account. 6K Words

But he's never going to be able to burn the image of Sam cradling one hand around the perfect curve of Dean's face, dropping the other to the cut of Dean's hip (made for fingers and tongues to trail down, to taste), walking Dean backward until Dean is flush against the wall and Sam is flush against him. This is something that can't be denied.

John finds out. Explores the wonderful trope of both Sam and his father being possessive of Dean, and being very antagonistical to each other. Dysfunctional family yay. Also very porny

Fics by astolat

Punxsutawney. 9K Words

* astolat thinks any plot worth doing is worth doing TWICE

This is the Mistery Spot plot, but a little different. Sam AND Dean wake up to the same day over and over again. So they talk.

Kings and Queens and Jokers, Too. 4K Words

"Yeah, you boys nailed that trickster real good," Bobby said, dry as dust.

People are acting weird around the brothers. Can’t really say anything else without spoiling it. Listen just do yourself a favor and read it. 

options. 500 Words

Decisions, decisions. 

Short and funny. Little bit porny

Desired. 2K Words

He hadn't even known about any of this himself until Sam found it, figured it out for him. He hadn't known how it was going to be.

So, smut. They have a better time when Dean is the one who asks for it

Rockabye Sammy... by  AnotherWorld3111. 1K Words

Sam can’t sleep, so Dean tries to help.

Sam keeps hallucinating Lucifer. Dean is worried and protective of him. Porny

We Know Each Other As We Always Were by mickeym. 45K Words

In 1941, while the world is at war, Sam Winchester falls in love with his brother. They're young, they're in love, and in spite of the hardships of life around them, the world is a pretty good one for them. Until Dec. 7th, 1941, when Japan launches an air attack on Pearl Harbor, sending the US to war against Japan. Dean Winchester feels he needs to join the Army; needs to help fight the good fight and help save lives. He promises he'll return, but can he keep that promise?

GAH this is so romantic! It’s an AU, but I feel like they’re very in character. It feels like a novel

For The End of My Broken Heart by Wickedtruth. 59K Words

Dad's disappeared and Sam's left to pick up the pieces of his broken brother. Post Devil's Trap AU.

Very codependent Winchesters. Also John finds out. 

here at the end of all things by  remy (iamremy). 40K Words

AU from Season 12 onwards. The British Men of Letters win in the USA, and slowly manage to establish their bases and authority over the whole country. They also capture Sam Winchester and keep him prisoner for eleven months, experimenting on him regularly before wiping his memories so that he has no idea what has been done to him.

Even after Dean rescues him and they begin planning to get revenge once and for all, the niggling doubt at the back of Sam's head remains -- what did they do to him? Why won't his anxiety get better? And what is it that he's missing?

Ok you got me, this is gen. But the whole fic feels like a (good) Supernatural episode, it’s so realistic and canon-like. The relationship between the brothers is just like the one we see on the show, meaning desperately codependent and wincest in every subtext.

Fics by deadlybride / zmediaoutlet

What I like about @zmediaoutlet is that she takes the time to write everyone in character. It’s always as canonical as possible and it feels real

femme. 4K Words

Rummaging around the internet, Dean finds a kink he hadn't seen before; Sam explains, and demonstrates.

I love feminization, but unfourtunately there’s only one fic that does it right, and it’s this one

gratification. 2K Words

It's not a compulsion. Dean just likes it.

breña. 1K Words

Sam and Dean wait, knowing what's coming.

The night before Sam jumps in the box

not the good things, nor the bad. 20K

Dean wavers in a grey area between being taken and giving in.

Part of it started with the kinks series, but you can read this just fine without the other parts. It deals very beautifully with Dean’s thoughts regarding his bond with Amara and his sexuality

DeMille Has Nothing On Us by  HandsAcrossTheSea. 13K Words

"Hey Dean - wanna film it?"

This is part of the Those Hazy Days I Do Remember series, but you can 100% read it as a stand-alone, no problem. Sam and Dean film each other and this has that season 1 vibe, of just two brothers on the road. It’s slightly OOC, just because of how touchy-feely they are. But that’s something I sometimes wish we could have on the show, anyway

How many floors to realize by Lazy Daze. 26K Words

AU from the end of It’s A Terrible Life, in which Zachariah decides to keep stringing them along a little while longer, because damn if they aren’t somewhat entertaining, right?”

Rabid by i-am-therefore-i-fight 

Beautiful!! I love @i-am-therefore-i-fight‘s take on demon!dean. It’s different to what we’re used to. This fic is very angsty but has a happy ending

Bitten by a True Believer by kermiethefrog. 3K Words

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says. Flashes him a wicked grin, charcoal-eyes. The way he spreads out on Sam’s mattress, bare and offering himself up like Holy fucking Communion, drums heat under Sam’s skin, and he’s never sure if it’s arousal or anger when he’s faced with the demon. “Show me a good time, big guy.”

Another demon!dean fic. I like how even as he is a demon, he is still desperate for Sam’s attention

The Time Traveler's Brother by  AmyPond45. 54K Words

Dean's life is turned upside down the night his mother dies. But that's also the night a mysterious grown-up version of Dean's brother first appears in his life. While Dean grows up, "Old Sam" is often there, especially when Dean's father isn't. As Dean learns what the future holds, he begins to question everything his father has taught him about who he is and what he is supposed to become. Can Dean find a way to save his little brother from his own future?

This is based on The Time Traveler’s Wife, which is my favorite book. Don’t worry, you don’t have to have read it to understand this fic

need against need against need by dollylux. 5K Words

Jack spends his first night in the bunker with Sam and Dean. (Jack POV)

Don’t worry, Jack just watches and ponders about the Winchester’ realationship

the centre cannot hold by orphan_account. 6K Words

Sam does not remember; Dean does. All Dean can do is watch, and mourn.

But then Castiel becomes God, and the world starts to break at the edges (and maybe that isn't a bad thing.)

It kinda becomes a character study, while the brothers deal with what happened during the Soulless!Sam period

The Last Temptation by bccalling. 1K Words

When Sam tells Mary about all the things he and Dean get up to in the dark, Mary wants in, and Sam sees his opportunity to make Dean’s every fantasy come true.

Mary shows up. Porny and very sweet

Angels and Demons by  OhWilloTheWisp. 9K Words

AU angels and demons are animals. Sam was not happy when his owner, Ruby, left him boarded at a kennel. He was even less happy when he discovered an angel in the same facility. But his encounter with the angel will end much differently than anyone would have guessed. He may have never expected his mate to be angel, but now that's found him he won't let anyone keep them apart.

Sam and Dean are kinda like animals here but there’s nothing sexual. It’s very sweet and romantic. Anna/Ruby in here as well

[daughterofposeidon25]

DaughterOfPoseidon Favorites

My hero academia-Kiribaku

🔴 = NSFW

Please read at your own risk. Carefully read tags and enjoy!

A Name That You'll Remember by Heronfem

Kirishima Eijirou is a Hero. Bakugou Katsuki... is not. Trapped in his toxic workplace and increasingly desperate to get out, Red Riot's days are only brightened by a new villain known as Caution, who's not exactly villainous and keeps accidentally doing good deeds. But when a real villain appears, a threat from the past that demands that Red Riot make the ultimate sacrifice to keep the public safe, Bakugou is forced into saving the day... and eventually, Red Riot himself.

Part 1 of Won't Go Quietly

Freshly Ground Coffee by arxaris

Bakugou had been going to BeansPot Coffe for a long time. A hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in the middle of the city, the place was a wonderfully well-kept secret – at least in Bakugou’s opinion. And that’s exactly how he liked it. Coffee with a side of quiet, blissful anonymity had become his favorite way to start his work day. Which was why he was instantly on guard when he walked in one morning to see a new face standing behind the counter. Well, actually, first he saw his hair.

Stop-sign red and styled up into spikes, it looked ridiculous against the cream-colored walls of the shop. Between that and the way-too-wide smile that stretched across his face, he was almost hard to look at directly.

Too goddamn bright for this early in the morning.

Or, pro-hero Ground Zero had a morning routine that he liked perfectly fine, thank you very much. That is, until a bright-eyed new barista showed up to throw a wrench in it, one caramel latte at a time.

sparks by helwolves 🔴

“I’m just really happy,” Eijirou says. He sighs shakily and then all but collapses onto Katsuki, burying his face against the vulnerable spot at the base of his throat. “Ah, you smell so good,” he says, trailing off into a soft growl. “They say that means you’ll be really compatible with your rider, you know... Is it the same for men?”

Alternately: "they can't show us Bakugou riding a dragon that might be Kirishima and NOT expect me to want him to fuck it."

Part 1 of sparks, etc.

Blood of my Hand by PurplePersnickety

Eijirou is a half dragon, stuck in a cage, unable to shift from his human form. Then a bad-tempered barbarian arrives on the scene, Eijirou makes a blood pact he'll probably regret, and he learns that finding a missing friend of his might just tie into the fate of the world.

Katsuki is a mountain clan outcast, and if he ever wants to return then he must meet the demands of the Queen and bring back the head of a dragon. Then Katsuki meets the most irritating lizard, makes a blood pact he'll probably regret, and learns that- wait? The world? Oh fuck.

quote love unquote by newamsterdam

Sero nods. “It’s the chance of a lifetime, really,” he says. “We want you to date Bakugou, for the sake of his reputation with the press. Some public appearances, a few ‘candid’ photos. For at least a couple of months.”

“Bakugou sent you to ask me to date him?” Kirishima asks, baffled.

“Of course not. We, his people, are asking you to date him. He’s going to have to get on board, if he wants his career to survive. And in the bargain, Riot will get all sorts of publicity, because their lyricist will be dating one of the industry’s hottest stars. A win for everyone.”

When Kirishima Eijirou's band hits the big time, he's not prepared for his newfound fame. He's even less prepared to meet the actor he's been crushing on for years, or to start dating him as a publicity stunt. The closer Kirishima gets to Bakugou Katsuki, the more he realizes he's in over his head. But it's hard to stop, once his heart is in it.

A Dragon's Hoard by chezka

There was a lizard in Kirishima’s room.

A scaley, clawed, fanged lizard. A fifty centimeters long, red, winged lizard.

A dragon, there was a dragon in the middle of the floor of Kirishima’s room.

Bakugou blinked slowly, a hand curled around the door’s handle and one foot still out in the hallways. He looked at the dragon, the dragon looked back at him.

“What the fuck,” Bakugou whispered.

take your broken wings and fly by bwyn

Rifts—man, he hates these things. They look misty, but are dry; they look hot, but feel cold as a winter chill. They’re the exact opposite of what his eyes assume. It’s like some sort of sensory illusion. To top it all off, if he thinks about them too long, the space behind his eyes starts to throb. Not worth it.

The hawk takes off without prompting the closer Eijirou gets. Goosebumps prickle across his skin at the waft of cool air.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” grunts Eijirou as his skin goes hard around his hands.

Part 1 of Tales from the Rift

The Beauty of a Beast by starofjems

Once upon a time a lonely beast lived in a manor deep in the forest. He dreamed of the day his true love appeared to break his curse... When a beauty finally appears in his life, it is not quite as he imagined. For who could have thought a beauty would be more of a beast.

Or

The beauty and the beast AU nobody asked for but here it is.

Broomsticks by ComiclzWrites 🔴

Local witch Bakugo Katsuki doesn't have many friends and he'd like to keep it that way but the shop that he gets all his ingredients from has a new delivery boy that might just work his way into Bakugo's fiery little heart.

AKA: Bakugo Katuski is a witch, Kirishima Eijirou is his delivery boy, and this is the story of how they fell in love.

Broken Bridges by DeathBelle 🔴

After years of working abroad, Kirishima moves back to Japan to open his own agency, and things seem to be going well. There’s plenty of work, he gains popularity quickly, and it’s a relief to be back in his home country. Everything is perfect, until he runs into Bakugou on the scene of a villain attack.

Bakugou had been his best friend at U.A., but the two of them haven’t spoken for years. That had been Bakugou’s decision, not Kirishima’s, and he's still a little hurt by it. Regardless, it’s easy to put that aside in favor of rekindling his friendship with Bakugou. They fall back into a routine and it’s as if nothing has changed; including Kirishima’s old feelings for his best friend. When a new pair of villains starts picking off heroes one by one, Kirishima feels that he and Bakugou are the best heroes to take the case. All the extra time they spend together hunting villains is great, except Kirishima feels like his heart is being ripped out every time Bakugou looks at him.

Kneel by deviance 🔴

“Bakugou?”

Bakugou shuffled on his feet, hovering over Kirishima and looking at the ground with stormy eyes. He glanced up to glare at Kirishima, a silent dare to call him out on his odd behavior no doubt. Kirishima forced himself not to tense. Whatever Bakugou wanted, he was about to show him and Kirishima had to get this right. Bakugou was all about showing and not telling.

Kirishima nearly bit his tongue to keep in a squawk of surprise when Bakugou suddenly dropped to his knees next to him, shuffling forward until he could press his forehead to his thigh and hide his face against Kirishima's leg. Kirishima opened his mouth, questions on the tip of his tongue, and he barely managed to catch them before they could be given voice. Bakugou was trembling minutely, his entire frame so tense his muscles were twitching under Kirishima's gaze.

“Just. Don't say anything,” Bakugou muttered, hands clenching in his lap tightly. “Please,” he whispered, a short choked sound.

The Lost Continent by cattchi, paglykos 🔴

Kirishima Eijirou is from a noble family of pirate exterminators. Bakugou Katsuki is rising as one of the most fearsome pirates on the seas.

When a trade goes awry, Kirishima finds himself cast among Bakugou's crew, having to learn the ropes and the sea as they chase after All Might's infamous hidden treasure.

Of Ghosts and other Inaccurate Things by chezka

A week before the sports festival found Bakugou walking back home in the late afternoon, sunset light making his scowl even more menacing and drawing a long shadow right in front of him.

Someone was walking by his side.

There was no second shadow on the floor beside his own to confirm this, but if he kept his focus on the street ahead and carefully avoided trying to look to his left, he could consistently make out black hair swishing in the wind and strong arms leading to hands sunk in pants’ pockets. The edges were blurry, but there was definitely someone at his side.

Tell Me I'm Yours by arxaris 🔴

Bakugou was going a little crazy. He could grudgingly admit that it was at least in part his own fault; moving in with his best friend maybe hadn’t been the best idea. At first, it sounded great. The rent would be cheaper, grocery shopping and cooking for two would be way more convenient, and it would be easier for the two of them to hang out. The only thing was, Bakugou forgot to consider how the joys of moving in with his aforementioned best friend might be dampened by the fact that he was madly in love with him.

Alternatively: Kirishima Eijirou is a goddamn tease and there's no way he doesn't know what he's doing.

Part 1 of tell me i'm yours

Fire in the Storm by Vagabond for Shippeh 🔴

Bakugo Katsuki is a stubborn bastard and does what you should never do: splits the party. He gets caught in a rainstorm and seeks shelter in a cave which yields an interesting discovery in the form of a shape-changing stranger.

Or: Kirishima is a dragon, and Bakugo seeks shelter in his lair.

i'm going to the forest to kick my own ass by WannabeMarySue

“What the fuck,” he mutters, quietly but with feeling.

He stomps over and picks it up. Emotional Intelligence for Dummies glares up at him in garish yellow font.

“What the fuck,” he repeats, louder and with more feeling.

(or, todoroki tries to play a prank, but jokes on him, because bakugou is fueled by complex emotions like Anger and Winning).

Kitsune Bakugo and Oni Kiri (Inu x Boku SS AU) by ComiclzWrites 🔴

The Maison de Ayakashi is a high security apartment building where humans with demon or yōkai ancestors reside, each guarded by their own Secret Service bodyguard. Bakugo stuck with the ancestor of the Kitsune has been moved into the apartment as his parents last ditch effort to fix his aggressive personality; his hired bodyguard Kirishima the ancestor of the Oni seems determined to turn his world upside-down.

Everglow by Maplefudge

Eijirou and Katsuki are known to be a formidable duo, one being a dragon shifter, the other a powerful human with explosive magic. They work together as if it's second nature, and the nations know their names. However, it hasn’t always been like that.

aka

The story of how Eijirou and Katsuki accidentally formed a life bond with each other and ended up as reluctant partners.

'Cause the Dark's Not Taking Prisoners Tonight by imatrisarahtops

“Are those soba noodles?” Kirishima asked.

Again Bakugou’s only reply was a grunt. He offered no further explanation—not that Kirishima honestly expected one—as though making soba noodles from scratch at half past four in the morning wasn’t at all a bizarre occurrence and made complete and total sense. For a fleeting moment, Kirishima even wondered if maybe he was the odd one here. Besides, he’d already decided it was generally not in his best interest to question these types of things with Bakugou, especially when it was something essentially harmless.

When Kirishima has a nightmare and is unable to fall back asleep, he accepts defeat and decides to study in the common area of the dorms. What he doesn't expect to find is Bakugou, also very much awake, and Kirishima can't help but think that maybe they're both having the same problems with sleeping. If he's worried, it's just because they're friends. (Right?)

Cranky-rishima by PurplePersnickety

"Oh, I just fell out of bed," Kirishima said, almost airily. He put one hand to the back of his neck. "But I'm good."

Katsuki squinted at him. "No you're not."

Kirishima's expression fell, and he looked down at the hand not on his neck. His fingers were trembling and he closed his hand up into a fist. "No, I'm not. Fuck it."

Part 1 of Nightmares Aren't Explodable

Engraved in your Mind by Hejter

Bakugou Katsuki lost his ability to recognize faces, so he didn’t know any of the people who stared at him, but he knew what dread looks like when he sees it, and as he looked around the crowd, every single person had exactly that written all over their face.

He looked down at the guy who was still on the ground, part of his uniform’s shirt burnt, his wounded face covered by his hands and his hair smoking slightly.

Katsuki glanced at his hands and finally realized something.

or

Kacchan is still a stubborn prick while suffering from face blindness. Also, quirk discrimination is a thing.

alternatively-

New quirk, who dis

The Weight of Your Hand by kamin

That night, to the citizens, the explosions were a jolt of fear at every blast, but to the heroes and the students of UA, they were punches and swings, fierce fighting and loud strength. The explosions were the pulse of the battle, and the power of a boy that would never back down.

One after another, explosions set a chorus through the shuddering city.

And then, suddenly—the explosions stopped.

(In which Bakugou’s kidnapping goes a little differently, and just a few seconds could change so much.)

Obsidian by PullingAllMighters

Bakugou Katsuki's a dangerous guy, even without his unnatural, fae-given magic. Used and scorned as evil everywhere he goes for having powers he didn't ask for, Bakugou wanders the world as a rogue nova, hunting beasts and criminals for survival. It's too bad that the real villains didn't take it well that he's not joining their side. But now they've framed it so he's a mass murderer, making all the other magicked humans like him look bad. Hunted and ever the loner, Bakugou meets Kirishima, a dragon who's also alone and outcast, who vows to protect him until they can either clear his name, or get far enough away that it doesn't matter.

Not that Bakugou needs him. Bakugou Katsuki doesn't need anyone, especially not some broken dragon who can't even fly.

You Got Me Bewitched, I Am Under Your Spell by 🔴 Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism

“Uh… hello?” Kirishima calls, his deep voice echoing in the room.

The witch doesn’t answer.

Not one to be discouraged by silence, even if that silence is scary as hell, Kirishima steels his nerves and steps over the threshold.

THAT the male notices. He immediately stops grinding, his head tilting to an almost forty five degree angle. It’s almost cat like. It’s absolutely eerie. He hmphs, before he calls out, “Leave.” He grabs a fistful of sour smelling leaves off the plant in front of him and drops them into his bowl.

What?! No way! Kirishima advances further, the doorway creaking under his feet. He won’t take that for an answer. “I need your help?” Frick. Why did that sound like a question when it should have been a statement?

The witch doesn’t look up again, but he swears the male rolls his eyes. “Leave. Now.”

The witch is gorgeous.

I'll Save You Myself by Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism

After Kirishima saves Bakugou from the League of Villains he can't let go of his hand. He's been holding it for hours, but his fingers are cement. Unbreakable.

Otherwise called: Fuck Eijirou, I'm The One Who Got Kidnapped, Why The Hell Are You Leaking All Over Me? And... Why Does My Heart Feel Like Its Going To Throw-up? By: Bakugou Katsuki

The Extra's Club by Sonamae

Toru is a bright ray of sunshine! At least she pretends to be. Right up until Bakugo Katsuki catches her crying in the kitchen.

Life's a Drag(on) by PurplePersnickety

"Sparky," Katsuki turned and laid a hand on Kaminari's shoulder. "I need you to know that the position of Best Man at our wedding is between you and a fucking dragon, so start psyching yourself up to fight for it."

"A what?" Kaminari repeated faintly.

Bakugou Katsuki currently experiences three major problems with his life:

1. He helped a dragon with a broken leg once and now it keeps showing up outside his house all the time. 2. He has a huge hopeless crush on the guy with the red hair and the freaky teeth who just moved into the village. 3. He has no idea what to do about either of the above.

Burden of Proof by kytrin, Mslead 🔴

All it took was one bad day. Eijiro Kirishima was slotted to be one of UA's finest detectives before he was framed for a crime he didn't commit. Now he was used to people keeping him at arms length even after he scraped the remains of his reputation back together as a private investigator. When an old serial killer returns from the past, he finds himself in the center of a case darker and more dangerous than he could have ever anticipated. Teaming up with an angry homicide detective with ties to the killer, together they are forced to rely on one another as they face old and new enemies alike rising from the shadows.

All That Glitters Is Gold by Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism 🔴

Kirishima has been enamoured with the boy next door since he met him deep in the woods by his house as a kid.

Other than the fact that Bakugou never leaves the forest, won't voice his name, is nimble like a cat, and sometimes disappears into thin air, he's a normal kid just like Kiri!

Oh... and he's goregous.

And he just keeps getting prettier as time goes on.

No Secrets to Success by kingdoms

“Hey!” Kirishima says brightly, stepping sideways to be directly in the guy’s path. “I know you!”

“Fuck off,” the guy snarls, pushing past him and barely slowing down.

Kirishima is forced to start his first semester at UA two months late. Somehow he still meets Bakugou Katsuki, makes the most of those two months, and gains a tutor, a best friend, and an exciting way to scandalize his new peers. Canon AU where Kirishima and Bakugou become friends before Kirishima meets the rest of Class 1-A.

Smoke, Spice, and Everything Nice by let_me_wander 🔴

Bakugou Katsuki is a half-incubus and knows how to play the game: to find the perfect target, enchant them, and finally feed off of them. As long as certain conditions are met, no one can refuse him. Until Kirishima Eijirou.

Looks like Bakugou will have to seduce him the old fashioned way. Unless, of course, Kirishima wins him over first.

Oh My Gods by Synnie 🔴

Kirishima is overjoyed when he learns his fields have been blessed by the Harvest God, Crimson. When Bakugo, God of War, helps himself to the Harvest God's offerings, Kirishima learns a blessing from a god is also an open invitation for other gods to wreak havoc in his otherwise quiet life.

But when the gods are betrayed by one of their own, Kirishima finds himself caught up in the intrigue. All he wanted was to go back to the life he knew. But will that be enough for him now that he's tasted so much more?

Fire and the Flood by Maplefudge 🔴

Kirishima's good at massages and Bakugou's bad at feelings (they both are).

You Feel Like God Inside That Gold by Sacramental_Wine 🔴

When Kirishima figured out he was gay, he’d been pretty sure that the obsession his fellow male classmates had with boobs would not be an issue in his life.

He could get distracted by nice muscles or a great smile or many other things. He was an easily distracted guy! But those things were easy to keep blinders on for, he could keep from getting too distracted.

He hadn’t exactly planned on Bakugou.

Built to Fall by bigstupidjellyfish 🔴

nothing like an aftermath of a bad break up years later 

let me love you by arxaris 🔴

Kirishima’s liked Bakugou for years and years and never thought he’d even have a chance. Bakugou could easily become a runway model if he ever decided that’s what he wanted, while Kirishima is... well, just Kirishima.

There’s no denying he’s strong, but not in the graceful and beautiful way that Bakugou is. He’s got rolls no matter what he does, more body hair than he could ever hope to manage, and thighs that seem to constantly stretch his jeans at the seams no matter how big he buys them.

Yet, somehow within the span of the last hour, Kirishima’s gone from calling Bakugou ‘bro’ in their shared kitchen to lying underneath him in bed with Bakugou’s lean thigh pressed confidently between his thick ones.

So, yeah, forgive Kirishima if he’s freaking out a bit.

beautiful creatures by gothgirlclub 🔴

Caught in the middle of a morning accident, provisionally licensed Bakugou and Kirishima help take down the villain, only to fall victim to it’s quirk after taking it down.

So it’s really not their fault when they decide to play around with their new body parts, figuring out that scratching beneath the ears really was nice and that knots were annoying if your boyfriend got especially sleepy after sex.

alpha x alpha by Nutella0Mutt 🔴

If they had one dollar every time someone said it wasn’t possible, and to give it up, they'd be fucking billionaires.

Nobody thinks they'll work. It's unnatural, illogical, and against biology. Bakugou and Kirishima have one motto: fuck the haters.

It Will Find You Here by arxaris 🔴

Katsuki’s life was falling apart. He had always known what he wanted. He had his life and career completely planned out. He’d accounted for every detail and every potential obstacle. Except for one. He was not prepared in the slightest to be six years into his carefully constructed life plan, extremely successful, and suddenly so goddamned miserable that he couldn’t make it through a day of work.

He was fine. He really just needed some fucking time, space, and air to breathe. So, he loaded up his backpack and left Japan, hoping that a bit of time off and travel might help him get over this bullshit and on with the plan. However, a few weeks into his trip he met a meddlesome redhead in the Thai islands who threatened to disrupt his universe in the worst ways imaginable: by making him fall in love, and by breaking the news that Katsuki couldn’t outrun himself.

Burger Kings by plantegg

Bakugou does something illegal. Kirishima finds out and makes him take him out to dinner to keep him quiet.

That's All You Ever Have to Say by arxaris 🔴

Maybe a sane person wouldn’t put up with it. They’d probably call the whole thing unhealthy, say that Bakugou should learn to express his feelings. People have suggested to Kirishima in the past that he put his foot down and demand they talk about things. They’ve gritted their teeth as they told him Bakugou was playing games with him, looked at him with pity as if they were cluing him into something everyone knew but him, something truly awful. But of course Kirishima knew. How could he not? Katsuki wasn’t just playing games with him. They were playing games together.

And Kirishima was positively addicted to them.

Rutting For You by FoolishFortuna 🔴

Kirishima’s scent washed over him as the redhead moved to slide into bed and Katsuki found his mouth watering. For fuck sake, why was his body being such an asshole all of a sudden? He swallowed.

“Uh, Bakugou?” Eijirou's voice was quiet, almost rough, “You're putting out a pretty strong scent.” There was a tone to his best friend's voice that he'd never heard before, and it sent a shiver through Katsuki as he fisted the duvet in his hand tighter and ground his teeth.

His gums ached.

“Its nothing, shut up.” He focused on getting his pheromones under control quickly. Fuck, he really wanted to bite something. Something that smelled like Eijirou. He swallowed another mouthful of saliva.

“Do you-” Kiri swallowed as well, “d’you wanna just sleep up here?”

Why Don't We Dance a While? by Sacramental_Wine 🔴

They were supposed to be directly fighting each other but with one of them playing a villain, encouraged to fight dirty and think on their feet to fight against an unlikely team-up. It was supposed to test the solo “villain’s” ability to think on their feet and anticipate while the team was being evaluated on their ability to adapt to on the fly quirk combinations and unlikely situations. Some of them, like Momo and Sato and Aoyama, struggled a bit more than others with the villain role.

Others were shockingly good at it. Ochako had been having a blast the entire time, Iida continued to excel, and Tokoyami had played up his own more spooky allure.

Kirishima was among one of the good ones.

Something Warm by let_me_wander

When an annoying customer with ridiculous hair starts frequenting the coffee shop Bakugou works at in the weeks before Christmas, he doesn't think much of it. Until it becomes all he can think about.

Awkward flirting, the first snow, a rock show, and probably way too much coffee.

[hartigays]

If you’re still doing the writing thing.. 18? With neil in the picture? (Cause i really hate myself) 💕 love your writing as always✨😍

18. “Maybe I’m better off alone.”

steve sighs, kneeling on the ground next to billy. wraps his hand carefully. tries to keep his expression perfectly neutral.

“other guy make it out okay?”

billy cuts him a glare. “i didn’t fuckin’ kill him, harrington. if that’s what you’re asking.”

“of course not,” steve tells him. sighs again. “you wouldn’t kill anyone. just...making sure he’s not on the ground choking in his own blood somewhere. wouldn’t be a very pretty sight to come across, yeah?”

“i know you’re joking, but in order for something to be a joke, it has to actually be - y’know. funny.”

steve gives billy a long look, before securing the bandages around his hand. pats his knuckles with a feather-light touch, before putting billy’s hand back in his lap.

a moment later, once he’s cleaned the blood off the immaculate white tiles of his bathroom floor, steve sinks down to the ground next to billy. slumps against the wall and rests his head in his hands.

“you gonna tell me what happened, or do i just have to paint a pretty picture with my mind?” steve finally asks, peering over at billy.

billy’s eyes are still fixed on the wall in front of him, his mind seemingly a million miles away. he shrugs after a beat, and steve can see him gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“does it matter?”

steve makes a face. “of course it matters. it matters to me.”

“oh, okay. yeah. me beating ass because my shitbag father won’t quit beating mine is somehow your fuckin’ problem,” billy spits, grimacing.

“that what happened?” steve asks, quiet as ever. sucks in a breath when billy shrugs. “did he hurt you?”

“nah, he gave me a beer and took me to a football game,” billy says with a roll of his eyes. “‘course he - that’s what he does. but at least it’s me and not max.”

steve chews on his bottom lip. his brows are drawn together so tightly that it’s giving him a bit of a headache. but he just - he fucking hates this. he hates that billy has resigned himself to this.

it’s not fair, really. that billy comes to him to be patched up after a fight, unloading the horrific nightmare of a home life he lives, then expecting steve not to care. wanting him to not care.

because honestly, that’s simply never going to fucking happen.

steve cares about billy, probably far too much. probably a whole hell of a lot more than billy cares about him. but ever since they struck up this tentative friendship - this friendship that has blossomed into something more, something steve still doesn’t understand - steve just can’t seem to help himself.

the more broken pieces of himself that billy reveals, the more steve’s heart bleeds for him. maybe he’s just soft, or just a sucker for someone in need, but steve is kind of past caring at this point. he just - all he wants is billy out of that house.

steve has a feeling that once billy is free, several things will start to change for the better. nothing will be perfect, not ever, but things will get better.

they have to.

“you should stay with me,” steve blurts. his cheeks heat up instantly. “i mean - until you’re 18. then you could - you could get your own place. or something. if you want.”

billy gives him a measured look. turns his gaze back to the nail he’d been picking at, shrugging yet again.

this feigned nonchalance is really starting to rub steve the wrong way.

“i’m offering you an out, but it’s not charity,” steve tells him. maybe he’s a little desperate, but it doesn’t matter at this point. “or pity. i just. i don’t want to keep doing this.”

“no one ever said you had to say yes, harrington.”

“don’t call me that,” steve snaps. casts his eyes up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “i meant i don’t want to keep having to do this. things will be better. once you’re out. you won’t - this shit won’t have to happen once you’re away from him.”

“you think, what. i’m just going to fundamentally change as a person just ‘cause my father isn’t beating me within an inch of my life every day?” billy asks, snorting softly. “you’re delusional, steve. i am who i am. no goddamn living situation is gonna change that.”

“but it could change something!” steve cries, throwing his hands up. “it could be better. you don’t know that things would just stay the same.”

“you don’t know that things would change.”

steve curses under his breath. grits his teeth and clenches his fists. “i think things would - ”

billy cuts him off, still staring at his hands when he says, “i think - i think maybe i’m better off alone.”

if it were possible for the world to stop turning, steve thinks it probably would have at that precise moment. his brain takes far longer than it should to process billy’s words.

but when it finally does, steve is in front of him in half a second. takes both of billy’s hands in his, ignoring the look of disdain on billy’s face. steve searches his eyes, torn between despair and fury that billy could ever think any of this could make him worth any less.

steve tells him as much. follows it up with, “none of this will ever make you less deserving of kindness, or compassion, or - or whatever the fuck other good things there are out there. just ‘cause you got dealt a shit hand doesn’t mean you have to go it alone. and you’re not getting rid of me any time soon, so you might as well nip that dream in the bud.”

billy avoids his eyes for a long moment. when he finally meets them, something inside of steve crumbles. because billy - for the first time since steve has known him - just looks lost and broken. defeated.

“truth is,” billy starts, his voice gravelly. he pauses, blinking back what might be tears, but steve isn’t really sure. “truth is, i don’t know how to - what i’m supposed to do with any of this shit. i dunno how to do anything besides take it.”

“maybe it’s time to learn new ways of dealing with it,” steve tells him, his eyes softening. “but you don’t have to do it by yourself. i meant that.”

billy considers his words for a moment. he finally nods, ever-so-slightly, and squeezes one of steve’s hands. “i can’t just - you know. move out. but when it gets bad i can - uh. i can crash here. if you want me to.”

“only if you want to,” steve tells him, smiling softly. “my door’s always open.”

before billy can say anything, steve raises both of billy’s hands to his lips. gives each set of knuckles a gentle kiss, before releasing his hands completely. billy keeps them outstretched for a moment, his eyebrows practically at his hairline.

steve snorts, trying to suppress his grin. “oh, what. like you’re surprised? please.”

the smile billy gives him is soft and surprisingly warm. it makes steve’s heart flutter. “about you liking me? nah. everybody likes me. but about you doing something about it? very. you’re kind of a pussy.”

steve’s mouth drops open, ready to object. but he grins when he frogs billy on the shoulder, keeping his touch gentle. giggles, and tells him, “you’re such an ass. i take back my invitation, you’re banned for life.”

“hey, don’t go stealing my catch phrases,” billy admonishes, but he’s struggling to smother his own smile. “i worked hard to cultivate those.”

“yeah, yeah. whatever you say.”

“you’re the one who revoked access to your house,” billy says, sticking his tongue out at him. “which, by the way - there aren’t any take-backs. you’re stuck with me.”

steve scoots forward. plays with one of billy’s stray curls, trying to shake this shy and bashful feeling that’s suddenly filling him up.

billy isn’t shy and bashful. he doesn’t do shy and bashful. and steve is slowly starting to realize that his feelings are matched. he doesn’t have to hold back if he doesn’t want to.

so he doesn’t. steve leans in, covering billy’s lips with his own. billy actually - the cutest fucking noise escapes his lips, just before steve seals theirs together. it’s kind of like a squeak, and steve is pretty sure it’s the cutest fucking thing he’s ever heard in his entire life.

billy shifts forward, deepening the kiss. his hands find the lapels of steve’s jacket, curling into the fabric and tugging him even closer. he kisses steve until his head is spinning, until steve is pretty sure they’re both going to pass out.

but honestly, steve wouldn’t be too upset about that. he’ll take it, if it means he never has to stop kissing him. billy’s stubble rubs against the smooth softness of his skin, and he knows there’s going to be some beard-burn left in its wake. but he’s beyond okay with that, too.

“stuck with you, huh?” steve asks when they break apart, resting his forehead against billy’s. he tries to meet his eyes but goes cross-eyed in the process, pulling an easygoing laugh from billy.

“yup. better get used to it.”

steve kisses the tip of his nose, shaking his head. stands and pulls billy up off the ground, then crowds into his space. tucks his face into billy’s neck, letting his eyelids flutter shut.

“wouldn’t have it any other way.”

send me a number + a pairing!