#how long that oneshot will end up being though... cannot say.

[seasaalttrio]

sometimes you just need to write fic that maybe five people max will want to read ❤

[unrespectful-snake]

" 𝙰 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 " Deadpool x reader oneshot

CW: Unspecified relationship, date night with the merc

Experimentally- he was here. Just experimentally. This didn’t mean anything. Two people, one dinner and an endless amount of useless small talk.

He disliked dates.

A sitting duck one word away from death- that’s what he felt like. He tried to shake off the feeling. He really did. He tried oh so very hard. But cmon- have some respect.

A mercenary? On a date? Are you insane?

Though maybe he was the insane one. Because here he fucking was.

Dressed up in the best suit he could find, looking at names of dishes so pathetically fancy it made him sick. Still he was here.

So he continued this stupid stupid ordeal by picking a red wine he knew nothing about.

His legs ached to move. This was so boring he’d rather watch paint dry. He knew everyone said that- but this time it was true. He was really that bored. Really. He was.

Why was he doing this then? Good question.

No matter how much his legs begged him to walk out of the painfully nearby door, he couldn’t. No matter how much he’d love to just fall asleep, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t because he was here.

Had he been waiting for this moment? No.

(Yes)

So a no?

The strange music made his back tense up. Okay strange was a bit unfair- it was classy. He didn’t like how it sounded. How it made him feel as though he should act in a specific way.

The thing he disliked most however was how you seemed to be pulling off the same act effortlessly.

He paid close attention to your movements, how you spoke to the waiters, how light the words you spoke were.

Whenever he said anything it felt like he was sinking into an ocean of French wines and words he didn’t quite understand- when you spoke…well. It was like watching a star.

Not in the cringey cheesy way. In the way where you stare at them from afar and see the chasm between you both. The light years dividing you. It was intimidatingly alluring and exactly what was keeping him chained to his seat.

It was hard to think. It really was. Even harder to say anything other than the impulsive intrusive ramblings that usually just lingered in his head. Now? Currently they were on fire.

(Please keep talking.) to me. (Please keep moving) towards me. (Please keep looking) at me.

Me. Me. Me.

God. He loved being the center of attention. He was a junkie for it. This couldn’t be compared to heroin or coke or alcohol or any other substances that had flowed through his body before.

Desperately he clawed his attention away from his thoughts, wanting to focus his all on the fleeting moment before him. Clutching onto it like an animal. (But that’s all in my head though, isn’t it?) Yes, it is.

It was oh so hard to focus though. Even your words became a part of a strange clutter of noises. A brief extension as to what he was really looking to see, to hear.

For the first time in forever he wanted to hear someone. Listen to them. But not to their voice, no. If he could- he’d enter your mind. Entangle himself in it just as you’d done to him.

He didn’t like dates.

Because now he was sitting like a hunter. Silently watching a duck teetering on the edge of death. As you ask ‘what’s wrong?’ at the man who cannot hear you, he’ll just smirk. You’ll ask over and over, your tone louder and louder each time. You’ll get no answer. And then you’ll leave. And never speak to him again.

Except…you’re not? (Wait- really?) Yes, you’re still here.

The food had arrived long ago but neither one of you is eating. Locked in a gaze. Wait- locked? Does that mean? Yes.

You’re looking back.

He smiled. And took a bite of whatever the hell he had ordered. It was good. Better than anything he’d ever had.

And after a moment, so did you.

He really didn’t like dates. He really didn’t. But he really liked you. So after the date ended, on a high note at 11 past midnight, he sent you a text. One he’d never sent before.

“𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗”

And he got a response he’d never gotten before.

“𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘!”

[hughiecampbelle]

Nausea (Billy Butcher Oneshot)

Character/s: Butcher

Word Count: 1,349

A/N: This is a re-upload bc the first time I posted it I got self-conscious and deleted it lol. It's just not my best writing, but I feel like I have to get it out. Just me writing about my issues again! I still have no idea what's going on, but all the same diagnoses come back from the first time (uc/crohn's/celiac/gastroparesis) and it's so infuriating. My doctors don't know what's wrong and my family, who I love, just think it's nerves. I don't think my very graphic symptoms are nerves 😅 I have so many remedies by my bed, it looks crazy. I haven't slept well in a few days bc of the pain, but I'm also so afraid of not being believed again, it's a vicious loop. Okay I swear I'm done complaining! Thank you for putting up with me!!! 💜💜💜💜💜💜

He knows when it’s happening. There is no great show or performance. There is no crying or whimpering. No one else would even notice, but he knows the signs. Albeit too late, but he does. You’re quieter, withdrawn, hand over mouth, hoping this will stop the nausea. Deep, even breaths: breathing through it. When that is not enough, when that stops working, you slip quietly out of the room and into the bathroom. He tries not to notice how long you’re gone. Mere minutes. It feels so much longer. Someone snatches his attention from you and suddenly, you’re back. You reappear as if you were never gone. You offer a smile, a joke or two, a sense of normalcy, but beneath you’re stomach is churning, clenching, radiating pain through your middle. You only let him tell a few people, who you’re sure told everyone else. Still, none react besides him. He doesn’t say anything, to do so would draw attention. That’s the last thing you want. Instead, he moves towards you, casually, standing beside you. Close. You can feel his jacket on your arm. Worn and scratchy. Familiar. He looks at you and you offer him a small, insignificant nod. That’s as far as he’ll get to asking if you’re okay. That’s as far as you’ll let him when you’re working. 

Its been happening on and off for years. Off, for a long time. You thought it was over. Gone. Dead. It’s come back, though, an uninvited guest. This sudden pain, this distress, this mystery no one is curious enough to solve. When they looked, they found nothing. Said you were fine. You were embarrassed, hurt, questioning if it was all in your head. Eventually, you moved on. Things got better. You believed them. And now it’s back. A fullness, nausea, pain, weight loss. You can’t be in the apartment while he’s cooking. The smell repulses you. The taste, too. You can’t eat, afraid you’ll be sick. Again. He urges you, please, something more than your morning coffee, but you cannot handle it. Everything you try you end up spitting out: everything is gluey, everything is profoundly unappetizing. Hiding in the bathroom away from the scent or leaving altogether, it’s put a rift between you. Meals that were safe turned poisonous. Entire food groups cut off unwillingly. It’s been days. Your stomach growls, but that is a trick. You try to ignore it, hide it, knowing what he will insist. He watches you. You can feel it. You don’t say anything. It’s easier this way, not to fight, not to argue. This is a hill you will not die on. He does what he can, pouring your coffee, grateful you at least have that. So far, it doesn’t cause problems and it keeps you full. That’s all you can ask for. 

He wants you to get looked at, checked out. You refuse. You were so sick, so scared, and they told you nothing was wrong. You were constantly doubting if this was even real, then and now. If they didn’t find anything, if they didn’t have the answers, you’re not sure what you’ll do. You can’t be doubted again. You can’t be looked at and deemed dramatic. You knew the pain was real. Why did you have to prove it? Why did you have to show them when they refused to believe you? So, you keep it to yourself, far from friends and family. They congratulated the weight you lost. Said you looked good. Remind them you were petrified to eat. You were smaller and that’s what mattered. It’s worse at night. Lying beside him, you push from him, untangling his arms from around you. A trash bin by your head, waiting for it to pass. If things are bad, really bad, you’ll lock yourself in, on the floor, praying for it to go away. He wakes up to an empty bed night after night. The pain wakes you up. You have nausea patches, and losanges, and a heating pad he is constantly rewarming. If you lay very still, perhaps you can trick it. Play dead. Hours you’ll spend curled in a ball, wondering what it was that you ate that set it off, that made it so angry. Was it the time? The combination? You were down to drinks with minerals and vitamins, hydrating agents to keep you going. Baby food. Liquid diet. You missed food. You missed having an appetite. You missed cooking. But it wasn’t worth it afterwards. Immediately or hours, the nausea, the pain, the discomfort invites itself back into your life. 

Butcher isn't a natural worrier. There isn't a lot that scares him. But this? This leaves him petrified. There is something wrong and no one will listen. You try to shrug it off. It was so much worse all those years ago. It was excruciating. This, if anything, is a walk in the park in comparison. Uncomfortable sure, but that's all. It's not Vought or Homelander, that he can protect you from. That he can stop. Your body working against itself? That he can do nothing about. It isn't fair. It isn't right. And yet, there is nothing to be done. The tests they did were inconclusive. Why risk it again? Why waste your time? You assure him soon it will be gone, a few days, maybe a few weeks. Last time it was six months. You swallow that time like a prison sentence. Six months. You could do it again, if you had to. You could manage. Maybe by then they’d take you seriously. He wanted to yell and scream, at them. Order them around, insist they help, but would that even help? More tests, more waiting. By the time it would be your turn, it would have gone into remission. Loved ones would hypothesize, becoming doctors themselves. Their favorite diagnosis? Nerves. You weren’t anxious, or nervous, or worried. You were wasting away. You were spending your nights trying not to throw up and your days doing anything to prevent discomfort. Even certain clothes, too close, too constricting, were off the table. You couldn’t stand the way they looked at you, everyone but Butcher, wondering if it was physical or mental. He heard you, he saw you, he knew this was all too real. Why couldn’t others? 

You're more tired, exhausted as soon as the sun starts setting. You lose a lot of hours at night, in the early mornings, praying to anyone who will listen that you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be gone. That you will be fine again. That it really was all in your head. Falling asleep in the car. He tries to avoid bumps in the roads, potholes, not wanting to wake you. Your attention straining: it's always there, in the back of your mind, at the back of your throat. It sits deep in the pit of your stomach and it mocks you. When you finally do complain, just a little, when it's too much, he knows it's really getting bad. He's helpless all over again. The people he's loved, the people he's lost, he can't risk it. Not again. Not with you. There’s little can do, though. There’s little anyone can do. This is not someone he can kill, this is not an organization he can take down. This is chronic, spontaneous, vengeful. It has no rhyme or reason. You let the mask slip every so often. You’re scared. Scared of what they’ll find, scared of what they won’t. He reassures you, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out together. You trust him, you love him, but you can’t do that to him. You can’t be a burden. You body is your own to take care of. So, you throw up in the bathroom, and wear your patches, and make your jokes. You tell him it’s a three, always a three, on a scale from one to ten. You can’t let him worry, he’s got enough on his plate. Yours will remain empty until, hopefully soon, it goes away just as it has appeared.

[icallhimjoey]

If tomorrow is the end of the world, one of the last things I wanna do is reading a oneshot of Joe and Hazel because I miss that little bitch a lot. Thank you in advance.

so, i vowed to never write baby hazel again, and yet, here we are... you're welcome Wordcount: 1.3K

--- Great Mum, Great Team

"What a terrible development," you said aghast though you were smiling, apples in your cheeks round and blushing. You were stood in the doorway to Hazel's bedroom, amazed at what you were looking at.

"I cannot believe my eyes!"

Joe sat on the carpet next to Hazel who was trying her very best to put on her mary jane's correctly, right shoe on right foot, left shoe on left foot.

Joe fully ignored you, eyes trained on Hazel's feet, just like hers were.

She struggled with the straps, tiny fingers trying to sort her toes out and not let her socks get in the way. You saw the tip of her tongue peek out in concentration, and saw how Joe, for whatever reason, copied it.

Your heart was overflowing with proud love for her as you saw her put real effort in, eyes flitting up to Joe for encouragement. It swelled your chest, pained it wonderfully.

"Nearly there. Yep, you got it." Joe spoke softly, not lending a hand, which really impressed you. You had a way of taking over, wanting to help out and just get the task done.

This was better parenting, what you were looking at.

Hazel's left heel slipped into the shoe and she immediately moved to stand up, grabbing onto a hand that Joe held out for stability.

"Yeaaa. High five, Hazel!" Joe exclaimed, holding up a palm that got hit by two smaller ones.

She did it.

"I can't believe it." you made big eyes as you smiled at her when Hazel skipped closer, telling you all about how she put her shoes on all by herself because she was a big girl now.

Something you'd been trying to convince her of for weeks.

"See, didn't I tell you?"

It seemed like she thought it was all way too far-fetched when you told her she was old enough to put her shoes on by herself, though.

The standard reaction you'd get was, "Can you please help me, mummy? I can't do it by myself." and you'd try. You'd really try. You'd tell her things like, no babe, I know you can do it, if you don't, you'll have to go outside without any shoes on and your socks will get all wet, and that doesn't sound very nice, does it?

But you'd grow impatient.

It would just take too long.

"She's going to need a big girl bed soon, too, don't you Hazel?" Joe said, getting up himself now too. Hazel ignored the both of you as she skipped past you, on her way to the living room where the TV was still playing one of her shows.

You raised your eyebrows and huffed a laugh as you watched her disappear down the hall.

"I swear she thinks she's a teenager." Joe mused, stepping closer and letting his hand fall to your waist.

"Yea, a teenager who only listens to you, it seems."

"Well," Joe leant closer for a quick peck to your lips. "Stop being such a push-over then."

Joe expected you to drop your jaw, to frown deep, and to shove at him, because he was clearly only joking.

But instead you sighed and quietly said "Yea, I know." much more sorrowful than he ever wanted to hear you.

You thought maybe it was your voice. You didn't think you sounded very authoritative, that you didn't tend to make demands very well.

Hazel always poked right through your demands. Didn't take them seriously like you wanted her to.

"Hey," Joe whispered worriedly, forcing eye-contact before saying, "You know you're not a push-over, right? I was only joking."

You smile at his gentleness. At the instant care he's got ready for you.

"No, I am. It's okay. I shouldn't have made such a headstrong child, it's my own fault." you tried your hand at humour, and Joe nearly bought it.

You could hear how Hazel opened a cabinet in your living room, followed by the sounds of the box with wooden blocks being dragged out. Hazel didn't really have time to play right now, Joe had just gotten her to put her shoes on for a short trip to the market. You didn't really need anything, but it was nice to get out of the house and tire Hazel out a bit.

"Baby," you called out to her, leaning away from Joe a little as to not shout right into his ear, and were about to tell your daughter to put the blocks back. But then Joe pulled you in close and pressed his nose into your cheek, softly saying, "No, let her. We're not in a hurry, are we?"

You realised just then that you weren't, and, to Joe's relief, finally swung arms around his neck to hug him back.

Through kisses to your cheek, Joe murmured, "You realise that only headstrong girls can make headstrong girls, don't you?"

You couldn't help smiling as you closed your eyes, relishing in this little moment of affection Joe created.

"You have no idea..." you started, humour in your tone. "How long I struggled to get her to put on her shoes the other day. And guess how that whole altercation ended?"

Joe kept his face stuck to yours, not moving away in between kisses, just making noises with his lips against your cheek.

"Who ended putting the shoes on?"

"Was it you?" Joe spoke out of the sides of his mouth, all hot air against your skin, unintentionally raspberrying you as he did.

"It was me." you confirmed, and you let a laugh escape in a huff through your nose.

"Hmm," Joe mused, moving to press his forehead against yours. "Just means you're nurturing. Caring. So sweet, and kind."

You got a kiss pressed to your lips.

"Yea, well... would just be nice if she listened to me like she listens to... well, literally anyone else. Not to, you know–"

You didn't want Joe to think he fell into that category. He very much wasn't literally anyone else to Hazel.

"I know." Joe understood.

"She– you definitely are dad, you��"

"I know. I was trying to compliment you, just accept it. You're a great mum." Joe shut you up, pressed more kisses to your mouth and let his arms wrap tighter.

You stood in Hazel's bedroom's doorway and let yourself drown in Joe's fondness for you. Joe showed it all the time, but there weren't many moments where you stopped everything you had going on to fully accept it for a moment.

And Joe lived for these moments.

It was only short-lived though. It always was.

From the living room you heard a crash of block, followed by a silence that then got broken by beginning cries from Hazel.

They quickly grew in volume.

You were about to pull away from Joe, already mentally picking Hazel up from the floor to hug close to your chest. But Joe held you and said, "Wait..." as he turned his ear towards the living room, listening. Waiting.

It just took a second longer for Hazel to start to cry out for her mum, and a smile spread across Joe's face.

"See? Mum. She needs you. No way that she was going to call out for anyone else. It's why we make such a great team."

You rolled your eyes as Joe made his point, finally losing his tight grip so you could make your way over.

Joe followed and watched as you bent over to pick up a crying Hazel who was holding a small hand to her head next to a big pile of wooden blocks. It was obvious a tower had fallen over and she'd gotten hurt in the process.

You shushed her and swayed as you comforted her, asking her if she'd hurt her head, if it was the blocks that got her.

Hazel's soft whimpers confirming that it had been the wooden blocks made Joe pout at her sad little voice.

When you turned to look at him, Joe's face smoothed out.

"Great mum." he mouthed, and you scrunched up your nose in response.

"Great team." you mouthed back.

---

The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @bylermaxmayfield, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @djoseph-quinn, @dolcevit4, @eddies-puppet, @emma77645, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee, @figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @hanahkatexo, @harringtonfan4, @hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @manda-panda-monium, @mandyjo8719, @mexicanfolklore, @miserybeans, @munson-mjstan, @nadixq, @nglharry, @notverywise, @pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @royale1803, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

[loser-jpg]

hi im back in the fuckin building again UR LAST PIECE JUST MADE ME TOO INSANE IM SORRY let me know if youre getting overwhelmed w requests i will give you a break sobs :(( (i say when ive only sent two,,, is that ridiculous. idk. JUST CHECKING)

but i was thinking about idia (SURPRISE. I KNOW.) with someone (a crush? friend? s/o? YOU PICK IDK) who has a hard time grasping technology? like,,, if theres something that tells you to scan your card they somehow CANNOT figure out how and where to scan their card for the LIFE OF THEM. or if a website is trying to prompt them to click on certain things they cant find them at ALL and just end up laughing at their own incompetence. this totally isnt me btw.

it can be headcanons or a drabble/oneshot like last time? whichever is easier for you <3 !!!

IF YOU DO WRITE THIS THANK YOU ILY BUT IF YOU DONT I STILL LOVE U AND THANK YOU RAHHHHH <3 i hope leona gets his ass over to u and gives you a hug and kiss.

Idias reaction to someone who has a hard time with tech would differ greatly depending on who you are to him. If your just some pleb he's making fun of you for not understanding something so basic to him. "Ha, I knew you were a noob but this is just hilarious." I can see that shit eating grin of his now.

If you're a friend he's still giving you a hard time, but he's also helping you out to try and teach you and get you to understand. Still is kinda rude about it though, he finds it so easy he can't understand how people mess it up. "How do you not know how to do this? *sigh* What you do is..." He then either explains it perfectly, or explains it as though you somehow know tech language while being bad at using tech. You're going to have to ask him to dumb it down for you.

If he has a crush on you but the two of you aren't dating, he's pushing away the urge to jokingly poke fun at you as much as possible, while also jumping at the chance to help you. He'd be all nervous at first though (he got that crush only social anxiety). "Ah, you're having trouble? Here, let me help." He shows you how to do whatever you were struggling with rather than just telling you that time. Secretly hopes you still have trouble so he can help again.

If the two of you were dating he's definitely all together lost hope at getting you to understand tech at that point. He's just doing anything tech related for you without trying to help you learn LMAO. Fully believe he'd get comfortable with someone he's in a relationship with and would lose a lot of nervousness and be able to act more like himself around them. He's poking fun at your incompetence but only so long as you understand it's a joke. "You still can't do this stuff? Ha, you're hopeless, aren't you."

And if you're someone he doesn't like he's bringing your idiocy up at any chance :D

[vagabond-umlaut]

tick tock tick!

one's a fool, the other's a fool.

once a fool, always a fool.

you never imagined being thrown over the known limits of time and space, then back again, is what will make you grasp these two simple little facts — you don't appear to be very ruffled, though.

▸ gojo satoru x fem!reader; 2.8k wc; time travel; light-hearted banter and fluff; sassy-yet-concerned-bestie!student-shoko; living-in-denial!student-reader; pining-in-the-background!student-satoru; the grown-up reader's enjoying her time in the past but she really wants to return to her time; suggestive themes in the very end [it's implied & between grown-up reader and grown-up satoru back in the present]

▸ belongs to series we're the summer to our winter rain but you can read this as a stand-alone if you wanna!

▸ the element of time travel's been borrowed from the amazing oneshot 'time travel' by @seeingivy. tysm rc!!!! i love your works!!!! ❤️❤️

▸ the gif, divider and characters used ain't mine. please don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

idiocy – same as common cold; worse than common cold – is contagious. 

weird take, isn’t it, for a person such as you on a day such as today? 

gray skies. strong winds. light drizzles.  

perfect day, really – a much desired reprieve from the sweltering tokyo summers, you muse – one you would have been content in whiling away wrapped in your blanket with a novel and a savoury snack. or perhaps, you would have gone on a drive through the damp streets of the city. or, better yet, you would have taken a nice long nap in the comfort of your home– 

–the keywords in each being ‘would have’.  

’cause you do not do either of these – rather, you cannot.  

in a peach classroom you know was painted yellow last autumn, before a phone you recollect being broken in a mission last decade, looking at a face with a hairstyle you haven’t seen the likes of since five years ago – any and every plan you might’ve had go straight out your mind into the courtyard outside.  

cigarette dangling from fingers, shoko blinks back at you. you offer a tentative smile.  

“hey, shoko! long time, no see, eh?” 

the girl lets out a long exhale of smoke and asks, “is this real or am i finally hallucinating from sleep deprivation?” 

“the former, i’m afraid,” you say softly, then frown. “wait a sec–” 

“won’t wait,” cutting you off, she huffs a faint chuckle. you give an unimpressed look at her nonchalant attitude, only to see it bounce right off her. not that you’re very surprised, you suppose. “i’ve had enough mothering from the present-you; any more treating me as a kid and i swear i’m going berserk.” 

your lips dip into a faux-pout. 

“aw, that would be a pity. the only healer we have, lost to the darkness. the society would be in shambles.” 

that earns another chuckle from shoko and she reclines in her seat, eyes watching your features closely. unnerving, yes; yet you let her. it isn’t every day one meets the adult version of their kouhai, after all. [that and the fact you’ve always been rather fond of this friend of yours – both in your teens and twenties – something you reckon is too known to be voiced always.] 

one whole minute elapses before the silent examination ends. you heave an inward sigh of relief, which grows into fatigue at the next question. a mere monosyllable but enough to make you want to hit your head against the window.  

“how?” 

you wonder what answer must you give to your former senpai.  

should you say it was a mishap on a mission which led you here?  

nah, too unlikely to occur for someone as warily careful as you.  

from an encounter with a cursed item you knew nothing of? 

the truth, of course, but with a pinch of salt here and a pinch of pepper there.  

you settle on serving shoko the blandest form of the truth ever.  

placing a dilapidated pocket sundial on the desk, you reply, “i came across this in the storeroom today while deep cleaning the house. now, i knew; this was soaked in cursed energy; besides, it looked too simple to be a weak cursed object. but–” 

“your curiosity overpowered your common sense, and you fussed with it and ended up here,” the girl finishes for you. a lame nod paired with an embarrassed smile is the only response you manage. she shoots an unimpressed face back. “you’ve always been the smart one... since when did you become an idiot?” 

“years of being with an idiot–”  

“ieiri-senpai – what the fuck!? who the hell are you??” 

the familiar screech, you never knew was so raucous until now [suguru was right], snaps your explanation in two and you cast a sideways glance to see the exact image you were expecting.  

messy hair, black sunglasses [not yours], floral print dress and sneakers – accompanied by a gobsmacked expression and two wide eyes peeking from behind the shades – the younger you stays rooted to her spot in the doorway. you wave at her weakly. “kind of shocking, right?” 

“i’m not dreaming, am i?” the target of your question breathes out. you shake your head. “no. i’m real and i’m here.” 

the statement drains bits of incredulity from her form and you watch her slowly enter the class and take the seat next to yours. a frown makes its way onto her lips. 

“how? and, more importantly, why?” 

a short chuckle leaves you.  

this is the age when you were the most into the genre of science fiction of everything... the poor student you must be thinking you’re here to warn her of an event in the future or something of the sorts. you debate for a while on if you should play with her concerns or not – then decide against it. she looks too innocent to be teased so cruelly; besides, you never had the slightest of masochistic tendencies.  

you smile at her, reassuringly. “how... i grew too curious for my good and ended up fiddling with something i should’ve handled more carefully – hey, don’t touch it,” you slap her hand away from the sundial; she gives you a sheepish grin. you resume with a huff, “and as to why... i’ve no clue. i really wanna go back home and start cleaning again.” 

your younger version wrinkles her nose. “ew, why’re you cleaning? just hire some help to do all that work, dummy.” 

you resist the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. you really did hate doing household chores, hm? 

“i do have help hired, but sometimes, you really wanna care for your home on your own, y’know? besides...” a tinge of loving exasperation sneaks into your voice. “there are only so many who have the patience to search for candy wrappers in every nook and corner of the– oh, shit. i mustn’t spoil the future for y’all.” 

a cheshire cat grin and a confused little frown meet the tense smile you aim at your two companions. shoko drawls, “candy wrappers, huh? how’s living with satoru treating you? must be nice, living with the love of your life.” 

“you’ll be the best one to know, senpai, what with barely staying in your rooms whenever iori-senpai's here,” the other girl cuts in with a sharp smile, which becomes soothing when she turns to you. “don’t you let those words get to you; these people are living in a fantasy world of their own, thinking every kind of godforsaken nonsense.” then tapers off, chuckling, when you watch her catch your knowing grin. “ah, sorry. i forgot you’re my future self; you’ll obviously know this.” 

“i do,” saying so, you look at shoko. “’toru and i can be roommates too, you know?” 

the girl makes no attempt to conceal the eye-roll, nor the scoff. “yeah, but are you? the two of you are literally in love with each other.” 

“senpai...” the younger you whines, visibly affronted and annoyed, only to be interrupted by an obnoxious music before she can barely begin her rant. the older girl silently asks you to watch her kouhai – a request you fulfil with an amusement, the latter growing increasingly difficult to stow away with every moment you observe your glowing younger self. 

yes, that’s right.  

glowing.  

from when she accepts the call and places the phone next to her ear, to when she hollers out a cheery “rise and shine, ’toru! you’re late!”, to when she exchanges animated dialogues, giggling, with the boy at the other end, to when she cuts the call and returns her focus to shoko and you, a wide grin blooming on her lips even while she apologizes for having to cut the meeting short — glowing is the only adjective, you think, will suit the teenaged-you.  

you brush her apology away with a grin of your own. “it’s okay, go enjoy your day-off with your ’toru. a few more years and you’ll find such relaxing days hard to come by.” 

“oh?” the girl pauses, grin melting away in disappointment – however, before you can even attempt to rectify or explain your statement, hauling her by the arm, shoko drags her away.  

“off you go, lover girl,” she scowls, shoving her out into the hallways, “you’ve a date waiting; you ought to know better than to mope now.” 

“this isn’t a date! and i ain’t moping!” comes the incredulous exclamation within an instant, soon followed by the reappearance of the younger you in the doorway, showing something between an exuberant beam and a worried frown as she inquires, “you wouldn’t call this a date, would you?” 

a feeling, strangely similar to sympathy, creeps into your heart.  

you hum, “you are going to the new chinese restaurant in roppongi, aren’t you?” 

a nod.  

shoko raises an eyebrow behind her, as if meaning to query you still remembering details from so long ago. the corner of your mouth lifts. “it’s the dress, ieiri. i seldom wore it so obviously i’ll remember when i did,” you explain, then return your focus to the other girl. she returns your gaze, anticipation brimming in hers. you shake your head. 

“i wouldn’t call today’s meeting a date.” 

“told ya, senpai!” the teenaged-you exclaims, and with that and a salute in your direction, jogs down the corridor, a listless tune resonating within its ancient walls as she goes humming. shoko shoots a particularly scheming look your way. “you said you wouldn’t call today’s meeting a date, so are there other meetings...” 

a casual shrug is what you decide to counter her implications with. “maybe. maybe not. i’m not supposed to tell you.” 

“perhaps, you aren’t,” the girl responds, an odd softness developing in her tone. you bite back whatever words you were planning on telling – a soft yet serious shoko is a blue moon, one you know well enough to not take not-seriously.  

ignoring the sharp spike in cursed energy from the sundial, you train your senses on the young doctor-to-be standing before you and her solemn countenance as she regards you.  

she offers a careful smile.  

“perhaps, i too am not supposed to tell you this, but satoru cares for you. very much. and i know you too do. as much as him. but the two of you are simply shit at expressing it. your oblivious ass, more than that lovesick fool.” a chuckle escapes you at this statement – more at its exasperated tone than its words. smile growing freer, she continues, “it isn’t really funny, i’m telling you. it’s more painfully tiring than anything else for us, watching the two of you play this game since forever – something i’ve said to that blindfolded bastard more times than i can count and something i’ve implied to you repeatedly as well. but every word i might’ve said has bounced right off gojo’s thick skin and off your thick skull. however, now–” 

the girl stills and you glance to your side to find the object shining. the clock seems to have begun ticking, huh? you choose to finish your friend’s unfinished sentence.  

“however, now, seeing the older and more matured me, you decided to try one last time, didn’t you? thinking this might as well be the last chance to pop my bubble of ignorance and free ’toru from the pain of pining, yeah?”  

shoko nods slowly.  

plucking the sundial from the desk, you give her a smile – one, you hope, shows the true depth of gratitude you feel towards her. watching the way she returns your expression, you think it does. “satoru and i always count you to be one of our dearest friends,” you say, “thank you for always looking out for us, shoko. and as for our alleged feelings for one another...”  

you toss her a wink.  

“you never lose a bet you place on us.” 

shoko’s jaw dropping to the floor is the last thing you see before the classroom melts into a swirl of colours, into the final beige wallpaper of the storeroom. the sundial sits innocently in the hollow of your palm – a funny little antique you feel less sorry now for coming across now. returning it to the open box lying on the floor beside you, you stuff the box back into the cabinet and rise, brushing dust off your trousers.  

your flat desperately needs a deep-clean – and you’ve got to finish it in the shortest time possible.  

’cause there’s an intriguing story, after all, waiting to be narrated by you to your ‘roommate’ once the latter’s back from work.  

bonus: 

a shocked gasp rings within the steam-filled confines of your bathroom. you giggle.  

“don’t act so offended, ’toru! i had to say something to avoid awkward questions.” 

“how can you be so okay with it, sweets?” the 6' 3" man whines, wrapping his soap-lathered arms round your midsection and dropping his head to rest it against yours. you lean back into him, eyes closing in comfort whilst you listen to him complain, “first of all, you didn’t wear your ring–”  

“i thought we were over it, ’toru. i didn’t want the ring to get dirty or lost while cleaning.” 

a tiny tsk sounds while your left hand is raised and a small kiss is planted on the gold. your heart goes swooning.  

satoru’s grumbles continue, undeterred, “next, you blame poor innocent me for your error – even going as far as to refer to me as an idiot – that’s still okay, i guess. i’m willing to forgive. but to call me your roommate – that’s simply unforgivable, darling.” 

you let out a tiny hum. eyes opening, you turn to kiss the downturned corner of his lips. it lifts a bit. “i know, baby. i know,” you attempt to appease him, “i shouldn’t have called you my roommate when you’re someone so much more than that.” 

blue eyes peering down at you reflect the emotions coursing within yourself now.  

“and what might that be?” he asks in a low whisper. 

brushing the wet strands of hair away from his face, you whisper back, “my ex- fiancé. you’re my darling ex- fiancé. i should have called you that in front of them, right?” 

your eyes blink a mere two times before a set of sharp teeth digs into your neck, pulling a shocked yelp from you, soon followed by the impression of a smug smirk onto your skin. the bath suddenly feels awfully warm – a sensation which intensifies with every little lick and bite pressed down the side of your throat and into your bare shoulder – before satoru lifts his head and a warm puff of breath hits the shell of your ear.  

“that isn’t something you must call me, wife. you’ve made me very, very upset.” 

“and what might i do to make up for it?” you inquire, though the words tumble out your mouth rather shakily – thanks to the shivers your husband’s wandering hands elicit, rough with callouses yet so gentle with the manner caress you.  

“what might you?” gently swivelling your head with a light grasp on your chin, he brushes a thumb along your lower lip – gaze dark and ravenous, you note absently, as it darts over your face. your eyes flutter close at the feeling. “you can let me have a taste of my favourite snack, perhaps, you–” 

“you don’t mean the kikufuku mochi, do you?” moving your face away, you ask, annoyed and worried — does satoru not know how much distressing his addiction to sweets is to you?  

hold on you slackening slightly, your husband blinks at you. 

you glower back. “you can be mad at me for an eternity if you want, satoru. but you aren’t getting another morsel of a sweet dish. you’ve already eat–” 

“what makes you think i was talking of mochis, sweet cheeks?” the stumped question interrupts your rant. you let out an angry exhale. “oh, i don’t know. maybe it was you speaking of your favourite snack, satoru.” 

“and you think kikufuku mochis are my favourite?” 

you raise a brow in silent challenge.  

dragging you closer to himself, your husband chortles. 

“you think my idiocy is contagious, don’t you? well, breaking news, mrs. gojo, your obliviousness is incurable.”  

the furrow between your brows deepens, however, before you can say or ask anything, a pair of pink lips descend upon yours, capturing it in a tantalizingly slow motion – which, needless to say, renders every thought of yours into a mushy white noise.  

a turn of events, you reckon, you aren’t very upset with.  

you can always bring up the topic, satoru’s trying to evade, tomorrow. 

[you don’t, though. 

it is very late the next morning when you finally realize, lips swollen and body sore, the meaning of your husband’s statement — and a loud groan falls past you into the hush of your shared bedroom. a husky laugh muffles itself into your hair. 

your obliviousness really is incurable... isn’t it?] 

▸ masterlist

[the-illiterate-pirate]

I've had this idea for something with Mista where the reader makes his cum 4 times, but Mista being how he is cannot stand the number 4, so he begs the reader to make him orgasm one more time even though he can't even handle it and is already overstimulated

Hi long time no see :) this accidentally turned into a full oneshot

Looking for a Kiss

Notes: NSFW, femdom, hand jobs, dirty talk? Switch Mista DELICIOUS. And dare I say it.... Light cbt...? But only if you squint

Things were going great so far. Just like any date with your boy, it started off with him smothering you in the most love a man could muster. Mista treated you like royalty or as if he was head over heels for you. But just like any date, once the sun set, and it was just the two of you, manners got thrown out the window. In bed Mista was wild, but it was just how you liked it. Those sugary words he sang to you were swapped out with vulgar talk whispered in your ear as he dominated over your body. He would push your body to it's breaking point without batting an eye.

You'd lost count of how many times he'd gotten you to cum, once with his tongue, another with just his fingers, you'd spent hours trapped in the sheets of your bed with his cock pounding inside of you, sapping out your energy and wringing your body of it's fluids. He wasn't sadistic but Mista took great joy in your tired whimpers and the bruises he left all over you.

"Come on cara, just a little more. Your body's just aching for me to fill you up one more time, isn't it?"

Fuck, he was right. It was amazing how he hadn't tuckered himself out yet. Most nights he could go once, or even go for two rounds. How many times has he came inside you tonight?

The thrust of his dick piercing deep inside you again sent your mind blank. All you could do was drool into your pillow, moaning incoherent babble while he used you. "That's it baby. Fuck, you're so good for me."

Your hand clawed into the mattress beside your face. It was soon enveloped by his own, squeezing you tight as his release overwhelmed him. Mista moaned your name into your back, collapsing on top of you as you both came down from a shared high.

You settled in cushioned between the bed and Mista's warm chest, breathing deeply and settling from your head pounding orgasm. Any malicious intent from your boyfriend melted away, in turn making him softer, kind of resembling a cat. You could almost hear him purr. But something wasn't right.

"Hey... Wait a minute." Mista lifted up from you. Confused, you watched him go through gymnastics in his mind. With every second, fear contorted his face, in his eyes. Once you met his he almost let loose a shriek of horror.

"Shit! Babe, you gotta let me cum again!"

"H-Huh?" Again Mista was on you, kissing you and feeling up your body.

"I just realized. That last go makes four rounds. I can't stop on four, I'll die if I don't cum again!"

"Ugh, Mista, what have I said about getting ahead of yourself?"

"I can't help it babe, I go crazy when you're around. Will you help me? Pretty please?" He gives you puppy eyes.

Sighing, you rub the bridge of your nose between your eyes, "Mista, I'm exhausted. I don't think I can go for another round... I don't think you can either." The thought of sex right now made you feel nauseous. You just wanted to cuddle. Mista didn't look any better.

"Oh, I'm beggin' you babe! Just a quickie, I promise I'll treat you real good afterwards."

A look down confirmed to you he was hard as a rock again. And so soon after blowing his load? But damnit, he looked good. You watched it some more, that familiar heat between your legs making itself known again as you watched his cock throb in time with his pulse.

God damnit. You were weak.

"Okay, I'll help you. But don't think this is an everyday thing, you cheeky bastard."

Mista looked happier than a kid on Christmas. While you got out of bed, your boyfriend wiggled his way down to the foot with his legs over the end and his arms propping him up from behind.

It was too cold to be moving around, you put on some fresh panties and whatever shirt was nearest, one of Mista's band shirts he hasn't already modified into a crop top. It smelt like him, and that was enough to make your weak heart skip.

Okay, enough lollygagging. You got back to your desperate boyfriend, settling between his open thighs with a pillow on the floor for your knees. Your hands moved up his thighs to grip his member, slowly pumping the length while your mouth busied over his thick head.

"Oh, fuck yes." Mista moaned as his head tipped back. "Fuck, I haven't gotten to use your mouth in forever." Your response was a dull hum.

It was easy to tease Mista. The base of his dick was the most sensitive area down there, you loved to tease him with kisses and licks while your finger moved up to prod his slit. His body shuddered, hands reaching to grab your scalp, lightening their hold once Mista realized he was clawing into you.

"N-Now, don't be mean... I'm still sensi-tive!" His voice rose an octave when you added a hard suck on one of his balls. The thighs around your head clamped down as he whined out loudly, repeating curses underneath his breath when your hand quickened it's pace.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit."

"C'mon, Guido, you were being such a bully earlier, can't handle taking the heat back?" Your teeth were bared against his hot flesh, you nipped playfully at his skin, getting soft jumps and more whines from Mista. He was watching you with nervous eyes. You were getting into another mood. A devious mood. It wasn't often Mista let his softer side into the bedroom. He looked way too cute for his own good.

You got Mista on his back, hand still pumping his overstimulated cock. Your other hand got tangled in his hair, contrasting your merciless hand with soft brushes through his thick, curly locks.

"Y-Y/n. This is... T-T-Too much!"

"Don't be a baby. You wanted this yeah?"

You leaned lower to nip the salty skin underneath his ear. With a kiss you whispered just to him, "Go on, cum in my hand. Be a good boy and say my name."

"F-Fuck, Y/n–!" His voice rose to a new pitch as his head came to a blank. His cock painted your hand white in his sperm, all while you never stopped jacking him off without remorse. It quickly became too much for his tired body, his legs shook painfully as you pumped him empty. He babbled on incoherently, trying to stop the torture of his poor cock. "Fuck, fuck! P-Please, stop!"

"Oh, you have enough already?" You asked already knowing the answer.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes! Please–."

You finally let go. And he whimpered so pathetically. After collapsing into the bed for the last time, Mista tried to catch his breath. He fell asleep naked and covered in his own grime, while you decided to freshen up. After a quick wash down you could finally get your snuggles with your stinky boyfriend.

[broadwaybalogna]

[Zutara] oneshot based on the story told in Travelin’ Soldier by the chicks

May 2, the Southern Air Temple

Katara,

Thank you for allowing me to write you during these times. We didn’t get to talk much aside from that day at the lake. Your kindness will not be taken for granted. Being able to write to someone during these times— the other men say it will keep me alive. Although we have yet to become close, I place my wholehearted trust in them.

It’s been a week since we’ve established camp. The General has been rough on all us soldiers, but it makes us stronger. At least, that’s what he says. It feels weird wrong fighting against my own element, I can’t help but think about the boys whom I grew up with, knowing they are fighting in support of the deaths they will bring to thousands if not millions.

I am aware that the other soldiers are weary of me, being from the fire nation would harbor such feelings toward me. It is my goal to prove my loyalty to them. And to you, too. Sokka speaks fondly of you, he says your smile itself would be enough to cease fighting on all sides of the war. The hour we spent at sunset on the pier brings no doubt to my mind about his words. I sense he’s still on edge about me writing to you. I will be sure to prove myself worthy of this, I swear. Sokka says to expect a letter from him in a day or two.

-Zuko

June 29, Omashu

Katara,

I sincerely thank you for writing back. I will be honest, I did not expect much in return for my letter. Sokka bragged that you wrote more to him than I, we have grown closer during this past month. He never says a bad word about you. Though perhaps he would’ve preferred to leave out the weekly yelling matches you two have. “Sibling rivalry” he says, “all in good fun”. He muttered about always buying you hot chocolate after. He never shies away from embarrassing you, however. I’ll spare you my knowledge but you should know that I find it, if anything, cute that you keep all your childhood stuffed animals close.

I cannot help but thinking more fondly of you the more I learn.

Our last few exchanges have sent warmth to my heart.

One of the soldiers here said he was an artist before being drafted. He offered to draw a portrait of you for Sokka based on his description. Sokka jumped at the opportunity of a portrait. I never knew how poetic he could be when describing a person. He would say things like your hair having waves like the sea. I simplified his words. He truly loves you beyond what I believe you know.

Not many other men have warmed up to me (pun not intended). They are all quite avoidant of me. I wish they would trust me as much as I do them. Sokka has not suffered at all being friends with me. He’ll sometimes talk me up to the other soldiers. He’s a true extrovert. His mindset is almost perfect for a soldier, our General said.

We lost our first two men not long ago just outside the Southern Air Temple. One of them I believe you may know, Hahn. He was brave until the end, and he will forever live in our memories.

Sokka keeps your portrait in his bag for safe keeping. I’ll steal a glance whenever I can. Every time I look, you’re more extravagant than the last.

Your friend,

Zuko

September 13, Natsuo Island

My dearest Katara,

The war has had few good effects on the soldiers. Sokka attempts to maintain his optimism but as fall begins and the cold winds reach us, it is hard to live up to his past. He doesn’t speak as much of you, it must be hard on his heart. Mao died to a gunshot wound not less than two days ago. I’ve spoken of him a few times in our previous exchanges. He had a daughter and wife whom he wrote as often as we do you. In his last letter, he promised to come home and raise their child with the utmost love.

Sokka cried when he died.

He says he made a similar promise to you; coming home. I wish I could’ve told him to raise his hopes.

Mao was a man who had my utmost respect. And I would say no different about Sokka. We all know the possibilities of this war.

I pray to the spirits with Sokka for opportunity and blessings each night. I never used to do that before, pray. I find it gives me peace of mind. Sokka speaks of the water tribe spirits and the legends behind them. I have learned much about Tui and La.

Every time I think solemnly, I look back to the sunset we spent at the pier. I try to remember each moment before sleeping each night. The way the wind blowed in your hair, the way your eyes glistened the colors of the sunset, your perfect smile. It brings me hope.

You bring me hope.

I don’t know what to call it. Sokka says “love” and I look away.

I fear if I call it that, I will have to face these emotions in full.

Do you find yourself wondering the same?

Best regards,

Zuko

December 20, Fire Fountain City

My dearest, Katara,

Do you ever wonder what would have come of our lives had the war never begun? Would I have found you at the café near the train? Would you have taken me to the pier overlooking the nearby lake? Would your eyes had sparkled as bright as that day?

Sokka smudged the portrait Jan made for him of you the first few weeks we set out. He silently cried to himself that night. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew he did.

Every time we face a hardship, I close my eyes and see your face looking back at me. It is hard to imagine a world without you.

It is also hard to imagine a world without war.

Sokka has a scar on his shoulder from a gunshot that grazed him. A few other scars I’ve seen are similar on his legs and arms, but his shoulder is most prominent. I know he hasn’t written to you about this because he desperately wants you to believe he is the strong older brother you look up to him to be. But I fear his mortality is fading.

I’m sure he’s told you about my own scar.

It is hard to see or hear out of my left eye and ear. Sokka says you love me no matter my appearance. I trust him. I also trust you. I’m sure our love will never come to an end. Sokka says we share the adoration of a newlywed couple. It’s impossible to believe we’ve only seen each other once. I feel like I’ve seen you each day of my life.

My heart burns to see you again, glistening in the sunset. I fantasize about seeing you again each night. I wish you perfect prosperity.

Don’t worry, but I won’t be able to write for a while.

With love,

Zuko

January 1, Crescent Island

My sister,

You do not understand the life you have given me with death surrounds my every move. You have been the light that shines at the end of the tunnel for many people in my unit. I tell stories of our adventures when I can, when it doesn’t hurt to think about, which is not often anymore.

To say that you have given hope to the people who have had the honor of knowing you is an understatement. You have given life to people who believed they had nothing to live for.

Katara, on December 25th, Zuko was caught in crossfire between our and fire nation units not far from Fire Fountain City. He was shot and killed on impact.

The war has caused the deaths of many men, but never would I believe Zuko would be one of those men.

It was foolish of me to believe there would be a world that favored love over war.

He loved you more than himself.

He couldn’t tell you this, but each time he read your letters, I would watch his face flush and a smile inch at the corner of his lips. He would speak of you with pure adoration.

He will be missed by the thousands of lives he has directly and indirectly saved through his work. He will be missed by the units that benefited from his fire during the cold. He will be missed by me.

But I know that he will be missed by you the most.

I do not know when the war will end. And I know less of when I will return to you. But I know it will happen.

Katara, this soldier will come home to you.

I promise.

-Sokka

[angel-anachronism]

OKAY IVE NEVER REQUESTED BEFORE SO IM SCARED BUT I REALLY LIKE YOUR WORK AND IM JUST WONDWRING IF YOU COULD WRITE A RICKY X FEM! READER WHERE THEY ARE LIKE STARGAZING TOGETHER OR SOMETHING?

OK, I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD! Sorry for not posting in such a long time, but life has been going downhill for me lately, and I just feel so unmotivated, so I'm very sorry for making you wait such a long time! My mom has gotten an operation to get rid of a cyst out of her vocal cords, and she's mute for some time, which has made me go through a very deep depression, and exams have made me go through it even deeper.

But now I'm a little better thanks to friends and family. I'm still very sorry for making you guys wait such a long time for me to write oneshots, but I promise that I'll try writing more!

Anyways, here's your order of a scenario Ricky stargazing together with (Y/N) <3

We also reached over 100 followers, which I still cannot believe! Thank you, guys, so much, I love you all very much!

Anyways, sorry for rambling, so here's the oneshot <3

(Tw: None!)

Rewrite the stars (Ricky x Fem!Reader)

(𝓨/𝓝)'𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥

My life was pretty boring until I met this boy named Ricky at school.

Ricky had always been fascinated by the stars. He would spend hours looking up at the night sky, marvelling at the beauty of the constellations and imagining what it would be like to explore the vast expanse of space.

Despite his love for stargazing, Ricky had always been a shy and introverted boy. He had developed a condition that made him unable to speak, and this had always made it difficult for him to make friends and connect with others.

But then, when we first met at choir practice, we immediately hit it off. I saw beyond his silence and understood the beauty and depth of his soul, and he understood mine too.

I'd never felt happier in my life until this boy came into it, and I'm thanking every star in the galaxy for making our meeting even become true.

Speaking about the galaxy, today is a very important and rare day for astronomical events. Today is the day when a solar eclipse occurs!

I and Ricky were very excited about this event, and so we made a plan to witness it: We were going to go to the top of Uranium's highest hill tonight and I might even confess my crush on him... That idea makes me blush.

As I stood on the hill, overlooking the vast expanse of the valley below, I couldn't help but feel my heart racing with excitement. The solar eclipse was about to begin, and I was standing here with the one person who had become so special to me over the past few months: Ricky Potts.

I glanced over at Ricky, and I could see the excitement in his eyes. Despite his inability to speak, he had a way of communicating with me that was so pure and genuine. I felt like I could understand everything he was thinking and feeling, without him ever saying a word.

As we stood there, gazing up at the sky, I noticed how the air around us had grown cooler, and a sense of calm descended over the hill. I felt like we were the only two people in the world, lost in our own private universe.

I looked through the eclipse glasses that Ricky had brought along, and I gasped as I saw the sun slowly being obscured by the moon. The bright disc of the sun was being replaced by a dark circle, and it was as if the world had been plunged into twilight.

Ricky pointed up at the sky, and I followed his gaze to see the corona of the sun blazing around the dark circle. Even though he couldn't speak, I could sense his excitement and wonder, and it made me feel so happy to be there with him.

As the eclipse continued, we stood side by side, lost in our own thoughts and feelings. I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for this moment, for being able to witness such a rare and beautiful event with someone who had become so important to me.

As the eclipse ended and the world slowly returned to its normal brightness, Ricky turned to me and smiled. I knew that even though he couldn't say the words, he was thanking me for sharing this experience with him.

"Hey Ricky...I have to admit something to you..." I said. Ricky looked confused. "I like you...And I mean like LIKE you! Wouldyoupleaseacceptmetobeyourgirlfriendprettyplease?" I said the last part faster than sonic the hedgehog could ever say, which made me blush even more.

Ricky started blushing and looking at the ground. Did I do something wrong? Before I could ask him, he signed for me to sit down next to him, and so I did.

At that moment, as I felt the whole universe revolving around us...we finally kissed.

At that moment, I felt like the luckiest person in the world, and I knew that no matter what the future held, this memory would stay with me forever.

𝑅𝑒𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑔 >> 𝐿𝒾𝓀�� (𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈)

[bonniebird]

title

Bonnie Bennett x Male!Cambion!Reader  

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Request: Anonymous asked: Hi Bonnie! Could I get a Bonnie Bennett oneshot with a male reader? Reader is a cambion that takes an interest in Bonnie when she leaves Mystic Falls and ends up in his hometown

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Bonnie continued to write despite feeling eyes on her. She knew exactly where you were. Alo what you were which made her feel far more comfortable with the talisman in her pocket.

Leaving Mystic Falls Bonnie had moved from place to place. But something had drawn her here. It turned out to be her powers. She’d been working on mild premonitions and after a phone call with Elena had headed to a small town a little ways off her planned route. By chance, luck or her own power Bonnie was exactly where she needed to be. Elena had called back and asked if she was still near the town. They needed a book back home and the last place it had been seen was in the town she had happened to be staying in. Elena sent a little money to Bonnie’s account, Stefan had warned of a B&B that was pretty anti-witch from his last recollection of the place. It was that sentiment that had Bonnie on edge. She used the money to book into the larger hotel that Stefan recommended and began exploring the town. A few stores had wards carved into the doors, blocking vampires and other creatures from entering. She had noticed on her second day that she was being followed. By the twelfth she had found where the book was hidden and realised that you were following her. “Staring is rude.” Bonnie said as she continued to write notes. She was writing out variations of a spell that could get her into the building with the book. So far she had no luck and needed to craft an entirely new spell. You took her comment as an invitation. It made her raise her eyebrows as you got up and sat down next to her. “Well. You have the vampires on edge. They ran the witches out a while ago and you being here makes them nervous. They’ve heard of you Bennett witches.” You said quickly. When Bonnie looked at you directly, she felt the off-pull she had been feeling for days. It was why she had made the talisman that she was wearing around her neck. She fingered it nervously and you smiled. “Relax. I’m not going to use my powers on you.” You muttered quickly. She gave you a dubious look but straightened up as if she were trying to take control of the situation.

“If you’ve been following me then you know what I’m looking for.” She snapped quickly. You tilted your head and nodded. She could feel your pull even though you weren’t using your powers. You must have been more powerful than she had thought. “I do. Perhaps we could help each other.” You said and grinned wickedly. She looked at you coldly. “What exactly do you need help with?” She knew well enough that your powers, if they were as strong as she thought, could pull her into something she wouldn’t be able to handle alone. She didn’t exactly want to be beholden to an incubus. “I can’t leave here. The vampire that has your book had the last witch here bind me to their home. As long as I live my power is keeping the wards, keeping you out, functioning. It’s been years and years since I left. Longer still since a witch powerful enough to break the spell was allowed to stay.” You grinned at her and she noticed how perfectly straight and white your teeth were. In fact, the longer she looked at you the more she could clearly see that your face had shifted almost to look more appealing to her. How powerful is he? Bonnie thought to herself. “I’ll need help to do that.” She warned. You smiled and shrugged. “I have been here for many years. A few more will not hurt me. I cannot say the same for you though.” You glanced at a witch hunter who had been tailing Bonnie for the last few days. You’d managed to occupy him for a while, it was how Bonnie had managed to stay so long without anyone interfering with her. But the creatures of the town were getting nervous and it was only a matter of time before the order to run her out of town changed to something more lethal. “I’ll call my friends and see what they think we can do… I’m not promising anything.” Bonnie said slowly. You looked from the witch hunter to her and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Without removing the curse from me you will not be able to get to that book. I do hope that isn’t a problem for you.” Smiling you got up and left. As you passed the witch hunter you focused on him, pooling your powers in the air so that he was helpless to the instinct that dragged him after you. Bonnie hurried out of the small town square, shoving some cash on the table she’d been sitting at, not even bothering to finish her untouched drink, she was dialling Elena’s number before she had even slung her bag over her shoulder. Problems like this tended to get bad fast so the sooner she could have someone come to help her. The better.

Bonnie Bennett tags:

@gillybear17@ravennoore14@the-caravello-post@killing-gremlin@aegonandaemondtargaryenslut18@lchufflepuffcorn @geekyandgay98@savagemickey03@evattude@kaitieskidmore1@darklyndivinely

@sashawalker2

[mageofseven]

Lady Natalona Abalam

(Obey Me OC)

This is an OC I originally created in Diavolo's story for MC's surprise birth (found here) but have also included her my oneshot about Mephisto getting jealous over another noble (Nat 🥰) flirting with MC (found here).

Since she is an OC I feel I will keep including in my stories in the future, I wanted to properly introduce her to you all since I love her so much 💕

Full name:

Natalona Mariya Valeriya Abalam

Nicknames:

Nat, Natty

Sin:

Lust 😘

Appearance:

Long white hair with ash grey highlights and matching horns. She has sweet and innocent looking lilac eyes, deceiving little orbs that have gotten her virtually anything she wants.

She is about the same age as Diavolo and Mephistopheles.

Family:

Mother- Boudica Brei (Dearg-Due) Abalam. Also known known as Duchess Abalam and Grandleader Abalam, but prefers the title Matriarch Abalam, the one that signifies her attachment over her family instead of her power or political leadership. Sin: Pride

Younger sister- Saoirse Euna Finnea Abalam. First name pronounced like 'Sir-sha'. A recent RAD addition as she only just became of age. Can always be found next to her sister Nat, but never saying a word. Rumors have spread long before her attendance at the academy that the youngest Abalam sister may or may not be mute, but no one has yet to get this confirmed, not even the teachers. Has no notable titles or affiliations in or outside of school, but is generally known for being around (other than her sister) Prince Diavolo and Beelzebub (he found her crying one day when she lost her sister so he gave her one of his cookies. Since then, she follows him around whenever she loses sight of Natalona and the big dude is okay with it). Sin: Gluttony

Father-

More info:

Lady Natalona is the oldest daughter of Matriarch Abalam, the Grandleader of the Aldatu political faction in the Devildom, a position her [CENSORED] once held before [CENSORED].

Under Matriarch Abalam, and with the support of Lord Diavolo himself, the party, the Devildom, and most importantly, their family has seen their most peaceful and prosperous time in a long time, something that wasn't always guaranteed in their family.

Natalona is someone very well-known in the Devildom, but not just for her family name or history. This lust demoness is known for her gentle beauty and a gaze that can lull anyone to find peace within themselves.

She's is also famed for being Asmodeus', the Avatar of Lust's, 'first' when he came to the Devildom. The two cuties bonded quickly and had a very long standing friends with benefits relationship that very naturally just melted into a regular friendship when Asmo got into a serious relationship (I often write him getting with MC and Solomon after all lol).

Outside of Asmo, Nat is also close with Lord Diavolo, both personally and professionally. The two knew each other as kids, though weren't friends yet back then. Back when they were children and King Marik still had the royal family aligned with the Traditionalist faction, the two didn't have many opportunities to be around each other, but when they were, Dia was always surprised at how genuine her kindness seemed and how lax she was with etiquette in those days.

One day, the two skipped out on the early half of some 'peace' meal to go climb trees in the gardens. The poor, naïve prince made the mistake the reaching out to take a leaf off her dress--by her butt.

Little Nat, briefly forgetting they were up high, shoved him away (her mama taught her right and told her where others cannot touch and princes aren't an exception), causing Dia to fall out of the tree.

Luckily, boy gots wings that he mostly knew how to use at this point so it was all good.

Nat ripped her dress rushing down from the tree to check on him though, resulting in both children getting scolded, but checked over by Barbatos. In the end, the butler fixed her dress and told the little noble girl he'd keep this a secret from her parents this time, but no more after this (lies, this softhearted man does this for her a couple more times the next hundred or so years). It is a memory the noblewoman and Diavolo laugh about to this day.

Professionally speaking, Natalona also works with the prince in place of her mother. Boudica hopes for her daughter to enter the world of politics and replace her as faction leader someday as to keep the power she has accumulated for her family and hopes getting her daughter to help out now might make her more willing later. She also believes the prince may be more willing to be persuaded by a beautiful woman around his age rather than one near what his own mother would be at this point, if the devil had given her such time at least. If nothing more, Nat is very good at her job and Dia likes working with her though she doesn't know for sure if politics are really what she wants to deal with for the rest of her life.

Another noteworthy relationship of hers is with Mephistopheles--but it's not a positive one. His parents run the opposing political faction, something that never mattered much to the woman, but has mattered very, very much to that 'insufferable' man as she thinks of him. Whether as kids or as adults, he is always in her business, always judging her every move, especially when it comes to Lord Diavolo. Like dude, I'm sorry your boyfriend is calling me and not you; take it up with him and just chill.

Some less notable but still fun 'relationships' of hers are with Lucifer and Beelzebub.

Oh dear devil, does this woman have the hots for Lucifer. The Avatar of Pride is respectful to her for work reasons and because Diavolo asks him, but her flirting is so excessive to that it is borderline aggravating some days. Luce has little to no interest in the noblewoman at this time, but that will not stop Nat in the slightest.

With Beel, it's a mix of things. Yeah, he's hot and she flirts with the guy. Big guy doesn't some to pick up on it most of the time though. Makes it this games with Asmo; if Beel can actually tell she's flirting with him at any point in the day, Azzy has to buy her dinner sometime...it doesn't happen a lot; in truth, no matter what she says or what others tell him, Beel only sees Nat as 'Saoirse's nice sister'.

Which leads into the other reason she likes this this man: he takes care of her sweet baby sister 😭 Yes, her Siri-girl is grown up now, but she is...sensitive. Her sister gets lost easily and doesn't like being alone and the fact that this big guy looks out for her till she can track her little sister down really warms her heart 💕

[shadowhaert]

3, 5, 9 for the Shadowheart asks?

hi!!! thank you so much!

3. What do you think your Shadowheart brings out of your Tav?

omg that’s suuuuuuch a good question. i think she makes lux softer around the edges (which is surprising, considering how warm and fuzzy she already is). lux has devoted her life to being a soldier, and the second she stopped being a soldier she relied on helping others before herself. shadowheart encourages her to take time for herself and take what she wants for once in her life. lux is terribly mule-headed and stubborn in that she will give up her entire soul to a cause before she realizes she’s been drained. shadowheart reels her in a bit and she’s pretty good at slowing lux down and making her take a breath before being irrational. i think lux is fairly quiet too, having spent so much of her life alone and just focused on surviving, so when she’s around shadowheart she can be a yapper, which is good for both of them

5. What parts of Shadowheart’s canon story impacted you the most?

oof. growing up trans, queer, and catholic really made shadowheart’s story a punch to the gut. when aylin tells her of the things her religion has stripped her of i lost it. seeing shadowheart’s resilience after being essentially drained of everything she thought she knew, and coming back stronger and freer because of it, was really inspiring. writing for her and in her perspective has been really healing for me, because lux is selûnite, so shadowheart has to reckon with her god deeming her affection and her love for this person wrong or shameful. her god also tells her that who she is inside is wrong, and there is an ideal image of her that she should want instead, and she should push down whatever threatens to come out in favor of being “righteous”. that was how it felt to grow up trans in the church, so her entire story just made me sob honestly

9. Do you have any Shadowheart works in progress? Care to share a teaser paragraph?

oh boy do i ever! i currently have 8 total outlines with 2 im actively writing. my favorite has been my multichap, which is my first for this fandom. my gorgeous beta reader is finishing up chapter 2 in time for me to post on thursday and im nearly finished with the 3rd!

i’ll post a teaser under the cut from both ch 2 and from my oneshot just because i’m excited for both of them hehe

shadowheart asks!

until the feeling has a name ch2:

“I hope I am not out of line by saying that I have felt something between us for some time now,” Lux admits nervously. “Though I can’t help but hope that you feel the same, I understand if you do not.” 

“And if I said I didn’t?”

Lux chuckles and shrugs her shoulders. “Then I would bury my pride in the dirt and pray to your Dark Lady that she makes you less stubborn.”

“You would pray to Shar over me?” Shadowheart gasps in feigned incredulity. “What will your Moonmaiden think of such treachery?”

“She will probably laugh at me. She will think me smitten, though she wouldn’t be wrong in the slightest.” 

Shadowheart considers this for a moment. “And if I said I did? Feel that way, I mean.”

“Then I would try to ignore these damned butterflies long enough to kiss you.”

“Do it, then.”

Lux looks stupefied, eyes widening in the wake of Shadowheart’s unexpected boldness. “Do what?”

“Kiss me.” 

adamantine fic (aka spreader bar fic):

On each side of the spear shaft is a blunted, smoothened end with a small amount of overhang for the addition of a head or another base to further extend its length. Lux places one buckle on either end before carefully slotting the mold into the forge and practically sprinting back towards the striking mechanism. 

As she pulls the lever, bottom lip stuck between her teeth when the required strength makes her forearms scream, she cannot help but become awash in vivid imaginings. Her design, an envy of Gond himself, fixed between two pale and familiar limbs. Her creation, the catalyst for a blown-out cry that could make even Sharess fall to her knees. Her dark-petaled lover, the divine image of shadowed piety, with her body contorted and mind made supplicant before a new god. Lux’s palms begin to sweat and her vision blurs as the cast is filled and cooled inside the forge. It lets out a spectacular hiss when the process is finished. 

She is nervous when she approaches. She shakes out her hands, wipes them on her leggings, and steps closer to the finished product born from the more carnal depths of her mind. 

[pebletz]

Short Oneshot South Park fic (TW’s down below before reading)

Hellu friends! I was just sort of lying in bed when this story idea came to mind. While yes, I do love my romance, every once in a while I’m here for the sweet sweet angst/slight mix of horror. I also barely write fanfics but can think of scripts of dialogue for some reason? So that’s the format of this story… oops. Also, the characters can be read as either platonic or romantic, though honestly you shouldn’t be thinking about either for this one, folks.

This is a south park Stan and Kyle short one-shot script dialogue thingy ma jig, and I give you my love right now because in all seriousness, this contains a very dark topic. If you are uncomfortable with what is in the trigger warnings I give below, by all means, DO NOT READ PAST THE MORE LINE. It made me feel a slight panic in my chest just writing this, and I really would hate to have someone go through some dark traumatic memories again. So last warning, it’s about to get real dark, and very uncomfortable.

To the people who are going to read this, I wish you luck, not only for the gruesome topics at hand but also for dealing with my weird mix of both fanfic and theater script dialogue format. I’m also writing this sort of late at night, so if I made some mistakes uh… I’m very sorry. Anyways, this won’t be long, promise.

Stay safe everyone, I love you, and everything will be okay. You got this. Always be sure to ask for help when you need it. <3

-Guppie

TW/ S*icide mentions, graphic g*re mentions, possible derealization(?), anxiety, depression, eyes(?), panic attacks, hyperventilating, mentions of drugs, and finally a weird ass Omori ref I added in for no reason other than I thought it fit .-.

Speechless

Stan: Have you ever thought of killing yourself?

Kyle: …I’m sorry?

Stan: You know, offing yourself. Grab a rope, buy a gun, the end.

Kyle: … *smirks, he thinks it’s a joke* Ah yes, of course. However, I really cannot decide my fate, Stanley. Which method would best accommodate my attitude? *he chuckled*

Stan: *smiles, but it’s forced and dry. Kyle feels like he hears his lips crack.* I’m being serious.

Kyle: *giggles more, and then it slows* …why would you even ask me that?

Stan: *he brushes some of his stray hair back with his hand* You seem different. I can see it in your eyes, the way you smile. God- you’re smoking a pack of cigarettes right next to me on the rooftop of Randy’s barn. You have the biggest eye-bags I’ve ever seen on you.

Kyle: *looks away, suddenly feeling sweat under his collar* “You sure that’s not just because of finals?”

Stan: You haven’t cared about anything this year.

Kyle: …. Stan, if I’m being honest, I- … *he sees Stan’s sad smile and he gulps* I can’t say I’ve been feeling much better than that to be honest..

Stan: … *he takes a hit from his own cigar, eyes dead to the world. That once beautiful sky blue Kyle used to see were now pale in comparison, Stans eyes looked like the mariana trench now. Black. Empty. Devoid of all hope. It’s then his shoulders perk up, but only slightly. He has an idea, Kyle bets.* Let’s do it together, then.

Kyle: *his breath hitches, and suddenly he feels like he’s being pressed into the ground by a boulder* …what..?

Stan: I’m serious. I can figure it out for the both of us and we can just- end it. Together. Like always.

Kyle: …Stan I don’t think we are on the same page here-

Stan: Kyle, I have wanted nothing more than to eliminate my very existence since I was only ten years old. You get how that feels, right?

Kyle: …I-

Stan: whether you are coming with me or not, I’m not going to be here very long. I know it.

Kyle: *he’s full-on sweating now, shaking, panicking* Stan, please- I don’t think this is-

Stan: Kyle.

Kyle: Stan- please let me just-

Stan: Kyle. *he grabs Kyle’s hand, Kyle reflexes and tries to pull his hand back, but Stan doesn’t let him. He puts Kyle’s hand against his own chest.* Do you feel this? This pounding?

Kyle: *he’s breathing heavily, quickly.. it’s getting hard to breathe*

Stan: … Kyle, this- this pounding- it’s all around me now. It’s in my head- it’s- I can feel the ground b r e a t h i n g beneath me. Do you feel it too? Because fuck- Kyle- I need it gone. It’s like the world knows what’s gonna happen. It’s screaming for it. It hurts- it fucking hurts too much. I want to tear out my own organs. Isn’t that just sad? Is that a cynical thing? To want to wipe off every last trace of my existence? Is god a sadist, or am I a masochist? Does he want my blood oozing out, or is that just what they want? All I see nowadays are eyes, Kyle. Like people are watching me- waiting-

Waiting for something to happen?

I can’t take it anymore. Please Kyle- save me- help me…

Kyle: I- you- Stan- *he’s hyperventilating now, vision fuzzy. What’s happening!?* I can’t- bre a th-

Stan: ..Kyle? Kyle!?

Kyle: *everything grows dark as he falls, but Kyle still feels like he’s not alone. He feels the weight of the world crawling on his shoulders. His chest hurts. He looks around, but there’s only silence. What is he doing? Is he going to stop falling? When is he going to hit the ground with a loud crunch?*

…

……

He’s waiting for his end too.

[marblemoovt]

Love Triangle - Griffith/Reader/Guts

Masterlist

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 11.4k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of Violence. Attempted Rape/Non-Con. Fluff. Angst (Happy ending)

Summary:

The events of Berserk up until just after the eclipse with the reader. (I honestly cannot summarize this well enough, but just give it a shot)

------

“But what about Griffith? Casca? The men in your unit?”

Guts smiles and shrugs. “They’ll be fine without me.”

You stare at the ground and fidget with your fingers. “What about me?” you ask in a quiet voice. When you dare to look up, he looks conflicted, And for a second, you actually think he’ll stay.

“…Come with me then,” he suggests.

You blink owlishly at him. “Sorry?”

“Come with me. We can travel together and look for our own dreams.” He looks so earnest that it hurts to turn down his offer.

“Guts, you know I can’t leave.” You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The thought of leaving Griffith is too much to bear.

Guts furrows his brows. “We both know that’s bullshit. It’s only a matter of if you want to.”

Note:

This is an ask.

This took me a while to write because I kept getting ideas. Honestly, I'm tempted to rewrite this one day as a series instead of a oneshot, just because this version feels too condensed for what I wanted to convey. I initially thought that this wouldn't be that long, and then I ended up around 11k words, so oops. My brain is very kaputt, so there's not much else I have to say right now. I did have fun writing this though, I found it interesting.

Happy reading! (｡･∀･)ﾉﾞ

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

“Good job, darling,” Griffith praises, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. You glance over at him with a smile. 

You sheathe your sword and wipe away the sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand. “Thank you. There’s still a maneuver I struggle with,” you say. You worked on it all week, but your one swing doesn’t have as much control as you would like. 

“Perhaps I can help?” Griffith offers, and you nod gratefully. You demonstrate the move and huff in frustration when you miss your mark on the training dummy. “I see the problem.” Griffith comes up behind you and adjusts your stance. His breath tickles your ear. “You need to tilt your wrist at more of an angle.” His soft hands encompass your wrist—how can he have such delicate hands for a swordsman?? “Like this.” Griffith chuckles in bemusement, and you could have sworn the jet of air against the nape of your neck was intentional. “Try now.”

You tighten your grip on the sword and swing your arm, gasping when you cut the dummy clean across its torso. “Thank you, Sir,” you say, eyes still lingering on the deep gash you made.

“I merely guided you, dear. Take more credit for your talents,” Griffith says. You nod mutely and glance over your shoulder, scrambling away from him when your nose almost brushes against his. He merely flashes his usual smile and walks away to talk to the other members. You’re too lost in your head that you don’t notice Guts approaching you.

“I see you finally managed to perfect your swing,” Guts says, tilting his head towards the dummy. You grin and bounce on the balls of your feet.

“Yeah! Griffith helped me. Wanna see it?” you ask. The stiffening of his jaw is too subtle for you to notice. You’re too caught up in your excitement and the adrenaline from being close to Griffith.

“Alright, show me what you got.” Guts crosses his arms and waits expectantly. You take a deep breath and resume your stance, angling your wrist like earlier. One swing later, the dummy has another gash across its chest. You turn to Guts, the grin on your face faltering when you take in his unimpressed expression. He hums and says, “while that was a good swing, it won’t work in battle unless your enemy is unarmoured. But every armour has its weak spots.” Guts pulls out his sword and decapitates the dummy in a single swipe. “Like the neck.”

Your lips pinch together, but you manage a weak smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You thank him for the advice and excuse yourself under the pretence of fetching a new dummy. Walking past the shed where the dummies are kept, you stop at the bench where you left your belongings. Taking a swig from your waterskin, you douse the remainder on your head to cool yourself off. You run a hand down your face, jumping out of your skin when Griffith appears in front of you. 

“I do apologize for Guts’s behaviour. He’s not very adept at matters of the heart,” Griffith says. His hair is bright underneath the sun, and you’re momentarily blinded by his beauty. 

“I-I don’t quite understand,” you say. Since when did training fall under the category of feelings?

Griffith’s lips turn up in a gentle curve, and he pats your head. “I’m sure he meant to praise you in his own roundabout way,” Griffith says, wiping a drop of water that was about to drip off your chin. You shudder from the contact and cannot control the colour of your face. He seems pleased by your reaction and adds, “you did wonderful, darling.”

“I-I did?” It takes all your brain cells to say those two words. You can only stare like a startled deer. His touch still lingers on your chin, the rough pad of his thumb caressing your skin. 

“Of course. Our enemies will never know what hit them. The Grim Reapers of the Battlefield and you, my Scythe.” The grin on his face is soft, but you can’t shake off the predatorial feeling. He’s never called you that before. A title makes you feel important; it gives you a purpose. You understand that Griffith has a dream, an ambitious one at that. Maybe this is his way of keeping you by his side. 

“I won’t let you down,” you say, straightening your back.

Griffith chuckles and says, “Of course, dear. You never fail to exceed my expectations.” And this time, the smile reaches his eyes. Warmth blooms in your chest, and you forget your feelings of uneasiness. He kisses your cheek, and it’s the most open he’s been with his affection for you. You don’t have a label for what you two are. You obviously like him more than a friend, and he seems to reciprocate those feelings. But you’re too afraid to ask what you mean to him. Because what if you’re deluding yourself into thinking he likes you back?

“What are we?” The words tumble from your lips before you realize they’re coming out. 

Griffith tilts his head to the side. “That’s quite a philosophical question,” he remarks.

You nibble on your bottom lip. “N-no. I meant us. What’s going on between us? You clearly know how I feel about you.” Your anxiety spikes when he doesn’t respond. “I can pretend nothing ever happened if that’s what you prefer,” you add.

“What do you want us to be?” Griffith asks.

You furrow your brows. “Does my opinion really matter?” He has the power in this conversation, not you. It doesn’t matter how much you love him. Your love does nothing unless he accepts it.

Griffith smiles, and there’s a gleam in his eyes. “I want to hear you say it,” he says. His eyes burn into you, and you feel so naked under his gaze. A part of you is thrilled by the attention. He must like you to some capacity if he can look at you with such intensity.

Emboldened by his stare, you say, “I want us to be lovers.”

He bows and kisses the back of your hand. “Then your wish is my command. Come by my tent tonight,” Griffith commands. Your shoulders tense, and a chill washes over you.

You lick your lips and hesitantly part them. “Griffith, when I said lovers, I didn’t solely mean sex.” You didn’t want to be used and thrown away. The lustful stares you’ve received from others are frightening. Enemies on the battlefield have sneered at you and made taunts about what they’ll do to you once they win. The nobles that Griffith deals with are not subtle at all in their advances. This is not to say that you are the most attractive person in the land—no, that title is taken by Griffith—but that humans can be awful and scummy creatures.

Griffith hums. “You desire to be my partner, do you not? There are many other activities to do during the evening. I apologize if my intentions came off as otherwise.” He makes it sound like it's your fault, but you apologize like the fool you are.

You quickly throw your hands up and sputter, “Oh, no! I’m sorry for assuming!”

Griffith strokes your arm, and a soft smile tugs his lips. You breathe out a sigh of relief; he forgives you. “Then I look forward to your company later,” he says, grinning in a cat-like manner.

You watch as Griffith walks away. In the corner of your vision, you notice Casca glaring at you. What’s her problem?

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

“You’ll freeze to death if you keep standing out there,” Guts says, observing your shivering form. You rub your hands together, hoping the friction will thaw the numbness gnawing into your bones.

“I was going to enter… eventually,” you say, pausing when you hear the gentle slosh of liquid. “What are—“

He holds out a mug and says, “It’s for you. Thought some cider would help you warm up.” This is probably the kindest thing Guts has ever done for you. You gratefully accept the drink and groan when your fingers wrap around the hot cup. Blowing on the surface of the cider, you take a small sip and feel the warm liquid flow down your throat and into your stomach. Warmth pools in your belly and the rest of your body heats up.

“I…. Thank you,” you whisper. You almost hope that Guts didn’t hear it because it was embarrassing, but the soft lines in his features say otherwise. You’re halfway through your cider, making small talk with Guts. He asks you about your hobbies and what you did before joining the band. You learn how he was picked up and raised by mercenaries. You vocalize your admiration for his tenacity. It requires tremendous strength to endure such hardships as a child and learn to grow from them. Guts is left speechless after your little ramble.

“Darling, there you are. Please, come inside. You’re shivering.” Griffith fusses over you. You actually feel quite warm now thanks to the cider from Guts. Griffith takes your hand and tugs you toward his tent. You smile and wave goodbye to Guts, thanking him for helping you warm up. He nods stoically and stands there, watching you disappear into the tent before stalking off toward the campfires.

“Griffith, your hand is squeezing too tight,” you say. A grimace forms on your face, and your hand throbs from the pressure. He doesn’t say anything but loosens his grip. You observe the inside of his tent. It’s modest since the camp is relocated often, but the tent is full of his scent. You’re too preoccupied to notice when he takes the unfinished drink from your hands and empties it into the dirt.

“Can I get you anything to drink, dear?” Griffith asks, already browsing through his wine collection. 

You shake your head. “Oh, no. I shouldn’t drink. My tolerance is weak.” You want to be completely sober tonight. Alcohol will only make you feel awful the next morning with little recollection of the previous night.

Griffith tuts, and there’s disappointment in his tone. “Come now. Let us celebrate our budding relationship. Don’t make me drink by myself,” he frowns. 

You bite your lip and mull over it, but you eventually shake your head. “No. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to drink alcohol tonight.”

“Just one glass, please?” Griffith gives you a pleading look, and your resolve crumbles.

You sigh and relent. “I guess one glass wouldn’t hurt.”

Griffith grins and pours you a drink. You swirl the maroon liquid and inhale its sweet aroma. Taking tiny sips, you pace yourself. The wine is nice and most likely very expensive. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth at the revelation that it was probably a gift from a noble. You always thought something was off about the way they treated Griffith.

You set down your half-finished wine and lick the remaining sweetness from your lips. You catch Griffith's gaze, and he’s staring at you intently. Heat floods your body. Whether from embarrassment or alcohol, you’re not sure. He stands up and towers over you. You look up and lose yourself in his blue eyes.

“A toast to us,” he says, holding his drink out. A slight frown forms on your lips, but you pick up your wine and clink your glasses together. After another sip, a familiar fuzziness blankets your mind. You hum and curl up in your seat. The room begins shifting and morphing in your vision. 

“I think I’ve had a bit too much.” You try hard not to slur your words.

Griffith lifts your cup to your lips and says, “You’re almost done. Let’s not waste such fine wine.”

You pout. “Can’t you drink the rest for me?”

“Are you sure you don’t want the rest? It’s only a few sips.”

You shake your head. “Don’t want anymore. Head’s fuzzy now.”

“Alright, darling.” He takes your glass from you and finishes your drink.

You rub your eyes and blink to clear your vision. “Can you hold me?” you request, holding your arms out like a small child. 

“I would love to. Come here, darling.” Griffith picks you up and walks over to his cot. It’s a tight fit, but there’s enough room for two. He cradles you to his chest, and you soak in his warmth. His hair tickles your face, and you brush the fair locks away with a giggle. 

You look up at Griffith to see him smiling fondly down at you. “This is nice,” you say, playing with a strand of his hair. 

“Yes, it is.” His breath fans across your face, and he nuzzles his nose against your cheek. You giggle from how it tickles, your skin tingling with electric sparks. His lips hover in front of yours, and he looks at you for permission. 

“Please kiss me,” you whisper. His sharp inhale eases some of your anxiety. He wants this as much as you do. You wait with bated breath. Should you be the one to close the gap? 

His lips make contact with yours before you can mull over the idea much longer. He tastes sweet like the wine from earlier. His fingers thread your hair, and he kisses you like a starved man. He devours you, nipping softly at your bottom lip. You groan, and he slips his tongue inside to explore your mouth. The sensation is foreign but not unpleasant. In fact, a shiver runs down your spine when he licks your gums and teeth. 

An idea pops into your head, and you suckle on his tongue, resulting in your scalp stinging. “You’re going to be the death of me,” Griffith groans. You pant and catch your breath, beaming a smile at him. He shifts so that you’re underneath him now. His arms form a cage around your body. He peppers kisses along your jawline before trailing down your neck. Your skin burns every time his lips make contact. You moan his name softly, and he slips a hand beneath your shirt. 

You tense up and shove him back. “Wait! I’m sorry. I’m not—I’m not ready for that,” you stammer. You’re afraid to be another conquest. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. You bite your lip and blink furiously. Griffith looks at you with wide eyes, taken aback by the sudden stop.

He coos and caresses your cheek when your eyes glisten with tears. “That’s alright. Sleeping with you in my arms is enough. I would never force you into something so intimate without your consent.”

“Promise?” You stare into his blue eyes, and they crinkle at the corners. He kisses your forehead.

“I swear on it,” he promises. And you believe him.

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

Almost a year has passed since that night in Griffith’s tent. While you’ve given and received pleasure, you still haven’t gone all the way. That’s not to say you’re a prude, but you still worry about how penetrative sex will change your dynamic with Griffith. Yes, you love him. And yes, he loves you too. But will his feelings change once you allow him to see your most vulnerable parts? Will he decide that you no longer deserve a place in his dream? Being discarded is one of your worst fears.

The band mostly comprises of men, and some of their views are… crude, to put it lightly. Honestly, how they can lust after people like they’re mere objects leaves an uneasy ache in your stomach. The love you see in this world is not always idyllic; it rarely is. So you developed a fear of getting too close to people. Because deeper connections lead to stronger heartbreak when they inevitably betray your trust. But then came Griffith, and you knew you were helpless.

Despite this, Griffith has never complained. He never pushes you further than you’re willing to go, and he always leaves you thoroughly satisfied. He seems content with the way things are. Every night spent in his arms leaves you feeling safe and loved.

You always supported Griffith’s dream. So when he was granted a noble title, you were ecstatic for him. He’s one step closer to achieving his goal. But then he stopped coming home at night. He started disappearing for days without leaving an explanation for his whereabouts. You don’t want to embarrass him by frantically searching the castle grounds, so you spend many nights waiting for him in your shared room until you pass out in an armchair or in bed. The others don’t say anything, but you can feel their pitiful gazes when they think you’re not looking.

These days you tend to avoid everyone, and they give you your space. But it seems like the only one who won’t leave you alone is Guts. Whenever you’re wallowing in the corner of a tavern or wandering aimlessly through the streets, he always finds you. At first, you ignored him, but his company wasn’t unwelcome. There isn’t the desire to impress or strive for perfection that comes with Griffith. With Guts, you’re allowed to just exist. He doesn’t expect anything from you, and that’s very liberating.

Today is one of your wandering days. Griffith didn’t come back last night. Again. The weather is growing colder, so you bundle yourself up before heading outside. You snag one of Griffith’s scarves and blink back tears when his scent encompasses you. The wind whips through your hair, but you only tighten the scarf around your neck and trudge forward. You avoid the square, not wanting to be surrounded by people. You decide to walk towards the gardens today. The collage of red, orange, and yellow might brighten your mood. Luckily, the gardens are empty. Everyone must be in the marketplace preparing for winter or warming up in the shops.

You find a bench near a tall oak tree. Leaves crunch beneath your feet, and the wind sends a couple dancing through the air. You take a seat and wrap your jacket tighter around your body. Your fingertips tingle, and you scold yourself for forgetting to bring gloves. Although your mind has been drifting lately.

“Mind if I join ya?” You turn in the direction of the voice and see Guts. He’s holding two cups in his hands.

“You can if one of those is for me,” you reply, rubbing your hands together. He sits beside you and hands you the steaming drink. “Cider?” you ask, sniffing the cup. Instead of smelling apples, there’s a dark, rich scent. You’ve only smelled something similar on rare occasions. “Is this?”

“Chocolate. Hot chocolate. I know you don’t care much for ale, and I’m sure you’re sick of cider.” Guts shrugs and takes a sip. His pleased expression makes you curious. You always find chocolate bitter, and the sweeter options are ridiculously overpriced because of sugar. He watches with an amused smile as you inspect the drink in your hand. “It ain’t gonna bite.”

You stick your tongue out at him and bring the cup to your lips. You tilt it slowly to avoid burning yourself. The hot chocolate glides smoothly down your throat, and your tastebuds feel delighted. It’s not bitter, but it’s not overly sweet. The richness of the chocolate is tamed by the warm cream, and there’s just enough sugar to make it enjoyable. You make a happy noise and take another sip.

“Good?” Guts asks, and you nod your head enthusiastically. The hot chocolate is still too hot, so you use it as a hand warmer until you can drink it without scalding your tongue.

“What brings you here?” you ask. You don’t keep track of what everyone else does in their spare time, but Guts doesn’t seem like the type to spend it in the gardens.

“That little guy over there,” he answers, pointing a finger to the tree near the bench. You look and see nothing out of the ordinary and turn back to him with confusion.

“The tree?” You hope you’re wrong, although it would be hilarious if you weren’t.

“Shh, no. Look again,” he says. You shrug and look at the tree, scanning its long trunk and colourfully decorated branches. Something moves in the corner of your vision. You narrow it down to one of the lower-hanging branches. There’s a tail flickering from side to side??

Guts whistles, and a cat jumps down from the tree. Its orange fur camouflages it perfectly amongst the leaves. The cat struts over but pauses when it sees you. You freeze, not wanting to startle the creature.

“S’alright, boy. Nothin’ to worry about. Brought a friend with me today,” Guts speaks in a soft tone. You’re honestly surprised he can sound so gentle. The cat eyes you warily but pads forward and hops onto Guts’s lap. He scratches the cat's head before stroking down his back. A low purr rumbles along with the wind. You stare in awe at the scene in front of you. Guts grins when he notices your expression. 

You feel your lips curling up into a smile. “Does he have a name?” you ask, but Guts shakes his head. 

“He’s a stray. Didn’t wanna name him in case I got too attached,” he replies. You nod in understanding, glancing at the cat enviously. Guts chuckles and asks, “do ya wanna pet him?” 

“May I? What if he doesn’t like me?” You roll your bottom lip between your teeth, drumming your fingers against your cup.

“Just gotta move slowly. Let him sniff ya a bit,” he instructs. You shift the cup and stretch out a hand, hovering it in front of the cat. A puff of air hits your skin as a wet, pink nose sniffs you hesitantly. You hold your breath, gasping when the cat rubs its fluffy head into the palm of your hand. You take it as permission to pet him and scratch behind his ears. “Cute,” Guts mumbles.

You grin and look up at Guts. “He’s adorable. I wish we could keep him,” you say, entranced by the fuzzy creature. 

“Yeah. A battlefield ain’t a place for a cat.” There’s a dip in his tone. Your smile turns bitter, and you give the cat a scritch underneath his chin.

An idea pops into your head. “We could keep him in our rooms in the capital! I think we’ve left our camping days behind us.” Your suggestion sparks Guts’s interest, which spurs you on. “He can clearly take care of himself, so we can let him out every day and ask someone to feed him when we’re away!”

“That… doesn’t sound half-bad,” he remarks. 

You bounce in your seat and plant a kiss on the top of the cat’s head, which earns you a loud purr. “Did you hear that, little guy? You’re coming home with us!”

Guts smiles in amusement and says, “Your idea; you get to name him.” 

You shake your head and laugh. “Oh, no. I’m terrible at making decisions.”

“C’mon, I’m sure ya got somethin’ in mind.”

“Hmmm. Then what about Ember?” you suggest. Guts ponders for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Since his fur is orange, it reminds me of fire,” you add as if your explanation will improve your idea.

“I like it. He’s warm like fire, too,” Guts says.

You smile. “That’s perfect for me since I’m always cold.” The sky has melted into a soft pink as the sun begins to dip. You didn’t realize so much time had passed. “I’ll go buy some things before the shop closes.” You rise from your seat and give Ember one last pet. Impulsively, you pat Guts on the head. His posture stiffens, and you giggle at how taken aback he is.

“I’ll, uh, take Ember to his new home,” he says, rising up and rushing to the exit. You watch as he scrambles frantically, stifling a laugh when he smacks into a bush. Heading to the shops, you make a mental list of the items you need. You stop by the butcher to buy some chicken and other cuts of meat you think Ember will like. Next is the general store, where you buy some blankets and bowls. Armed with bags, you head home, eager to return to your new feline friend.

You enter the building and nod your head to greet everyone you passed, beelining straight to Guts’s room. You adjust the bags in your grip and knock on the door. “It’s me,” you say. There’s a soft thump followed by a loud meow. You smile to yourself and wait patiently, hearing some scuffling and more cat noises.

“Come in. Doors not locked,” Guts says. You enter and set the bags on the ground. Ember is immediately interested in what you’ve brought him. You take out the blankets and hand them to Guts. He walks away to find a spot to place them, so you grab the bowls next and fill one of them with water. When you turn around, you’re greeted with the sight of Ember sitting contently in an empty bag.

“You are so damn cute,” you whisper, crouching down for a better vantage point. Ember flops onto his side, and you squeal.

“What’s the matter?!” Guts rushes to your side, looking around the room for any threats. You point at Ember, your hands shaking from excitement. Guts turns his head, and his expression softens. “Just when I thought the fucker couldn’t get any cuter.”

You gasp and grab his arm. “I have a basket I never use. What if….” You gesture frantically towards Ember, and Guts catches on.

“He would have his own bed. And you could carry him too!” 

You snap your fingers. “Yes, exactly!! I’ll be right back!” You stand up and head to your room with a spring in your step. You hum happily and open the door, forgetting to close it in your excitement.

“And just where have you been?” You pause. You haven’t heard that voice in days—a week almost.

“Griffith?” You stare in shock. You wouldn’t blame yourself if it turns out you’re hallucinating. But Griffith is very much real and not a figment of your imagination when he invades your personal space. 

He frowns and furrows his brows. “Were you expecting someone else?” he asks. You step back, and the smile on your face falters. 

“What? Of course not. What gave you that idea?” You search his eyes and find nothing but suspicion. Does he not trust you?

“It’s alright, darling. I understand it gets lonely. I didn’t mean to leave you alone so often,” he condescends. He reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder. 

White, hot anger flashes through your veins. “I hope you’re not implying what I think you are.” Your tone drops low, and Griffith smiles. 

He tilts his head to the side. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes,” you seethe, shoving his hand off of you. “If you actually asked anyone here how I’ve been, you would know the answer.”

“I—”

“No.” You jab a finger into his chest. “You don’t get to disappear with no explanation for, what, a week? And then come back to accuse me of cheating?” You huff and clench your fists, raising them before letting your arms fall to your sides right after. 

Griffith bristles at your raised voice. “Stop acting like a selfish child. I am doing what’s best for us. Do you know how hard I am working to improve our lives?”

“I’m not being selfish,” you say. You swallow the lump in your throat and continue, “All I ask for is a fraction of your time and affection. Countless nights going to bed and waking up alone. I’m sick of it.” You keep your tone even, refusing to let him know how much this is destroying you internally. 

Griffith scoffs, “What am I? A pet? Must I return to you every night and be at your beck and call?”

You shake your head. “I never said that. Stop twisting my words!” He does this all the time. That glib tongue of his comes in handy when interacting with the nobles. But he uses it against you to gain the upper hand in arguments. You don’t have the energy to deal with this. Today was going so well—you got to pet a cat! And now, this one interaction has soured it all. You turn towards the door. 

“Where are you going?” Griffith asks. Are you running from your problems? Yes. Do you care? Not at the moment, although you’re sure you’ll regret this later. 

You glance over your shoulder. “I’m going to cool off.” You storm out, but not before grabbing the basket you came for. The door whips open from the sudden force. Your feet continue trudging with no destination in mind. Eventually, you stop in front of Guts’s room. You stand in front of the door and wait until your eyes no longer burn, breathing slowly to ease the tightness in your throat. With another deep breath, you enter the room.

“You ok?” Guts gets straight to the point. He takes in your expression and curses under his breath. “Stupid question. Course you aren’t.” You hate how gentle his tone is. You don’t want to be treated like a wounded animal. 

“He just makes me so mad sometimes,” you say, staring up at the ceiling. Gravity works against you, and your tears still fall. Guts walks up to you but lingers around an invisible threshold. He looks conflicted. Like he wants to comfort you but is afraid to get too close. He remains an arms-length away 

Guts opens and closes his mouth. You can see he’s cycling through various things to say, and you appreciate his thoughtfulness. “Cause he leaves you alone often?” 

You wince. “Were we that loud?”

Guts shrugs and says, “Half the band could hear ya going at each other. The door was also wide open.”

“Fuck.” You plop onto the ground and sit cross-legged. You are not looking forward to the looks you’ll receive from everyone once word spreads of your fight with Griffith. For ex-mercenaries, they sure do love their gossip. “It’s just not fair when he gets mad at me for doing the same things he does to me. And then he has the nerve to accuse me of cheating?” You lie down, hoping the wood against your back will ground you. 

Ember shimmies out of the bag and curls up on our chest. The added weight is comforting and warm. He purrs loudly, and you laugh through your tears. Guts sits down beside you, still maintaining some distance. This irritates you, so you decide to bridge the gap by shuffling closer to him. 

He tenses up, but you don’t care. You like the warmth radiating from his body. “You can always come to me if you need someone to listen to your troubles,” he says, glancing down at you. “Or for some cat cuddles.” He pets Ember on the head. “They’re great at healin’ all types of emotional wounds.”. 

You crack a wry smile. “Thank you.” You can faintly hear Griffith calling your name. He must be looking everywhere for you. “I gotta go. His Highness is calling me.” You sit up and move Ember onto Guts’s lap. The cat gives you an annoyed look and flicks his tail. You apologize as you stand up, promising to bring treats next time. 

Guts tugs on your pants leg. “Just take care of yourself, yeah?”

You nod but don’t give a verbal answer. Waving goodbye, you head in the direction you last heard Griffith. 

You never take Guts up on his offer. Griffith makes another promise and returns to you every night. 

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

“I’m leaving,” Guts says. He’s carrying Ember in his little basket, but your full attention is on the determined look on his face.

“Are you going to train? Can I join you?” you ask.

Guts shakes his head. “No. I’m leaving the band.”

You pause and stare. “You’re—you’re joking, right?” When he doesn’t say anything more, you realize he’s serious.

“I don’t belong here anymore,” he says. The expression on his face is all too familiar to you. The face of someone who knows they cannot stay. But you just can’t understand why he would want to leave everything behind.

“But what about Griffith? Casca? The men in your unit?”

Guts smiles and shrugs. “They’ll be fine without me.”

You stare at the ground and fidget with your fingers. “What about me?” you ask in a quiet voice. When you dare to look up, he looks conflicted, And for a second, you actually think he’ll stay.

“...Come with me then,” he suggests.

You blink owlishly at him. “Sorry?”

“Come with me. We can travel together and look for our own dreams.” He looks so earnest that it hurts to turn down his offer.

“Guts, you know I can’t leave.”  You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The thought of leaving Griffith is too much to bear.

Guts furrows his brows. “We both know that’s bullshit. It’s only a matter of if you want to.”

“I….” You’re at a loss for words. Yes, it would be so much easier to just leave everything behind and start again. Travel with someone who actually enjoys your company. Explore the world to find yourself. But you just can’t. Silver hair and blue eyes will continue to haunt you no matter where you go. You don’t want to prove Griffith right by running away from your problems.

Guts places a hand on your shoulder, and you stiffen. No one but Griffith ever gets this close to you. “Love, I’ve seen the way he treats you. He’s cold one minute, then showers you with affection. And the two of you pretend as if nothing happened. It ain’t healthy,” he says.

You frown. Griffith can be a bit moody, but that’s because he’s been under a lot of stress lately. “No, Griffith loves me.” 

“And so do I.” Guts scans your face. You’re not sure what he’s looking for. “Why can’t you see that?” he rasps.

You smile and pat his hand. “You’re a good friend, Guts.” You’re glad that he cares so much for you. You hope that he achieves his goal—you really do.

Guts chortles, “Right. Friend. Listen, if you won’t leave with me, at least save yourself the heartache and end things with Griffith.”

Your smile slips. “I love him too much,” you say, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

“He ain’t the man you think he is, and you’ll feel like a fool when you realize it,” he warns.

You shrug your shoulders. “I know I’m a fool, but I can’t stop loving him.” If only it was easy to stop loving someone. People would be changing lovers like they change clothes. Despite knowing Griffith is flirting with Princess Charlotte, you can’t bring yourself to hate him. You definitely don’t blame Charlotte. So yes, you’re well aware of how naive you are to think Griffith is still yours alone.

Guts hands you the basket. “Take care of Ember. I would take him with me, but I’d worry too damn much since I’m gonna travel lots.” You take the basket and peer at the orange tabby, who’s adjusted very well to domestic life.

“He’s going to miss you,” you say, holding back tears.

Guts pats your head, and a bitter smile twists his lips. “He ain’t even gonna notice I’m gone.”

“He will. He’ll definitely notice and miss you a lot.” There’s a pregnant pause. You both know you’re not talking about the cat. 

Guts rubs the back of his neck. “I ain’t good with goodbyes, so I’ll see you again,” he says.

“Soon?” you croak, tightening your grip on the basket.

“Whenever our paths decide to cross.” He ruffles your hair and laughs when you gripe about it. You resist the urge to hug him, remembering how he flinched the last time you touched him. So instead, you wave and stand in the doorway until he disappears from sight.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now, little guy,” you whisper to Ember, who rolls onto his back and stares up at you with his green eyes. You shut the door and set the basket by the fireplace, heading to the ice chest to prepare supper.

The day that Guts leaves is the first time Griffith breaks a promise to you. You wait all night for him, but he never shows up. You fall asleep in front of the fireplace, curled up in an armchair. You don’t find out why until the morning when some band members storm your room and demand you get ready before promptly leaving.

“What have you done…” you sigh and trail after the rest of the band. 

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

He got captured. The stupid idiot got himself captured for treason. It’s been almost a year, and you’re still struggling to wrap your mind around it. You didn’t realize how important Guts is to Griffith. But then, doesn’t that mean you aren’t as important to him as you thought? Because at his lowest, Griffith decided to seek comfort from someone else and not you. When you came to this conclusion, you decided you wouldn’t live for someone else again. Yes, you still love him. But you can’t forgive his actions. His decision put the rest of the band in danger and destroyed everything he built toward his dream.

What’s left of the band is planning a rescue mission. With Guts back, you know that the operation is guaranteed to be successful. You were going to greet him but hung back when you saw him with Casca. It seems you have a track record of having an interest in men who have their eyes on someone else. You pretend to not notice when they disappear together. Instead, you sit on a log and cuddle with Ember, who miraculously found you after your exile. Food isn’t as plentiful as it was in the capital, but he doesn’t complain. You’re thankful you don’t have to spend your nights alone again.

When Casca briefs everyone on the plan, you feel hurt that you’re not part of the group that infiltrates the tower. She sees right through you and shakes her head before you can utter a word. You bite your lip and nod, unwilling to make a scene in front of everyone. This small interaction catches Guts’s attention, and your eyes meet for the first time since he’s arrived. You quickly look away, missing the hurt that flashes across his face.

Everyone gets into their position, and all you can do is wait.

You don’t wait long. From the racket you’re hearing, things did not go smoothly as planned. Once the signal is given, the rest of the group charges into the fray. You see the bodies dangling from weapons, and rage burns inside you. It’s been a while since you’ve spilled some blood.

By the end of it, you’ve won. Guts managed to defeat whatever that monstrosity was. And for the first time in a year, you see Griffith—what’s left of him anyway. You wait until Judeau and Casca are done before slipping into the tent. You’re having trouble reconciling the Griffith you know and the empty husk in front of you. You stand in silence as you examine how a year of torture has treated Griffith. He has a helmet on, but you imagine that his face matches the rest of his body. The scars and missing skin make you sick to your stomach. What you worry about the most is when you overheard how Griffith will never be able to walk or wield a sword again. Flesh can be healed, but tendons cannot.

A gurgled noise snaps you out of your thoughts. No. You clench your fists. They didn’t take his tongue, too, right? You see those familiar blue eyes again, but they look dull now.

“Hi,” you rasp, waving awkwardly.

“I told ya I could handle this—oh. It’s you,” Guts cuts himself off. He glances between you and Griffith. “I was just helpin’ Griffith put on his armour.”

You pause and wait. When Griffith says nothing, your feared assumption is confirmed. “What did they do to you….” You move closer and crouch in front of him. He slumps forward, and his body leans against you. You inwardly curse at how light he is. You stiffly bring your arms up and wrap them around his torso. Guts motions his head to the wagon entrance, and you shake your head. Gently, you squeeze Griffith. The bandages feel smooth in contrast to his rough skin. You hear a quiet sob that breaks your heart. “Let’s get you suited up,” you say, blinking back the tears. You receive a slight nod, and it brings a smile to your face. So you assist Guts in dressing Griffith in his armour. A commotion outside draws your attention, and Guts tells you to stay with Griffith while he checks it out. You had no idea that it would be the trigger for a series of unfortunate events.

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

You stare up at the eclipse. The entire field is washed in crimson, both with the blood-red light and your fallen comrades. How did it come to this? Do his friends mean so little to him? Do you mean so little to him? 

Shutting your eyes won’t help. The constant screams and cries of your friends pierce your eardrums. The roars of the monsters as they tear into flesh and bone rattle your heart in your ribcage. And, oh god, the smell. The air is foul, and you can almost taste the iron on your tongue. You feel the bile rise up your throat, and you dry heave. The sour and bitter taste is more welcome than metal. 

It’s not until half of your comrades are slaughtered that you realize nothing is attacking you. You’re kneeling in a pool of blood and carnage, and not a single drop of it is yours. Why? Why must you watch everyone get slaughtered while you’re the sole exception? The guilt claws at your skin. You ignore the feeling and glare up at the pillar of flesh. 

Griffith is simply watching the chaos before him. His eyes are cold, and dread runs through your veins. You want to believe that a part of him feels remorse, that a part of him is regretful over sacrificing his loved ones. But you know him better than that. He doesn’t care so long as he gets what he wants. And he will never want anything more than to achieve his dream. The end justifies the means. Isn’t that how the saying goes? 

Your eyes meet. You’re too far away to see, but you can picture the smirk on his lips, the way the right corner of his mouth lifts up ever so slightly whenever things go his way. There’s an indescribable anger that simmers beneath your skin, threatening to burst through your veins to make its presence known. 

And you remember that it’s because you all mean so much to him that he’s chosen to sacrifice everyone. He loves you and still chose his dream over everything you built together. But why won’t he let any of the creatures harm a single hair on your head? You are a sacrifice, and he is choosing to spare you. For what reason? For what purpose? Surely he’s not narcissistic enough to believe you’ll still welcome him with open arms after slaughtering everyone? Or maybe he’s leaving you until the end. To finish you off himself. Either way, you are not leaving this world without taking that bastard down. 

You don’t want—no. You refuse to look around the field. Because you don’t know what you’ll do if you recognize one of the mutilated corpses or mounds of flesh. You might lose it if you focus too much and spot what remains of one of your close friends. So where else to look but up? Up at the one who started it all. 

A gasp tumbles from your lips when you notice a figure crawling up the pillar. You had forgotten that Guts was swept away with Griffith. Even now, he’s trying to save him. Bitter tears burn your eyes. You no longer believe Griffith is worth saving. What a colossal waste of your time. 

You can do nothing but sit there as the river of blood turns into a lake. Every time Guts gets close to Griffith, he’s swatted away like a fly. Eventually, he plummets to the ground. To your horror, Griffith is engulfed in a white ball of light. The monsters bellow at the sight, waving around detached limbs and corpses. Entrails and viscera fly through the air, and the squelchy splatters send a wave of nausea through you. 

Everyone’s dead. Oh, God. Everyone’s dead. And now you’re all alone. You look back up to see Griffith emerge from the light. At least you think it’s Griffith. The only recognizable characteristic is the beak-like helmet that resembles the armour he wore. He is covered from head to toe in black. The blue eyes you love getting lost in now resemble an iceberg; cold and deadly on impact. 

The abominations that ignored you earlier now turn towards you. All your limbs are snatched and restrained. You scream and flail against their iron grip. Griffith descends from the large hand and waits as you’re dragged in front of him. 

“Hello, darling.” Griffith’s greeting is anything but pleasant. He still looks at you with affection, but you’re no longer sure if that’s a good thing. You know there are some fates far worse than death. His hands are clawed at the tips, and the sharp points trail down the soft flesh of your cheek. You stiffen, afraid that he’ll slice you open if you move. “Terribly sorry you had to witness such atrocities.” His finger trails down your neck and along the slope of your collarbone. “Well, I suppose they were only minor inconveniences.” He shrugs and studies your expression. 

“Those ‘inconveniences’ were your friends,” you spit out. He grins and grabs your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact. 

“Friends?” Griffith chuckles. “Care to join them?” he asks, but you both know the answer. You feel his nails dig into your skin, fresh wounds stinging as sweat drips into them. “I didn’t think so,” he sneers when you remain silent. 

“I believed in you. I listened to your promises. And for what?” Your voice cracks near the end as the tears trickle down your face. Griffith tuts and brushes your cheek, licking the tears off his finger. The grin on his face is manic. And for the first time in your life, you’re afraid of him. 

“I hardly ever break my promises, especially to you, dear.” He strokes your hair, and how his talons scrape against your scalp raises goosebumps on your skin. He grins when you involuntarily shudder. “You are my scythe and mine to wield alone.” His eyes dart to the side. When you turn to follow his gaze, you see Guts fighting back a horde of monsters. You aren’t alone after all, but for how much longer? You can’t decipher whether you feel relief or terror.

The monsters release their hold on you, but some invisible force is still gripping you in place. You look at Griffith, and he’s staring at his hand with a curious expression. It’s the expression of a child that’s discovered a new toy. You attempt to wiggle your fingers, but your body refuses to listen. You grunt and can only move your head. A yelp escapes your lips when you’re turned around mid-air, and Griffith presses up against you from behind. 

You watch in horror as Guts falters from your shriek and a monster clamps its jaws around his arm. He tries to behead the monster, only for his sword to snap in half. You meet his panic-stricken eyes with your own. His face twists with rage, and you hear Griffith click his tongue by your ear. 

“Let’s give him a show, darling,” Griffith purrs. His tone is possessive as his hands caress your stomach. His gentle touch ends when he tears your clothes off. You scream and manage to move your limbs, kicking his leg in the process. Griffith grunts and a small smile flashes across Guts’s face before it’s replaced with worry again. “Acting disobedient, dear?” Griffith sighs with disappointment, and you freeze at his words. “I was going to be gentle, but a harsh punishment might teach you better.” The invisible force now feels twice as heavy, and you no longer have mobility over your limbs.  

The breeze is freezing against your bare skin, and disgust rolls off you in waves. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what Griffith plans to do with you. But maybe this is what you deserve for denying him all those nights. You whimper when his fingers brush against your nipples. His erection presses into your back. Griffith lets out a low growl and draws blood with his sharp talons. This is not how you wanted your first time to be. Instead of candlelight and wine, you are basking in the light of the eclipse. The only red liquid around is blood. You begin to sob as utter helplessness consumes you. Griffith shushes your cries and nuzzles into your neck. You feel the vibrations when he chuckles. 

Guts is still visible in your field of vision, and he looks furious now. You gasp when he takes his sword and severs his arm to escape the monster’s jaws. He begins running towards you and takes down two monsters along the way. But one of them slams into him, and they form a dogpile to hinder his movements. Guts struggles, but it’s no use. He’s completely restrained and can only watch Griffith’s twisted performance. You give him a grateful smile and close your eyes, resigning yourself to your fate. 

“Did you ever notice how he would look at you?” Griffith questions, his talons digging into your hips when you don’t answer. He loosens his grip when you groan and shake your head. “He was one of my closest companions. You two are the only people I would ever consider giving up my dream for.” His hands travel down to your thighs. “But that doesn’t matter now.” He forces your legs to part, and you stifle the sob that gurgles in the back of your throat. “I hated the way he looked at you. He knew you were mine and still chose to keep his lecherous gaze on you.” 

You open your eyes and let out a confused stutter. Making eye contact with Guts, you see a depth of emotions that you never noticed before. It makes the anguish on his face unbearable to look at. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper. A numbness spreads throughout your chest like there’s a black hole sucking up all your emotions. 

“Making sure the entire world knows who you belong to,” Griffith growls. Suddenly there’s a searing pain on your right inner thigh. The burning sensation rips a scream from you, and you nearly faint. You can only compare this to how livestock are branded with hot iron. Warm blood trickles down your leg, and you bark a bitter laugh, mind muddled from the pain. 

“So now you want me,” you say, glaring at the ground. 

“Don’t be like that, darling. I’ve always wanted you. The others were only a means to an end. You know that.” Griffith says and kisses your shoulder. It feels like a million insects are crawling underneath your skin, and you bite your lip to subdue the urge to retch. 

“Is that what Charlotte was? A means to an end?” You can’t help but let your bitterness seep into your tone.

“Now, now. Let’s not be rude and forget our audience tonight.” You glance over at Guts, and he’s no longer struggling. He’s panting heavily with his eyes trained on your form. Frustration and fury mar his features. It’s a pity you never noticed his feelings earlier. Maybe you would have left with him when he asked, and you wouldn’t be in this mess now. “If I recall correctly, a punishment is due for your disobedience.” Griffith walks around you until you’re face to face. You don’t register the slashes until your abdomen stings and weeps with your blood. He hums and licks his talons. What is with this man and licking your bodily fluids??

“Fuck you,” you bite out, gritting your teeth to temper the pain.

“All in due time, my dear,” Griffith says with a salacious grin. You start to feel light-headed.

“You promised,” you say, blinking to clear the spots in your vision.

Griffith tsks, “Some promises need to be broken for others to be kept.” He says it like that’s just the way things are. No consideration of your feelings whatsoever. You’ve been labelled as collateral damage. 

You build on your last point. “You promised you would never force me into anything without my consent.” Griffith has never broken a promise to you before. You desperately cling to that belief. Except he has. And if he’s lied to you before, what makes you so sure he won’t do it again?

“Think on the bright side. We’ll become connected as one,” Griffith purrs, eyes roaming your body. You feel like a piece of meat strung up at the butcher. 

“You’re a filthy liar,” you snarl.

Griffith’s voice drops an octave. “Darling, I won’t tolerate baseless accusations.” It’s not a warning, but a demand for obedience.

You snort. That’s rich coming from him. “You’re a goddamn liar, and I fucking hope you rot.”

“You don’t mean that.” His blue eyes become glacial. “Tell me you’re joking.” His hands wrap around your throat. “Say it!” With just the right amount of pressure, Griffith can strangle you or crush your trachea. His grip tightens, but only enough to shorten your supply of oxygen.

“....” You concentrate on Guts and refuse to respond.

Your silence further agitates him. And then it finally happens. His focus slips for a moment due to his anger, but it’s enough for you to grab the dagger strapped to your thigh and drive it into his shoulder. Griffith lets out an inhuman screech, and you drop to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Air rushes into your lungs, and you hack out a cough. 

“Just wait, darling. I’ll have you, even if it can’t be officially.”

The last thing you hear before you black out is the rattling of bones and the thundering of hooves.

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

You wake up in a cave. There’s a faint light coming from the ceiling and the sound of water falling in the distance. Through the haze in your mind, you recognize that you’re in an unfamiliar place. You bolt upright, looking around to gather your bearings. There’s rustling behind you, and you whip your head in the direction of the noise. Startled, you scream when a girl pops up by your side. 

She’s unphased by your reaction and smiles widely. “I’m Erica!” Her voice is bright and cheery. She hands you a mug, and you glance at the liquid with suspicion. The earnest expression on her face persuades you to take a sip. You sigh with relief when it’s water. Feeling parched, you gulp the rest down. “Are you Guts’s lover?” You choke on your last sip of water. Your throat burns from the coughing fit. “Cause I think you’re really pretty, and he keeps mumbling your name in his sleep,” she whispers conspiratorily to you. You turn to see where she’s glancing at and notice that Guts is lying not far from you. 

He looks rough. You inhale sharply when you notice the bandaged stump at his side—fuck there’s one around his eye too. You hope he didn’t lose an eye. “Is he… ok?” you ask, voice scratchy from not talking for a while.

“Godot says he’ll be fine, and I believe him! Guts is super tough!!” she flexes her arms to exaggerate, and you can’t help but giggle. This kid is adorable. “But he did lose an arm and an eye. We’re not sure when he’ll wake up.” The graveness in her tone throws you off. “You must feel bad that he got hurt, but it’s not your fault.” Suddenly, her gaze makes you uncomfortable.

“I….” You stare at the small being in front of you. Since when were children so observant?

“Oh my god, you’re awake!” You turn your head to the cave entrance and try to decipher the figure jogging towards you.

“...Rickert?” You rub your eyes, convinced that you’re hallucinating. But Rickert pulls you into a hug, and you crumble in his embrace. All the feelings you couldn’t express during the eclipse come bursting forth. You cry for an embarrassingly long time, blubbering incoherently about what happened that night. He holds you and tells you about what happened to him and how the three of you are all the only survivors left of the band. He goes on to explain where you are and how long you’ve been unconscious. You’ve been unconscious for four days, recovering in an ore mine.

“Is there somewhere I can clean myself?” you ask. You can still feel the stickiness of blood on your skin, and surely you stink.

“Yeah, there’s a waterfall deeper in the cave. I’ll bring you a change of clothes.” He hugs you once more. “It’s good to see you again.” His smile is infectious, and you nod. While Rickert leaves fetch clothes, you head to the waterfall. Erica seems to have wandered off, so you have some privacy. You peel off your clothes and stand underneath the falling water. The pressure isn’t as hard as you expected. It’s almost pleasant. You scrub your skin until it’s raw and pink, but it doesn’t remove the stickiness or the smell of iron that lingers. You let out a frustrated groan and scrub too hard, breaking open the skin on your arm. The water stings as it laps at your new wound. But you just stand there, holding your arm out until you become numb to the stinging.

A hand grasps your shoulder, and you’re teleported back there again with him. You yelp and jump away, back pressed against the rocks. Your eyes dart for an escape route, and panic seizes you when a pair of hands grab your shoulders again. You thrash and cry out, freezing when you realize it’s Guts. You can only see the left side of his face, but his mouth is slanted in a smile. You bite your lip to prevent it from quivering.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you were….” You trail off, unable to complete your sentence. You hug your arms around yourself and avoid his gaze. 

“S’alright. C’mere.” His right arm is open, and he’s waiting patiently for you to make the next move. You stumble into him and bury your face into his chest, apologizing weakly for getting his bandages wet. He kisses your forehead and holds you tight. “I get it, y’know? The whole bein’ touched thing. I, uh, had some things happen when I was a kid that made me hate bein’ touched 'cause it would always remind me of those memories.”

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that.” You squeeze him tight, but it’s surprisingly difficult with how muscular his torso is. 

Guts chuckles, but it’s bitter and hollow. “Yeah. There was a man who would… do bad things to me. And I couldn’t do jack shit ‘cause I was just a kid.” 

“But you’re still here. Learning this about you… I think you’re the strongest person I know.” And you mean every word. Guts stares at you with a mixture of awe and adoration. He cups your face and strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Wasn’t very strong a couple nights ago,” he mutters. You can see that he feels guilty. You also carry the same weight on your shoulders. After all, why did you get to survive while everyone else died? But you can’t allow yourself to be trapped by these thoughts. You need to figure out what to do now.

You pat his chest, feeling his heartbeat thrum against your palm. “I don’t think we should blame ourselves for that,” you say. “We had no idea any of that would happen.”

Guts shakes his head, pain etched into his features. “But I did. I knew somethin’ was going to happen. I heard a goddamn prophecy foretellin’ it. I didn’t think it would be a fuckin’ slaughter.” He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. You do your best to support his weight when he leans against you. 

The moment is interrupted by Rickert, who clears his throat, holding your change of clothes. You thank him and walk away to change, leaving the two to continue their conversation. Unfortunately, the change of clothes consists of a single shirt. The shirt is enormous and swallows your frame, reaching down to your thighs. It’ll have to do for now, but you need to ask where the closest shop is. As you’re walking back, Guts dashes past you. You look at Rickert, but he only shakes his head.

A faint meow echoes through the cave. “Did you hear that?” you ask. You swear you catch a glimpse of orange by the cave entrance. Ignoring Rickert’s pleas, you exit the cave and follow the little paw prints on the ground. You walk through bushes and other foliage until you’re at the foot of a hill. Glancing up, you see a pair of cat ears twitching for a split second. Despite the dull pain in your abdomen, you trek up the hill. “Ember? Is that you?” You left him behind with Rickert and the others. From what Rickert’s told you, you’re not sure if the little guy survived the ordeal. 

Another meow causes you to pivot around. There on a tree branch is Ember. You find comfort in seeing a familiar face. You coo at the cat to come down. And when he does, he weaves between your legs, rubbing his head against your calves. Something feels odd. Ember isn’t as vibrant as you remember. His body is almost translucent. A searing pain interrupts your thoughts. You see blood trickling down your leg from where Griffith marked you.

Ember hisses. You snap your head up, taken aback by the ring of figures surrounding you. The cat circles you protectively, hissing at the weird creatures. They make no move to get closer to you, so Ember eventually settles by your feet, guarding you. You remain still, unsure of what to do in this situation. The thundering of hooves draws nearer, and you hear Guts call out your name. He's riding on a horse with a skeleton? He dismounts and runs to you, frantically checking you for any injuries. He mumbles incoherently when he finds nothing. 

You manage to hear him say, “I can’t lose you too.” You cup his face in your hands, smiling at this wonderful man. His posture relaxes, and he leans his forehead against yours. “I was afraid,” he confesses. “I was afraid I wouldn’t reach you in time and find you dead.”

“I’m ok. You’re ok. We’re both ok,” you state calmly. He nods, taking in a deep breath.

“How intriguing.” You don’t recognize the voice. The skeleton appears beside you, his eye sockets observing you with a scrutinizing gaze. “Yes, what makes you so special?” He leans closer, tsking with disappointment when you shrink away.

“I’m not some circus animal,” you huff.

The skeleton tilts his head. “No, but you are certainly more interesting than one. What about you keeps these spirits at bay?”

“Spirits? Is that what these things are?” you ask, eyeing them warily.

“Yes, and your little feline too. Although it’s quite rare for pets to linger. I’ve seen it with a dog before but never with a cat. However, a cat is not strong enough to protect you from spirits.” He scans your figure and focuses on your bloody leg. You are pulled away from Guts. Your shirt is hiked up to expose your thighs despite your shouts of protest. “Aha! The source of your protection.” The Skull Knight examines the symbol on your inner thigh with interest.

“That’s different from mine,” Guts points out. He traces the mark on his neck. 

“Maybe everyone receives a different marking?” you suggest, failing to convince even yourself.

The Skull Knight scoffs. “The brand of sacrifice is not like a coat pattern. There is only one,” he remarks. You move to get away, but he has a firm grip on your leg. “This… this is something else.” 

“If it’s not a brand of sacrifice, what is it?” you ask, wondering what would happen if you kicked this skeleton right in his rib cage.

The Skull Knight clicks his teeth. “If memory serves me correctly, this loosely translates to ‘side love.’” He finally releases your leg.

You laugh in disbelief. “Huh.” You tug the shirt to cover the mark, clenching the fabric in your hand. How ironic. When you decide to cut your losses, Griffith clings harder to you. He’s like a damn cockroach. You just can’t get rid of him. Your skin flushes hotly. How dare he mark you as ‘his’ when you finally decide to leave him. He has no right to claim you after betraying your love and murdering all your friends. The translation suggests that you won’t be the only one, and your thoughts wander to Charlotte. Of course, he always put her first.

The Skull Knight nods, tapping his jawbone thoughtfully. “Yes, I can faintly sense traces of dark magic lingering in your mark.”

“Well, how do I get rid of it?” you ask. The sooner you get rid of it, the better. You don’t want a constant reminder of Griffith permanently branded onto your skin.

“Perish, I suppose,” the Skull Knight answers. When you glare at him, he adds, “There is currently no known method to remove it.” You sigh. That’s just lovely. There’s a sour expression on Guts’s face, and you know you aren’t fairing any better. You’re potentially stuck with a reminder of your psychotic past lover for the rest of your life. 

The sun rises, and the ring of spirits disappears. Ember remains, looking up at you with his big, green eyes. You scoop him up out of instinct and cradle him to your chest. You’re pleasantly surprised when you discover he’s tangible. It’s the same as if he was alive. The Skull Knight crouches in front of the cat, who pays no attention to him. “Extraordinary! It’s as if there’s some otherly force helping you retain a corporeal form during the day,” he says, but Ember’s disinterest is unshakeable. Dejected, he turns to Guts and starts a discussion. You don’t pay attention much, hearing a recurrence of ‘apostles,’ ‘demons,’ and ‘evil.’ From the determined look on Guts’s face, you have a hunch about what he plans to do. 

The Skull Knight leaves, and Rickert and Erica appear shortly after. The two confess their worries over your lengthy absence. They went to look for you when you didn’t come back, fearing you would hurt yourself or get lost in the dark. The four of you head back to the cave with you and Guts trailing behind. Despite being a spirit, you can feel Ember’s weight as he drapes around your shoulders. You missed hearing his purrs.

Guts is lost in thought. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes rake over his body. Almost all his bandages are gone. You’re sure every wound has reopened. You reach out and hold his hand. “Whatever you plan on doing, count me in,” you say. He looks down at your intertwined hands and squeezes them gently. It’s too early. You both lost a lot recently. The pain is still too raw for you to confess your feelings. But for now, you don’t need to say anything. In the following days, when he kisses your forehead, pulls you closer to him at night, or brings you hot chocolate to keep you warm, you just know he loves you too. So yes, the world outside the mine is a frightening place to exist right now. But you have time to heal, to spend time with this man you absolutely adore, and cuddle with your spirit kitty.

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

I did rush the ending a bit because I just wanted the damn fic to end lol, so sorry if it feels a bit awkward. I have not watched Berserk in a while and I didn't read any of the manga so my knowledge of what happens is a little foggy. I basically just read the wiki a lot lmao.

I wanted to try and set up this dynamic with Griffith where it feels like he loves you on the surface level, but there's this creeping feeling that something is wrong. I don't think I figured out how to execute that well in this oneshot, but hopefully I do if I ever decide to rewrite this.

I did struggle a bit trying to balance the fluff between Griffith and Guts. The one thing I especially struggled with was what to do with Casca. It's implied here that she dies in the eclipse because I honestly had no plans for her. I was not able to come up with any ideas for how to use her if she survives, but I still wanted her to develop a relationship with Guts for character development purposes. So please ignore that obvious plot hole.

I'm starting to ramble so I'm gonna cut myself off here.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

[fromasgardandback]

My Other Half

Jay Halstead x Reader

description: You’re engaged to Jay Halstead, but life had other plans.

word count: 1.0k

a/n: am i fixing why jesse left the show? yes. am i sad writing this, thinking about him being gone, yes. please enjoy :)

𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝟷𝟶 𝙴𝟶𝟹

masterlist | oneshots

Jay Halstead. A man of few words, but facial expressions of many. The love of my life and my other half. The man who I would come to say I Do in a few months and the father of our future children. Jay is loveable and affectionate. He shows everyone just how invested and deeply he cares for them. Jay is the kind of man I had always dreamed of and the man that my grandma always told me that I deserved. Even though his parents weren’t alive anymore, they would have been proud of who he became. 

Many things happened to Jay over the years. Heartbreak, loss, physical and emotional pains. His morals and the way he policed changed over the past few years, which we didn’t know at the time, but eventually tore him apart from the inside. Jay told himself he wouldn’t end up like Voight. No matter what happened, I told him I would follow him through anything and that wasn’t going to change now. But to be honest, I was not expecting this.

I got a call from Hank saying that work had been hard with Jay. I didn’t know what to expect, but when I walked into the district and saw the look in Trudy’s eyes, I knew something bad must’ve happened.

“Trudy. Where is he?” I said walking up to the side of her desk, and whispering softly.

“Upstairs. Locker Room.” She said quietly, with a downcast face. I followed her instructions as she let me in through the code. I ran up the stairs passing everyone and going straight towards the locker room. When I walked in I saw him sitting on the bench in the back of the room, I walked towards him slowly.

“Jay?” I approached him, squatting down. “What happened, my love?” 

He couldn’t talk. He just sat there stagnant. Almost catatonic by the way he was moving. Jay’s eyes stared directly down at his hands, while they shook. I could tell it was horrific cause the only other time I saw him like this, he had a PTSD attack. I held his hands, tenderly pulling him down onto the floor with me. Leaning back against the lockers, I held him against my chest. Before I could do anything else, a quiet sob came over him. He conveyed to me what happened in the case. In detail from beginning to end. The part of the robbery, to the part of the perp dying. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, I knew this wasn’t my Jay and I knew he couldn’t have done this easily and maliciously. 

“I killed him. I just… Just went for it and couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop, Y/N. I…” Jay shakily expressed.

“We’re going to fix this, handsome. I promise this will all be okay… Whatever it looks like.” I said rubbing his back.

The best way for Jay to get out of this was to resign from Intelligence and take up a job in the Army again. This meant him being on location in Bolivia, but to be honest, anything that got him out of the situation he was in, I urged him to do it. Consequently, that’s what we did.

I walked in the front door of our shared apartment following his footsteps. I knew what Jay was thinking, but I could not let him go through with his plan alone. I told him through thick and thin, and that meant this too.

“Jay,” I said leaning against the doorframe.

“Y/N, I love you, but you cannot come with me. It’s dangerous and a job. I’ll come back for you, but I don’t know how long I’ll be.” He sighed, looking down at the bed.

“Do you seriously think that I would let you leave without me? Do you not understand that when I told you you are my other half I meant it? I love you so fucking much, Jay Halstead. You can’t get rid of me that easily. I don’t care how dangerous it is, and for you to say I’ll come back for you, are you kidding me?” I said gently grabbing his hand, and turning him to me.

“I’m not trying to get rid of you, Y/N.” He sighed. “I can’t stay here either. And I won’t risk your safety.” Jay looked me in the eyes.

“I’m not asking you to. I’m saying wherever you go, I’m going with you.” I held his face in mine. He leaned into me nodding gently. 

“I love you. But I can’t have you in my problems.” He said.

“I’m an adult. I know what’s best for me, and if I see danger and won’t commit anymore, I’ll leave. But I’m not, so understand that.” I said kissing him as if it were the last time I saw him. He wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me close. We stayed leaning against the wall for another couple of minutes before a knock came on the door.

“That’s for us. Are you sure you’re ok with this?” Jay asked one more time.

“Yes, let’s go restart our lives,” I said following him out the door.

We left that day, not looking back at anyone or anything. All he needed was reassurance that life was going to be alright with his new assignment and our upcoming marriage. I told him that from this day on, we were the only ones we had, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m sorry this is the life we have now. I promised you, but now it looks different.” Jay said, whispering into my ear.

“I don’t mind, it’s an adventure now. Yes, our life is different but it does; throw us curveballs. What’s life without challenges? You are my forever, and I will never doubt that.” I said gently running my fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“My other half.” He said leaning his forehead on me.

“My other half,” I said leaning into him, kissing his lips softly that turned passionately.

[minubell]

Sorry for the delay in this week's oneshot! It ended up being waaaay longer than I expected. Like... double the length of my usual oneshots.

Anyway, here's Angmar saving Khamul. No he still hates him what are you talking about. They aren't becoming friends or anything. TW: Descriptions of injuries

Across the Sands of the East

Khamul is gone.

That in itself is not unusual. Of the two of them, most would expect Angmar to be the one to lean towards solitude and independence. Angmar is gruff, a fact he will admit to readily. Easy to anger and more likely to lash out in violence. He does not care for the opinions of others, and would never let his own actions be influenced by such a thing. It is an uneasy peace he holds with most of his companions, held in place only by Angmar’s physical might over them.

Khamul is far more sociable than he-far more likable. Angmar has seen many a time before how Khamul flows from one conversation to another, how he can slither his way into near anyone’s good graces. He is like a parasite that feeds exclusively on the praise of others. He gets along well with the rest of the Nine, save Angmar himself.

Even Indur reluctantly gets along with Khamul, despite their initial friction. Khamul is simply difficult to dislike, makes himself difficult to dislike.

Despite this, despite Khamul’s aptitude towards sociability, he does not work well with others. Not in the same way Angmar does with discord and strife and arguments. No, while Khamul is friendly towards near anyone, but he is friends with no one. Angmar has seen the way Khamul will part ways with someone with a smile and a laugh, only for his good spirit to vanish near instantly the moment he believes he is out of sight. He has seen the way Khamul will say nearly anything just to get others to like him, to the point where Angmar is not sure what opinions Khamul himself holds. He has seen Khamul’s attitude pivot so quickly that it must be fake.

Angmar may prefer his own company, but Khamul is worse than he is. Khamul only pretends to be friendly, keeping the illusion of amicability firmly fixed to himself like a mask. Angmar does not know what Khamul is truly like beneath the layers upon layers of deceptions.

Looking at them both, one would expect Angmar to be the one to disappear off on his own. But Khamul is the one who requests to go out on his own alone, Khamul is the one who vanishes for years upon end on tasks by himself, Khamul is the one who is often gone. Meanwhile, with Indur dogging at his heels near constantly, Angmar is rarely alone.

Khamul being gone is not unusual.

No. What is unusual is that Khamul is not just physically gone, but mentally gone. A feat that should be impossible. One day, over two weeks prior, Khamul had simply become unreachable. Angmar had not noticed it at first as he almost never has a reason to even attempt to contact Khamul, and Khamul has even less reason to contact him. But his master had noticed when he had attempted to reach out to Khamul through his ring, only to find no response. Even if he happened to be sleeping when their master first reached out, every subsequent call also went unanswered. Angmar knows his master’s call is painful to ignore. It is unthinkable that Khamul would willingly ignore it for so long.

Which would suggest, perhaps, it is unwilling.

With no one else accompanying Khamul on his journey, no one could truly say what had happened to him. As far as Angmar is concerned, Khamul is likely either dead or managed to somehow lose his ring like a fool.

…Though the second scenario may circle back around to the first anyway. At this point, all of them have far outlived their natural lifespans. Even Angmar knows removal of the only thing keeping them alive will probably result in their deaths.

“And Angmar?”

“Yes, master?”

“If you cannot bring back Khamul, do be sure you at least bring back the ring.”

Not Khamul’s ring, not his ring. The ring. Clearly, his master was also already assuming the worst had happened.

Ah, well. Khamul always had been a nuisance. Frankly, Angmar did not consider his death to be that much of a loss. Surely whoever his replacement was could not be as terrible as Khamul himself was. Perhaps, if he asked, his master would even let him choose another Nazgul again. Indur was by far the easiest to work with of the entire group, while the rest were all equally as annoying as they were frustrating.

Even apparently in death Khamul must be a nuisance. Angmar huffs slightly, kicking his boot across the ground, sending sand scattering in the wind. This is his first time visiting Rhun, and he can safely say he is not impressed. He has been trudging across these damned dunes since he left Mordor several days ago. The sun is hot, the sand is dry, and climbing up and down these sandy hills is frustratingly slow. Every step only serves to pour more sand into his boots, and trying to empty them is so ineffective he has given up on it.

He does not even know where he is going. He has a map he cannot read, and a direction he must go in. East. Well, many things are East. There are mountains in the East. The ocean, eventually, is in the East. North and East is cold, while South and East is somehow even hotter than it is at the moment. His master could not even give him the name of a city, as apparently Rhun was not in the habit of actually naming places. Just… East.

He’d been walking aimlessly, following the direction of the sunrise for days through the desert. He has somehow not even managed to run into any towns or villages in that time. It has only been sand. Angmar did not think it was possible for him to hate sand, as he has encountered it many times before lining beaches and Angmar loves the ocean. He will readily admit he was wrong now.

Angmar squints through the harsh sunlight, scanning his surroundings for any sign of civilization or-there’s smoke on the horizon.

He pauses and lifts a hand to shield his eyes. Yes, there is smoke on the horizon, rising up over one of the dunes. It is billowing up, dark and black and noxious looking. Clearly too large to be the smoke from a campfire, clearly too dark to be benign.

It is as good of a clue. If there is fire, there must be people.

Angmar quickens his pace slightly, making his way down into the next valley and scaling up the dune as fast as he can, though the journey is still painfully slow. The smoke is growing now, rising like a terrible cloud, reaching for the sun and threatening to blot it out.

He crests over the peak of the dune and spots what seems to be a city in the distance. He can see large walls surrounding it and large gates that have been thrown open, revealing several houses ablaze within. Yes, this is the source of the smoke he had seen because the city is on fire.

His gaze dips downwards, drawn by a dark shadow on the pale, yellow sand. About halfway between he and the city, perhaps a hundred feet from where Angmar stands, there is a body. Clearly human, and Angmar grimaces when he spots a familiar puff of a purple-dyed fur accessory amongst dark hair and pale, white cloth.

Khamul lays sprawled out upon the ground like a downed animal. The sand around him is wet, visibly darkened by the blood staining it. His wrists are bound in shackles, his arms stretched out over his head where he has collapsed forward in the sand. His head is buried in the space between his arms, face completely obscured from view. His hair, normally an obvious source of pride for Khamul, is matted with mud and blood, and lacking any of its usual adornments. His clothes are equally stained in the areas that have not been torn to shreds.

He looks… bad.

He looks dead.

But there is a man approaching Khamul’s limp body from the burning city, sword already drawn in anticipation, and men do not strike down corpses.

“Khamul!” Angmar bellows, racing across the sands. There is a song that streams past his lips like the breath of a dragon. The melody is fragmented-he cannot think swiftly enough to make it sound nice, but luckily music was never about beauty and more about intention.

It is an enchantment of swiftness, of speed, of urgency. With the might of the song at his heels he moves swiftly across the sand, closing the gap in moments. But the man is also there, raising his sword, ready to bring it down on Khamul’s head.

With no time to go around, Angmar bounds over Khamul’s body instead. Midway through his leap he snaps his teeth together, clipping off the end of his song and just as quickly beginning a new one. This is a song of strength, of power, of might. He can feel the song settle into his body only a moment before he lands on the ground before Khamul, his own blade already drawn and held high.

He swings it downwards like a club, catching the other man in the shoulder near the base of his neck. There is armor there, but it is irrelevant. The sharpness of his sword is irrelevant. The weight of his blow drives his enemy to his knees, and Angmar follows it with a brutal kick to the head, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Angmar gives him no chance to recover. He drives his sword straight down, through the man’s neck, nearly severing his head from the rest of his body.

The battle song still hisses past his teeth and he turns with a snarl, yanking his sword free from the corpse’s throat. Fresh blood splatters across the sand and he turns, surveying the dunes for a further threat. Screams of anguish and pain cry out from the burning city, but no one else leaves its smoldering walls and he lets the song fade to harsh, deep breaths.

He sheaths his sword, and it makes a strange, wet noise as it bloodies the inside of the sheath.

With a grimace Angmar turns back to Khamul and falls to his knees next to him. In that moment where he first laid eyes upon him, he only had the opportunity to take in the broad state of Khamul’s wellbeing before he had to move to defend him. With a moment now to actual survey his injuries, it is obvious something terrible has happened to him. His back is a shredded mess of both cloth and skin, the two bleeding together with bright red blood until it is hard to tell them apart. Carefully Angmar rolls him over, keeping one arm under Khamul’s shoulders and propping him over a knee to keep his upper body off of the sand.

When Angmar turns him over, Khamul’s head rolls to one side limply. His face is visibly bruised and bloodied, his eyes are closed and hidden slightly between the mess dark hair that has fallen over his face.

Yet Khamul clings to life like the parasite that he is. His breathing is swift and shallow, but he somehow despite his injuries he lives. Angmar grasps for Khamul’s right wrist with his free hand, and frowns slightly when he sees a familiar band upon Khamul’s second finger. Somehow, despite everything, he has managed to maintain possession of his ring.

Angmar scowls, but lowers his shoulder, awkwardly rolling Khamul from his knee to his back. It is hardly a graceful thing but Khamul is smaller and lighter than he is, and within a few seconds he has managed to get most of Khamul’s body against his own slouched back. He takes a moment to throw Khamul’s arms over his shoulders before slowly shifting, getting his legs under him and rising from the sand. He’s forced to lean forwards slightly to keep Khamul from rolling off his back and forced to keep his hands tucked under Khamul’s legs to keep him from sliding back to the ground.

It would be nice to be able to move away from the burning city, to find shelter somewhere from the sand, but Mordor is several days travel away and Angmar had encountered nothing on the journey here but sand and sun. Even if Khamul had managed to survive this long, Angmar doubts his stubborn clinginess to life would last for the entire duration of a trip without treatment. He is still actively bleeding, now both onto the sand and Angmar alike.

So. Not to Mordor. But there is shelter nearby, so Angmar turns his back to the West and trudges through the sand, towards the burning city.

With Khamul as deadweight upon his back, the short trip takes far longer than it should. But within a few minutes he slips inside the gates, slinking past screaming men as they scramble to put out multiple fires. They do not notice him as their attention is rightfully preoccupied elsewhere, which is good. It gives him the chance to survey where the fires are most heavily concentrated, then sneak along the wall towards a section of the city that is not actively burning.

He slips into the first open door he can find. It is a small house, one room only, furnished sparingly by a single bed, a table and a chair. Only two windows on the same wall as the door. Defendable. Fortunately it is empty as well, probably because the owner is attempting to help their neighbors with the flames.

Angmar slides Khamul off of his back and onto the bed, taking care to roll him onto his stomach so his bloodied back does not stick to the bedsheets. After a moment of thought, he shifts Khamul’s hands so they are above his head, so he is not laying on top of his own arms.

Khamul looks paler than he usually does, and his breathing is still distressingly quick and shallow. He still has not woken, and it is clear that if he continues on this way he may never wake again. His fate is in Angmar’s hands, and Angmar’s hands alone.

He can still still yelling from outside, and the smell of ash clogs his nose and burns at his throat. Their surroundings are treacherous indeed.

Prioritize. He has to secure Khamul’s safety first, otherwise any attempt at healing will be useless.

“Stay here,” Angmar orders, despite the fact Khamul is still unconscious and is not capable of hearing him or moving. Still, the verbal affirmation makes him feel slightly better. This may very well be the first of his commands Khamul actually follows, even if he has no choice in the matter.

With a huff he draws his sword from its sheath once more. The blade drips fresh blood onto the floor as he opens the door and steps out into the smoke and screams.

— — — —

The fire already took care of many of them. The others were ill prepared to fight both the flames and Angmar, and fell easily to his blade. In less than an hour, the city is quiet save for the sounds of burning. Countless lay dead in the streets, and it is both practicality and spite that keeps Angmar from even attempting to burying them.

Angmar sighs as he returns, kicking the door closed behind him with a foot. His arms are currently otherwise occupied carrying the supplies he managed to gather before the fire claimed them, though he promptly dumps them upon the table. It is an assortment of anything he thought may be useful. Linens, or any relatively clean looking cloth for bandages. Water, where he was able to find it. Several nameless jars of salves that could just as easily be for styling hair as they could be for tending to wounds.

Angmar is no healer. None of the Nine are, as far as he is aware. No, Angmar is far more familiar with causing injuries rather than attempting to fix them. But some things lie in the realm of common sense, and Angmar is willing to wager he cannot make anything worse. If he does nothing, Khamul will die. At least if he does something, Khamul may not.

It is not as reassuring a thought as it should be.

Angmar grabs a small knife from the table and makes his way to the bedside. He lifts some of the fabric of Khamul’s formerly white tunic near the shoulder, and with careful motions saws through the sleeve. He makes quick work of the other one as well, then slowly tugs at the fabric. Without the sleeves present to keep the destroyed outfit in place, Angmar is able to slowly peel the fabric away, exposing Khamul’s back completely. Khamul’s belt still keeps the tunic in place around his hips, but now it is more of a skirt rather than a tunic.

He reaches to the side, grasping one of the waterskins he had managed to plunder and uncorking the top. He can still hardly see the state of Khamul’s back even with his clothes no longer obscuring his view thanks to all of the blood so…

Angmar upends the contents of the waterskin onto Khamul’s back.

A violent shiver passes through Khamul’s body as the blood is washed away, staining the sheets around him bright red. The water washes the sand away as well, which must be good if only because sand in wounds is surely bad. Just for good measure, Angmar grabs another waterskin and dumps that over Khamul’s back as well. He is starting to be able to see the injuries better, namely several long gashes that run from his shoulders down to nearly his opposite hip, ending just above Khamul’s belt.

…Clearly not wounds sustained in battle.

“Ang..mar?” Khamul murmurs, and his shaking arms shift slightly as he tries to push himself up. His eyes are open but look… unfocused. Squinting at him though a mess of muddy, bloodied hair.

“Stop moving,” Angmar snarls immediately. He hadn’t realized Khamul had woken up, although based on the way Khamul keeps trying to prop himself up he is clearly going to be just as irritating about this as he always is. Even while heavily injured, Khamul just cannot seem to listen to him. “I told you to stop moving,” Angmar repeats, quickly locating a spot relatively free from injury near the root of Khamul’s neck and pressing a hand against it, forcing Khamul back down into the bed.

Khamul makes some wordless, questioning noise which Angmar ignores in favor of grabbing some relatively clean-looking cloth he had managed to scrounge up with his free hand and pressing them to Khamul’s back, trying to dry off the water and wipe away any lingering blood. At the contact Khamul flinches, fingers curling into the bedsheets below him. He’s still moving, clearly unable to listen to Angmar for even one moment, but Angmar huffs and focuses on Khamul’s back again, keeping a hand pressed against the back of Khamul’s neck. He does not care what Khamul does with his hands as long as he does not do something stupid like try to stand up.

The cloth is quickly bloodied, and Angmar tosses it over his shoulder in favor of grabbing another cloth. Just as soon as he wipes blood aside does more bubble up from Khamul’s wounds, but it is sluggish and slow. Not freely bleeding like a fresh injury would. That may be good, if the wounds are trying to clot and scab over. It may be bad, if he does not have enough blood left to bleed.

Khamul being awake now may hint towards a better outcome, though Angmar would appreciate it if he would stop fidgeting as much. Even if he is no longer trying to sit upright, he is still wiggling his arms where they lay above his head, and making a good amount of noise jangling the chains of his shackles against each other.

It is said noise that actually draws Angmar’s attention away from the mess of Khamul’s back to his hands. It is only a glance, but when he sees red amongst the silver metal he doubles back and looks again, just in time to see Khamul drag his nails across his own skin, tearing deep into the flesh of his forearm and giving himself an entirely new injury.

“What are you doing?” Angmar barks, catching Khamul’s hand by the wrist and jerking it to the side, out of reach of his own nails. Or tries to, anyway. The chain still binding Khamul’s wrists together goes taut relatively quickly, and he just ends up dragging Khamul’s other hand along with. “Stop!”

“Gt… off,” Khamul grunts softly, barely intelligible, and Angmar can feel him straining against his grip, trying to free his wrist. Angmar huffs and catches Khamul’s other wrist with his free hand, and easily pins both of them over Khamul’s head.

“I will not release you if you cannot refrain from injuring yourself further,” Angmar snaps. This situation is less than ideal for the both of them. It is not as if he wants to have to tend to Khamul’s injuries. It is not as if he wanted to have to rescue him in the first place. He does not like Khamul, he has never liked Khamul. The feeling is clearly mutual if Khamul cannot bear to stand his touch when Angmar is doing his damndest to try to help him! What business of his is it if Khamul wants to tear himself open again? If Khamul wants to die, perhaps he should just let him!

A strange, nameless feeling curls in his gut and catches in his throat.

Angmar does not release Khamul’s hands.

“Get… off,” Khamul repeats insistently, managing to find his voice slightly. It is hoarse and raspy and broken in a way that it hardly sounds like Khamul at all. Weak, just like his attempts to free his hands from Angmar’s grasp. “Get it off.”

“It?” Angmar repeats cluelessly. Khamul gives another pull, the noise of the chain rattling draws Angmar’s attention back to Khamul’s shackles. He shifts his grip slightly higher, revealing the cuff and the bloodied skin around it.

Multiple angry, red, bleeding lines run along Khamul’s forearm. But they are not random self-inflicted strikes as Angmar initially thought. No. Each scratch starts either at the edge of the cuff or even slightly underneath it, and trails off as they get further from the shackle. The bloody scratches are deepest nearest to the cuff, and there are a few even on the lower palm above the cuff rather than on the forearm below it.

He is not trying to injure himself. Like an animal caught in a trap, Khamul is trying to tear himself free.

Angmar scowls. He does not know why Khamul is so insistent his chains be removed immediately, but clearly he is going to fuss about it until they are off. Perhaps if Angmar knew who had put them on Khamul in the first place, he would be able to locate a key. But even if Khamul were in such a place to tell him such a thing, even if Angmar felt inclined to pick his way through the corpses outside, even if Khamul’s warden had not died to the flames, Angmar does not think he can leave Khamul alone. There is a good chance even if Angmar manages to locate the key, he would return to find Khamul missing his hands completely just in an attempt to get the cuffs off. He is still whispering and straining against Angmar’s grip, after all. Leaving him unsupervised would be bad.

How annoying.

Angmar shifts his grip, pressing both of Khamul’s hands against the bed and pinning them both in place with one hand. With his newly freed hand, he grasps the thin, metal chain that connects the two shackles together. Ignoring the tackiness of the chain-which apparently has blood on it-Angmar squeezes his fist together around the chain. This is the third time today he is using magic, and it is starting to exhaust him. He’ll have to do this quickly. He hisses a short enchantment, a song of weakness, of breaking, of destruction, and almost instantly the chain shatters in his grip. Cracks and rust spread across the individual links back to the shackles themselves like a disease, and Angmar makes easy work of them as well, crushing them to pieces under his hand.

It is only when the former shackles lay in fragments upon the bed that Angmar slowly releases Khamul’s wrists. Khamul has fallen silent again, letting his forehead slump forward against the bed again, face once more completely obscured by his own hair. If it wasn’t for the fact Angmar could see his breath occasionally hitch from pain, he would suspect Khamul had fallen back into unconsciousness.

At least now Khamul was finally still. Not before giving Angmar more injuries to tend to, but at least Khamul was no longer actively fighting against his efforts to heal him.

With a sigh, Angmar turns his attention to the more concerning injuries on Khamul’s back. During their brief struggle, more blood had time to well up from the slashes across Khamul’s back, but not too much. Not enough to justify pouring a third waterskin over Khamul’s back, though Angmar is half tempted to just because Khamul has frustrated him. He refrains though, instead just dabbing the blood away with what was once a shirt.

With Khamul’s back as clear of blood and sand as it is ever going to be, Angmar wipes the blood off his own hands with the shirt before tossing it over his shoulder and onto the floor as well. He grabs a sheet he had stolen from a drying line and begins to tear it into long, thin strips with his hands and placing the strips back on the table beside him. It takes him a few minutes, but by the end of that time the blanket has been demolished into something more useful and Khamul still has not moved.

“Sit up,” Angmar grunts, and for once Khamul listens to him, slowly moving his hands and trying to push himself upright. He doesn’t get very far before Angmar reaches out and grasps him by the arm, pulling him the rest of the way upright so he is sitting on the bed, back facing Angmar and feet hanging off the other side.

Angmar grabs one of the makeshift bandages he has created and presses it against Khamul’s back. It’s quickly stained red in some areas, but Angmar ignores it, wrapping the long bandage around Khamul’s entire torso. He manages to encircle Khamul’s chest with the bandage three times before he has to tie the bandage off, at which point he picks up another bandage and repeats the process. He’s careful not to wrap the bandages so tightly that Khamul cannot breathe, nor too loosely that they just fall off. The blood is actually helping him slightly with that, acting like glue and keeping the bandages in place.

He works in silence. Khamul is silent. The only noise is the rustling of fabric, or the creak of the floorboards when Angmar shifts his weight towards the table to collect another bandage.

It is odd to see Khamul in front of him and not hear his scathing tongue throwing out taunts. He is more subdued than Angmar has ever seen him before. There are no verbal jabs sent in his direction. He does not even speak, in favor of hanging his head low as Angmar works. Not that Angmar is complaining but he can still admit that it is bizarre.

When he has managed to cover all of Khamul’s injuries with one layer of fabric, he returns to the top and begins the process again, and then again a third time until the blood stops staining through. That is really all Angmar can ask for, and where his common sense regarding healing stops. With the injuries sufficiently covered, Khamul shouldn’t be at risk for bleeding out anymore. Not from his back, at least.

Which leaves the self-inflicted wounds.

Angmar sighs loudly, but grabs the bandages, some more cloth, and one of the waterskins from the table and crosses around to the other side of the bed so he is standing in front of Khamul rather than facing his back. Khamul’s head is still bowed forward, the mess of his hair thoroughly obscuring his face from view.

That’s fine. He doesn’t need to see Khamul staring at him while he works anymore than he needs to hear Khamul speak. This is tedious enough for him already.

He pours some water over Khamul’s arm, rinsing the blood away. He pats it dry with the cloth, revealing the numerous harsh, thin cuts. Now that the restraints are gone, Angmar can clearly see where they used to be simply based on the absence of injuries.

He starts at Khamul’s elbow, wrapping the bandages around his entire arm then beginning to spiral the bandage down slowly. Bloodied, raw skin is slowly covered by clean, white bandages, and when Angmar reaches Khamul’s wrist he goes a little further to reach the raw skin of Khamul’s lower palm. At least these cuts are superficial, only requiring one layer of wrapping to cover them without blood staining through. The other arm is the fortunately the same, requiring only minimal effort to wrap it in white.

That should be the end of Khamul’s injuries, as far as Angmar is aware. He hadn’t seen anything else significant that required immediate attention. There was nothing he could do for the bruises and abrasions on Khamul’s face, nor for the patches of raw skin over his knuckles.

Angmar huffs, exhaling sharply from his mouth. Khamul’s clothes are unsalvageable at this point, but he had anticipated that. He grabs the final two items from the table of supplies-a plain, beige shirt and a pair of darker, brown pants-and tosses them at Khamul. Khamul doesn’t even bother trying to catch them, and both items hit him squarely on the shoulder before falling down at his side. Luckily, being clothes, they cannot actually hurt him no matter how hard Angmar flings them at him.

“There,” Angmar grunts, stepping away from Khamul and towards the door. “Something clean. I doubt you want to wear scraps on our journey back.”

Khamul does not respond, though the mess of hair turns slightly, presumably as he looks down towards the clothing.

For some reason he cannot understand, Angmar can feel anger beginning to bubble up inside him. Some nameless feeling curls in the pit of his stomach, and Angmar grimaces.

“There’s water on the table,” Angmar adds when Khamul holds his silence. “Come outside when you finish changing.”

He turns sharply and walks towards the door. His hand snags the back of a wooden chair as he walks, and he throws open the door, dragging the chair with him outside into the sunlight. He yanks the door closed behind him then all but throws the chair against one wall of the house and sits. He has no desire to watch over Khamul while he changes. He is not a healer, he is not Khamul’s mother. If he cannot manage to put on a fresh shirt by himself, perhaps he should just die and spare Angmar any further work.

Several buildings still burn nearby, but most of them have already been reduced to smoldering rubble. Angmar can see several bodies from where he sits of Men he had slain. There is a story here. One that now only Khamul knows, and one Angmar is certain Khamul will not share.

There is that anger again. It is a familiar enough feeling that he can immediately name it, but bizarrely enough he is not angry at Khamul. He cannot even try to redirect this anger to Khamul without that other, foreign feeling reemerging like a rock in his gut, which only serves to infuriate him further.

This is Khamul. Irritating, fake, shallow Khamul. Khamul, who deliberately antagonizes Angmar so that he may laugh about it, who can only smile like a fox, who does not have a genuine bone in his body. Khamul, who wears a thousand masks, and then a thousand more beneath that so that no one has ever seen his true face.

It is hard to reconcile that image of Khamul with the body he found in the sands, with the desperation, with the silence afterwards. The only time Khamul is ever quiet is when he is lying in wait.

They feel like two separate people.

A crash from inside the house startles Angmar from his thoughts, and he barges back inside before his mind catches up with his body’s actions, drawing his sword in anticipation of a fight.

Khamul is sitting on the floor in a patch of sunlight from the window, one hand pressed against his forehead and the other on the bed, clearly supporting him. The table has been knocked over, and the few bandages Angmar didn’t use along with the empty waterskins are on the floor around him. Khamul had managed to change his clothes at least, now wearing the beige shirt and brown trousers which he is absolutely swimming in. Well, at least they are too large rather than too small.

“What happened?” Angmar growls, stepping further into the room, glancing around for a threat. He checks the other side of the bed just to be sure no one is crouched down there, out of his sight, but it is just he and Khamul in the room.

“Dizzy,” Khamul whispers from the floor, a trembling hand still pressed to his own forehead.

Angmar scowls-checks under the bed just in case, vigilance never hurts-then sheaths his sword and walks around the bed so he can see Khamul once more. His hair is still a mess, but Khamul had at least tried to push most of it away from his face. He was going to have to wait until they returned to Mordor to properly fix it, though. It was not as though they had enough water to wash it here among the sand. Nor was Angmar willing to wait in this wretched place any longer just so Khamul could look a little nicer.

“Get up,” Angmar barks, and once more finds himself somewhat surprised when Khamul actually tries to rise. Angmar only lets him struggle for a moment before he grasps Khamul by the elbow and drags him the rest of the way to his feet. When Khamul staggers slightly, Angmar scowls but keeps his grip around Khamul’s elbow tight to support him. Khamul immediately latches on with his other hand, clinging to Angmar’s arm.

Clearly, Khamul was not going to be able to make the journey back to Mordor under his own power.

Well, if Khamul cannot walk on his own, Angmar would simply have to do the work for both of them.

Not giving it any further thought than that, Angmar heaves Khamul onto his back so that he is carrying him like a traveling pack, the same position he had him in when he first carried him into the city. He hooks his arms under Khamul’s knees to keep him in place, but with Khamul able to actually hold on this time, Angmar does not have to lean forward as much to keep him from falling off.

Clearly still exhausted, Khamul does not even make a noise of surprise when Angmar maneuvers him onto his back. He simply collapses against him, arms hanging over Angmar’s shoulders and letting his head rest there as well.

Angmar adjusts his grip slightly, gives the room a spare glance to ensure he is not leaving anything important behind, then sets out into the sun. Khamul gives a small shiver as they pass into the light and shifts on his back, but does not try to get down at least. Ignoring his passenger, Angmar makes his way down the street, towards the city gates. They pass corpses both burned and stabbed, houses both still on fire and smoldering rubble. He can feel Khamul shift again, drawing his arms back so instead of hanging over Angmar’s shoulders, he can wind his fingers into the fabric of Angmar’s shirt and hold on.

“…Thank you,” Khamul murmurs softly. Angmar can feel a growing dampness on his shoulder that he vigilantly ignores. Acknowledging Khamul’s tears would mean prying into why he is crying, and Angmar is more than happy to keep as few words as possible exchanged between them.

Angmar only grunts in response. This entire encounter changes nothing. He still does not like Khamul. Khamul still probably hates him. When they return to Mordor, they will return to their usual, mutual antagonism.

But they will be returning to Mordor together.

“Master,” Angmar calls silently through his ring, “I have found Khamul. We are on our way home.”