#i’m spiralling and my life is bursting into flames

[cece693]

Calm Down Cowboy (Jasper Whitlock x M! Reader)

I never expected much love to come from my first Jasper fanfic, so as thanks, here's another one :)

Summary: You were a social butterfly, however, that doesn't excuse your husband's actions. However, was it really all bad if it led to him being possessive and taking charge.

tags: jealous Jasper, social butterfly male reader, petty cowboy, happy ending, smut, past mention of Tanya/reader

It was almost funny, looking back on it now, but in that moment, you were steaming like a kettle ready to burst. After all these centuries spent by Jasper’s side—dozens of weddings, countless anniversaries, and endless reassurances—how could he still get jealous just from you talking to someone? You were well aware of your own charm; a social butterfly whose charisma, suaveness, and good looks drew people to you like moths to a flame. But Jasper knew this too. He knew you never encouraged those who fawned over you, nor did you let any past lovers hold sway over you anymore.

Yet, Tanya Denali seemed to light a fire under your cowboy like no other. It didn’t matter how many times you’d promise it while fucking him that Tanya was nothing—just a brief fling in your long, immortal life, severed the moment he'd come into it—he still couldn't stand the sight of her.

It started innocently enough. The Denalis were visiting Forks, and you'd found yourself chatting with Tanya. The conversation was light, inconsequential—a quick catch-up on each other's lives. But then Tanya, ever the flirt, edged closer, her hand brushing against your arm, her laugh a little too soft, too familiar.

Jasper, who had been watching from a distance, stiffened immediately. You could feel his emotions boiling over, his usual calm demeanor cracking as Tanya leaned in, her fingers trailing down your sleeve. You glanced over your shoulder, trying to catch his eye and silently communicate that it was nothing, but Jasper was no longer standing in his spot.

Instead, he was striding toward you, his eyes dark and full of a possessiveness that made your stomach twist. "That’s enough." he said sharply, stepping between you and Tanya. His tone was harsher than you’d ever heard from him, a growl that had everyone around you suddenly going silent.

Tanya raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Oh, come on, Jasper. I’m just catching up with an old friend. No harm in that, is there?”

Jasper’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. "Funny how you always seem to forget what ‘no harm’ means. You don’t belong here, stirring up old shit.”

You quickly put a hand on his arm, but Tanya wasn’t done. “Oh, Jasper, I had no idea you were so insecure,” she cooed, her eyes flicking to you with a knowing glint. “I thought you’d trust your mate by now, especially after all these years. But I suppose some habits die hard.”

Jasper’s muscles tensed under your grip, his temper flaring hotter than before. “How would you know? You haven’t found your mate yet," he snapped back, his Southern accent thickening with every word. "Why don't you take your desperate ass back to Alaska and leave what's mine alone?"

“Jasper!” you hissed, pulling him back before things could spiral out of control. This was so unlike him—he was usually composed, especially around others. But Tanya had a way of needling under his skin, and she knew exactly how to make it worse. You tugged at his arm, dragging him away from the porch and out of earshot of the others, who had started murmuring in shocked whispers. Emmett’s booming laughter grated on your nerves, adding to the tension.

But Tanya wasn't finished. She threw a final parting shot over her shoulder, her voice laced with venom. “You know, maybe Jasper’s right to be worried. It must be exhausting, trying to keep up with someone like you. All that fire and passion—maybe he’s just not enough for you anymore.”

Jasper jerked against your hold, his eyes flaring with fury, and it took everything you had to keep him from lunging at her. "You listen here, you conniving bitch—" he started, but you cut him off, practically dragging him away from the scene before he could finish his sentence.

“Jasper, stop!” you pleaded, your voice tight as you struggled to keep him from breaking free. His anger was like a living thing, wild and uncontrollable, and you knew that if you didn’t get him away from Tanya, things would get ugly fast. “She’s just trying to rile you up! Don’t give her what she wants!”

He stopped struggling, but his whole body was tense, vibrating with barely suppressed rage. “I’m not letting her get away with that,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “She thinks she can just waltz in here and—”

“And she’s not worth it,” you interrupted, stepping in front of him and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You know she’s just trying to get under your skin. Don’t let her win.”

Jasper’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, his eyes still blazing with anger, but slowly, he began to calm under your steady gaze. “I can’t stand her,” he muttered, his voice still laced with venom. “She thinks she can just say whatever she wants, like she knows us.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” you assured him, your hands sliding up to cup his face, forcing him to focus on you and not the lingering venom in Tanya’s words. “And I don’t care what she says. You’re the only one I want, Jasper.”

For a moment, it seemed like your words would be enough to soothe him. But the tension was still there, simmering beneath the surface. His eyes darkened, his hands gripping your waist possessively. "Show me." he demanded, voice raw, an edge of desperation beneath his anger.

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift, but you saw the need in his eyes—the need to prove himself, to reclaim what was his. You nodded, giving him permission to take the lead, knowing this was a big step for both of you. Jasper didn’t waste a second. He backed you up against a nearby tree, his mouth crashing onto yours with an almost feral hunger. His hands roamed over your body, rough and urgent, as if he was staking his claim with every touch.

He was never like this, never so commanding, but you let him take what he needed. His lips moved down your neck, his sharp teeth grazing your skin before a burning fire settled on your collarbone. His venom would create a scar there, a mark that you were his and vice versa. "Mine." .

"Yours." you assured, threading your fingers through his honey-blonde hair. "Only yours."

He didn’t slow down. If anything, your words only spurred him on. The heat between you two built quickly, his need palpable. He pulled away, his eyes locking onto yours, searching, almost as if he was begging for you to understand. "I need to know." he whispered. "Need to feel it."

You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. “Then take it. Take what you need.”

And he did. His movements were intense, almost punishing, as if he was trying to erase any doubt Tanya had planted with each thrust. You met him with equal fervor, matching his intensity, your bodies colliding in a raw, unrestrained dance that left you both breathless. His hands were everywhere, gripping, claiming, reminding you of exactly who you belonged to.

As the tension between you two reached its peak, Jasper buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the bite. “I love you.” he murmured, his voice shaking with emotion. “Don’t ever doubt that. I’d burn the whole world down before I’d let anyone take you from me.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close. “I love you, too, Jasper. And I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

For a moment, everything was still. Then, slowly, Jasper's grip on you loosened, his anger ebbing away as he relaxed into your embrace. You both stayed there, holding each other tightly, knowing that nothing could break you guys apart.

[suguwu]

WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange. 

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around. 

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.” 

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.” 

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you. 

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems. 

Your stomach aches at the sight. 

“You’re—” you breathe. 

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms. 

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight. 

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.” 

You stay quiet. 

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek.  Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.” 

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath. 

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you. 

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt. 

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says. 

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.” 

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light. 

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering. 

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” 

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says. 

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.” 

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly. 

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine. 

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow. 

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt. 

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow. 

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.” 

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt. 

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap. 

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky. 

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current. 

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river. 

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore. 

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early. 

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts. 

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.” 

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it. 

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes. 

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog. 

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you. 

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There’s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is. 

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway. 

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused. 

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue. 

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing. 

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail. 

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand. 

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless. 

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. 

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch. 

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows. 

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming. 

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by  a cliff disguised by drifting snow. 

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever. 

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward. 

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall. 

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed. 

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor. 

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know. 

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you. 

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it. 

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form. 

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this. 

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far. 

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips. 

She ignores you. 

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run. 

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement. 

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you. 

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream. 

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire. 

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse. 

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy. 

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones. 

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do. 

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss. 

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread. 

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark. 

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed. 

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”) 

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it. 

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope. 

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating. 

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip. 

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up. 

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.

[leiawritesstories]

The Princess & The Warrior

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 15: What if? and Day 30: Alternate Canon @rowaelinscourt

Ending Rowaelin Month with a little bit of a bang 🤭 What if...Rowan and Aelin's powers were swapped, giving Aelin ice and Rowan fire? And the alternate canon is that Rowan comes to Terrasen to train Aelin teehee

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: some swearing, sparring/fighting, big surprises ehehe

enjoy!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dressed in her usual training uniform of fitted pants, loose belted tunic, and flexible-soled boots, Aelin tossed her braid over her shoulder and raised her arms above her head, loosening the muscles in her shoulders. She paced back and forth across the packed dirt ground of the training courtyard, trying her best not to spiral into self-doubt at the thought of this new phase of her training. 

A few weeks ago, her parents had informed her that they were in the process of bringing over a Fae tutor for her from Doranelle, where most of the immortal Fae lived. Queen Sellene Whitethorn, a longtime ally of Terrasen, was known for her dedication to training magic-wielders, and when Rhoe and Evalin had discovered that their daughter’s powers were far more vast than anticipated, their first thought had been to reach out to Doranelle. Aelin’s tutors from Rifthold, as educated as they were, only had experience training people with ordinary levels of magic. 

Not since Brannon Galathynius had there been a wielder of her caliber. 

And it terrified the shit out of her. 

Almost unconsciously, Aelin formed a razor-sharp blade of ice in her left hand, the exact same size and weight as the sword in her right hand but made of magic rather than steel. She went through the familiar motions of her warm-up movements, focusing on her breathing to feel the way that her body shifted and moved over the dirt. With the fluid swoops of her blades, she trailed a pattern of glittering snowflakes through the humid summer air. 

“Good form.” A male voice, calmly measured in a way that could only come from centuries of life experience, sounded from the far side of the courtyard. 

She turned around, dropping both swords to hang loosely at her sides, and waited as a Fae male a good seven inches taller than her with corded muscles lining the breadth of his shoulders tucked back his hood and strode—no, prowled—across the courtyard towards her. “You must be the new tutor.” 

His nostrils flared briefly, and his lips tightened into a flat line. “You can call me Rowan.” 

Her eyes widened slightly as she put together the details—the name, the green eyes and silver hair, the tattoos scrolling down half his face and the length of his arm, the handles of the hatchets strapped to his belt. “Prince Rowan Whitethorn, hmm? I wouldn’t have expected Queen Sellene to send one of her relatives all the way to Terrasen.” 

Rowan snorted softly. “Apparently, there’s a princess in Terrasen who can’t control the depth of her magic.” He ran a critical gaze up and down Aelin’s form. “That would be you, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.” 

“Just Aelin is fine.” 

“Whatever you say, princess.” Without further warning, Rowan launched a blade of blue flame at Aelin’s face. 

She whipped her ice sword out, just barely managing to deflect it. “What in the hells?!” 

Fire ignited around his left fist, a short dagger appearing in his right. “Welcome to training, princess. I thought you already had some.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. 

“Maybe I’m deliberately keeping my guard down.” She flicked her fingers, propelling a burst of tiny, sharp-edged ice crystals towards his smug face with a winter breeze. 

Bored, he cast a shield of orange flame, easily fending off her attack. “Maybe those idiot tutors of yours couldn’t teach you anything but crude basics.” 

“Hmm, I suppose modern training does seem crude to you in your old age.” Smirking, she coiled a wind around his left leg and tugged hard, throwing him off balance. 

Faster than she thought possible, faster than he had any right to be, he punched her. 

She’d barely even seen him move. 

“Asshole,” she snarled. She shook the blurriness from her eyes and hurled a fist at his thigh, engaging him in hand-to-hand combat. Rapidly melting her ice sword into a solid glove around her left hand, she kicked a knife out of her boot and swiped at Rowan, who batted off her attacks as if she were nothing more than an untrained recruit. His technique was precise and vicious and brutal, honed by centuries of training with the Fae legions of Doranelle, and Aelin felt her strength rapidly flagging as she strained to block his relentless jabs and punches and bursting bites of flame. 

“Shift, princess,” he ordered. “You have more strength and stamina as a Fae.” 

“If you’d give me a godsdamn minute, I could,” she panted. 

He shook his head and kicked the back of her knee. “In battle, you won’t have a godsdamn minute. You think an enemy is going to stop so you can fucking shift?” 

She swore angrily at him and whipped her knee up, hitting him squarely in the groin. He wheezed and doubled over, and she had just enough time to gather her depleted strength and shift into her Fae form. With her enhanced senses, she saw his knife slipping towards her, and she managed to deflect it just before the blade could nip at her skin. 

“Better,” he murmured, and he unleashed a furious barrage of punches that had her head spinning as she fought off the strikes that came from every angle. A coil of fire snaked up her leg, and she snuffed it with a breath of icy wind, only to find Rowan’s leg hooked behind her stabilizing leg, jerking in a twisting motion that sent her tumbling to the packed dirt. 

“That’s cheating,” she gasped, flinging a handful of dirt into his face. 

He hissed, and faster than she could see, he held the edge of his knife to her throat. “Yield.” 

As covertly as she could, she gathered a handful of snow above his head, and she grunted, straining to break free of his hold, as she dumped that snow down his back. 

He jerked at the shock of the cold, and the edge of the blade grazed her skin. Tiny pricks of blood welled up on the knife’s edge. “First blood is mine.” He withdrew the knife and stood up, holding out his tattooed hand to help her to her feet. She stood up reluctantly, brushing the dirt off of her clothes, and he went to wipe his knife on his tunic when he scented the blood on the blade. 

And he froze dead in his tracks. 

“No,” he whispered, shock bared on his face. “It can’t be.” 

Aelin seized the chance to slice the tip of her dagger across his fingertip, as his free hand was hanging loose, and the scent of his blood on her knife crashed into her with the force of a blizzard. 

Mate. 

This ancient, rude, insufferable male…was her mate. 

“Impossible,” she breathed, echoing his stunned silence. She was only twenty-four, and although she knew from her family’s Fae heritage that she would eventually Settle, she’d never given any thought to the idea that she might have a mate. Royalty married for prestige, not for any other reason. 

His face shuttered. “This changes nothing.” 

“Wrong.” She folded her arms across her chest, defiance blazing in her eyes. “This changes everything. I don’t care how terrified either of us are, you don’t get to use this as an excuse to leave.” 

“I wasn’t…” Rowan bit back his words. “It might not be the best idea for me to train you.” 

“Bullshit,” Aelin scoffed. “Queen Sellene clearly chose you for a reason. Certainly you can manage to teach me the control you think I lack without letting any of your damn territorial Fae instincts get in the way.” 

To her utter shock, his lips twitched upwards into something resembling a smirk. “What the hell would you know about ‘territorial Fae instincts,’ princess?” 

“I’m Fae too, you know.” Bitterness clogged her throat, the anguished screams of the one she couldn’t save echoing through her mind. “I can be incredibly protective.” 

He must have read the hollowness in her eyes. “All right. I’ll stay.” 

“Good, then you’re not a coward.” 

“One condition, though.” 

She raised a brow. “Oh?” 

He sighed, mumbling something indecipherable under his breath. “We cannot tell anyone.” 

“Why in the hells would I want to?” She tucked her knife back down the side of her boot. “You have been here for all of a day, and the last time I let someone into my heart, he died.” She whirled on her heel and left, her footfalls like thunderclaps in the suddenly silent courtyard. 

And Rowan could only stare, shell-shocked, an unidentified emotion beginning to stir in his heart.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

@anarchiii

@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@mysterylilycheeta

[quietwhispersofaffection]

Written by: Whispers of Affection

Edited by: Whispers of Affection

Date: 2/2/23

Word Count: 550

Status: YELLOW (?)

Warnings: …not sure. ends sweet(?)

Synopsis

I was feeling a little bit angsty but you guys should know how I hate sad endings so everything turns out okay(?). Enjoy this short one with our dumbest Todoroki, lovelies!

Accidents

Todoroki Shoto

He felt his whole world crumbling before his eyes. He hadn’t meant to do it. He didn’t even know how it had happened. One minute they were both fighting, not able to recall what the real reason for the fight was anymore, and the next, his whole left arm burst into flames. She had a look of terror written all over her face as she watched, unable to move. She almost looked like she was in shock, and he fumbled to extinguish the flames crawling up his arm and shirt, feeling sick to his stomach.

The moment he glanced up to try to explain to her it wasn’t what it looked like, that he would never threaten her with his quirk, she was gone. He felt white hot fear like no other course through his veins as he ran to their shared bedroom, only to fumble with the locked door. Hot, salty tears streamed down his face, falling to his knees, hearing her sobs from deep inside the room.

“Love, baby I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh god, please forgive me. It was an accident. I don't know what happened! Please baby let me in,” he called desperately, self-hate in his eyes. Was this his life’s legacy, to end up just like his bastard father, hurting everyone he loves? He felt bile rise up his throat and he rushed to grip it, pushing it down. If he didn’t open this door he thought he might scream. “Honey please!”

It felt like he had broken his own heart in the span of a few short seconds and he had taken her’s with him. His voice cracked and strained and his pleads turned into muffled sobs, slumping against the door in unannounced defeat. He heard her cries of anguish and weaved his fingers through his hair, pulling slighting as if to punish himself for ever putting a ghost of fear into her mind. This was never supposed to happen, no one was ever supposed to hurt their lover in any way, but here he was, crying because he knew he had hurt her.

“Honey,” he choked out, trying to talk between his whimpering. The usually calm and stoic Shouto finally spiraled into something dark and deep. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry. What should I do? Please tell me what I can do better! I’ll leave, I’ll leave. I never wanted to hurt you. Fuck, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to.”

He never noticed that her crying had ceased, reduced to sniffles, and neglected to see the door open from his hunched position. His hands were still woven into his hair, pulling harshly, and his forehead resting against the floor mats. He didn’t feel her presence until warm arms wrapped around him, holding him as close as possible. He cried out, moving to sit up and wrap his arms tightly around her, sobbing into the crook of her neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept whispering, voice breaking and slowly dying in his throat as he rocked her back and forth, tears still in her eyes. She had never seen him so...broken.

“It's okay, Shouto,” she whispered, voice dying in her throat as she gently stroked his knotted hair. “It's okay.”

--------------------------

© Whispers of Affection

I do not own any of the characters created by the mangaka of My Hero Academia but I do not condone rewrites or copies of my work. Reblogs are fine as long as I receive credit.

[whump-in-the-closet]

First off, I absolutely love your writing! It truly is incredible. If you like the idea, would you be willing to write about a hero who is deathly terrified of fire and extreme heat? They have kept it a secret all their life, but the villain just found out about it and uses it against them. And the villain taunts them throughout the extreme mental and physical torture? Thanks!

more than willing! hope you like it and thanks so much!

cw: sadistic whumper, hero whumpee, burning, exploiting a phobia (maybe, idk?)

Click. A spurt of yellow flame shot up against the shadows as Villain lit their cigarette. They watched intently as Hero flinched back as far as they could in their restraints.

Villain exhaled a puff of smoke, leaning forward to breath it in Hero’s face.

And there it was again. The veiled panic, flashing across Hero’s eyes. As bright as any flame.

Villain toyed with the lighter. Clicking it on and off. On and off. They circled Hero, watching the city’s savior tense.

They stood behind Hero, still messing with the lighter. Leaning close, they held the lighter in Hero’s face.

Hero inhaled sharply, jerking back. Something like a curse, more of a strangled cry, forced it’s way out of his mouth.

“Hero, you aren’t scared of a tiny lighter now are you?”

“—No,” The lie was spat out too quickly to be believed. “No, no— God—”

Villain had shoved the lighter closer. “Methinks you doth protest too much.” They grabbed a handful of Hero’s hair, forcing Hero to look up.

Dilated eyes locked on the tiny flame.

Sharp, painful breathing.

Villain smiled. “To think the city’s mighty hero is scared of a wee bit of fire.” They held the flame dangerously close to Hero’s hair. A little closer.

“I’m not—”

“Oh, you’re terrified. Don’t deny it.”

Closer still. Dark hair burst alight, burning faster than straw.

Hero yanked against Villain’s hand— that was singed hair he could smell— burning, burning, burning red and gold.

Villain put the flames out by slapping Hero’s head.

Hero collapsed against the wooden table, pressing his face to the cool surface like it was his own personal coffin. Vaguely, he was aware of Villain running their hand through the singed patch of hair. “Don’t cry, my friend. You and I are you going to have loads of fun with this.”

***

Hero could handle anything. Had handled everything. Could take the punches, the pliers, the water boarding.

He could handle it all.

Except fire.

Never that. Never the curling scarlet that set alight every nerve in his body with throbbing red.

***

Open flame spiraled into the low ceiling of the cell.

Vivid blue and brighter red. The colors sank into the walls, the floor. They bled out into the ceiling. Heart-pulsing, throbbing red.

Bruising blue, the color left behind by a fist.

Hero stumbled, knees giving out on him. The world spun and fractured and burst into flame.

Villain hauled him to his feet. “You are so beyond pathetic. It’s just fire.”

Just fire.

“And sure you’re going to stick your arm in it, but, hey maybe after we can make s’mores.”

Hero’s stomach dropped. The words had been like a white-hot knife. “What?”

“Did you say you were left handed or right handed?”

Hero held both arms to his chest. “Please, please, please—”

“Begging? Huh that’s a new low.” Villain’s voice twisted into one of Control. Their abilities far outstripped Hero’s now, after weeks of captivity. “Put your right arm in the fire.”

Crimson-bleeding pain. Hero sobbed even as his arm was dragged forward.

—twisting, murderous pain started at his fingers and crawled upwards— a tattoo of never ending pain—

And Villain? Villain laughed.

Hero’s sobs turned to screams.

“Hey, Hero, Hero,” Villain snapped their fingers to get Hero’s attention. “Smile for the camera.” Click. “I think I’m gonna caption this as ‘Too Hot for You’.”

Again, that laugh.

[monterraverde]

A tall, lanky ginger walks onto the stage, guitar slung across his body by the strap, a Skeledirge dutifully following him. For a spring ball the teenager is giving entirely the opposite, positively dark and moody in terms of outfit and appearance. If anything he looks ready to hit up a concert; wearing a distressed Uva Academy uniform, with personal alterations and a large pair of mangled black wings, that no doubt took hours to craft.

He steps up to the mic. Inhales, slow, silent. Exhales with the same measured control. If he’s nervous at all the boy doesn’t look it, eyes dropping to his own hands as he starts to play. The Skeledirge sways to the Melody beside him.

Isaiah’s voice booms through the mic, his singing strong and clear, as it commands attention.

Prison gates won’t open up for me, on these hands and knees I’m crawlin’ oh, I reach for you. Well I’m terrified of these four walls, these iron bars can’t hold my soul in

As if on cue Skeledirge uses Torch Song, harmonizing with its trainer. Flames dance across the stage, psychic energy painting them a purple-pink sort of colour. They spiral round the duo, as they sing on.

Heaven’s gates won’t open up for me, with these broken wings I’m fallin’ and all I see is you. These city walls ain’t got no love for me

There’s something almost somber about the performance, the guitar unaccompanied by anything other than Isaiah and Skeledirge’s singing. The fire suddenly bursts inward, back towards Isaiah and Skeledirge, as the song nears its bridge.

Neither pokemon nor trainer are concerned, the flames climbing over the ginger’s shoes, to his uniform. One hand floats up, high above his head as the song comes to its peak, flames climbing over the teens body as for a moment it all goes quiet. The uniform, the wings, it all burns away.

The punk ensemble gives way to a white suit. It’s only decoration with red, yellow and pink embellishments, that imitate the patterns on Skeledirge’s body. The hand held up in the air falls back to Earth, back to the strings of his guitar, as Isaiah and Skeledirge sing softly;

And all I need is you. Come please, I’m callin’ and, oh, I scream for you.

Hurry, I’m fallin’. I’m fallin’, I’m fallin’

Any remaining fire bursts into stars, as the psychic imprisonment they’re under is released. They pop almost like bubbles, glowing like the sparks of a campfire. It’s heavy, the weight of emotion behind the teenager’s voice, his whole heart laid bare in this brief moment.

Show me what it’s like, to be the last one standing - and teach me wrong from right, and I’ll show you what I can be. And say it for me, say it to me, and I’ll leave this life behind me, say it if it’s worth saving me.

Hurry, I’m fallin’… Say it if it’s worth saving me…

The strumming of the guitar fades to silence as the teen pulls himself away from the mic. Isaiah doesn’t so much as cast a look out towards the crowd, making his way off the stage with his pokemon following.

[sebsxphia]

wait the admiral!natasha message sent me into a spiral because OMG THAT WOMAN WITH GREYS IN HER HAIR I WILL BURST INTO FLAMES

sitting in her lap and stroking her hair, twirling it around your fingers while she finishes some paperwork 🥺

gimme one chance mommy

YESSS AAAAAH I DIDNT EVEN THINK ABOUT NAT WITH GREYS IN HER HAIR SDNSAKJDN

oh my god and twirling it in your fingers, through the thicker black strands???? oh my god i’m getting dizzy at the thought, that is so mommy coded 🥺🥺🥺

god thank you so much for this thought and bringing this to life my dear anon!! 💌

[crazyventing]

Impulse, Revenge

Okay, I’m going nuts, going crazy, going bananas, what have you. Whatever, but I have been cooped up for far too long in this house, in my shackles, my cage. I made it but it’s time to break out. I am so tired of the burden, all of the burden. 

For once, I just want to be free. But at the same time, I’m still scared. Of course I’m scared. That’s normal right? But, I just want to take these steps to feel like me again, you know.

I definitely feel some type of guilt. Leaving and all. But I have to keep reminding myself I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t choose this. And I’m just tired, so very tired. And I deserve better. I deserve better. I deserve better.

Keep repeating it until it sticks. I deserve better. I really do. And I believe that. Because I have SLAVED AWAY. And I have been emotionally abused for so long. I know I’m supposed to be thinking long term. But like, let the impulsive me come alive again.

Whenever my dad describes the way I was, I can’t imagine myself being like that again. I was backed into a corner, being told I was selfish, being told I thought about no one else but myself. All the while my dad was admiring me for knowing what I want and doing the things I have to do to get it.

It’s nice though, to learn that little flame in me sparked a flame in another. Maybe my dad is returning the my little flame to me. I miss the fire in my blood, the way it feels when I want something and my mind just starts whirring so I’ll know what to do. Oh younger me had so much guts.

Older me, got scared, got a little too comfortable hiding in the dark. It was nice but that’s all there was, darkness, nothingness. I knew everything in that little space. But now, half of me is in the darkness and half of me wants to burst into a fireball.

Do I want to be sad? Or do I want the possibility of happiness? I have the most chance of happiness when I do what I’m about to do. For a second there, of course, I got scared of the risks. I am aware it may not turn to happiness, that’s why I said the possibility. But I like the possibility more than the sure thing that is sadness.

I am a gambler, and I love to win. But I have to learn how to lose, too. As hard as it is for someone like me who has felt like everything was a downward spiral. Feeling like a loser all my life, I’m tired of that. I refuse to believe that I was born to lose. I was born to learn.

[howl-fantasies]

I have a request for headcanons of the Gotham rogues having met the Y/N when they were ig sane aka. not evil and then awhile after just seeing them at Arkham, now knowing they went down the same pit they had.

At least they can be a new rogue!

( I'm thinking of them liking each other romantically beforehand and then Y/N poof is now not sane- like oops but you can still date 🤷‍♀️ )

Hi dear, thank you for your request! And so sorry for the delay! I like the concept, it's a really plausible one. The idea of them meeting each other again in Arkham and bonding because of their common misfortune and spiralling to hell is a very good one! *Barbara vibes here*😂

I made scenarios with the reader being friend or sort of with the villains first, since I thought it would be fitting, I hope it's ok for you dear. I went with: Ed, Oswald, Victor and Jonathan. Tell me if you want to read more headcanons with other villains.

So here it is:

Warning: violence, blood, mental illness, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, Arkham (hey, it can be traumatising, ask Oswald and Ed), English is not my first language I'm working on it.

Word Count: 3.685

GOTHAM VILLAINS HAVING MET THE READER WHEN THEY WERE SANE

EDWARD NYGMA / THE RIDDLER

You were Kringle's coworker and met Eddy at the GCPD.

Even if you worked with the other woman you were never really close, mostly because of the awful way she treated Ed at first.

Even if he was a dork, you used to find him endearing and always gave his riddles a shot, succeeding or not to answer correctly.

If you were good at riddles, Ed would immediately become your partner in riddle-crime, always searching for a good one able to stump you.

If riddles weren't your forte, he appreciated your effort and gentleness. You really were trying and he really loved the spark of comprehension in your eyes when he would give you the correct answer and how you would facepalm and curse at how obvious it was when you were thinking about it.

Your closeness would earn you a lot of teasing from Jim, Harvey and the other cops, most of the times it would be mean remarks targeting Ed, though.

But you both knew the truth: Nygma was still obsess with Kringle. You, on the other hand, always had a soft spot for him. You didn't need to be a genius, though, to know your attraction for dear Ed was only a one side one. So you never told him anything about it.

When Ed started to lose it, you truly were horrified. Why? How? What was happening to him? You did your best to team up with Jim in order to bring your lovely co-worker back to you.

You already know the result: it will be an epic fail. For Jim, you and finally Ed who will be send to Arkham.

Then, your own little descent into hell happened.

Without Ed, you were now the new GCPD's scapegoat. Those guys never learn anything, right?

Hell at work and in your personal life: losing a close relative, meeting someone who hurt you badly, money issues, illness... choose your weapon and be ready to see your uneventful life burst into flames for the worse...or maybe the better?

You would wreak absolute havoc in Gotham, so much, Gordon himself had to go after you and managed to arrest you.

"What happened to you Y/N?! Ed wasn't enough? Why did you have to follow his path?!" He asked-yelled, the deep hurt visible in his eyes.

Goodbye Gotham, hello Arkham. Guess who you met again here?

“No waaay ∼ Look at you my dear, you are positively stunning!” His taunting voice would call you from the other side of the refectory. “Did you missed me so much you decided to pursue me here? My, oh my, I’m honoured!” *Yes, you can hit his pompous ass, please do it*

Riddler had to stop his mocking, though. When he saw you so numb, his felt his heart clench painfully. He appreciated you a lot back then. And seeing you so hollow made him drop his cocky act. 

“Are you ok dear?” He would ask, joining you at your table and cautiously seating in front of you with his brows furrowed. “What happened?”

And you would tell him. How your life became a living hell when he was gone. How everything crumbled around you until your mind didn’t have any other choice than snap. 

Goodness. He empathized. He truly did. His own snapping was relatively fresh after all. 

He would make his own little mission to protect you from Strange and his little human experiments, he would try his best to lift your spirit and even create special riddles only for you. Don’t worry about answering wrong, you wouldn’t die for it, he swore. 

Now that Kringle was out of the picture, Ed would finally see you. See how you were always kind with his dork him, how you tried to save him when everything went south for him, how you would discreetly wrinkle your cute nose when something was bothering you but you were too polite to point it out loud. God what was he thinking while running after his previous doomed love when you, who never tried to change anything with him, was just under his nose. He would feel like the biggest fool into the whole city let me tell you. 

He wouldn’t mind you being now judged as insane. He wouldn’t mind your illness. He would only mind how a blushing mess he was gradually becoming when you were near him. And he would only mind about ensuring your security: inside of Arkham, outside of it when he would convince Oswald to get you out too. 

Be ready to be the one receiving muffins with a bullet in it, flowers, poems, and any romantic gift you can think about. 

Bonus: he will always keep a picture of the two of you inside of his wallet. You both were in Arkham’s uniform at the cafeteria while he was teaching you how to play chess with a paper handmade one he created just for you. He would never admit it to anyone but he thought you were the cutest thing in your uniform. 

--

OSWALD COBBLEPOT / THE PENGUIN

You fist met Oswald when he entered the little tailor shop you owned.

He needed a new suit for his grand debuts in the mafia’s world, when he started to work for Fish. 

He wouldn’t be very kind during his first visits. But he came back every times, finding your sense of fashion and sewing technique terrific. 

He finally decided to compliment them once, bringing you to talk about a lot of things: suits, buttons, and more dangerous subjects like his mother and his growing criminal career. Nothing too touchy, though. Oswald is a cautious little thing and he also didn’t want you to sell any information or, if you really were as kind as you looked, make you a target if anyone wanted to hurt him. 

Soon, you would become his little secret. His breath of fresh air. He would even try to hide your friendship to his dear mother, too afraid she insults you or demand him to stop seeing you. 

But Gertrude is perceptive in her own way and would suspect something. Because of Oswald’s stupid happy smile whenever he was putting one of your creation, she would stay silent and let him think he was so good at keeping secrets. She swore to tore you apart if you ever dare to break his lovely son’s heart, though. 

Your relationship reached an important point when he would met you just after Fish defeat and flee, thanks to Victor. His clothes and face were a total mess. 

So you patched his suit and him, without asking questions you knew he wouldn’t answer. 

But he decided to speak. Well, not really speak, he vented. His nerves cracking and his temper starting to get the best of him. He always tried to keep it tamed near you, too afraid about your possible reaction. 

You didn’t run away. You let him yell, smash his hands and fists against your furniture, and offered him some tea, fruits and biscuits. 

“Poof” angry Oswald was now tamed. You’re a wizard/witch reader, be ready to receive a letter from Hogwarts in the following days.

After this, Cobblepot’s fondness for you will know no limit. As his dear friend, he would always make sure your shop and you were ok, even when everything around him was burning. 

But Gotham is Gotham, you know. Trouble, misery, and disasters always find their way to you. 

It started with an arson. Your shop was burned to the very ground. By who? Oswald swore to investigate and help you build it back, even better than before. 

But he wasn’t that rich at this time, so you did what any citizen would have done: you called the insurance, you went to the illustrious Gotham Central Bank and ask for their help to lend you the funds you needed. 

Condensed, their answer was pretty much a: “LMAO no fucking way, please go die somewhere in the dark alone.” Pretty much. With prettier and complex words, but the meaning was the same. 

Oswald was livid. You too. But you’ll eventually find a way to back up on your feet. Right? *Spoiler: no*

Your chance definitely left you when a few weeks later, Oswald get caught and sent to Arkham, letting you all alone to deal with your problem and Cobblepot’s foes who somehow had heard about you. 

Domino effect. It would always be your answer to the “What happened to you?” inevitable question. You lost it. You snapped. Nobody, except Oswald, was keen on helping you in this hell hole. Nobody would care if you were to die alone in a dark and shady alley. 

Why would you care about robbing the bank then? And other banks, galleries, rich people in town? Money was the key. You needed money. In fact, it became your obsession. Money will guarantee you a home, you will never lose yours ever again. Money will guarantee you security, power, and quick solutions whenever you may be in need for one. 

You get caught too. Your total obsession for money making you the perfect new candidate to the only asylum in town. Not like you cared. Your precious money was safe, you made sure of it. But from Arkham, it would be a little bit difficult to reach. 

Life decided to stop being a bitch when you saw your dear friend again. 

“Y/N?!” You heard him yell when you were escorted to the cell next to his own. “Oh my god my dear, I am so sorry I wasn’t here for you! But what are you doing here! It must be a mistake! Guards! Let us go this instant, we aren’t mentally ill for heaven’s sake!” 

Like Ed, Oswald will make sure no harm was done to you in Arkham. Yes, he would even protect you from Jerome. He would never let the freak touch a single hair of your head. You were too precious. 

Oswald would also make sure to get you out. Even after Strange little mind game on him. He would never forget you or judge you a bad influence for him. 

Of course he’ll notice your newfound obsession for money. But he understands. Better, he will make sure to help you make and steal a lot of it. 

He asked you to move in with him during his mayor campaign, implored you to stay during his Gotham’s throne conquest - for your own security. In fact, he will want you with him at all times. You, his dearest friend. The only one who, he knew, would never turn their back on him. 

Be ready to catch him facing empty chairs a few times when you come back home. “Don’t panic, he’s practicing his confession,” Olga told you in her language that you obviously don’t understand a word about. 

Gifts. Gifts everywhere. Everyday. For no reason. He likes to spoil you rotten. “Can’t you see this boy fell head over heels for you, idiot?” Would sigh Olga every time. Of course, both of you will miss it every time, demanding her to speak in freaking ENGLISH... Poor you guys... It will take ages. 

--

VICTOR ZSASZ

Victor met you for the first time at the Lady's illegal casino.

You weren't an assassin yourself, by no means. Just here to work as an accountant. You knew about the Lady's business and ensure she never had any issue with her money, writing her contracts for her and it was all.

When the most famous assassin in town showed his bald head in the casino and the Lady wasn't here, he pretexted he was "just passing by" and got lost here. Dude... I mean...

You had to facepalm. Which made him laugh like an idiot. You knew who he was, but also were accustomed to assassins at this point so it wasn't like you were going to pee in your pants while being in front of him. He liked it.

You introduced yourself properly and explained you worked for the Lady and was aware he was supposed to come to see her.

You offered him a drink on the house and humor him with small talk while waiting for your boss.

When she finally showed up, the three of you moved in a seclude area to talk business. Something about a contract the Lady wanted to make with Victor, with the benediction of Carmine Falcone.

He was amazed by how composed and organized you were. Clinical. Like any good assassin should be, even if you weren't one. He absolutely loved your quick wit and the dark jokes you would offer from time to time to help lightening the mood when tension was getting too intense. Damn, you were good!

Victor being Victor, he quickly became fascinated by you, following you everywhere in town with or without you knowing.

You caught him stalking you once when you stopped by a pizza truck, asking for a calzone.

"Add one pepperoni please. Oh! And a milkshake too." Came his voice from behind you, making you jump out of your skin and curse him like a sailor.

"What the hell?! Are you following me? I mean, for real?! DUDE!" You yelled in pure outrage.

He wouldn't even try to hide it. Simply offering you his irritating "Uh-uh".

"What for? Plan to kill me or something?" You asked.

His long silence wasn't mean to threaten you, no. He was admiring your nerves of steel. Also questioning your sanity a bit, truth be told. But since you made him a really good impression so far, he decided you were impressive.

"Not today", he just said with a shrug. Ok, so he wanted to play friends or something so stupidly mondain like this. Again, you decided to humor him.

Guess what, after a few times of totally not planned encounters, you started to really get close to each other. Even exchange numbers at some point.

He would always find the time to pay you a little visit at the casino at the end of your shift and appreciate the strange normalcy it gave him.

Everything was fine until one day, the Lady's illegal casino was under attack, getting nearly everyone killed brutally.

You survived somehow. You weren't an assassin but it didn't mean they didn't taught you a thing or two, like surviving *the irony* or using weapons.

When the GCPD FINALLY arrived, they caught you, covered in blood and utterly shocked. You were still processing everything happening and your world falling apart.

Your distressed attitude and shock were the main reasons why you were send to Arkham, in hope they would help you to get through it and release you after it.

They didn't plan the bloodbath would have turned one very dangerous switch inside of you. The blood, the thrill, the smell of powder, the pure rush of adrenaline. God you wanted more.

A month later maybe, guess who also found his ass in the same facility? But yes of course: Victor Zsasz.

His goofy grin threatened to split his jaw in half when he saw you: "Hey Sweets! Knew you survived!"

It wouldn't need much for him to understand what switch was activated inside of you. And he was positively thrilled by it!

He offered to train you, respected when you declined joining the Zsaszettes and came with another idea: introduce you to Falcone/Oswald (depending on where you want to stand in the timeline) and make you their brand new accountant-assassin.

Be ready to find him glued to you at anytime, you were his little secret crush back then, you're now his new God/Goddess and nothing will stop him to worship you properly, not even you. You'll see you were made for each other, eventually.

--

JONATHAN CRANE / SCARECROW

You were Jonathan's classmate and friend.

You weren't as easy spook as him so you often where his emotional support and bodyguard, especially at school with bullies. No need to be a total badass, your fondness for him was enough to give you the courage to shut up the boys or girls making fun of him and you, or give them a proper beating if you feel like so.

His sensibility always touched you deeply, and you were always here whenever he needed to vent about something or talk about his fears.

This is how you learned about the arson taking the life of his mother. The gradual shutting of his father and his obsession with fear and how to tame it.

When it was only researches, you found yourself really interested in Jonathan's father discoveries, as much as Jonathan himself. He was always a little genius in science and physics. Share it with him or not, your interest for the fear field wasn't feigned.

He gladly explained whatever you didn't understand and even suggested a few theories, sharing them with you.

It could have stayed this way, a passion, a subject of research. But it had to escalate when Jon's father started to look for unwilling test subjects.

You weren't aware of it at first. Unsuspecting, until you found Jonathan doubled in half on the floor of the school's bathroom one day, crying like a river and mumbling nonsense about him being a monster and going straight to hell.

You rushed to him, crouching at his level and tried to shake him out of his shock. "Jon'! Hey! Look at me! What are you talking about, you're no monster! Something happened? Please talk to me."

Poor boy was an absolute mess but managed to hear you and let you help him to sit. And he spoke. Oh good lord, he spoke for an hour or so, telling you everything about his father and what he was doing to poor gothamites. How he was forced into this total craziness and how he started to fear his father will ask him to use you as a test subject one day.

Horrified. That's how you felt, frankly. You had to stay silent for a good five minutes to process everything your friend just told you.

But you liked Jonathan, and he wasn't responsible of his father madness, right?

You comforted him, swearing it was not his fault and he wasn't a monster.

When he finally stopped crying, you swore to him that you'll never tell it to anyone, not even the police *You were teens. Teens do stupid things like this. Well, adults too when you think about it...*

He would come to you every time his father would terrify some innocent in town, crying for hours on your shoulders.

When his dad used the toxin on him, he was on phone with you, making you yell bloody murder on the other side of the line and dropping everything you were doing to run to his house.

You crumbled when you saw your best friend on the ground under his phobia: a huge scarecrow, yelling, crying and spasming like he was having a heart attack. You rushed to him and pushed Harvey away, "He's my friend! Oh my god! Please do something!" You pleaded in tears, having to be manhandled by Jim to allow emergency services to reach him.

You were at the hospital everyday, hating you for not having call the GCPD sooner. Maybe it would have saved Jon. The guilt was eating you alive. When the docteur told you he was a lost cause, you felt like going into a tailspin. Then, came the numbness.

When Jonathan was transferred into an asylum where visits weren't allowed, you made a new friend: depression.

Nothing could help you, you wanted to die. Die for being responsible of your friend distress, die because all you were able to feel was pain.

You went to his house one day, when the guilt and pain were too much to bear. You found yourself inside his father's old office and started to rummage around his things. There, a syringe. With some shady yellow liquid floating inside of it.

You didn't had any idea about what was inside. But at this point, you didn't care any more. You took it in your hands, looked at it just a second before plunging it directly on your upper arm, emptying it in it.

Your yells of absolute terror were what made neighbors call the police, thinking a murder was happening in Crane's old house. When Gordon and Bullock found you, they felt ice in their veins. You were Jonathan's friend. The one who found him with them that night. The one who always was by his side at the hospital before his transfer. Jim felt he failed you. Harvey too.

You went through the exact same hell as Jonathan. First the delirium, the nightmares... When you finally managed to wake up, your diagnosis was the same as him: a lost cause. Arkham was your new stop. They didn't want to send you to the same facility's Jonathan was in, too afraid it would be too much of a shock for both of you guys.

Oh but fate has its own ways. And you finally saw each other again, years later. When he was now incarcerated as Scarecrow.

He recognized you immediately. Not believing what he was seeing. What happened to you? He tried to find you when he started his criminal career but it was like your very existence vanished from earth.

He was always perceptive. A minute was enough for him to understand: you were exposed to his toxin. Well, to his father's toxin.

He was as sorry for you as he was impress when you explained him you took the same dose of toxin he took a few years back and was still living to tell the tale.

Since you were his friend *cough* and also school sweetheart *cough*, and now totally immune to his fear toxin, he decided it was time for him to take care of you and make sure you were always safe.

Be ready for a clingy best friend-lover, for cuddles every times you two are alone, to weird scary gifts, halloween chocolates, dead flowers and basically any weird thing he would find romantic or cute.

A/N - I hope you liked it! Have a beautiful day/night my dear, take care!

[imthebadguyyy]

Loved your first fic of Lewis!💛

Can you make one where Lewis Hamilton and Y/N have a fight and have been living separately and then Lewis comes to meet Y/N one evening and makes an excuse that his toothbrush is with Y/N? And then Lewis confronts Y/N that he knows Y/N still love him but won't admit?

..

* I know this is a very specific prompt. Bare with me. I just wanted more Angst/ Fluff with Longing for each other and Deep feelings and keep it Non-explicit. *

A/N - I'm so glad you liked the fic 😊

We're Meant To Be

Pairing - Lewis Hamilton x Reader (female)

Fandom - F1

Summary - After a messy fight, you don't know where your relationship stands. But when love is that strong, an argument can't stand in the way.

Warnings - Angst, fighting, swearing

Angered shouts. Tears of frustration. White noise. Desperate pleads. And then silence. That's what your neighbours would describe if they were asked to describe what they had heard from your house. An argument that seemed to have started over nothing, had blown up into a full scale fight. When had it become this bad? Only yesterday, you two had had a date night at home, with movies and wine. Everything was perfect. But then, suddenly everything seemed to go down a downward spiral.

Your relationship with your boyfriend had always been calm, it had been the type of love where you just loved each other with all your hearts, where fights were an incredibly rare appearance. You were both working, and he was away at races most of the time, so usually, you didn't waste time fighting, something that was an unnecessary waste of time in your opinion. But then, something had just switched for a second. It was after the race in Baku, and it hadn't gone well. Lewis had been heartbroken, after coming P15, and had heavily berated himself for it. To make him feel better, you had taken a couple of days off work. to just be with him and give him company to feel better.

It had been on the third day of you spending time with him that he had made an offhand comment that had struck a nerve with you. "I wish you could be there at race weekends more often. It's like you don't care enough about the races" The comment had pissed you off, to put it lightly. "What do you mean, I don't care about the races? I watch all of them Lewis, I'm always supporting you" you had practically seethed at him. "Don't get all huffy, darling, all I'm saying is that the other girlfriends and wives come quite often, but you only come to like three races a year" he had said, already regretting his words. "Maybe that's because I have a job?! I work for my living, and I love my job. I don't have time to fly around the world to accompany you to your races, and its damn hard to get leave off of work anyway, I was lucky to even get a week off of work, and you want me to be there every weekend? It's not possible for a working person, Lewis" you had said, anger bubbling in your voice, pulling away from him to sit up straight. "I know, I just meant-" "No, I know what you meant. I'm sorry I can't always be there, and don't you think I feel bad when I can't be there for you ?" "I know you do, I shouldn't have brought this up. But can you come for the next race?" He had asked, not looking at your eyes, regretting the answer. "I... can't. I have a really big meeting coming up and-" "And you can't come I get it"

And he had just left. You had felt your heart shatter, hating yourself for being so harsh with him. But it was true, you were a very hardworking person, and you had worked damn hard to get to where you were, successful at your job, one of the best in your field. It took years of hard work and perseverance and you were proud of it. But a part of you also knew that Lewis didn't deserve any of the crap you had given him, and you also knew that he was right, the other guys had their partners to support them during various race weekends, and you only showed up to one or two of them. He was well in his rights to tell you that. And you hated how it had ended.

You all alone, in your house, in a cold and empty bed, in a quiet house with silence that was much, much more deafening than words ever could be. It was heartbreaking, to see a future you had dreamed of just shattering in front of your eyes, dreams of having a family of your own with him fluttering away like wisps of smoke, the burning flames leaving only a heartbroken mess of a human being behind. Was that what it felt like? To be burned and left to turn to ashes, when a person that knew exactly how to ignite your flame just left you to burn away? To have someone who could ignite your all consuming passion, and turn you to putty in his hands, who could mould you back into shape, leave you to melt into a liquid through his fingers to just lay on the ground, a sad, broken, person.

And here you were, lying on your bed, the sheets that had warmed the both of you on cold nights, or been home to your pleasure laced activities now offering only some of the warmth it used to, cold and unforgiving, as you turned your pillow for the fifteenth time, neither side cool anymore. Even the pillow didn't want to forgive you, the sweat settling in on your neck again, beads of sweat running down your forehead again. The pulled curtains shielded you from the over bright sunshine, your damp hair sticking to your shoulders and neck. Your eyes, red rimmed and tired, shut to protect them from the faint light in the room, the tiredness not permitting you to even open them to look in the dim light of your room.

Somewhere near you, your phone buzzed again, for what felt like the hundredth time in three days. It had been three days, three long, painful days since you and Lewis had fought and not seen each other, and those 72 hours had ripped a part of your soul out. You had spent those three days in bed, your leave days still saving you from getting out of bed and dragging your body to office. Was your relationship over? Were you never going to meet the love of your life, the man you were destined to be with again? Sighing, you rolled over, pushing the damp strands of hair away from your face. Using strength you didn't know you had, you pulled yourself up, feeling your head spin.

Slowly, you made yourself walk into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of bread and popping it into the toaster. Then you splashed some water on your tired face, shuffling over to the bathroom to brush your teeth. After finishing your toast, you peeled off the sweaty shirt you had pulled on when he had left, realising with a pang that it was Lewis's nightshirt you were wearing, a purple one he loved. Dropping it into the laundry basket, you turned on the shower, stepping under the warm shower. The warm spray untangled the knots in your matted hair, as you soaped your body and hair, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks as memories of your showers together with Lewis came flooding back, as heartbroken sobs wracked your form again.

An hour after the not so great shower, you found yourself in another shirt belonging to Lewis, the bed in fresh sheets and covers, your pillow finally cool on both sides. You were clean and refreshed, albeit heartbroken, waiting on your takeout Chinese food and ice cream. Just as you lay there, scrolling through your Netflix account to watch some episode of FRIENDS to help you keep your spirits up, the doorbell rang. The thought of flavourful Chinese food and ice cream was enough to lure you out of your bed again, bare feet padding across the wooden floor to go to the door. You grabbed your wallet, opening the door, to find not your dinner, but Lewis, at the door, in one of your favourite sweatshirts on him. Did the clothes make you feel better? No. In fact, it just shattered your heart further.

"What are you doing here?" was the predictable line that left your lips. "I um, I left my toothbrush at your place. Can I have it back?"

"I beg your pardon? You left your toothbrush? You came back for a toothbrush, but not for me? Is that all I mean to you?!" you said, anger and a hint of sadness creeping into your tone. "You do mean a lot to me" he replied in a sigh. "Look, I didn't actually leave my toothbrush. That was a lie, and wow, I'm just realising how stupid that sounded, I'm sorry" His words were met with silence. The sadness in your eyes said it all. You were upset. Of course you were. "I don't have any toothbrushes except mine, so please leave" Before you could shut the door in his face, he pushed it back open, stepping into the house on his own.

"No do not come in here, please just get out!"

"No" was his frustrating reply. "What do you mean no? I said get out of my house!" "Not until we stop fighting and talk about what the hell happened!" Lewis yelled back, matching your tone. "Why the hell do you care?!" "Because I still love you damn it, I always have, and this stupid fight cannot, and should not break us apart!"

Your burst into tears. Sliding down against the wall, you buried your face in your hands, the sweatshirt arms covering your face as you sobbed. In an instant, Lewis was walking across to you, strong muscled arms wrapping around your shaking frame. "I'm sorry" you managed to blubber out, "I thought it over, and I don't go to support as often as I feel I should, and I'm sorry"

"No my darling, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all that to you. You work so hard baby, and I'm so proud of you. And I know that you try to come whenever you can, and I love you so much for that. I'm sorry, and I never shouldv'e asked you to prioritize my passion over yours" rubbing your shoulders softly, he let his chin rest on top of yours. Sniffling, you let your head rest on his shoulder. The soft hiccups that left your lips broke his heart even further, something he hadn't thought possible.

The last 3 days had been pure hell for him. He had missed you, God, he had missed you. He had missed having you in his bed in the morning, tracing patterns on your bare skin. He had missed leaving kisses on your soft cheeks and hands and on your cute nose, missed smiling against your skin as you giggled. He had missed you playing with Roscoe, the doggo following the both of you around the house. Even Roscoe had missed you, sniffing around the house for your familiar smell, cocking his ears up and looking at his dad questioningly.

He had missed your perfume, the scent filling his senses, intoxicating him in the best way possible. He missed you curling up to him, playing with his hair or tracing his tattoos, leaving little kisses around the compass tattoo, tracing his 'Still I Rise' tattoo, missing the goosebumps that would rise on his skin when you traced Michelangelo's Pieta on his skin, and kissed the family and faith tattoos on his sternum. He missed you everywhere, and it had taken three days for him to realize that your presence grounded him. Your presence was something he needed, not to survive, he had done that before, he needed you for his happiness.

And having you in his arms, crying over what he had said? It shattered his heart. And he wanted to just fix everything, to bring everything back to normal. Stroking your hair softly, he kept his lips pressed to your ear, whispering soft "I love you's" and "I'm so sorry baby's" and "I'm here for you's" into your ear, feeling his heart lighten ever so softly when your sniffles decreased and your grip on yourself relaxed.

Moving up to meet his eyes, you moved so you were at eye level with him. "So we're both idiots who are sorry?" You murmured, running your hand up to his collarbone. With a soft laugh, he nodded taking your hand into his, rubbing his thumb over yours. "Fighting sucks" he mumbled pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "It really does" your replied, moving so you were straddling his waist. "Let's never do that again, and let's just make a schedule. We can figure out when you can come and visit me, and I'll just deal with the fact that my ethereal girlfriend won't grace the race tracks every race weekend-" "It all sounds lovely but all I want right now is your lips on mine" you interrupted, bringing a smirk to his lips.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to yours, hand moving to maneuver your head closer to his, your hands moving up to cup his cheek, as your traced his jawline, his thumb running over your waist. Breaking apart softly, he let his forehead rest on yours. "I love you" he whispered softly. "I love you too" you mumbled back. Before he could lean back in, the doorbell rang again.

"Damn it. That's my chinese food and ice cream" you sighed, smiling when he laughed. "Was it that bad?" He asked, letting you get up to open the door. "Like you wouldn't believe it"

After getting the food and paying for it, you set two plates on the table and put enough on your plates. "You know what the worst part was about fighting?" "What was?" "Not waking up to you tracing my tattoos" "Aww that's what you missed?" You giggled, walking up to kiss the tattoos on his hands. "I really did. You're cute and adorable and you're all mine. That's why I don't wanna fight. Let's keep it that way" "I love you so much" "I love you too"

***

A/N - I'm so, so sorry I took so long to write this, I really suck at angst, and I hope this is what you wanted, the last thing I want to do is give you subpar work 😭😭

Anyways, have a great day 💙

[snarky-art]

This is quite literally the last transformation I would’ve expected to design next in full and YET

Anyway, here’s cosmix lol

Each being is connected to a celestial body that best fits them and their magic. This is decided by the celestial energy itself when it connects to them when the transformation is accessed. Their wings glow all the time in other transformations too, I just never add it. I added it to this one though because it’s celestial energy that’s holding everything together and is therefore would be considered a unique type of glow and I wanted to demonstrate that here.

Theres some info on celestial energy and how cosmix works in my thing atm (I’m still mulling around some different ideas and still have to watch the season to know for sure what I’m changing and keeping) and cosmix in general in this ask!

Details on the designs and explanations for the celestial bodies each Winx is connected to below!

Stella is connected to stars, big and bright and able to draw people in. She gets a huge burst in power with this transformation since she already has connections to suns naturally and her magic is celestial based to begin with. The Greek symbol for stars are used in her look a lot. She also feels the most comfortable out of the winx with this transformation.

Flora is connected to planets. This speaks to her more grounded personality and affinity for plant life, since thats typically where its located. It also is a reference to her tendency to orbit big personalities rather than be a big one herself. I tried to reference the Greek symbol for Earth in her design a lot.

Musa is connected to comets. They’re small and can leave a big impact if they collide with something. They leave a trail if they enter an atmosphere too, and this speaks to her influence and more eye catching bursts of energy she can have sometimes. She’s small but powerful and has more sway than she gives herself credit for. I tried my best to incorporate the Greek symbol for comet and allude to tails with her accessories and details.

Tecna is connected to satellites. They orbit planets (speaking to their connection to Flora since they’re the closest to each other) and can be a variety of things, speaking to their versatility in combat and planning. Their wings have no physical connection to their body and are only held to them by celestial energy.

Aisha is connected to asteroids, icy and large. This speaks to her water based magic as well as her ability to make quick judgements that aren’t often swayed unless shown good reason to change her mind as well as her sure sense of self and presence. As I’ve said before, she’s the most sure of herself and put together of the winx and that makes her a force to be reckoned with. I references the Greek symbol for comets in her design too since they’re similar to comets in their shape and ability to float relatively freely, and as a reference to her relationship with Musa in my thing. I also aimed to allude to the symbol for Europa with the mark on her leg since it’s a large icy moon.

Bloom is connected to galaxies. This speaks to her ability and want to try and keep everyone together and The Dragon Flame being at the center of creation for life, everything revolving around it. I tried to incorporate spirals as her main symbol as a reference to The Milky Way.

[get-shiggy-with-it]

A HAND THAT WILL NOT HARM YOU - TWICE X HERO!READER

✧ pairing: Jin Bubaigawara (Twice) x hero!reader 

✧ word count: 5.3k | AO3 Mirror 

✧ warnings: angst, like discussions of suicide but not in a specific or detailed way, smut, light smut, afab reader no pronouns, semi-public sex technically, sex outdoors, smoking cigarettes, mentions of blood, canon typical violence

✧ summary: After an encounter with a hero who has no qualms accepting death in the line of duty, Jin comes face to face with the reason for his existence, and the futility behind this constant battle with good he fights, while sharing smoke with his new friend on a rooftop as you partake in one of the few reasons to remain horribly alive.

✧ a/n: For my 1k Don’t Go Breaking My Heart Collab ! Thanks so much to everyone else who participated, I’m working on the masterlist! Also mine is very late to my own collab but eh. It’s been awhile since I wrote anything so hope it turned out! Be warned it is angst and reader is kinda losin the will to live literally in the beginning, but it’s also not ~heavy~ I don’t think. Has more dnd tired warrior vibes than anything else. Still head the warning!

Jin wasn’t sure why exactly he did it. 

Or, more appropriately, why he didn’t do it. 

Spinner and Dabi were shouting behind him, the sound of their boots pounding against the concrete floor of the parking garage reverberated around in his skull. The jarring clack of panicked footsteps drowning out every other voice except for go, run—

“Get on the ground!”

The hero’s voice rang deep in his chest and stung like a shot as they called after him. Spinner swore somewhere to his left, the metallic rattling of knife blades the only warning Jin got before a pained shriek echoed through the maze of cement pillars. 

“Stop where you are!”

He felt the blistering heat of Dabi’s flames burst to life over his shoulder as another unfamiliar voice joined the din. Jin’s eyes watered as the thick, cloying smell of charred flesh stuck to the fabric of his mask and choked any attempt at measured breathing. As the air grew unbearably hotter, every shout began to muddle together—forming a single, discordant cacophony.

Jin’s legs shook as he broke into a sprint, sweat running in waves down his back and stinging his eyes. His vision began to tunnel, growing murky black around the edges, leaving nothing but the slow incline of each new floor. The mass of grating sound mingled with the blood pounding in his ears. He stumbled as the rapidly depleting oxygen—eaten away by Dabi’s attempts to clear a route out—destroyed the last remnant of any coherent thoughts. 

He knew nothing more than escape—the slowest of suffocations. 

His partners ran across his field of view and Jin was only vaguely aware of the slash adorning Spinner’s back, quickly leaking dark red and the smoke that poured from each of the staples in Dabi’s cheeks. 

Jin couldn’t be certain when they’d reached the roof, but the new, uninhibited gust of city wind alleviated some of the shock from his system. 

Just enough that his burning eyes could register another figure amongst the fray. 

You lept into view, standing firmly on the roof’s ledge and blocking his only means of exit. Behind you were lower buildings, a jump to which meant safety. 

Meant success.

Meant freedom. 

“Twice,” Spinner shouted, still fighting off one of the remaining pursers. “Get us the fuck out of here!”

He could. 

It would be easy for Jin to take care of you. Just a few doubles and a shove and they’d be on their way back to the bar. 

“Fucking do it, man!” Dabi called to his left as your eyes locked on him. 

Your footing wasn’t solid. Jin honed in easily on the stiffness in your knees from one too many injuries. The set of your shoulders was stooped too low, your balance shifted forward to make up for the wind. 

A single shove and you’d be spiraling down to your death six stories below. 

It would be easy.

“Twice, let's go!” Spinner commanded from his right, sword currently impaled in the chest of your cohort. 

And he would have done it—really truly sent you to die without a second thought, had every intention of doing it. The clones sprang quickly to life, drawing your focus away just long enough for Jin to rush forward and place his hands hard on your shoulder’s, ready to shove with the force of the wind— 

But then he happened to glance at your face, and the world seemed to pause around him for just a single moment. 

The blood quickly pooling at Spinner’s feet came to a halt and the explosion of gas-stove blue fire at Dabi’s fingertips ceased to flicker as Twice met your eye and made three crucial observations. 

The fabric under his hands was flimsy, thin spandex and cotton that offered no protection or leg up in a fight and quite nearly ripped as he gripped at your throat to throw you off kilter. 

His eyes traveled up from your chest and found your face once again, registering as he did then that it was bare. No mask to disguise your identity or protect the vital points at your temples or neck. You bore the marks of it as well, the evidence of past battles written on all the bare skin you’d left undefended. 

But what truly caused him to falter—what made him pull you in and bury his knee into your ribs instead of casting you down to the pavement below—was the look you gave him. 

Your hands that had balled into fists, ready to knock his jaw from its socket, relaxed into open palms, and the snarl that sat in your teeth turned up at the edges. 

The strange, phantom smile was soft on you despite the surrounding gore. Soft and barely there, like snow on warm asphalt. Jin would have missed it if it hadn’t been for your eyelids drifting shut and your hands coming to rest on his forearms, pulling him in too. Making certain his grip stayed strong, ensuring you’d not walk away from this particular fight. 

But Jin didn’t miss it. 

He saw the horrific relief in the crinkles at the corners of your eyes and how smooth your palms were as they held him to you at that single point of deadly contact. How they squeezed gently at the skin, the way Magne often did as she directed him through a crowd—like a friend, with no ill intent, guiding him where he was meant to be.  

He saw the many openings you had at your disposal to kill him too, the strength evident in your hold. 

And he saw how you took none of them. 

It was some combination of all of these things that sucked every ounce of strength from his arms where they held you. As he stared through his mask at your face—relaxed as though in sleep, holding him softly as though you knew him, trusted him—Jin was struck with the realization that he simply couldn’t do it. 

Couldn’t land the blow. 

Couldn’t send you over the edge. 

Couldn’t kill you. 

So he didn’t. 

Instead of following the shouts of his comrades, Jin kicked up into your chest so hard he could nearly see the wind being knocked straight out of your lungs. Your eyes shot open only for a moment—that awful look of peace distorted in shock. Heavy you fell, slumped into his chest before he had the time to scramble back as his clone rushed forward to land a second blow. 

Gasping to the ground, you heaved at the second kick to your head, eyes rolling back and body going still. 

But still breathing, he noted in the midst of it all. Cracked ribs still working under the strain of each breath. 

His doubles were shouting around him. Spinner was wounded and stumbling away from another hero, now crumpled as well in their own bloody mess. The two identical figures helped to drag his friend to the edge and carry him safely down to the second, lower roof. Jin scrambled away too, only moving forward as Dabi shoved him over the side and brought up the rear. 

Your wheezing breaths—the sight of you smiling, holding him, waiting for the final push, shove, then nothing—followed him across each new rooftop and did not fade until he was safely tucked away in the bar Shigaraki had offered them shelter in. 

Shigaraki who snapped at him when Dabi snitched on his decision to spare you. Shigaraki who let him keep his bed anyway, who didn’t complain about the blood he’d tracked inside. Shigaraki who still didn’t understand. Still told him not to show any mercy again. 

Shigaraki, who hadn’t seen you in that moment. Hadn’t experienced the odd, time stopping silence and felt the weight of your confounding, half smile, the soft weight of your hands. 

Jin was certain in the small span of time it took to sulk off to his room that had his boss been there, he’d have done the same. 

But the minute his head came to rest on the familiar, bare mattress, he couldn’t help but think that really—had it been Shigaraki in his shoes—had it been Dabi or Spinner or anyone else on his small list of allies—there would be nothing left in that cage of concrete but a small pile of dust and not a single look back.  

When he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw again. Staring at him, surprise and fear and betrayal written in the crease of your brow and the turn of your lips as he left you on the ground. 

Still breathing.  

---

“You’re thinking about it again?”

“No I’m not—yes I am!” 

Dabi turned in his seat to give Jin the full experience of his incredulous look, whiskey spilling over the rim of his glass as he waved it. 

“Wow, very subtle,” Dabi spoke with a slow drawl which Jin chose to attribute solely to the drink and not to his friend’s general affinity for sarcastic teasing. “You’re really improving.” 

He didn’t bother clapping back, he’d only end up proving the point further. So Jin went back to sulking, digging around in his pocket for a smoke, pulling a cigarette from the box with his teeth. Dabi sat, still watching from the corner of his eye, reaching over a hand with two fingers glowing blue at the tips before Jin had a chance to fumble around for a lighter. 

He was kind enough to let Jin have the first, calming drag, before snatching the cig for his own. Dabi’s thumb absently brushed against his lips as he pulled back to take the stolen hit of nicotine. Jin couldn’t help but notice how smooth the pads of his fingers were. 

Smooth, soft hands. No gloves, bare on his arms, pulling him in— 

“I could have.” 

Dabi exhaled before speaking, little rings of smoke drifting from his parted lips through the hazy bar lighting. “Could’ve what?”

It wasn’t really a question even though he said it like one. Dabi knew. He was there. He was the one who dragged Jin from the scene of his crime—the evidence left hacking in the dust hundreds of roofs away.  

“I could have done it.” 

Dabi didn’t believe him, even though it was the only small truth Jin had dared to offer about that night. He was right. 

He could have, he just—  

“So why didn’t you?” 

Jin thought for a moment. 

Because your hands were soft, maybe. 

Because even through the fabric of his suit, Jin could feel it. Not soft in an easy way either, but soft in the way that a callous gets over time the more you work at it. Like you’d spent years grinding them down until they were smooth and worn as a river stone. 

Or maybe because you held him, no matter how split second short it was and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him kindly. 

It might have been any number of reasons, any multitude of maybe’s. 

So yes, he could have killed you, but no he didn’t. 

And that’s why every penny offered for his thoughts these past few weeks had been wasted. It had been you since the moment you smiled in the face of your doom.

“I don’t know,” he said, after a long pause. 

Because it was the truth, no matter what Dabi chose to believe. 

A scarred hand placed the cigarette back between Jin’s lips, before it trailed down along the stubble of his exposed jaw and settled for cupping his cheek. 

Two fingers inched their way under the fabric of his mask, shoved half up and pinched at the sensitive skin there. 

“You’re too good for this world, man,” Dabi murmured before pulling away and sauntering off up the stairs. 

Jin could tell by the chill in his stare, that he hadn’t meant it as a compliment. 

---

In all his, admittedly short, time alive, Jin had found very few things that truly rendered him speechless. In fact, it was quite a feat for anything to astound him so thoroughly that no stream of thought was bursting forth to spill from between his teeth. 

Seeing you—alive of course and leaning casually against the front wall of a convenience store with neon lighting casting shadows on your face—did the job. 

The plastic bag of stolen goods tumbled to the sidewalk as the sliding glass doors closed behind him. Jin watched your head snap to the side as cans and bottles rattled against the pavement and he stood, dumbstruck and frozen to the spot. 

He ought to run, he thought—give himself a head start in the chase that was sure to come. 

But he didn’t. 

You seemed to have that effect on him.  

Though you stayed rooted to your spot as well, foot kicked back against the siding. Your eyes were clearer now, without the haze of adrenaline and ash. They traveled up from his boots, taking in the casual clothes until they met his face, mask still obscuring any defining features. 

He saw the slight widening in your gaze, the moment of recognition, and tensed himself for battle. 

But it did not come. 

Instead, you nodded to him almost politely, turning your face away from the harsh, blue and pink lights as if to say:

Go on. 

I didn’t see anything. 

But Jin did not go on, against whatever better judgment he still possessed. No, he stayed where he was, surrounded by cheap, shoplifted food in crinkled plastic packaging, staring into the face of a phantom. Because you definitely saw him and he couldn’t have stopped looking at you if he tried. 

For all his shock, you seemed generally unaffected. Even peered at him expectantly from the coroner of your eye, waiting for him to scurry like a rat into the night. 

Though, as with all decisions, Jin made the worst possible of all and did exactly the opposite of that. 

The wall was cool against his back as he leaned against it. Mirroring your stance with a foot kicked back and his bag of contraband settled on the ground by his feet. Jin’s hand habitually reached for the small box in his pocket, flicking out a cigarette and biting the filter. 

“You mind?” he asked as he clicked the lighter to life, lifting his mask and taking a drag before you’d actually had time to respond. 

The answer was no anyway, judging by the quiet laugh and somewhat exasperated shake of your head. 

You stood with your chin tilted up towards the streetlights, nothing but the sliding door separating your shoulder from his. It was strange how the distance seemed so small and so gaping at once.  

“How’ve you been?”

Jin wasn’t sure why exactly he chose that question other than it seemed to be the thing to ask when there wasn’t anything else to say. 

That and he wanted to hear the answer. 

There was a pause and a sigh and then:

“Tired,” you said the way Jin imagined any salary worker might—all wry smile and eyes cast to the ceiling. “You?”

“Better” he responded in kind. “Terrible.”

The comforting burn of smoke filled his lungs and he held in the drag as long as he could before blowing out a cloud of breath into the glowing, neon air. 

You nodded again, like you understood, and he supposed you might. It seems like if anyone would understand the particularly crushing weight of circumstances you never asked for and a life you couldn’t escape, it would be you. A hero, standing in the harsh blue light of the city at night, keeping a criminal company while he steals and tries to smoke out the pain from his bones like bees from their hive—both of you knowing the ache will always return home. 

From the corner of his eye, Jin watched you crouch on your heels. The next time he reached up to place the cigarette between his lips, he found your nose only inches from his own. 

From this close he could see the texture of your skin, the ridges and dips of life in your cheeks. He felt his own grow warm under the harsh, unforgiving light as you leaned in and snatched the smoldering cig from his hand before placing it between your teeth. 

Jin stared with wide eyes through the mesh of his mask, as you leaned in close enough for him to feel the heat emanating from your breath—still breathing. Because of him. Because he couldn’t do it. 

He jolted as something heavy and cold was placed in his palm. The metal fit in his grasp and for a moment it seemed as though you’d placed a gun into his hand, soft fingers wrapping over his to tighten his hold on the grip before pulling away. 

“I can’t,” Jin tried to whisper to you, pushing the weapon back towards your chest but you were already turning on your heel. 

He stood frozen to the spot, cold in the darkness of winter and with none of the heat that followed your stare. In silence he watched as you sauntered off down the sidewalk, disappearing into the maze of buildings. 

When he finally glanced down, in his palm sat one of the stolen cans of coffee. 

His back hit the brick wall of the convenience store, brows knit together and feeling as though he ought to light up another cigarette. Instead, he cracked open the can and gulped the contents, the cool, acidic burn of it settled on his tongue. 

Jin guessed that neither of you would get much sleep tonight. 

---

The next time he saw you felt like years later. 

Or maybe it was more appropriate to say it looked as though years had passed. Nothing had truly changed and it had only been a month at most since that short evening outside the convenience store. 

But you seemed to have aged so much in such a short time. Eyes indescribably tired in a way that made Jin’s chest tight. 

His breath caught as he tried to convince himself it was just the dim, flickering street light and alley haze that made you appear so insubstantial. That it was simply the eerie, ghost like manner that your figure had emerged from the low hanging steam that made him feel so unsettled. 

Not that same, uncomfortably familiar smile. Not the way you turned to let him go, despite the blood on his hands. 

“Wait!” he called, unsure when the word had formed and why he’d said anything at all. 

He ought to be relieved it was you running into him after a mission gone wrong, any other hero and Jin would be in deep shit. 

And then you did wait. You paused halfway through a step towards the brighter lights of the street, illuminated by the headlights of cars—the people inside a star's length away, lightyears between their world and the microcosm contained in the alley, Jin and you the only inhabitants. 

“Hey there,” you said, like an old friend. “Long time no see.” 

“Yeah,” he responded lamely, the hand he hadn’t noticed reaching out to you across the miles of sidewalk hovering awkwardly in the air. 

He watched your brows knit together for just a moment, feet hesitating as though you may leave it at that. But that moment passed quickly, like a breath, like a scream. And Jin found he didn’t flinch when you took a step towards him, warm hand grasping his wrist. 

“Let’s take a walk.” 

You tugged lightly on his arm and Jin nearly toppled forward with a nod, trailing along behind you as you led him through a maze of side streets, away from the bustling traffic and his crime scene. 

Your boots clacked against the cement stairs of the parking structure as you climbed them with Jin at your heels. He watched as you disappeared around a corner and when he clambered up onto the roof, you were stood leaning against the concrete ledge, eyes fixed on the street below. 

Jin blinked like his eyes burned. When he breathed in, he tasted ash. 

When he came to stand beside you there was an unlit cigarette perched between your fingers, filter first as an offering. Jin caught a sliver of your glance as he muttered a quiet ‘thank you,’ and took the little gift. 

His lungs welcomed the familiar, sweet burn. 

“I didn’t think you smoked,” he offered, not sure what else to say to break the quiet. 

You chuckled beside him. “I don’t—it’s not fast enough.” 

“Fast enough?”

The only answer you gave was a long stare and a wry smile. 

Jin changed the subject. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been following me,” he brushed his shoulder against yours in what he hoped was a playful gesture. “What a stalker!” 

It seemed to have the desired effect, you laughed beside him, light and airy. 

“I think that's just the nature of the city. It’s impossible to be alone here even if you want to be,” you said and Jin nodded like he understood. 

“Do you want to be?”

You turned to face him fully as he took another drag choking on the smoke when you spoke again. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

Jin stared at that face, so tired. Better. Terrible. 

“I don’t—Why didn’t you kill me?”

When you smiled this time, it was all teeth and bone. 

“I think that’s a bit of a longer story.” 

“I don’t have anything better to do,” he said, far too quickly, but Jin was an old hat when it came to embarrassment and his cheeks only tingled when you smiled at his eager response. 

“No, I suppose you don’t,” you muttered, sinking to the ground with your back to the roof and staring up at the light polluted sky. 

Jin shuffled down to your level.  

“Do you know why people become heroes?” you asked softly, after a moment. Beside you, Jin shook his head, enamored by the timbre your voice had taken on—so much fuller than before. “Because they like to be right—like the success and the praise from always being justified. The desire in and of itself is perfectly human, but once you become a hero, everything you do is the right thing even if it’s wrong.”

“Are you always right?” Jin asked, not unkindly, but because he wanted to know. 

You chuckled beside him. 

“Whether I’m actually right is pretty inconsequential,” you move closer, hips shifting against the cement to press against his side in the chill. “Nothing will ever change—it’ll be me against you for eternity.” 

“You’re doing a pretty piss poor job of it now,” he flinched as the words spilled out unbidden, but it only earned him a friendly elbow to the side. 

His face felt warm under the mask when you laughed in your chest and let more of your weight rest on him. Your fingers brushed against his. 

“We all are, really,” you sighed. “It’s our job to negate ourselves, and when have you ever known a person willing to fight for the loss of their own purpose?”

Jin didn’t know what to say to that, and so he didn’t say anything at all. Just slowly nudged his fingers against your palm until you let the warmth of it rest against his hand. 

“So, to answer your question,” you murmured, tilting your head against the concrete wall and turning to stare at him. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah.”

Jin’s fingers twitched in under your hand and you shifted to twin yours in the gaps in his grip, squeezing in the ensuing silence. 

“I owe you an apology, I think,” you whispered beside him, eyes trained back on the sky. 

“Man, you really are a bad hero,” Jin quipped, hoping to hear that laugh from your gut but you stayed quiet instead, avoiding his gaze. 

“Sometimes I think I must really be worse than the rest of them,” you spoke into the night wind. “I was willing to let you carry all that weight just to be free of it.”

“You’re the best of them I’ve ever met,” he said, thigh warm where you fitted your legs against him. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder. 

Jin swallowed thickly. 

“Why didn’t I kill you? I don’t know, probably because you weren’t going to kill me.” 

“And isn’t that the real paradox?” you asked. “We’re all just hurting each other in defense of ourselves. But against what? And how did it start?”

“Where does it all end?” he threw back at you. 

“I don’t know,” your answer echoed into the night while the two of you sat in a few more moments of city quiet while he gathered his courage and gripped your hand. 

“Like this maybe,” Jin murmured, leaning down to brush his nose to yours, hesitating for a moment. 

As always with you, the reasons for his actions were muddled and unclear, but felt like the thing to do. In the half dark parking garage, exposed in the cool air, it felt right to tilt his chin and savor the pull of his stubble on your cheek, the swell of your lips smoothing over his own. 

Your cheek was cold in his palm, even through the gloves of his suit. So open, so exposed, Jin couldn’t tell if you no longer required the defense of cloth and metal or if you’d purposefully left your armor behind years ago. Too tired now to dodge the blows. Hoping one day they wouldn’t miss. 

He hummed when you slotted your mouth more firmly against his, palm snaking up his forearm and squeezing. When you drew back, a thin string of silvery spit hung between your lips. 

“I think I was expecting something a bit bloodier,” you chuckled, resting your forehead on his, pressing against the rough skin of his scar. 

“I can do that,” he grunted, feeling the rush of his blood pooling low in his gut as he gripped your waist. 

You landed softly in his lap, legs trained to move at a moment's notice easily fitting themselves on either side of him, your ass nestled against his thighs. There were not many words that followed after that. The cool night air had goosebumps erupting over the skin of your chest as Jin tugged at your shirt to bare more skin to him. He groaned when he finally got his mouth around the pebbling skin of your nipple and suckled there. Above him your hands hugged him closer and your hips shifted back and forth against his dick, slowly filling out under your weight. 

He nipped at your chest, pulling back with a wet pop as you sighed and dipped down to press sloppy kisses along his jaw and suck his tongue into your mouth. All the while, two sets of clumsy hands pushed and pulled at the fabric between you, creating just enough space for his cock to spring free and slide along the sweet slick leaking from you. 

The air caught in your throat as the tip nudged your clit and warmth began to build between your bodies, steam wafting away into the swiftly brightening sky. 

This time, when he caught your eye, so close with your foreheads pressed together and sharing your breath, the smile you gave him was just as warm as the feeling of you slowly enveloping his length. 

And Jin didn’t hesitate. 

In a flurry of movement he rose up on his knees and had your back pressed flush with the cool concrete, ankles locked above the curve of his ass as his hips rolled and you buried your face in the crook of his neck. 

You were tight around him, clamping down as he thrust into you at an even pace, the slap of your skin lost to the growing sounds of the city coming alive with the sun. And as he pushed you both towards your highs, Jin thought that right there, right then, he was right. 

This is where it would end, whatever battle was being fought would start and end with two strangers on the roof of this desolate parking garage—shouldering a weight unimaginable, and choosing to live anyway. 

And then you moaned in his ear, tugging him impossibly closer and rocking your hips up to meet each slam of his, any coherent thought concerning the grander morality of this years long conflict drowned in your gasps and praise and the softness of your skin on his own. 

---

There was a small pile of ash growing at his feet when you finally rejoined him at the edge of the roof, clothed again though not nearly enough to ward off the early morning chill. 

Jin slung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close as he took another drag. He held the smoke deep in his lungs as he offered you the cigarette. 

You shook your head again, but leaned in to press another kiss to his lips, smoke curling around your teeth. 

“I told you I don’t smoke,” you mumbled between licks behind his teeth. “I’d rather go out with a bang, ya know?”

Jin nudged your cheek with his and turned his face back out towards the city skyline where the sun was gently rising over the sea of buildings. 

“I love the sunrises here,” he said, casually, as though this was nothing more than a meeting between friends. 

And really wasn’t that true? Jin smiled at the thought. 

The two of you were quiet again as the morning grew brighter until you softly slipped out from his grasp. 

“My shift’ll be ending soon,” you huffed by way of explanation and gathered the rest of your gear from the ground. “I gotta report back.” 

“Hey,” Jin called after, panicked by the thought of suddenly being left with the sun and the ignorant crowds soon to be pouring onto the streets. 

Never alone, even if you want to be. 

“You have to make it back now,” he continued, catching your eye and for the second time, feeling unwavering resolve. “I want to see you again when it’s all over.”

You smiled again, that same one from before but with life behind it. And he thought that maybe that was what you’d looked like at the start. New and young and full of heroic will to fight.

He found he couldn’t wait to know what you’d look like when everything was said and done. 

“I guess I’ll have to watch my back then,” you chuckled, turning your wrist to grip his forearm and nodding. “Watch yours too, okay?”

“I will,” he grinned and nodded, slipping his grip to your hand and shaking on the pact. 

You tugged then with a strength he hadn’t expected, throwing him off balance and stumbling behind as you lept to the cement ledge. 

“See then, Jin.” 

He didn’t have the time to shout before you’d disappeared over the side. He scrambled forward, nearly throwing himself off after you, but the ground below was clear as he stared wide eyed. There was no sign to say you’d been here at all except for the burn in his thighs and the indents of your nails on his hand. 

He took a deep breath, calming the rattle in his chest and fighting the urge to light another cigarette. As the sidewalks began to fill with commuters, Jin decided it was time that he slipped away as well. And as he walked he thought again that you really must be the best hero he’d ever met. 

As much as he’d spent obsessing over for what unknowable reason he had spared your life, he hadn’t thought at all about the implications of you sparing him too. 

Worse than the rest of them. 

The words echoed in Jin’s head and he scoffed as he shuffled down the stairs to the street. 

He shielded his eyes against the sun as he emerged into the crowd and made his way back towards the League’s hideout, confident in the knowledge that you were the best of them all. 

And he would see you again, sometime on the other side. 

[cinnbar-bun]

Diluc Finding Out S/O Had Their Vision Taken

A/n: spoilers for Genshin Act 2, I just my fave cuz.,,, big love for him. Also angst. Reader is not the traveler!!

He is not one to harp on you or tell you where you need to go or what you should do. He trusts you fully. You are his lover, and as such, he puts his complete faith in you. You are strong, brave, and kind. Surely nothing too grave could happen?

As much as he tries to delude himself with detached statements of how you’ll be fine, he does worry. Sometimes he worries about what would happen if he couldn’t help you.

Work and business keeps you both preoccupied, and many times you both would be estranged for many days- perhaps even months- at a time.

But he tries to assure himself. You were his most trusted spy and intelligence agent, and you are his lover now. You are more than capable of handling anything.

You informed him you would be joining the Traveler on their journey to Inazuma. You had become attached to the poor thing after helping them a few times, and you felt it invaluable to learn about the situation in the closed off Land of Eternity.

He knew of the dangers. You knew of the risks. He wanted so bad to tell you to forget that place. To tell you it was pointless, unnecessary, absolutely worthless compared to the utter horror you would have to face.

But he held his tongue. He was a man of few words, instead pressing a kiss against your forehead and hanging his ring around your neck on a chain. You did the same back. A reminder you both were connected, no matter how far.

He expected rough travels and perhaps a few scars coming back. He expected new information, your smiling face and tired yawn over how exhausting the trip was.

What he didn’t expect was to see Paimon and the traveler return to Mondstadt with anxious expressions on their face.

“Traveler. Paimon. Is something the matter? Where is (Y/n)?” He asks. His heart beats quicker. God. Please. Don’t let his nightmares be true.

“Well… you see…” the traveler begins. They can’t face him.

“Hehe… it’s um, a super funny story. Haha, you’d never believe it. Almost as much as believing that (Y/n) got their vision stolen!” Paimon awkwardly added.

“Paimon-!” The traveler hissed, frowning at them and Paimon covered her mouth.

“I mean! Um! It’s not that bad!! At least they’re alive… right?” Paimon tried to fix her slip up but Diluc couldn’t hear a thing.

“They… what?” He can’t believe it.

“It’s best you see for yourself.” The traveler took Diluc to the bar where you were sitting, a drink in hand as Kaeya and Venti were trying to tell a terrible joke.

Your eyes were faded. Dead. You looked like a zombie, a hollow shell of the person he loved. You did not smile, you did not even look at the two trying to get any sort of emotion out of you. Just as Paimon said, your vision was gone.

“Do you mind…? Please leave me. I have a terrible headache.” You murmured.

Diluc walked towards you, and Kaeya and Venti knew better and stood aside.

“(Y/n)?” He asked, unsure if this was truly you. He swallowed his pride. “My love?”

It was the first time he had ever publicly said something like that. Your relationship was shrouded in mystery and kept quiet beyond a few people.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” You asked.

His heart shattered. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t even form a sentence to respond to what you asked. Please be a cruel, sick joke. Please tell him this was a lie and that-

“I don’t remember ever meeting you. Actually, I don’t really remember anything. This young adventurer over there and their floating partner has taken me here, saying I was from here but… truly I can’t recall a thing. It’s all a haze.”

“I’m sorry. I must have mistaken you for someone else.” Diluc said. He stared down before he quickly walked out of the tavern, slamming the door behind him.

How was he supposed to react? How was he supposed to act with you knowing you remember nothing about him? Nothing about the two of you and all you’ve done?

He cursed the gods and everything around him. If this was their idea of a joke, he did not find it funny. Time after time, everything he loved was taken from him. Was he ever allowed to be happy and love, knowing he was cursed?

“How could he say that?! What a jerk! Who does that to someone they love?” Paimon angrily huffed.

The traveler nearly followed him out the bar before Kaeya placed a hand on their shoulder.

“Be gentle with him. He’s hurting incredibly bad. I know him very well, and he may not admit it but he’s truly heartbroken. I don’t want to hurt him more so… take care of him for all of us, okay?”

They nodded before catching up with the young lord.

“Diluc! Please! Wait-!”

“Leave me alone, traveler. I have work to complete.”

“Please-“

“This has been a complete waste of my time. I will not ask again for you to leave me alone. I do not wish-“

“I’m sorry!” They shouted, tears streaming down their face as they sobbed loudly. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

He stopped walking. He stood still for a few moments as the traveler cried and begged for forgiveness.

“You’re sorry? Sorry for what has happened to them? Truly?”

“Huh?” The traveler looked up to see Diluc clench his fists tightly.

“You think sorry will fix this? You think sorry will give back their vision, their memories, their ambitions? You think sorry can help them remember what had happened to them?”

“I-“

“You’re wasting your breath. Save it. I do not wish to hear anymore. It’s not me you should be apologizing to. You took their life. Not mine.” He glared coldly. He walked away, leaving the traveler alone as his figure slowly grew smaller.

He goes home and immediately reads the letters you sent him. Whether they were business or personal, he kept them all.

Diluc came across one letter. One that changed your relationship forever.

“I love you, Diluc. Nothing will ever stop me from coming back to you and being by your side.”

He couldn’t control himself now. His eyes watered as all his feelings burst like a dam.

God, he should be grateful you were alive. Why couldn’t he be content knowing you were back here?

The tears fell onto the letter, dampening and smudging the ink on the old paper.

Why did this hurt worse than anything ever before?

In an instant, he grabbed a match and lit it up, placing it near the letters and setting some of them aflame. Watching the letters burn sent him spiraling.

‘My lord’ ‘I love you’ ‘great news’ ‘I have been thinking of you’

The words flashed in his head before he threw them to the ground and stomped out the flame. Many were charred and burned, and he crumbled to the ground.

God. Why? Why did it have to be you? Why did it have to happen? Why did you go? Why didn’t he just say anything to keep you here?

[who-needs-braincells]

Grian stop making various eldritch beings challenge (hard): Chapter 2

It feels strange to Watch again. He hadn’t done it in so many years, trying to forget about that part of his life. But as he’s spent time in Hermitcraft, he’s become more open to this part of himself, especially when he saw Pearl again, saw evidence that at least someone survived the aftermath of Evo. Or at least what he was told happened to Evo. The Watchers that took him in wouldn’t let him Watch Evo’s fate because he was ‘too attached’, like it wasn’t his server. But he’s getting off topic. It’s strange to feel the several spectral Eyes that come with this form again. They spread out on their own instinctively, and gradually he has more appear farther out until eventually they span the whole server. Dimensions did not limit them, but it took just a bit more energy to make the farther out they go, and every little bit counts. The Eyes were some of the most natural magic that Watchers possess, as they were the main way of actually Watching the server they chose as theirs. Alright, ignoring That particular feeling, he focused on what his fellow hermits were doing, and easily fell back into the motions of Watching. He wasn’t going to focus on how easy, how right it felt to do so, he wasn’t going to-

~~~

Ok so he focused on it. Just a bit! Just a tiiiiiny bit. Ignore the tiny purple flames and smoke in the distance, it has nothing to do with that. Nothing at all. Definitely not the remnants of him spiraling so much that he unconsciously sent out a wave of pure magic, nothing to do with the fact that after the panic and the spiral there was just so much rage that he just let of burst after burst after burs- *DING*

An alert from his communicator is what broke him out of that train of thought before he could spiral any further. He glanced down at his comm and looked at the message. *Ding* Make that messages.

Goodtimeswithscar: Hey G, are you free to work on the villager hall?

Goodtimeswithscar: I’m gettin bored out here by myself

Oh yeah, they were supposed to switch off later, guess Scar wants some company. He probably needs some too if he’s being honest. Look at him, being all emotionally mature and considering his own needs! It’s really good timing, because he’s done with Watcher related activities today, and this is a perfect excuse to get home. He also gets to spend time with his friends? This is a win-win situation here. One that he still needs to notify said friend that he was going to participate in.

Grian: I’m free, and already in the Nether so I’ll make my way over now.

Goodtimeswithscar: Alright, i’ll be waiting for you.

Now that that’s done, time to build a portal to get down from here. With the obsidian that he definitely didn’t forget at home and obviously has in his inventory because he totally prepared for this completely impromptu trip. Crap. He can’t even make a portal using magic because he just spent a bunch of time using all of his excess, and while portals aren’t the hardest thing to do, they certainly take more magic than he has right now. If he had the obsidian for the frame he could make it light no problem, but he doesn’t and if he doesn’t tell anyone he’s kinda screwed. He’d better get on that then.

Grian: uh so funny story, i'm kinda stuck right now

Grian: if anyone has some obsidian and can get to the roof of the nether that’d be really helpful

Goodtimeswithscar: Did you get yourself stuck up there?

Goodtimeswithscar: No offense, but that sounds like something i would somehow do

Grian: thanks.

Goodtimeswithscar: I said no offense!

Good old Scar, lightening the mood. In-between some of the messages he looked around and still saw the remnants of small flames here and there. Better fix that up. Luckily there were only a couple of flames, and a quick flap of his several wings put them out quite quickly, and also cleared up any lingering smoke. It also brought to his attention that he is still in his Watcher form. He should fix that. With less ease than he’d like, he switches back to his human-like form, making sure to hide the extra sets of wings. While he’s doing this he hears his comm go off again.

Pearlescentmoon: Alright ive got your obsidian and im heading up to get you

Pearl! She’s honestly the best person to come rescue him, considering the reason he’s here.. Some of the hermits are more in tune with magic than others, and this place is kinda covered in it now. He should probably move closer to spawn actually. 

Pearlescentmoon: What are your coords?

He checks the message from Pearl and puts his coords in chat. He’s gotten close enough to spawn and far enough from the magic overflow that it should be fine. Even if she feels it she won’t really question it that much. She doesn’t know the full story, but she knows enough about what happened and can probably infer the rest. While he waits for Pearl he conjures up one spectral eye to Watch her, making sure to keep his human form up.

Pearl is making her way through the surface of the Nether, and she actually looks very close to where she needs to start to build up. Aaaand there she goes, into the wall instead of making a giant pole into the sky that makes sense. She’s getting really close, and she’s hit bedrock! Alright!

As he sees that she’s almost here, he gets rid of the eye and focuses back in on himself. That’s some good timing too, because here Pearl is now, literally pearling through the bedrock! He’s saved!

“Alright Grian I’ve got your obsidian. Why didn’t you bring any when you came up here in the first place?” 

“It was kind of a not very thought out decision, and I really didn’t prepare for getting down. And thank you!” He replies as Pearl builds the frame.

“What were you even coming up here for? You’re pretty close to spawn which is surprising because typically people use the Nether roof for quick travel.”

This is the question he’d been dreading. “Well, I kinda came up here to uh, let off some steam I guess?” Does that work? That probably works right?

“That does not clarify anything.” It did not work.

“So you know how we spent months in the void?” Maybe this’ll be enough?

“Months in the voi- Oh ok. You were burning off excess?” IT WAS ENOUGH!

“Yep!”

“Ah ok, that makes sense. You know that wouldn’t make sense to literally anyone else on the server right?”

“I do. I really do”

The conversation stopped there as they were making their way into the Overworld. Once they finished crossing through the portal, which surprisingly didn’t link up to an existing one, he thanked Pearl and she headed back to do whatever she was doing.

Now that he was out of the Nether it was time to finally make his way over to Scar. He’s just going to fly there. He’s had enough Nether for one day. After he messages Scar that he’s coming he starts the flight over to the village, content with the knowledge that he won’t have to put nearly as much effort into concealing his Watcher form, and that now that there isn’t an overflow of magic, the Entity should eventually become a regular boulder again.

[knewyouwereaweirdo]

you know we’re gonna be legends (johnny centric)

i’m going to be completely honest here, make a disclaimer first and i will not sugarcoat it—johnny will die in this fic. it’s a one-chapter thing, haven’t been able to get it out of my head since forever, and now i’ve finally written it. posting it on tumblr as well as ao3 (archive of our own).

summary:  johnny tries to risk his life to save jimmy crystal in a fire and ends up in peril on the verge of death.

this story contains major character death, rather graphic descriptions of wounds, the works (not too graphic since i’m bad at descriptions). have fun! (apologies in advance for doing this, uh...)

There were screams and that was all that they could hear.

They didn’t know much about how it had started—but their speculation was that the fire props from Johnny’s performance had gotten a bit out of hand, causing the stage to erupt into flames and sending huge crowds of people into a spiral of panic as they rushed for the doors.

The Crystal Theater was burning, burning, burning—tendrils of flame rose into the night as they challenged to swallow them whole and completely. Firefighter trucks and ambulances had already lined up in front of the building, flashing their red and blue lights and roaring their sirens.

“Is everyone all here?” Buster called out frantically as he skidded to a stop on his little feet in front of the burning building, looking around as he counted the members of his theater crew. “Johnny, Meena? Ash? Rosita?”

“We’re here, Mr. Moon!” Meena’s familiar voice broke out from amongst the panicking crowd and Buster turned to the side in relief to see Meena, Johnny, Ash, Rosita, and Gunter hurrying towards him, Johnny holding Ms. Crawly—not too far away at their heels were Johnny’s dad and uncles. Their new addition Porsha was also amongst them, and so was Johnny’s new friend Nooshy. Even Clay Calloway was with them. They all seemed out of breath, terrified, and some of them a tiny bit worse for wear, but they were fine. Unharmed.

Buster let out a sigh of relief. “You’re all safe.”

“We managed to make it out through the back door before everyone started trampling each other.” Ash blurted out, a smudge of char on her face.

“Rosita, your piglets?”

“Everyone’s here.” Rosita said, shaking but the small look of relief reflecting across her dilated pupils. “Norman and I counted them, I sent them back to a safer place.”

“So we’re all here, right?” Everyone nodded at Buster’s words, and he nodded back. “Good, good—we need to go, now, the fire department will take care of this and make sure the fire’s out—”

Johnny silently counted everyone in his head—everybody was there, alright. But there was someone missing. Someone that he hadn’t even considered adding to his count, but still there enough to acknowledge. Then it hit him.

Crystal. Jimmy Crystal.

“Mr. Crystal’s still in there!” Johnny’s words pierced through everyone like a knife, although barely heard amongst the screams and the cries and the earsplitting roaring of the flames.

“Daddy!” Porsha cried out in realization and Rosita grabbed onto her for support as she burst into sudden tears. “M-my daddy’s still in there!”

Johnny then turned to the lot of them. “You guys hurry on and get to the hotel, wherever it’s safe—I’ll be right back.” He then turned around and started towards the burning building.

Marcus grabbed his arm and held onto him with a vice grip. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

“Dad, I have to save him.” Johnny said, his voice growing more desperate by the minute. “I—”

“You listen here, I saw cracks starting to form in the main lobby on the way out just now.” Marcus growled. “That damned building is going to collapse any second soon, and I am not going to stand here acting stupid enough to let you go in there!”

“But dad—”

“He tried to kill Moon, you saw that. He tried to kill Moon and who knows what he might have been plannin’ to do with the other lot of you—to you.” Marcus’s heart thumped wildly inside his chest. “Don’t be an idiot, son.”

“Dad, I know he did the most terrible things—but me knowin’ that he’s still in there and not makin’ any attempts to try and save him would just be stoopin’ down to his level.” Johnny said, all in a rush of words but firm and clear enough to understand.

“Johnny.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to live with tha’, dad.”

“Johnny—”

“I’ll be back in just a quick second, I promise.”

“Johnny, you’re crazy.” Ash spat out, almost angrily, as she made his way up to him. “This is Jimmy Crystal we’re talking about—if anything, he deserves this for everything he’s tried to do to us.”

“Nobody deserves to die, Ash.” Johnny replied, his tone soft but firm before looking back up at his dad. “Dad, I’ll be back as soon as I go, I promise you. Just give me a chance.”

Marcus didn’t reply, and the hold he kept on his son didn’t relax.

“Dad, please.”

“...”

“Dad, he’s goin’ to die!”

“... if you’re not back in five minutes, I’m goin’ in there to find you.” Marcus growled as he let go of his grip on Johnny’s shoulder pad of his costume. “Hurry. Be careful.”

A very brief smile—a very quick and small one but a smile nonetheless—broke across his face as he took several steps back to the building, towards the flames. “Thanks for believin’ in me, dad.” And with that, before Marcus could tell him that he changed his mind or say anything else, Johnny darted back towards the building, leaving his friends crying out with distress for him in his wake. Marcus didn’t miss Buster yelling, crying out for his son for him to come back, that it was dangerous.

Marcus then realized that this had been a grave mistake.

Johnny pushed past the broken glass sliding doors and ran straight to the fire while the other continued to run past him towards the direction that he had come from. The smoke from the fire hit him almost immediately, as soon as he took his first step into the theater. It was clouding in his vision, making it hard to see anything ahead of him. His eyes began to water as the smoke began to burn his lungs. Johnny couldn’t help but choke out a few coughs before ducking lower to try and avoid the smoke as much as possible. He hid his own nose and mouth in the corner of his elbow, blinking to get rid of the useless tears.

He stumbled his way over some bigger chunks of debris and wires, supposedly fallen from the ceiling, looking for the white wolf. He clasped his hand over his mouth because his elbow wasn’t doing anything at this point, and his lungs felt like they were on fire.

“Mr. Crystal!” He called out, his voice cracking under pressure. An acrid, almost toxic smell pierced his nose. “Mr. Crystal, where are you?”

He knew he was being stupid by not moving around at a lower height, but he had noticed in seconds that it would just completely hinder his speed and movement. It would be fine as long as he just didn’t breathe in too much spoke. Another life came first.

A loud groan that resonated within the building, echoes like a monster and bouncing off the walls made Johnny nearly freeze to the floor but he forced his rigid body to move. Bits of debris rained down on him like hail and he brought his arm up over his head as he stifled a coughing fit.

Just then, he heard loud cracks above his head and something fell right at his head, cutting against his eye as it dropped—he put both hands over his right eye with a cry as his back slammed back against one of the marble pillars from his stumbling feet. Johnny pulled his shaking hands back and noticed blood on his palm. Luckily, it was only his eyelid. With a pained grunt, he gathered his senses again and set back off deeper into the building to look for Jimmy Crystal.

Flames and fire tendrils licked at the ground underneath him—the building continued to groan loudly, bits of debris and dust raining down on him wherever he went. He really couldn’t see much ahead of him anymore, although it had just been mere minutes since he had entered the theater, his vision blurred and somewhat foggy. Everything was glowing a dangerous, deadly red. Paintings on walls were burning and falling apart, giving off a pungent, acrid odor. Breathing was getting more difficult every second,

Johnny then, out of the corner of his eye, noticed a familiar flash of white—he urged his feet to move and to his relief, found Jimmy Crystal near one of the theater entrances from the lobby, struggling under a piece of debris. Crystal lifted his head to spot Johnny and waved his hand over, coughs wracking his sentence. “Well, don’t just stand there—get me out of here!”

Johnny hurried over and dropped to his knees beside the wolf, apologizing profusely for no actual reason found as he grabbed the chunk of debris and began to lift it up, groaning with effort. The intense heat thundering around him was slowly starting to make him feel sick and nauseous, making his head pound and his stomach churn. His insides felt unnaturally hot as if someone had shoved a burning rock down his throat. The flames licked at his arms and burned his fur and his skin, and Johnny coughed and sputtered.

He finally threw the cement debris off with a cry as soon as Jimmy Crystal managed to crawl out from underneath it. “Help me up.” Jimmy demanded and Johnny did so, knowing that his attitude was the least of his problems. He helped Jimmy Crystal up to his feet and began back towards the exit—the loud cracking that thundered around the building was telling him that their time was almost up.

“The exit’s right ahead, c’mon!” Johnny called out over the earsplitting noises, helping Jimmy Crystal along with his limp, trying not to breathe in as much smoke as possible. He knew he had done the right thing, and he was happy that he did—and Johnny knew that once he reached those doors, he’d get to see his dad and his uncles and his friends again, and everything would be fine.

His breaths grew shorter and his coughs got worse with every step he took through the smoke, his lungs feeling as if they were choking him, something heavy lodged in his throat. Blood flowed from above his brow over his eye, and everything ahead of him just seemed like a complete blur.

The sounds of a loud crash just above his head gave him just about enough time to look up and notice big chunk of concrete falling towards them at breakneck speed from the ceiling—Johnny’s eyes widened in terror and he just managed to shove Crystal out of the way.

But it wasn’t enough time for him to get out of the way himself.

The concrete fell right onto Johnny, crushing him, and he heard the terrible sounds of bones snapping and a searing pain shot through his lower body like a fire as he let out a scream. It exploded in his head like a blinding whiteness. The pain was like needles that had been dipped into alcohol had been jammed through his skin, like his legs had been replaced with ice and electricity wired straight into his spine.

Through his blurring vision, he noticed Jimmy Crystal slowly getting back onto his feet, and grasped onto that tiny bit of hope. He tried to get his elbows underneath him but his chin crashed back onto the rubble in vain, and a tortured groan escaped through his throat.

“Mr. Crystal—” He gasped out, clawing helplessly towards the wolf’s feet, bits of rock and cement cutting into the skin of his palms. A whimper burst out from between his lips as he begged. “P-please, help—”

The wolf stood still in his ragged, burnt suit, did nothing; it was almost as if the smoke wasn’t hurting him at all.

“Please—”

And then, Jimmy Crystal burst into a laugh, a maniac one—and the last bit of hope Johnny had been holding onto for dear left just vanished on the spot.

“Oh, kid.” Crystal shook his head as he brought his shoe down onto his outstretched hand, beginning to twist the sole of his shoe and put a lot more pressure onto it than Johnny had expected—the bones of his fingers cracked under the weight and Johnny let out a pained cry, his arm jerking in fruitless attempts to move his hand out from under it. “I can’t do that.”

“Wh-wh—”

“It’s just something I have unfinished between me and your little boss, Moon. A complete, utter nobody, I’ll make him regret every scandal he attached to my name.” Jimmy stood up straight and wiped the back of his hand against his snout, dragging a smear of striking red blood across his white fur, matted with ash and soot. He brushed the dust off of his suit. “You wouldn’t understand—it’s just business. Don’t take it personally.”

He finally removed his foot from Johnny’s hand and it instantly moved to flex it and try and rid itself of the pain—instead, burning agony shot up his arm and he had to clench his teeth not to scream. His hand shook uncontrollably.

“Just know that this? This isn’t my doing.” He gave Johnny a casual, rather sickening smile. “Blame Moon—that loser is the one who ruined everything I had.”

“Mr. Moon—” He managed to gasp out, and felt the small move of his chest briefly heaving out for breath send the feeling of a thousand knives stabbing into his body like white, searing torture. “—is m-more of a hero… th-than you’ll ever be.” His shaking hand trembled as it slowly clenched into a weak fist.

“… let’s see if you still think that once you’re dead and gone.” Crystal then turned and leaving Johnny crushed underneath the wired concrete, ran off, limping and stumbling towards the still-open exit.

Johnny had never been more terrified in his life—he whimpered as he tried to move himself out from under the crushing weight to no avail, his nails burying themselves into the rubble and dirt underneath him as he struggled—his back hurt so bad, felt like a beast clawing and tearing at his insides, as if something sharp had impaled his body.

Coughs and wheezes tore through his torso and limbs, sending stabs of agony like a searing, hot knife. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe—

He was going to die.

…

For Marcus, it was the longest five minutes of his entire life.

He kept his eyes fixed on the entrance of the theater, surrounded completely by flames at this point, his heart almost beating out of his chest. Stan was the one barely holding him back from running inside and finding his son.

His son.

“It’s been a whole five minutes and he’s not back.” Marcus blurted out—he barely heard Meena sobbing in the background, some of them brokenly calling out for Johnny, others actually trying to fight to get in there.

“H-he should have been back by now.” Buster said, the panic rising his voice to the edge. “Why isn’t he back—”

“I need to get in there, goddammit—” Nooshy cried out as Ash held her back as much as she could. “He’s going to die in there if he’s not back soon!”

The theater building dangerously groaned and more glass and debris came raining down onto the pavement, sending everyone screaming once again. Everyone had managed to evacuate at this point, all except for Johnny and Jimmy Crystal, who were both nowhere to be found.

“There! There’s Jimmy Crystal!” Someone—a tiger, he presumed—shouted and pointed at someone emerging from the flames, limping along on his two legs. Paramedics rushed to him immediately.

“... where’s Johnny?” The words left Marcus as nothing above a whisper, feeling suddenly numb and dumbfounded. If Johnny had gone in to save Crystal, but Crystal had come back out on his own without him, then—

A deafening crash interrupted his thoughts and everyone looked up to see the bottom of the building crumbling into pieces, massive cracks cascading over the marble walls with lightning speed—the cracks gave in the walls began to break, bringing the entire theater down with them as the flames erupted from the doors and windows, thundering the grounds around them. The smoke rushed towards them like a sandstorm and everyone held onto each other, eyes screwing shut as they turned their heads away from the explosion that echoed terribly like a god’s cry of anguish, the heat beating at their faces.

There was a terrible ringing and for a short second, Marcus couldn’t hear anything—but then it started to clear, little by little, and he caught sounds of sirens, shouts, cries, screams, and sobs. Animals around them were huddled about, staring at the horrendous scene ahead of them. Marcus looked too… and his heart dropped.

What used to be Crystal Theater was now a massive pile of rubble and debris, dust clouding and flames engulfing the mess that stood instead in its place.

“... Johnny. Johnny!” He inhaled sharply and near burst into a coughing fit from the sudden mass of hot air that burned his throat, which he managed to stifle. ”Johnny!”

“Everybody, stand back!” An officer was saying, trying to hold everyone away from the fallen, burning wreckage—but Marcus couldn’t care. He didn’t care about his own safety, or others, for that matter, more than he cared about his only son’s.

His only son, who was buried somewhere in all those ruins—battered, burned, bruised, wounded, or maybe even…

“My son’s in there!” He blurted out, his voice cracking as he forced himself forward, pushing past the crowd. “Get outta the way, my son’s in there!” He could feel the chill in his blood, coldness bringing the synapses of his brain to a stand still. He was almost hurting from the consistent thundering of his heart in his chest and it was becoming almost unbearable—and he knew it wasn’t something that would subside unless he found Johnny.

Thanks for believin’ in me, dad.

Those words that Johnny had said to him with the tiniest smile before disappearing into the theater.

He really had meant it, hadn’t he?

He remembered back to the days when he wanted his own son to grow up to be just like him, just like his uncles—it had been late when he realized how much of a terrible person he actually was, and how even more terrible he must have been in Johnny’s life as a father.

Marcus had tried to do everything to force him to be something that Johnny didn’t want to do, kept him shadowed from what he had the potential to do this whole time…

Albeit, Johnny had fought his way out of that shadow on his own and without Marcus’ help, had come this far to become a shining star.

Marcus should have believed in him sooner.

He watched through a blur as the fire slowly died down from the spray of hoses onto the broken, dust-settled debris, the heat dying down as Marcus approached the rubble, pushing forcefully through the crowd of animals. He noticed the rest of the Moon theater cast following behind him, right on his tail, just as desperate as he was.

The police and paramedics failed to keep them back from the rubble any longer, and the search for Johnny finally began—they all began digging within the debris, piece by piece and wire by wire, huge fragments of walls lifted and disposed of. Marcus’ hands were cut, scraped, abraised, but he couldn’t care any less.

Hours and hours of searching went by, and yet the center of the city still glowed with red and blue flashing lights, and the screams of powerful sirens. The search crew had been looking for Johnny’s body, dead or alive, for too long for comfort. The group continued to search for them, hoarse voices calling for his name, broken and throats swollen.

“Oh god, oh god, I found him, h-he’s here—” Meena’s wail alerted everyone in less than a second—Marcus had never moved so quickly from one place to another.

“Where is he? Where’s Johnny?” He barked out as he pushed past a couple of Johnny’s friends and stopped beside Buster Moon; the sight in front of him tore him to pieces.

There Johnny was, completely motionless with his eyes glazed and glassy, sprawled underneath a huge chunk of concrete of what seemed to be what once was the lobby ceiling, a mess of blood absolutely everywhere. The show makeup and the paint he had had on his face was matted and erased here and there, lines of crimson across the skin and fur in their wake—burns and charred fur covered his cheeks and the arms outstretched at the sides of his head. One of his hands seemed clearly crushed and broken, half-folded fingers bruised and bloody.

He looked dead.

He looked dead and it was terrifying.

Marcus wasted no time in grabbing the huge piece of debris, hooking his fingers onto the bottom of it as he tried his utter best not to spiral into a panic. He grunted as he lifted it—the others soon joined in without a word, the shock of seeing their friend in such a state having struck them to the core.

Without too much effort, all of them together managed to lift the piece of the ceiling off of him and Marcus threw it completely aside with a loud groan. He then immediately dropped down to his knees beside his son onto the earth, soot, and dust underneath him, coloring his community service clothes a charcoal black. A burnt odor filled his nose as both his hands hovered helplessly over Johnny’s battered, motionless body, unknown of what to do.

There had been a jagged piece of steel wire that had completely impaled Johnny’s side near his back—and now was the white jagged end of a broken bone, presumably a rib, cutting through the skin and blood having run in thick scarlet rivers over his side. The wound was sliced in the flesh of his lower stomach, heavily having oozed out blood, some of it already having crusted in his clothes and the ground beneath him. One of his legs seemed twisted into an angle that just wasn’t supposed to be. His clothes were charred and burnt. The blood stained his cheek and his costume, his hands, trailed down from the corner of his lip—red, red, red.

An invisible hand clasped over Marcus’ mouth; an equally ghostly hypodermic of adrenaline pierced his heart, unloading in an instant. He felt his ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate his lungs. His head was a carousel of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing his mind into blackness. He wanted to run; he needed to freeze. Sounds that were near felt far away, like he was no longer in the body that sat almost paralyzed on the bloody earth.

“Johnny.”

His shaking hand finally moved to rest against, gently, on top of his son’s head, touching what was once soft, glistening fur now a matted, blood-tangled mess. He stroked his hair, thumb briefly brushing over his ear, which was also painted crimson.

“Johnny, get up. I know you’re still there somewhere.”

No response.

“Johnny…”

“... da…”

Marcus froze—Johnny’s eyes, which had been glazed over earlier, were wearily looking up towards him without any focus. Unshed tears were running down from his eyes across his cheek, which were now threatening to close with each jittered blink.

“Johnny, y-you’re alrigh’—you’re, you’re—” Marcus carefully cradled Johnny’s head in his hands, careful not to accidentally hurt him. “—thank god, I-I was startin’ to think you were—”

“Da, i-it hurts…”

“I know my boy, I know—help is comin’, the paramedics are on their way here right now, just hold on a lil’ longer—”

But it was almost as if Johnny couldn’t hear him; the little focus that had previously been there had started to fade away, the small light in his eyes starting to die.

He was fading away.

“... no, no, wait, Johnny, listen to me—” Marcus looked around at the others surrounding them for help. Nooshy, bursting into a broken, choked sob, hurried away to get to the paramedics who were busily trying to unfold a stretcher. Meena followed her suit. “Johnny, y-ya can’t do this to me, y—” He choked on his words and tears started to blur his vision as he turned his head. “Get here quicker, ya bloody fuckin’ paramedics, what the hell is takin’ you so long—”

“Marcus.” Buster’s gentle voice didn’t do anything to deter him. “Marcus—”

“Johnny, Johnny, don’t do this to me, don’t you—” Marcus swallowed the huge lump in his throat, begging, praying that whatever god was up there kept his son alive. Whatever it takes, whatever it takes. It could be him instead, just please…

Whatever it takes.

His son was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.

So without uttering another word, he gently cradled Johnny in his arms, watching as the life slowly drained out of him little by little. Watching him fade away from the world that had raised him to be the deserved star and hero he had grown up to be, and Marcus couldn’t help but hear that inner voice, screaming at him continuously, incessantly—

—that it should have been him.

“... da, I…”

“I’m here, Johnny boy.”

His chest painfully moved as he struggled to get the words out, straining with his breath every small inhale. Marcus waited, his heart being torn apart knowing the sound of what he knew to be Johnny’s last breaths more agonizing than any torture he'd ever been through.

“... ‘m sorry.”

And before Marcus could tell him that it was alright, that he forgave him, that there was nothing to be sorry for and that he had no fault and if there was anyone to blame it was his own self… the final exhale, the final breath left Johnny’s lips and his head slightly lolled to the side as his eyes completely glazed over, his body growing limp in Marcus’ arms.

A terrible chill ran up his spine and he felt numb, like someone had trapped him in a lake of ice. “... Johnny? Johnny.” Marcus slightly shook the boy in his arms.

“Marcus…” Buster’s voice said meekly from behind him, broken and sounding as if he were about to choke any second.

“Johnny, get up. Get up, Johnny.” He tried shaking his son one more time to no avail. “Johnny, Johnny—”

And then Marcus cradled his son’s dead body in his arms and sobbed, crying like he never had before, crying in a way he would have never dared to have done in front of Johnny for years, screams of bloody murder and anguish and grief and the rage and the sadness that was ripping his heart apart into shreds, tearing at his insides.

One last time, those brown eyes—his mother’s eyes—had opened. And one last time, Johnny spoke.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 93: Don't Leave

Draco was a master of the dramatic exit.

When he and Harry fought (which they did. A lot.) he loved to storm out of the room. He'd slam every single door he walked through, get outside, and apparate a few blocks away to stew for a while.

It was all quite cathartic, really.

He was already anticipating the sweet relief of slamming the door, the satisfying way his entire body would feel the wood vibrating as the door banged shut, when Harry said, "Don't leave."

The comment took him a bit by surprise, he was planning on storming out but hadn't even stood up yet.

"Draco, please don't leave," he repeated.

He stood up, spun on his heel and stomped out the door. Slamming first their bedroom door, then the front door on his way out.

But when he got to the end of the walk that led up to their house he realized that something didn't feel quite right. There wasn't any of the normal vitriol fueling the flame in his gut, slamming the doors hadn't felt quite the same.

Hands on his hips, he turned and looked at their home for a long moment before stomping back inside.

(Read more below the cut)

He caught sight of Harry in the kitchen and stormed in, interrupting him as he made a cup of tea. "Why should you get to tell me not to leave?"

Harry sighed and started making a second cup of tea, presumably for Draco. "Draco, I love you," he said as he spooned sugar into the cup, "But I can't do this for the rest of my life."

"Right," he snapped, "Well if you thought that I was going to be all sunshine and 'whatever you like, darling,' you're out of your damn min-"

"Draco," he said, voice soft and calm, "That's not what I'm saying." He handed Draco a cup of tea and sat down across from him. "I don't mind that we fight, I mind that we never get to have a resolution. It bothers me that when things get intense you just walk out of the conversation. I can't always be sitting here, struggling, after you leave."

He frowned.

"And I know you aren't good at fighting-" Harry started.

"I'm excellent at fighting," Draco inserted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I always win."

"Walking out isn't winning, Draco," he said, shaking his head. "You may get the last word but it wasn't a consensus we reached together so we just keep having the same fights."

"We have been fighting since the beginning," he said.

"Yes," Harry agreed, "And I don't mind fighting with you, I don't mind disagreeing with you, but we have to find a better way."

He pursed his lips.

Harry reached across the table and held his hand, "I love you, you know I do. But you aren't good at fighting, you don't even actually like fighting, it's why you're always leaving."

Unfortunately what the other man was saying made sense. Draco huffed, "What do you propose?"

After a long moment of quiet, Harry said, "What if the next time we fight you're allowed to leave the room but not the house?" he offered. "Like, you can go out to the kitchen and get your bearings and I will give you the space you need to process and stop feeling like you're spiraling?"

Draco nodded slowly, "I'd be amenable to that."

"Good," Harry said, smiling at him, "Then once we're both feeling calmer we come back and we try to have the conversation again. Maybe we'll start fighting or maybe we won't, but either way it's better than just stewing over things."

"Alright," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he affirmed.

"Okay," Harry said with a little smile. "Are you ready to talk about our fight earlier?"

He thought about it for a moment, his heart still felt like it was beating too fast, his hands still felt a little shaky; he shook his head.

"Okay," Harry replied. "Do you want some space?"

"Could you-" he started before biting his lip.

"What?" Harry asked. "It's fine, whatever it is."

"Would you just sit here in the quiet with me?" he asked, fiddling with the handle of his tea cup.

His boyfriend smiled at him, "Yes, love."

They sat together and Draco felt his heart slow, his mind stopped racing, he stopped feeling like he was ready to snap at any moment. "I feel better," he murmured eventually.

"Good," Harry said, brushing his thumb over Draco's knuckles.

"One question, though."

Harry nodded, "Go for it."

"Does this mean we're giving up make up sex?" he asked. "Because that isn't really a concession I'm prepared to make."

Harry burst out laughing, and leaned over the table to press his lips to Draco's, "No. If you want we can go have make up sex now, then talk about our differing plans for Christmas and how to resolve them afterward."

He grinned, "I would be more than amenable to that."

"Good," Harry said again, eyes twinkling as he rose from his chair, scooped Draco out of his and carried him off to the bedroom.

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This fic is inspired by the prompt but also by this clip of an interview Kristen Bell did, talking about her marriage.

Day 92: Cuddling | Day 94: Alright, Love?