#if done right this would make for a gut-wrenching fic

[nellyellie]

Fellow Timebomb shippers I am forcing an idea into your brain

We’re all wondering how Ekko’s Z-Drive could be made useful without it cheaping out anything important, right?? So imagine:

During the conversation between them that we glimpsed in the trailers, Jinx is trying to off herself and Ekko is trying to talk her down. He fails the first couple of times and has to rewind over and over in order to figure out what to say, progressively losing his composure more and more at watching her die again and again

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓・l.f.

🔪 — You can't fall in love with him, he can't fall in love with you—that would be apocalypse.

LEE FELIX is your new bodyguard, and you hate his guts. Growing up the Mafia's princess, daughter of the most ruthless mob boss in the world, you learned at a young age—all humans are expendable. Now you're 5,956 miles from home, landing in Seoul South Korea with your infuriatingly perfect bodyguard on a very important mission—figure out how your father's henchmen are going missing. Nothing makes sense. Who is making so many ruthless criminals disappear? The more you and Felix dig into the past, the more you seem to expose. There’s so many gaps in the story, dark secrets to be uncovered, and betrayals to lament. Nothing is as it seems when you’re chasing a ghost. Will you be able to keep it together, seeing felix every day for the next year? There's so much that could go wrong.

♟️ — paring・felix x reader // genres・mafia!au, bodyguard!au, enemies to lovers, forbidden love, humor, slow burn, found family, mystery!au, hurt and comfort, smut…maybe // words・6.4k // chapter warnings・ fights, blood, knives, alcohol, mentions of death, crime and people going missing, uhhh cursing, i think that's it!

a/n・yayyy guys we finally did it!! the first chapter of my long awaited bodyguard!felix fic is finally here!! I struggled so much trying to write this fic. I certainly couldn't have done it without the lovely @jeonginsleftcheek who was my biggest supporter from the very beginning and all the way through when I had a mental breakdown, an existential crisis, a small writing hiatus, changed the plot, then changed it back, then changed it again, and changed it again but she helped me through it all. I truly cannot thank you enough for all your help. I hope I did it justice. (ozzy i am so sorry ik you've already read this a/n a million times but i really do love you and i appreciate you sooo much!!) p.s another super big thank you to my lovely editor and best friend @petvlss there would be so many comma splices without her.

“𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧�� 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲.”

—Sade Andria Zabala.

The dream always begins the same.

You're switching between attendees, twirling into suited men's arms, only to be handed off to elegantly dressed women, the length of their sparkly gowns catching on glassy heels. The opulent ballroom, with its vaulted fresco ceilings and marbled floors, sparkles beneath the light of diamond chandeliers dangling above your tilted head.

Without fail, you trip into a large man's chest, his gloved hand clasping your waist right before you fall. You only see half of his dazzling smile before the world transforms, a thousand stars bursting in your vision as he dips you down, holding you closely, carefully as though your skin were made of precious jewels. It is through the gentleness of a faceless man's fingers that you realize you haven't once, throughout the entire night, cracked a grin.

Cue the indicative signs: an explosive warmth blossoming in your chest, a blinding smile stretching across your lips, and suddenly, with debilitating intensity, a feeling like you are, for once, truly free.

You never get a chance to fully discern your feelings, not before the floor trembles, the dancers dissolving into darkness. The shadows circle around your ankles, gnarled faces clawing their way up your calves—terror coils underneath your ribs, pulling you apart from the inside out.

Hopelessly, desperately, you search for the man's solace, fingers tugging at the sleeves around his shoulders, and somehow, in the chaos of your actions, you find yourself settling the pad of your thumb just under his jawline. He doesn't pull away, God, you wish he did—the shadows don't give you enough time to process the consequences of your actions before they go for his throat instead.

They snare him by the jugular, wrenching him out of your grasp, slamming his back into the wall hard enough to make him crumple. The darkness blankets his limp figure, falling over his shattered spine.

Anguish tears through your chest, ripping out of your throat in the form of a guttural scream. You try to chase him—you always do, you never learn—you don't get two steps forward before the cherub fresco drips off the ceiling, reverting back to its original form.

Blood.

Angels weep crimson tears; deep red rivulets that crystallize into claws over fractured ceilings. You should have known your freedom was ill-fated from the beginning—thick, heavy blood slithers down your throat, coating the pads of your fingertips with the manifestation of a curse.

You never feel it. The sickening crack of your heart tearing from your ribs, struck straight through a fresco's crimson claw. They assure that the next time you look at the man, it will be your last.

So you remain, paralyzed in clouds of umbra, until you gather enough strength to lift your neck. Until your eyes find his crumpled body, overturned and limp.

Who is he? You're left to wonder. Why can I never see his face?

You never find the rest of the man's face. 

It is far too covered in your blood.

“Aim for the jaw!” A voice calls out from outside the ring, though it’s echoed in the dark, empty room.

A fist flies past your face. You dodge it, swiveling on a heel and kicking your opponent straight in the jaw.

He stumbles, slamming against the ground with a sickening crack, blood trickling from his lips. Yeah, he was definitely down for the count.

You hang off the ring ropes, a single brow lifted. “You done?”

He narrows his eyes, red painting his scowl. “What the fuck do you think?”

You let out a chuckle, tossing him a towel, which only deepens both your laugh and his scowl when it smacks him straight in the face. He spits into the fabric. “You didn’t have to kick me that hard.”

“You’re right, I didn’t—” you slip from the boxing ring before squirting some water in your mouth. You wipe off the excess, a shit-eating grin on your lips when you wink, “—But where’s the fun in that?”

He rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch up—just slightly.

You’ve worked with him for three days short of two months, and in this time, you’ve gathered more than enough information on him. He’s practically harmless, figuring he’s a simple drug runner, and as a testament to his loyalty under your father, offered to aid in your training. He’s twenty-five, no kids or wife, with a strong jaw and cropped black hair. He has surprisingly strong punches, and his name is Alejandro Gomez, though he doesn’t know you’ve figured that out.

It’s a gift to know somebody's name. It’s a sign of trust, of loyalty, an unsaid promise that, if things go south, I won’t snitch.

Names are also a means for leverage.

You still don’t know your father's real name.

You’re in the middle of going over your performance with your instructor, Ji-yoo, when suddenly someone taps you on the shoulder and whispers something into your ear. “You’re needed in the study.”

Diego, you’ve grown familiar with his voice. He’s been your father’s bodyguard for years. He straightens, folding his hands behind his back and settling them atop his thick utility belt, his gaze set forward. You look up, brows furrowed. He gives you a small, clueless shrug.

“Right,” you mutter, annoyed, gathering your belongings and bidding your tutor a final goodbye. Diego doesn’t ever know anything; he simply does what he’s told. He opens the door for you and escorts you all the way to your father’s study.

“Come in,” A voice commands, following the rap of the bodyguards' knuckles. The sun breaks through a large skylight above him, casting a youthful glow across his otherwise opaque expression, hands folded atop his desk. He didn’t seem agitated, and you’ve been following orders, so you’re drawing a blank for what this meeting could be about. Diego pulls the double doors shut, taking his post outside.

It wasn’t often that he met with you, and you understood why; he’s a busy man, business and whatnot. Sure, he didn’t always have time for things like family dinners. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. He did, contrary to popular belief. He protected you, providing you with as many tutors and Jiu Jitsu instructors as you needed. It was hard—hours and hours of constant training, but if that’s what it took to survive a world this dangerous, this cruel, then you were lucky to have a father like him watching over you. 

“You needed me?”

“Sit down, Mija,” He doesn’t betray anything in his calm, leveled tone, extending a hand out to the velvet chair in front of him. You obey. Mija—a Spanish term of endearment meaning “my daughter”—reveals both his thick accent and Mexican heritage. He’s been calling you that for as long as you can remember.

“I’m not going to be here forever, you know.” That catches you off guard, “And one day, you’re going to need to take over my empire.”

You squirm, whispering, “I know.”

“You’ve proven yourself more than capable over these past few years.” His lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, but you notice it. It’s such a rare sight, it makes pride firework in your chest. “I’m proud of you.”

A smile threatens to split your face in two, but you bite it back, opting for a curt nod. “I appreciate it.

He doesn’t respond; instead, he places a single hand on your shoulder. The air shifts, something catching behind his eyes, a bit hesitant, but still deliberate when he finally says, “You deserve a more significant role, I’ve seen everything you can do, everything you’ve achieved.” This time it’s impossible to keep the grin off your cheeks, that is, until he finishes, “That’s why I’ve decided to send you to Korea.”

All good, fuzzy feelings screech to a deafening halt.

“Korea?” Suddenly, it feels like somebody's tossed you into the ice-cold Atlantic, duct-taped and wriggling.

A pause, and then he’s retracting his hand, giving a quick, dismissive wave. “We’ve run into some issues in Seoul. A loose end, if you will. It’s nothing we can’t handle, of course, but it’s never a loss to be cautious. It’s going to be an easy fix, I’m sure.”

“A fix? What am I fixing?” That makes him laugh, dark and humorless.

“You won’t be fixing anything. You will be finding the loose end, whoever that may be, and well, I’ll deal with all the rest.” There’s something sinister with the way he says that, a tone that sits in the pit of your gut like rotten milk. You know exactly what he does to loose ends.

“I need eyes on the inside, somebody smart, loyal, somebody I can trust. That somebody is you, Mija. It’s always been you.” It’s the first time since you’ve seen him that you aren’t looking into his eyes, chewing on your bottom lip. You shouldn’t be this unsure. It was all wrong; he is right. You were loyal. You deserved this role.

Then, why were you hesitating?

Something in your expression must betray your inner conflict because he’s cocking his head and purring, “What, do you not think you can handle it?”

You stay silent.

He sighs, giving a curt, disappointed shake of his head. “I thought you were ready, but if you don’t think you can handle it—”

“No!” You blurt out before those pesky thoughts can stop you. “No, you’re right. I’m ready, I can handle it.”

He nods, something flickering in his eyes. “I’ve already arranged everything. It won’t be a safe mission, but with Felix, you will be.”

Felix? He doesn’t give you enough time to wonder. He leans forward, pressing the sleek intercom button, “Diego, let Felix in.”

The double doors part, and a large black boot plants itself on the ground. A second later, the single most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life glides into the room, and your lips part.

He’s not the biggest man you’ve seen, but he makes up for that with muscle, packed underneath that tight, black uniform. He appears young, with delicate, pink lips and golden hair that falls just above his shoulders, slicked back with a few strands hanging over his forehead. A swarm of butterflies erupts in your stomach, much to your demise.

It doesn’t click quite yet, the role Felix plays, because all you can imagine is how nice it’s going to be sleeping next to him. And then, “Y/N, meet Felix—your new bodyguard.”

The butterflies die, burn, and drop into the pit of your stomach in a messy, blood-stained soup. You stiffen, out of all the recent revelations, this one makes you feel like you were going to die.

“Hello,” he says, respectfully bowing his head in greeting. He startles you with his deep voice, warm and accented. ”It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He smiles, soft and disarming in its kindness, for a second, you’re more terrified than anything, not of him, but for him. As quickly as it came, you stuff it deep inside of you, replacing it with a cold indifference. “You really think this is necessary? I mean, I haven’t had one of those since…” You can’t bear to say it, the mere memory makes a thick lump form in your throat.

He sighs, extending an arm out and grabbing a bottle of whiskey from his shelf, a cherry, and a cup. His lips form a hard line, voice lowering. “If you don’t make the same mistakes, you don’t have anything to worry about.” He lifts a sharp, polished blade from his pocket, gaze never wavering as he slices into the fruit. It bleeds into the crystal glass, red liquid staining his tanned fingers. “This time will be different. Correct?”

Slowly, the juice drips across the blade until it reaches the hilt. You swallow, breath slowing to a stop. He’s right—

You won’t make the same mistake again.

You meet his gaze, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”

He seems pleased by that answer.

“You will be briefed on the plane,” your father says, tipping the liquid into his mouth. “For now, rest. I will send you a car tomorrow morning at eight. Felix, make sure she is ready by then.”

“You will be briefed on the plane,” your father says, reaching behind him and grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He pours it into a crystal glass, tipping it into his mouth. “For now, rest. I will send you a car tomorrow morning at ten. Felix, make sure she is ready by then.”

Felix gives him a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

You’re scooting back before a cold, wet blade lands against your jaw. It smells like whiskey and blood. His voice drops to a whisper, shifting until it’s only you and him in the room.

“We’re family, Mija.” He tilts your chin up, and for a second, it feels like you’re looking at yourself. “There’s not a love stronger than that, and right now your family needs you. You wouldn’t wanna mess that up, would you?”

The mere idea makes goosebumps prickle up your arms. “No, of course not.”

He smiles, and for once, it actually reaches his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

Felix doesn’t dare look at you as you walk through the doors, sealing your fate.

You are so fucked.

“You’re not sleeping on the bed,” is the first thing you say when you walk into your bedroom, swiveling around.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” For whatever reason, you expected him to pick some kind of fight, comment on your pettiness, send you an eye-roll—something. But no, he’s utterly indifferent, leaning against the edge of your dresser and pulling off his velcroed gloves with a satisfying rip. Frustration bites underneath your eyelids.

You could really use a drink right now.

At that, you shoo him away from your dresser—also a secret mini bar—earning you a confused side-eye, before moving out of the way. You pull open a drawer, coming face-to-face with rows of glistening alcohol bottles. Felix sends you a mildly horrified look. “Are you of legal age to be drinking—”

“Are you of legal age to be working?” You smile, popping the lid off a whiskey bottle and drowning two shots’ worth of liquor down your throat.

“Hilarious.” He deadpans.

A cocky tilt of your head. “Most people think so.”

Silence.

With a small sigh, you collapse onto the bed, thick sheets ruffling underneath you as you take this valuable time and observe your new bodyguard. His gaze clouds as you take another sip of whiskey, a small divot forming in his forehead as momentarily, his movements stutter. He doesn’t seem to be a terrible person, per se. But that didn’t matter; the tension still clamped around your ribs all the same.

After a few more minutes of mindless studying, the alcohol finally hits your system, muscles loosening and anxiety floating up from your lopsided grin. This is the part you loved the most about being drunk, getting tipsy.

Felix must have noticed your drunken smile because no sooner do you express joy is he extending out a hand and crushing it. “I think that’s enough.”

“The blankets are in the hall closet. You can have this—” you ignore him, turning around to snatch a pillow from your bed and catapult it at his face. He catches it with a tick in his jaw and a single raised brow. That is a lot hotter than you are willing to admit. With a flustered cough, you continue. “Make your bed wherever, I don’t really care. I’m going to bed.” You punctuate your sentence with a final swig, but Felix gently wraps his fingers around your jaw, lifting your chin before the lips can touch the rim.

“I think that’s enough.” He repeats in that wicked deep voice of his, a flicker of warning in his gaze. Your heart does an elaborate salsa dance all the way to your throat. Oh, you were far too drunk for this.

You shakily hand the bottle to him.

With that, he smiles, dropping your face and locking up the bottle before turning back to you, innocently asking, “Where’d you say the blankets were, again?”

Your heart still hasn’t finished its lessons in salsa when you breathe, “In the closet.”

He nods before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. You fall back against your mattress with a heavy, heavy breath. Was this what it was going to be like for the rest of your time together? Him demanding things from you in that sick, twisted voice of his. It’s unfair! He sounds like panties dropping! You literally can’t do this. Nope. Nada. Not happening. If he was going to order you around like you weren’t a full grown adult then he could at least be considerate and not sound like a bad (good) porno!! All that anxiety and pent-up energy comes out in the form of a frustrated cry, turning into your pillow and pummeling your fists into it like the mature adult you were.

Felix comes back in mid-throw, which, with your super-amazing reflexes, you still immediately, clearing your throat and taking said pillow in your hands to pretend to fluff it out.

He stops mid-step, letting out an amused laugh before tossing his blankets onto the ground. “Do I wanna know?”

Your cheeks flush dark red. “Do you wanna sleep in the hallway?”

He lifts his hands in a playful, placating stance before continuing to set up his makeshift bed. When he’s finished, you’ve already settled in, covers thrown over your shoulders. Bedsheets rustle as he turns, politely tapping your mattress. With an annoyed huff, you mutter, “What?”

It takes him a beat to respond. Though when he does, his soft, kind voice disarms you. “Goodnight.”

You don’t have it in you to respond.

The dream always begins the same.

It always ends the same, too.

Blood.

You awaken with a shout, jerking off your sweat-soaked mattress to grasp at your intact T-shirt. It’s only then, when you take a deep breath with your full, working lungs, that your heart takes the hint.

You’re alive.

The dull sound of a body shifting makes your nerves fire all over again, spine stiffening as you swivel around on your mattress in search of the sound. Blonde.

Felix.

He’s sleeping, lashes splayed across pale cheeks in such a way that he almost appears ethereal. Delicate. Mortal.

That’s when you’re hit with cold, sharp reality—a feeling that coils around you and pierces that sensitive spot inside your chest, forever bruised by your own consequences.

You can’t be here right now.

It hasn’t been more than four hours, so naturally, you’re still drunk. Vision swaying as you swing your legs off the bed and tiptoe out of the room, peeking back to find a still, hopefully sleeping, Felix.

Thankfully, the more you awaken, the more bubbly you feel, slipping back into the carefree, tipsy version of yourself. The house is silent and dark, hallways solely illuminated by dim, gilded lamps. They provide drops of light, sneaking further and further down the large, spiral staircase.

You have a single foot on the stairs when suddenly, a deep, raspy voice appears from thin air, startling you straight out of your skin. “Late night snack?”

You let out a high-pitched yelp, swiveling around to throat punch the intruder. Though you weren’t going far because the quick movement is enough to make you dizzy. Warm hands clasp over your shoulders, steadying you before you nosedive down the stairs.

That’s when you see him—those bright, innocent eyes and golden hair that seems to glow in the moonlight. For a second, you’re under a spell. He’s like really pretty.

Then you remember who he is.

“Your dad doesn’t like it when you’re out past 10.” He glances at his watch. “It’s 1:44 a.m.”

Good feelings gone.

“Are you just everywhere?” You grumble, fighting the slur that tangles on your tongue.

“Please, come back to bed. You’re going to be tired in the morning.” Felix says, restrained frustration stretching his voice thin.

Should you listen to him? Yeah, probably. Were you going to? Hell no.

So, like the mature adult you are, you stomp down the hallway in your fuzzy, pink, Hello-Kitty slippers.

Felix doesn’t bother trying to stop you, his sharp eyes trailing you as you continue this petulant temper tantrum. “Where are you going?”

Emotion wells up in your throat when you notice the exhaustion rasping his voice. For a split second, your movements stutter. This is ridiculous, you were fully aware of that, but you’re too stubborn to quit now. If he’s going to accompany you for the next…forever, he’s going to get the whole Y/N L/N package. Maybe, then it’ll all click.

He doesn’t belong here.

You’re stumbling nowhere, you can’t run away from him anyway, figuratively and literally. The turn you took leads to a dead end. You still walk anyway. “Not to Korea with you, that’s for sure!”

“Oh, what is your problem??” He retorts through gritted teeth, his exasperation only growing when you turn around and stick your tongue out. He sucks on his teeth, his own tongue pressed into his cheek. “Y’know what—”

It takes him three strides to catch up with you, two hands clasping over your hips, and a single movement for the carpet to be on the ceiling. You cry out, his shoulder digging into your stomach as he wraps his forearm around the backs of your knees. He can’t be serious. How dare he, manhandling you like this! You were ready to go full Jiu Jitsu on his ass, that is until something much more enticing catches your attention. His actual ass.

The realization dawns on you with a hiccup.

“Y’know I can’t be too mad at’cha, man, I do have an excellent view from down here.” The liquor must have rushed to your head because you feel a dire need to make Felix aware of his fabulous buttocks. Drunken giggles bubble up from your lips as you take in his ass in all its plump, round goodness. “Hey Felix, has anybody ever told you, you have a great butt?” You land a firm smack against it.

His back grows rigid, muscles rippling under your touch before he awkwardly clears his throat and pushes the bedroom door open.

“Okay, down you go.” His voice is tight, matching his movements as he cradles the back of your head and lays you on the mattress.

You expect him to respond with an irritated glare and a snide comment, but he doesn’t say anything; in fact, he doesn’t look at you at all. The darkness shadows his face, but when he steps into the moonlight, you see it. The red creeping across his cheeks.

You can’t stop the laughter that bursts from your throat. It’s not actually that funny, but right now, with how drunk you are—it’s the funniest shit you’ve ever witnessed. Felix’s face is painted in horror.

He’s blushing harder now, cherry creeping up his neck and staining the tips of his ears. “What? What’s so funny?!”

You’re writhing on the sheets, clutching your stomach as you gasp for breath. “Y-Your face is soooo red!”

Your comment does nothing to help his embarrassment.

His expression does nothing to help your laughter.

“Go to bed.” He demands, begrudgingly ducking into the makeshift ground-bed and throwing the covers over his face.

“I am going to have so much fun with you.” You giggle, tapping the crown of his covered head.

“Goodnight.” He huffs, defeated and muffled underneath the sheets. He hasn’t even been here a day and he’s already done with you.

You let out one final snicker before drifting back to sleep.

Santiago Reyes.

He’s the string that unraveled it all.

Who pulled it? That’s what’s important here.

You still haven’t figured it out.

Now, you’re down twelve hours on a private jet, six coffees, three grueling conversations with Felix—one of those being when he woke you up late, on purpose. That little prick. You’re still not over that. Two hangover-proof Tylonals, and one impending conversation with Minho.

Which brings you here, drowning in the sound of a ringing phone, impatiently waiting for him to answer.

Minho is your father's assistant…kind of. He’s pretty much a built in archivist, hacker, account, therapist, handyman and soon-to-be drinking buddy. If he would actually take up your offer. But alas, he likes the prospect of rotting away in a basement better than taking shots with you.

He’s probably got the right idea, but still. Ouch.

The phone picks up.

You let an audible, revealed sigh. “Oh, just the man—”

Minho blurts, “Yes, sir, she’s on the line.” before you can finish, a panicked tilt in his voice. Which is his way of saying “please, for the love of everything holy, don’t get me fired.”

“Y/N, are you there?” Your brows touch your hairline when you hear your father's voice filt through the speaker. You’ve spoken more to your father in the past 36 hours than you have in the past 36 days. Most conversations were translated through Minho, not with Minho. So, in conclusion, this is a trip.

“Yes…I’m here?”

“Good. Have you looked through the files yet?” He’s wasting no time, you see.

It takes a solid ten seconds to slam back down to earth, tongue dry and heavy as you blurt, “Oh, yeah! Yeah, I’ve looked through them! Um, gotten to all of them…specifically the Santiago file. That one has caught most of my interest.”

Minho speaks up, talking like the walking Wikipedia page he is: “Santiago Reyes, age 34 was the first to go missing, he disappeared June 14th 2020. He was last seen fleeing your hotel in California—Thanatos Tower. He both lived and operated there, often holding extravagant business parties there. The hotel was raided by the FBI 8 hours later.”

That catches you by surprise. The file never said anything about FBI. “The FBI raided one of our hotels? How did that happen?”

Your father's wrath is ill contained when he mutters, “That’s a good question. Thankfully, they didn’t find anything important. If they did we would’ve been rotting in prison years ago.”

Felix perks up, lifting his nose from his book and not-so-subtly eavesdrops.

“If everything started in LA, why are you sending me to Korea?” You ask softly, mindlessly flipping through the files again.

“Are you sure you read the files yet?” Your father scoffs, diminishingly.

Thankfully, he can’t see you because the way your cheeks turn bright red is downright pathetic. “Yeah, of course I did…I was just confused…sorry.”

Minho, being the God-send he is, quickly interjects. “Santiago is important, yes. But, most, or well, I should say, all, the other members were busted in Korea. Hence you being sent to Korea and not LA. I don’t believe these two cases are connected.”

“It wasn’t in his file, but I’m going to assume Santiago got busted as well.”

There’s silence on the other end. It stretches suspiciously long.

“Santiago is MIA.” Minho finally breaks the silence.

Felix makes a face. You glare at him. His eyes go wide, and he ducks back behind his book.

“Santiago is MIA? His home was raided by the FBI, but we don’t know where he is?”

More silence.

“Well…we have a theory...” Minho states awkwardly.

“Minho has a theory.” Your father interrupts.

“I think he’s dead.” Minho corrects, clearly trying to control his temper.

“I think he’s in prison. A secure facility, and due to the nature of his crimes and ties to the Mafia, his records are confidential. The other seventeen missing people were found in prison.” A clink is heard on the other end. Your father was definitely making himself a drink.

Wait. Eighteen.

You stack the manila folders up, counting and recounting before hesitantly saying, “I only have seven folders here.”

Felix, sitting across from you, tosses you a folder that magically fell into his lap. “Eight.” He whispers, looking guilty as hell.

You send him a deadly glare. “Eight.”

“Minho was only able to recover eight files before the KNPA found his leak; thankfully, he was able to erase his tracks before they could trace him.”

“So, we’re missing like half of the files?” You sigh, defeated and annoyed.

Minho grunts from the other end. “It’s better than nothing.”

“The rest, they’re just guessing games? How do you even know that—”

“Mija.” Your father's assertive tone seals your lips shut and forces you back on track.

“Here, it says: video evidence.” They can’t see you, but you still point at the file with your pen anyway. “What video evidence?”

“See, this is where it starts to get messy—” Minho starts.

“Like it wasn’t already messy.” You mutter under your breath. Felix breathes out a quiet laugh.

“All eighteen people are currently being held with video evidence. Though it never actually says what kind of video that is.”

“There’s nothing useful in these files. It’s just a whole bunch of basic information and vague terms.” You mutter frustrated, slamming the folders back onto the table. “We’re chasing a damn ghost.”

“That’s where I want you to start.” Your father speaks up, “Look into the evidence, see what they have against us. Once we know what they’ve got, we’ll know who gave it to them. I’ll be in touch.” Only you can hear the silent goodbye. “Minho, finish this off.” The line drops.

You both let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

It’s easy to talk to Minho, but around your father, it’s like doing ballet around broken glass.

You don’t waste any time, bidding your goodbyes and hanging up the call. Your plan was to open your computer and spend the next two hours digging into the evidence before landing. But you didn’t even get to your private server before the sound of Felix’s raspy voice interrupts you mid-click. He sinks into the seat beside you, now holding a mug of fresh coffee. “Y’know, I never caught your name.”

His statement sends ice-cold annoyance rushing through your body. Your shoulders stiffen. “Good.”

He stills mid-sip of his coffee, and you can already imagine the divit forming in his brow. “You don’t…want me to know your name?”

“You don’t need to know it.” You mutter bitterly, hoping he’ll finally take the hint, but no, of course he doesn’t.

His eyes burn into the side of your head. “What do you want me to call you then?”

Your voice is flat. “I’d rather you don’t talk to me at all.”

There’s a pause. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he lets out a loud, exasperated snort, setting his cup into the holder and leaning back. His thighs spread apart, wide.

“Alright, princess.” The word slides off his tongue so easily, his voice dipping sinfully deep. Your brain quite literally buffers. Your fingers slip on the keyboard, and the computer flashes before darkening.

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. No. He is not going to do this to you. And you are not going to get flustered because some guy in a suit and a sexy voice calls you a pet name. You hate it. Actually, it’s demeaning, mocking, if anything. You do not like him calling you that.

It takes you a solid ten seconds to convince yourself of that fact.

“Don’t call me that.” You bite and pray he doesn’t hear the wobble in your voice.

His lips twitch. “Then tell me your name.”

You squint at him and really think about it.

Theoretically, you could tell him your name. He probably already knows it, anyway. But this is Felix we’re talking about. The same man who woke you up an hour late and robbed you of your morning scone.

“No.” You say, stubbornly.

“Then, it’s settled, princess.” He smirks lazily. Your bodyguard is going to need a bodyguard if he doesn’t shut up in the next two seconds. Of course, he continues. “I overheard your conversation—”

“You mean eavesdropped?” You smile.

He chuckles, shaking his head at your pettiness. “Yeah, something like that.”

You let out a snort yourself, refreshing your computer screen. It buzzes and flashes white. You switch to the embedded private browser that Minho installed.

“You need working theories. Do you have any?” Felix finishes, scooting closer to you.

You stiffen.

The answer is no. You have no working theories.

Felix must sense your hesitation because he scoots closer, voice softening. “I can help, y’know…”

“I don’t need your help.” You snap a little too harshly.

Felix nods, scooting back to give you more space. “You’re right. You don’t need my help,” He pauses, and his voice lowers into something warmer, more patient. “But I want to help you. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes.”

Being the daughter of a Mafia boss came with its own set of challenges, but there’s one that’s been tattooed into you since birth. The unabiding ideology that, simply because you are a woman, you’re expected to fail. People talked down to you, not directly. And never to your face.

But you noticed it in the subtext, reading between the lines just like your father taught you. They weren’t trying to help you.

They were trying to do what they thought you couldn’t.

And, just like they expect you to fail. You expect him to be just like all the others. It’s unfair. You realize that now.

He speaks with so much earnestness that something inside you softens. Guilt gnaws at your stomach as you bite your bottom lip.

He’s right. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes.

“Fine.” You sigh, sliding him the stack of files. His lips curve, and his eyes crinkle into little crescent moons.

He eagerly snatches the files. “You won’t regret it, I swear!”

“I better not.”

“What’s a ‘Discord?”

Felix peeks up from the home he’s made of mugshots and manila folders across from you. “Discord?”

You nod, cursor hovering over said link. It’s been a little over an hour now, and within that time—you haven’t actually found anything useful out—but you did discover an interesting website called Tumblr and now Discord. The power of the internet.

Felix’s brow crinkles, and he waddles out of the delicate paper trail he’s made to lean over your shoulder, eyes flicking across your computer before pulling away. “Oh yeah, Discord. It’s like a website for talking or whatever. A lot of gamers use it.”

Your brows shoot up. “Would avid podcast listeners use it?”

You’ve been grasping at straws at this point. You jumped from a few useless news articles covering the case—which pretty much just included information you already had—to some more personal blogs and external resources before finally discovering something minutely useful. A user under the name @spencerreidsslut (valid) wrote something about a Case Files episode covering the case. Which brings you here, talking to Felix and pondering clicking this suspicious link.

He cocks his head and clicks his tongue. “Theoretically, I guess they could. I don’t really know, though. I’ve only ever used it for gaming.”

You almost brush past it, but then it hits you.

You jerk your neck up. “You game?”

Felix’s eyes widen before he awkwardly clears his throat, a bashful blush flooding his cheeks. “Um, yeah…I do…”

You snicker, tapping the link. “Why am I not surprised?”

His blush deepens, and he shoots you an annoyed look. “Oh, be quiet.”

You were going to retort, but then the page loads. Lines of colorful messages pop up, most of them were small talk among friends and conversation about other episodes, until you reach around the time Ki-yoo, the first missing person, was arrested.

You scroll some more through people berateing Ki-yoo, some questionable jokes before something catches your eye.

You stop reading right there.

“Hey, Felix, I think I found something.” Wordlessly, he walks over to you, leaning over your shoulder once more. His eyes widen.

Without thinking, you click the link.

It feels like a lifetime of loading and shared panicked breaths as you imagine the amount of trouble you’d be in for allowing somebody to hack your computer before the screen fills with red.

A single pulsing triangle. You’ve been taken to Twitter. There’s nothing on the page. No comments. No likes. No retweets. Only a video.

Felix presses play for you, and nobody could have prepared you for the scene that unfolds before you.

Your blood freezes in your veins.

Ki-yoo's in front of a camera. He scoots into a chair, hair looking sweat-caked and disheveled. He parts his lips, and your spine turns to stone because Ki-yoo didn’t get busted.

He turned himself in.

OMFG GUYS I DID IT!!! like 9 months later ive finally finished it...

if you wanna be tagged in the rest of the chapters please comment!!

[mattslilies]

patience, baby ~ a matt sturniolo fic

or: the one where you test matt's patience a little too much, and he decides to take matters into his own hands.

warnings: smut, nsfw content, dom!matt x sub!reader, degradation, vibrator use/control, edging, a little bit of manhandling (matt holds reader's hands together)

lowercase intended <3

you've always been more talkative than matt. it ran deep in your personality, and you were always a very loud, energetic person. normally, matt didn't mind, as he was content to listen to whatever you had to say.

but today? today was different.

because this time, your consistent chatter had made you end up here, squirming under matt's hold, voice nearly gone from whimpers and cries.

your hips jerked and your head tipped back as matt's hand moved, switching the vibrator sitting directly on your clit to the next setting. your thighs were held open by him sitting between them, making you all the more sensitive.

"matt! it's too much-" your words were cut off by a moan leaving your lips. he didn't even acknowledge the cry of his name, nor your plea, simply using his free arm to hold your hips down as he tormented you.

he felt the sting of your nails digging into the wrist that was gripping your hip, knowing you were fighting the urge to tear the toy away from your oversensitive body. he'd done this twice now, brought you right to the edge, held you there, before cutting all contact.

you let out a choked sob as he flipped the setting up again, adjusting the angle and amount of pressure, and he finally addressed you.

"you just had to interrupt me every time i tried to speak, didn't you?"

he had a small smile on his face, but it wasn't genuine. it had hints of pity in it, but no weakness, no budging.

you tilted your head down to look at him. "i--" your breath hitched, trying to regain control. "i'm sorry!" he just hummed, his eyes looking right back into yours.

"you have no patience, baby. you couldn't let me finish a sentence before you cut me off. "

he noticed the signs of you getting close to the edge again, whatever your response was going to be being cut off by a high-pitched whimper.

"what i had to say was important, wouldn't you agree?"

you nodded frantically, trying to please him, hoping that he would allow you release instead of continuing to toy with you.

"yes! yes, i'm so-- sorry, please!" you were attempting to hide the fact that you were dangerously close, but you were too far gone, and he knew you too well. "matt, oh my god-"

your voice trailed off into a gut-wrenching sob as matt removed the toy from you just before you finished, your hips attempting to follow the stimulation.

in a moment of desperation, your hand that had been clutching matt's wrist moved down to replace the vibrator, but you had no sooner made contact with your clit before matt's hand had snatched your own away.

"are you fucking kidding me? you're in this situation because you couldn't find the patience within yourself to let me finish a sentence at dinner, and you can't even find it to take the punishment? you're pathetic."

the underlying anger in his voice sent a chill through you, and his degrading words caused another whimper to slip through your lips.

he let out a disbelieving laugh, moving to be above you, grabbing both of your wrists and holding them above your head.

"and to think, i was taking the vibrator away because i was going to give you an orgasm around my cock, instead of from a stupid toy, but clearly, you don't want that."

processing his words, your head immediately shook side to side, not wanting him to take that offer away.

"no, please-" you whimpered as his thumb connected with your clit, sparks of sensitivity going through you. "i'll be patient, i pro- promise."

he captured your lips with his, easily dominating it, feeling you gasp against his mouth when he sped up his thumb. he broke away, loving the way your eyes closed in pleasure.

"yeah? you won't interrupt me again?"

"no, no, i- i won't, i swear." your thighs were shaking, it not taking much to bring you back to a peak again.

"i know you won't baby. you'll learn patience tonight, this won't be a problem again."

as you heard the low hum of the vibrator turning back on, you knew you were in for a long night.

a/n: this was lowkey ass. sorry guys i thought of this at 1am yesterday

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

taglist <3

@courta13 @bowsandsturniolos @mqroonsturn @emely9274 @lizzyzzn @mattsbows @mattybsgroupie @sophand4n4 @leah-sturniolo @wr1tingsonthewall @sturns-mermaid @immaqulate @sweetshuga @user1smvtysturniolo

if you would like to be added to my taglist, click here!

[rwrbficrecs]

A combined rec list for July & August ❤️

Before This, After That by @orchidscript (book-verse)

@dot524: Henry has a serious horse-riding injury and is in a downward spiral with his recovery until Therapist Alex pulls him out of it. I liked the sharp-edges interaction between them as they fall for each other. I actually read this one a while ago and it was just as good as a reread!

The darkest part of the forest by @everwitch-magiks (book-verse)

@suseagull04: I've loved this entire series, but this was my favorite by far so far! The way the author does world building in her fics is incomparable, even in a fic this short! I would love if she decided to make this a multichapter someday!

Count The Stars and Constellations by @everwitch-magiks (book-verse)

@suseagull04: I've said it once already this month, but it bears repeating: the way the author does world building in her fics is absolutely phenomenal! This one's an outer space saga for the ages, plus it's a multichapter, so we get to see Alex and Henry fall in love over the span of several years, and it's a bit angsty, but absolutely worth it!

An Exquisite Temptation by @tinyarmedtrex (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Henry became a Catholic priest to escape his homophobic family. Never did he expect to meet a stunningly attractive and equally charming, mouthy Texan who would seriously challenge his devout faith. Y'all can guess where this is headed, right? Delicious in so many ways: emotional, full of ‘80s vibes, angsty, smutty—an absolute masterpiece! Chef’s kiss!

How to get over Henry Fox: A list by dazedandconfused (book-verse)

@na-dineee: This AU is set in 2002, and Alex breaks up with the love of his life Henry. Even though it's clear they’d only be apart for a year, the story is still so gut-wrenching. The hurt and angst really got to me—reading that fic is a challenge, but it's absolutely worth it.

late night devil (put your hands on me) by @nine-butterflies (book-verse)

@suseagull04: The way this author took a 4 chapter fic and gave the world so much history and lore is absolutely incredible! Plus there are so many moments of Alex and Henry's relationship that're reminiscent of the book. Everything about this fic is amazing- and it's also definitely a good fic if you're looking for something for Halloween when it arrives soon!

right there beside him (all summer long) by @theprinceandagcd (book-verse)

@daisymae-12: The winter in Australia had me craving a story with summer vibes and this fic was perfect for that. Loved everything about this fic!!

Interrupted (series) by RadioFriday (book-verse)

@dot524: Henry is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, just like his dad was. This story follows him and Alex through their painful journey, including the end of it and beyond. Read this if you’re in the mood to have your heart broken, over and over.

the very essence of love by dollarstoreannabethchase (book-verse)

@suseagull04: It's RWRB, but from Henry's POV. The angst of the original is heightened in this (believe it or not, it can be done), but that makes the ending that much sweeter, and I loved the insight into Henry's thoughts!

somewhere in your world by @callmevenji (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Prince Henry, student at Oxford, tries to reach a hook-up gone wrong – and ends up texting someone else entirely: Alex. A deep chat friendship unfolds, while simultaneously Henry begins to fall for the charismatic FSOTUS. Whether it’s the universe at work, coincidence, or fate, the pleasure of reading this heartfelt fic is indescribably beautiful !!

In the Grand Scheme of Things by @itsmaybitheway (book/movie-verse)

@suseagull04: Meet cute at a wedding, instant attraction, intellectual banter- this fic has it all! Plus this is the best AU characterization of firstprince I've seen in a while, it's fantastic!

marked by rizcriz (book/movie-verse)

@zwiazdziarka: a soulmate AU with some extra drama - Henry learns that the reason he hasn't met his soulmate was his grandmother's plotting. Extremely well executed - my heart was breaking and then singing when it all turned out well.

Someday Soon I’ll See You (But Now You’re Out of Sight) by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays (book-verse)

@dot524: In the mood for some intense angst? I needed like two business days to recover from reading this one. The story is a devastating view of complex grief as different characters deal with Alex’s death. I thought that the odd and asynchronous ways the grief manifests for different people was raw, real, and well done.

peace by @raysletters (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This is the Sky High AU I didn't know I needed! I love how this isn't a carbon copy of the movie but uses each character's strengths and weaknesses- and it's also just a very cute magic high school AU, which is just the cherry on top!

Son of a Gun by foux_dogue (book-verse)

@na-dineee: I hope you’ve all read 'It's not a secret' by now? I wasn't aware until it was published, but I needed that follow-up so badly! In this fic, which can be read as a standalone, Alex cuts down his work as a tattoo artist to take care of the kids (good thing Henry is loaded) and inevitably has to deal with the Milton-Saylor Academy Mom Squad. Absolutely wholesome, full of domesticity—just like, excellent!

You Set The Tone by @iboatedhere (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Alex is an emergency room doctor and Henry a pediatrician in the same hospital, and their animosity (read: infatuation) with each other began just as unfortunate as in canon. Their gradual coming together, intertwined with the medical emergencies, is wonderfully crafted. The tension is effortlessly maintained over 70k words, never feeling contrived. I was so moved while reading, it hurt phenomenally good, and I cried more than I have in a long time.

pick your poison babe (im poison either way) by sheWritesToLiveVicariously (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Co-workers to lovers with lots of emotion and a touch of angst—it never gets old, right? This 5+1 story is part of the "little moments that pass us by" series, and like all the stories in it, it's rather short, but full of feeling, very soft, and so touching. I'm already looking forward to hopefully many more fics in this series.

Down In The Valley by @aforgottennymph (book-verse)

@daisymae-12: This Stardew Valley AU was such a lovely read and as an avid stardew valley player, I thoroughly enjoyed all the little easter eggs and references to the game. Even if you’ve never played Stardew, this is still such a sweet and delightful read!!

[haza1ll]

animation for THE NEON VOIDD BABYYYY

this post is for @sugarpasteltmnt

‼️‼️MEGA YAPPING AHEAD PLEASE BEWARE‼️‼️

this might end up being really long and rambly and sappy but maybe not who knows.( it was) (and also featuring numerous spelling errors i am way too tired to fix and i am not re reading what i just wrote) SO. yknow how when chap idek..25(?) came out and i was all like “yeah so i made this animation for TNV and ill drop it when the fic ends” in your ask box? so. I FINISHED IT RAHHH. technically it has been finished since i sent that ask but ohhh my goodness did it need polishing. i haven’t animated in 4 years before that and omg it felt so good getting back into it but IDFK SOMETHING IS STILL NOT UP TO MY STANDARDS. i feel like i could have done so much more with it and i deffo wanted to but as soon as i told myself “oh yeah this is basically done” art block literally sucker punched me in the gut out of NOWHERE. I COULD NOT PICK UP MY I PAD. I COULD NOT DRAW. I WOULD STARE AT THE WIP ANIMATION AND BE UPSET BC I DDINT WANNA WORK ON IT AHH. that goes with saying. i kept having this thought in the back of my head “you need to finish it. you have a wip sitting. finish it. go do it. what are you doing are you STARTING ANOTHER PROJECT??? anddd yeah i got super distracted with other stuff and other projects and then i started spending my free time rewatching 2012 turtles and omg this summer has been a mess. i have all the free time in the world and i choose to be the least productive as possible with it even though i have a job that lets me literally sit on my phone and do whatever i want if no one is there. (i’ve brought my switch to work numerous times ☠️) what i was trying to get at is the fact that TNV has inspired a lot of the old me to come back and i lowk missed her. i really missed the point in all those words up there but im here now so whatever. BUT. TNV made me make a tumblr account, i got back in to animation AND digital art in general, got back into longfics that are ongoing, AND it also helped kickstart ideas for writing. i’ve got so many stories now!! you are such an inspirational person pastels i just- every time i read a new chapter of yours it made me wanna go get up and do something. i wanted to create something. because at the end of each chapter, i would think- “woah. a person out there just wrote this. they just sat down one day and committed. i wanna do that” so i did that. just huge thank you and shoutout to you pastel. like damn. idk no words from me here. just a bunch of platonic hugs and kisses and thankyouthankyouthsnkuou for this lovely heart wrenching but also sweet story. i love this fandom (tmnt) so SO much and i think it’s so awesome how interactive you are with your own personal NV fans. crazy how we’re all here because of a bunch of turtles. 

STUFF ABOUT THE ANIMATION:

okay i really like to talk and if you let me, i will run my mouth. this is the internet so im gonna do just that. so more words for you to read 😁. AHEM. so like i stated before in the genuinely scary mess of words up there, i haven’t touched animation in a while, like, 4 years a while. yes i’ve done digital art here and there along the years, i haven’t been doing it nearly as much as i need to to use some programs to their full potential. layers are still confusing, and don’t even get me started on multiply and all that jazz. shading never comes out right on digital for me, i gotta work that one out. so, for this animation, i decided to go with a very rough style. nothing needed to be perfect, i just wanted to live my little life of trying to experiment with a bunch of different things all at once in one short animatic. I wanted to do that little ball bounce thing all animation artists start with (i kinda included that with the key). i also wanted to have a go at lip sync (no hate it was my first time) and also timing the animation with the music. i wanted to see how smoothly i could move a figure in and out of and out of the screen as well, which honestly, i think that part might be my favorite. i think i did a good job, and thats what matters. the animation itself lost a bunch of quality on importing it- no clue how it happened but now the ending is grainy af. ignore that pls lol- but it was sitting in my flipaclip for god, i dont even know, 3 months now? i kept going back and forth on if i wanted to share it or not, so im throwing it to the wolves and i guess whatrver happrns happens and im good with that. yay. im actually rrwlly tired now sooo *leaves this absolute pile of words with a video attached at your feet and stumbles away quickly*

also i’ve genuinely never posted anything so i’m learning how to use tumblr too ☠️

[multifandommilfs]

If only I loved you with my eyes; rather than my mind

Pairing: Andy x reader

Wc: 1340

A/n: i wanna thank @skwldy for their prompt! Without them this fic probably won't exist. I probably took too long to write this so I hope you can pardon me 👉👈

______________________________________________

"The night is still young!" Was the common phrase amongst mortals. You always thought you understood what that meant and thought it would be amplified ever since you lost your immortality to the unknown.

What a load of bullshit.

Now the nights were drowsy and the mornings flashed past in a blur. The sequence was all the same; wake up, try not to get stabbed, hit the sack.

Unfortunately, you still found yourself in battles (or battles found you). So pain was rife and so intolerable that sometimes death sounded enticing. You had never told anyone about it but you were sure they saw it on your face. The agony, the exhaustion. They wouldn't understand anyway.

So the only solace you found was the riverbank near the safehouse. It was shrouded by a stream of bluebells and cattails. During the nights when wounds from your battles intensified, you always found yourself sitting at the edge of the river with your legs dipped halfway into the cooling water. It was a moment to finally breathe and to let up the tough front.

On most nights, you and the flowers became one until the sun rose in all its glory and woke you up warmly. But tonight was not most nights, tonight the darkness gave way to the bulbs of fireflies, and the silence gave way to rustles.

You turned, squinting to make out the approaching figure. The silhouette was tall and slender, clad in jeans and a tank top. It took only a second for a smile to push up your lips in recognition.

"How come i never knew there were flowers here?" Andy said, the tips of her fingers slipping from petal to petal as her hips bumped cattails to form a little trail.

"Because they weren't here in the first place. Not until the past few weeks anyway. The fireflies too, I've never seen them until tonight. It's probably all the water I brought to land or something. Made the place more fertile than it was." As proof, your legs swung up onto the riverbank, seeing the dirt immediately soaking up the puddle of water that formed beneath your feet.

"And here I thought we were done playing god."

"And here I thought you believed in no god."

She shrugged, settling down beside you. "How am I supposed to reason..." She shook her head, unwilling to utter her thoughts, as if keeping it in would make the whole situation less real. Her heavy eyes met yours in the silence, conveying her grief without a word.

The sight sent a pang of pain straight to your heart. Your jaw clenched, eyes slipping to your lap. Of all the pain you've felt since you turned mortal, hers was the most gut-wrenching one. Tears pressed behind your eyes, but you willed them not to fall this time, not now, not tonight, not when she was right here by your side.

So you forced a smile instead, "I don't know, I guess the world just has plans. Or maybe whoever's up there just so happened to cancel the wrong subscription."

The joke fell flat. She didn't laugh, she didn't even smile. Your brows pulled together as worry built in your chest. "What's wrong?" Your hands reached out instinctively to comfort her but she slapped them away, tears reflecting off her eyes.

"How can you take this so lightly, act like everything's fine when it's so far from that? Do you think I don't notice when you sneak out in the middle of the night? You're in so much pain you can't sleep anymore. Why are you trying so hard to hide it from us? Nicky, Joe, Booker, we are all- we're all so worried." She took your hand in hers, wanting to close the distance. "моя любовь (my love), do you hear me?"

The way her eyes darted in uncertainty was heartbreaking. You shook your head helplessly, retracting your hand. "I can't bear it- " you cried out, stumbling to your feet.

"What are you talking about?" She clambered up, her hands closing around nothing when she reached for you. Her lower lip quivered at the emptiness, tears breaking down her cheeks.

"I have to leave. I want to leave. I can't bear seeing you like this." Your hands gesticulated in fraught.

"What are you talking about?!" Her voice rose, trembling. The realisation was creeping in but she didn't want to believe it. Around you, the fireflies swarmed anxiously, the glow petering out.

Breath ragged, she was petrified, dreading every word that came to exist within the space between the both of you.

An unwanted sob fled your lips, you shook your head, dashing away. Your legs cut through the (small) meadow, the safehouse growing blurry as tears spilled down your face. Hot on your tail, you could hear her confusion as she pleaded for reason.

It was all too late for you anyway. Death was out there somewhere and you'd better find it first before it finds you.

The door to the church slammed open. Your gasps and sobs loud against the quiet. You rushed to the bedroom, pulling out clothes, guns, ammo, anything you deemed necessary and shoving them into the duffel bag. Around you, the rest of the team were clamouring, firing questions but you were only shaking your head, wiping away the wetness and mucus from your face.

The closing zip was galvanising. You moved with conviction despite doubt crawling up your spine. But Booker was faster, his body blocking the expanse of the door. You held his gaze. "Let me through, Booker."

"I can't do that. We're a team, remember?"

"No, we're not, I'm going to die and you won't. Do you know what grief will do to you, to Andy? It's been five hundred years since Quynh, Booker. "

Behind him, Andy's feet slowed to a stop. She could finally breathe, but the relief didn't last because Booker slid away and you took the chance, tearing through them and into the open.

In flashes of your figure, she grabbed your bag on instinct, stopping you. "Let me go." You grind out, her grip turned white and yet you still tugged your bag fruitlessly.

"You think I can't handle another death." She stated.

"No, you can't handle mine. I'm the death of you, you know that."

Her grip fastened. A gun brandished, you put the nozzle above your beating heart, finger on the trigger.

Just as you expected, her shoulders tensed as life flashed before her eyes. The only reason she hasn't knocked the weapon out of your hands is because she knew you wouldn't do it. Yet the possibility alone was threatening enough.

The silence was tremendous as you faced her glare. So hateful, so betrayed. You needed to remind yourself that it was for the best; to love was to lose. Then again, the course of true love never did run smooth.

_________

On May 10th of 1940, twelve decades after you left, the Charlie safehouse became the only untouched spot from German troops, but the team had long evacuated France and the whole of Europe to avoid the war.

It wasn't until they retrieved the new immortal that they returned to the safehouse again.

Came nighttime, Andy lingered by the graveyard that was once a lapping river. A wilted stalk between her fingers, it only felt like yesterday when bluebells and cattails brushed her skin, tickling and leaving soft odours. Her head angled up, eyes seeking the high moon that overlooked life below, wishing for the knowledge of your whereabouts.

Far away, she heard the creak of the church door, the interior light spilling out into the darkness. Nile wandered out. "Can't sleep?"

Andy hummed in response, twirling the stalk again but this time it disintegrated beneath the pads of her fingers, falling to the ground below.

"You okay?" Nile joined her side.

"Yeah," she wiped her hands against her jeans, getting ready to leave. "I guess I was just expecting to see some fireflies."

[ghostedgwen]

hello!! congrats on 1k!! i love your writing so much like UGH time to get published and have college students delve into and analyze your work 😛

i am new to this but could i maybe do a ttpd (if that’s how you ask) w/ remus using these three prompts?

"You weren’t supposed to care."

"Well, I do. Horribly, hopelessly, care."

"I loved you before I knew what it meant to love anything."

"You’re the only thing that still feels real."

thank you!! :)

Welcome to the Era’s Tour, Anon! I do love some Remus angst so thank you so much for sending this my way, and thanks as well for those kind words! Not sure the College kids need to mull over my shitty ass fics but thanku nonetheless!

꒰🤍꒱ ; Straight from The Tortured Poets Department ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Gut-wrenching angst of about 500-2k words only with any band member.

Please enjoy the tour with Remus for TTPD :

The rain tapped gently on the windowpane, a soft, rhythmic sound that did nothing to still the storm inside your chest. The library was nearly empty, save for the two of you - Remus, hunched in the corner, shadows swallowing his face, and you, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together like brittle glass.

It had been another bad full moon and you sat with him through it all. It's not often you turn into an illegal Animagi for a boy you like, you're only 16 and yet you felt like you were sure of everything.

You felt like you were making a decision that is so sure, something that won't impact the rest of your life. None of that mattered, all you saw was him.

Instead of the doubts, the risks and uncertainties, all you saw was a scarred face and a pair of warm brown eyes.

He had expected the boys to do it, but not you. You came as a surprise - another wolf. He was surprised to find out you had been a wolf right next to him, and the reality of it weighed heavily on him.

You managed to trap him in the library, knowing he would be avoiding you. He knew he was done for when the world stilled and you closed in.

“You weren’t supposed to care,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper, like he was ashamed of the truth in it.

You stared at him, heart a mess of fury and tenderness. “Well, I do. Horribly, hopelessly, care.”

He flinched. You watched him squirm under your eyes, you knew he was afraid that the more you looked - the more you would see his flaws. That you'd realize he wasn't worth loving.

“I didn’t want this,” he murmured, eyes cast to the floor. “Not with me. I’m not - ” His breath hitched. “I’m not whole. I’m not safe.”

“I never asked you to be safe, Remus,” you said, stepping closer. “I never asked you to be perfect. I just wanted you.”

His laugh was bitter, broken. “There’s no version of me that doesn’t destroy everything I touch.”

You reached for him anyway, even as he recoiled. Even as he tried to run from the one thing he couldn’t fight - your love. “You think I don’t know what you are? You think I haven’t seen the worst and still stayed?”

His eyes flicked up, and there it was - the truth laid bare in their gold-flecked depths. Grief. Guilt. Love. So much love it hurt to look at.

You can practically see the love pool out of him, he was a man on a desert and you were the refreshing river but he stops himself from diving into you.

Why he hurts himself this much - you can never truly fathom. All you knew is that you wanted him, and he wanted you too, that should be enough?

“I loved you before I knew what it meant to love anything,” you whispered. “Before I even knew what it could cost me.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he rasped.

“Maybe not,” you agreed. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

There was a long silence. The kind that feels like the edge of a cliff.

And then he said, barely audible, “You’re the only thing that still feels real.”

You felt yourself break then. He was saying everything but the word "love", he kept skirting around it, tip-toeing just enough that you knew what he meant without ever actually saying it.

“I don’t want to keep dancing with you like this,” you told him. “I want to be yours, fully. Even if it’s terrifying. Even if it hurts.”

He looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. And maybe you were. Maybe that’s what love is when you give it to someone who’s convinced they’re cursed.

“I don’t know how to not ruin this,” he said.

“Then ruin it with me," you tell him firmly, eyes not wavering even once. "Ruin it with me, but for the love of Merlin, do it with me."

This request was made in participation of my 1k followers celebration! If you're interested in joining The Tour, kindly send your request my way <3

[prismaticpichu]

Just a few hours ago, I received a comment on a fic that nearly brought me to tears <,333 I am dying now to pass some of that love on!!

*clears throat*

~

GET BLASTED WITH RECENT FIC RECS 💖💖💖💖

@quinhwyvar your fic Fragments is a gem!!! 😭😭😭 Every one of those chapters is packed with such raw, gut-destroying FEELS, and the way you capture such a wide spectrum of emotions is beyond masterful!!! <333 Every AU is so incredibly creative, and the shifting perspectives was such a wonderful, poetic way to show how the love is mutual!! They LOVE each other, your honor, and this fic is one of the most beautiful representations of their bond and tragedy!! As a Zack & Seph obsessor, this fic was absolutely candy to my soul!!! Ty for gifting my (and many others!) Saturdays!! 💙💙*

@dyradoodles I know you have absolutely zero idea that I adore your fic Starstruck to no end, but do know that it’s an instant x100000 to my Sunday whenever it updates!!! Your dedication to detail, characterization, pacing, and FEELS is so freakin’ admirable!! There truly are few fic authors out there as beautifully meticulous and crafty as you are, and that passion is so so so clear in every chapter!!! Zack & Seph are once again such a delight to see, and the canon divergences strike a wonderful balance between staying true to their roots while making so much sense in the process!! I truly cannot thank you enough for crafting the CC of my dreams!! 💖💖💖

@rosy-crow plz know that I was knocked to the floor in delicious, delicious PAIN after reading your gorgeous fic Binary Stars!!! Not only is the prose and rhythm absolutely stellar, but the EMOTION packed in is gut-wrenching!! <,333 You do such a phenomenal job crafting Genesis & Sephiroth’s relationship, filling it with so much depth and soul, and then proceeding to masterfully write it degrading over time ;-; ;-; The guilt and regret Sephiroth feels is beyond palpable, and so is the heart that went into this fic!! Ty for such a treasure!! 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

@yingxtkm I would wait 3,000 years to experience the FEELS of I’ll give you more than words again!!!! The emotions in this are so beyond powerful, and I’m on the verge of crying with every tear that Sephiroth sheds ;-; ;-; ;-; Every characters’ reaction to seeing him return is so beautifully done, and you do such a fantastic job making their hesitance to trust Seph both believable and heart-shredding!!! ;-; ;-; ;-; The angst is REAL, and I feel it with every poetic sentence!!! Thank you for creating such a unique, powerful, outstanding Safer!Seph fic!!!! You truly are a trailblazer of the sane!Safer gang!! (And you pulled me right on board!!!) 🪽🪽🪽

~

I’m so sorry the list is so short!!! I’ve been slacking on my reading lmaooo, so plz know that there are so many wonderful authors out there who add their own gems into this fandom!!! (looking at YOU @altocat, @errantnight, @lucky-ladybugs-lovelies, @salternateunreality2, on top of so many others!!!)

~

Ty for making this fandom bigger, brighter, and better with all y’all’s magic!!! Each of us has a unique voice and perspective to contribute, and it’s beyond a pleasure to be among such creative souls!!! Keep rocking on, FF7 freindos!!! 🗡️ 💚☄️

[nebula-chao-agere]

Regressuary 2025: Day 7

(Followed the prompt minus a few steps. First step he regresses around his caregiver? How about, first time he regresses EVER.

!!Pull-up/Diaper/Accident mention!!

Also, jumping right in to around the end of the anime. HUGE spoilers if you haven't watched it.

Also also, just really heavy themes in general, I decided to recycle part of an old fic I was working on that I scrapped because it turned kinda vent-y. I apologize if it's an uncomfortable read. Sometimes regressing really is just crying over something you can't ever replace or fix... Apologies it's not really my best work,, Only a week in and Regressuary is kicking my ass lmao)

Hiding Place

It was roughly 2 in the morning... Vanitas hadn't slept a wink. Of course, Noe slept soundly. Granted it took longer for him to fall asleep, but he always slept like a log. Vanitas however couldn't do anything but lay there, staring at the wall, refusing to move, shaking in his bed. The raven hared boy wouldn't even move, eyes wide as he stared, rethinking everything that had happened in just the last few days, weeks, months... How he'd tried to kill Noe. How he had come oh so close, and was for some reason, filled with guilt over the whole thing. How he'd pathetically collapsed against him like he was allowed such a safe haven. How he'd cried against the vampire's chest, looking so ridiculously vulnerable in a moment where others needed him... He'd just collapsed on him and cried like a babe. Why had he done that? Why on Earth did he do any of that?

He felt himself tearing up yet again! NONONO! He fisted at his eyes immediately as if doing so would cause him to stop crying. He didn't deserve such a release! Hurting Noe! His little brother! Everything that had happened... Old memories resurfaced, ones he didn't even remember before the last few weeks. Why did everything hurt? Why was his existence so painful? He was hardly even human anymore, and he knew he had hardly experienced being that way. This wasn't how life was supposed to be lived. Not for a human, not for a vampire, not for anything else in-between or completely off that spectrum. So why? Why did he feel like this? Why could no one understand his pain? But there was no way in hell he'd ever open up, even if another did understand. He hated the idea of such vulnerability... thus being why Noe was to never drink his blood. Never see his memories...

And yet despite all this, all these thoughts to push everything down, he choked his gut wrenching sobs down as he wept into the pillow silently, forcing all the sobs deep deep down. His throat ached as he held in his sobs, but he was not going to let himself continue to cry, so letting it get worse wasn't an option either. He'd cried enough for a lifetime, even if it was just a small one-time thing. He felt as though he truly was not allowed to. But suppressing it was much harder than he'd expected. He didn't know what to do with such overwheling feelings, how to make them stop. He desperately tried to force them down, a choked whine escaping him as he did, his hands immediately flying over his mouth. That one little whine had only made it so much more difficult, that small release make the rest try to flow out with it. He shook his head, hand over his mouth. Why couldn't he calm down? Why was everything suddenly so scary and uncontrollable?

All these questions never stopped, his thoughts never ceased, there was never a moment of calm for him. He wanted to hide, wanted to release, but every instinct told him to suck it up, just like he'd always had. Vulnerability leads to pain, and he'd never let anyone hurt him again!

Before he even realized what was happening, his body so tense from his struggling, his eyes widened in horror as he felt his pants growing unnaturally warm and wet. He immediately sat up, pushing the blankets away, trying to make a mad dash to the bathroom, some instinct taking over. His head hurt so bad, the poor thing fumbling with the doorknob seemingly a hundred times before he got it open. But before he'd even gotten out of bed, the damage was already done. He could run to the bathroom all he liked, but he'd already wet his bed, already failed to make it to the pot- TOILET!

Vanitas was so caught up in his accident, he hadn't even realized he'd started crying. Wholeheartedly crying out like a scared little boy... And right now, that's what he felt like. What was happening? How had it spiraled this out of control? Vanitas... gave up. He collapsed to the floor, feeling for too little for these big emotions and this whole situation. All the small things one day result in the straw that breaks the camel's back. So much strength and burden on one little soul, it was only a matter of time.

He wept on the bathroom floor, sitting in his wet pajamas, sobbing his poor heart out, unable to stop it, the cries pummeling out of him so fast and painfully it burned. But he couldn't stop. Trying to stop now would be like trying to stop a tsunami with a bucket. All reason was thrown away, replaced with primal, desperate need.

"Vanitas..?" A voice asked at the now cracked open door. Vanitas's heart dropped, looking up with nothing but pure fear in his eyes as he turned his attention to Noe, still desperately fisting at his eyes. Noe was still half asleep, not fully understanding what was happening yet, but he knew Vanitas was crying, and that's all he needed. He quickly dropped to his knees, instinctively reaching out to embrace the crying man, but was quickly shoved away, Vanitas backing up and away, looking around frantically. He'd started whispering to himself repeatedly, nearly impossible to understand through the tears but Noe was almost certain he'd heard a small 'gotta hide.' His heart broke for the male infront of him, even if he hadn't processed what was happening yet. He was trying to wake himself up, while also trying to figure out what needed to be done here first.

"Vanitas! I didn't mean to frighten you!" He stepped towards him again, causing Vanitas to frantically turn and scramble into the bathtub as if the shower curtain would protect him. He'd stopped mumbling, just curling up on himself, as he innocently hoped Noe would just go back to bed. But Noe was more than worried. Vanitas hadn't yelled at him, hadn't told him to get out... something was very wrong. He very so hesitantly reached out and tried to open the curtain, but Vanitas pulled it, making sure it stayed shut. He refused to be seen crying; refused for Noe to see him acting like a child. He's not supposed to do that, and he never was. It was just like he was a child again, hiding from the world when he wanted to express his emotions or even just feel like a child and play. Or when he'd have an accident and the doctor... Poor thing...

Noe, now a bit more aware, sighed softly, knowing there was no way Vanitas was about to let him in or come out, not with him standing there. Poor thing sounded so scared though. The vampire very hesitantly left the bathroom, going to check and see if he could figure out what had happened to trigger this, or at least find a way to get him to come out of the bathtub. It didn't take long before he walked back to their room, finding Vanitas's bed completely lacking any blankets, the bedspreads and all being thrown into the floor. An unmistakable scent of urine hit his nose, and when he turned the light on, he instantly saw the wet spot on the bed. Oh boy... No wonder the poor thing was in such a panic.

But Noe didn't seem to find it strange or even an inconvenience to clean up. Instead, he immediately got to work, grabbing a new set of pajamas for his friend, and rolling up the dirtied bedspread, tossing it into the hamper, acting like this was normal. Noe was the last person that would give Vanitas any sort of scolding or be upset with him for this. Now with a blanket from his own bed over one shoulder and the pajamas for Vanitas in his other hand, he hesitantly made his way back to the bathroom where Vanitas hadn't calmed even a little.

"Vanitas..." He started again, not getting any response. He wasn't surprised. Noe sat next to the tub, and would sit there all night if he must to make sure his partner was okay. "...Vanitas, if you come out, I have some clean pajamas for you." He offered hesitantly, expecting the smaller to yell at him. Instead, he was met with the gaze of a trembling little thing peaking out from behind the curtain. There's no way it could be that simple. Keeping a gentle expression, Noe tried to think of other things to get Vanitas out. "Your blankets are ready for the wash tomorrow, but you can sleep in my bed if you want." He offered, not thinking about how he would end up on the couch himself.

Why was Noe... being nice? Vanitas didn't understand. In his little mindset, he was under the impression that this was something worthy of punishment, and he needed to hide because of it. Surely it was a trick! That had to be it! Vanitas retreated back behind the curtain.

"Vanitas, why are you hiding?" Noe asked hesitantly, knowing he'd more than likely be met with silence. Vanitas seemed to get quieter when asked. Not quieter but... muffled as if he was trying to quiet himself, to no avail. "Vanitas... I-I'm not upset with you." He knew that would probably only serve to piss the smaller off, Vanitas hating the idea of being seen like he was fragile or vulnerable, or anything of that nature. But... he once again peaked out the curtain, looking hopefully up at Noe like a scared toddler, silently seeking out more reassurance. Noe, being a bit clueless hadn't really picked up on that though. But he did see that he'd gotten his attention again. "How do I help you feel better Vanitas?" He asked nervously. But Vanitas just continued to his meltdown. Noe 's brow furrowed. "Can I at least get you in some new clothes Vanitas? There's no way those wet things are comfortable." Being offered new pajamas seemed to be enough for Vanitas's current irrational mind. Noe hadn't actually expected that to work, but before he had time to be confused, his heart melted as he watched Vanitas stand on wobbly legs, now out of the bathtub, but growing frantic almost immediately. Noe took the man's hands in his own. "It's just me! It's just us!" He had no idea to comfort this man infront of him, but good lord he wanted to.

Vanitas, now in new pajamas hadn't even seemed fazed by that entire interaction, too tired to process he'd just had his clothes changed by another man. He was more scared than anything, worried he was or was going to be in trouble. Now that he was clean, he was about to make a break for the bathtub again before Noe caught the crying male's arm. Not tight enough to hurt him, but Vanitas froze almost instantly. "Please don't hide again!" Noe begged. "Let me help!"

But Vanitas wasn't having it, still crying quite a bit, trying to pull his arm away now, wanting to hide once more, now that he was all cleaned up. He was supposed to be hiding! Nobody was supposed to see him like this! This was absolutely ridiculous. Vanitas's mean thoughts were starting to resurface, but as he was about to pull away, the usually clueless Noe seemed to get to Vanitas...

"Vanitas, if you really must hide... Please let me be your hiding place." He released Vanitas's hand, but instead of stumbling forward, the teary-eyed male froze. He turned around slowly, as if hesitant. "Being on your own, hiding from everyone has to feel awful; has to be so sad and scary! You don't have to be alone! I would-" but before Noe could ramble more, Vanitas had collapsed onto the floor once again, but this time, he'd crawled into Noe's lap. He felt out of place, like he was doing something wrong, acting on instinct and what he'd seen parents do with their kids. He tried to replicate it - He wanted it so bad. He curled up in his lap, his crying seeming to start all over as his tears soaked the front of Noe's shirt.

Noe had no idea what was going on, why Vanitas was acting like this... But he didn't need to understand. Vanitas needed him. He was his hiding place now; his safe space. "I'm here Vanitas, I'm here..." He pulled the blanket that he'd brought in around the sobbing male in his arms, holding the back of his head like he were only a babe and letting him cry out everything he needed to. "It's just us... You're safe..."

When Vanitas had finally calmed/fell asleep after what felt like hours, Noe carried him to bed, the man surprisingly light. He needed to eat more...

Noe had decided they could share his bed, not wanting to leave Vanitas alone (and also not wanting to be banished to the couch.) He pulled the blanket around the both of them. He looked down at the smaller male clinging to him with one hand... his other hand's thumb resting in his mouth. Noe was going to need to do some research, figure out whatever this was. This Vanitas was just a scared little child, that he knew for sure. But for now... he enjoyed holding the smaller. Enjoyed knowing that he was helping, helping him heal in some compacity. The poor thing was so tired after crying so much. It broke Noe's heart thinking about how he was holding in so much hurt, suffering through it on his own. Seeing the peaceful expression on the sleeping boy's face though, was enough for Noe to know that he was finally getting through to Vanitas, finally beginning the healing process, even if it was in Vanitas's own unique way, he'd do whatever he needed him to.

This one night, would turn into Noe pouring every bit of his attention and love into a regressed Vanitas who had never felt such things before. It would turn into letting Vanitas experience childhood innocence for the first time. No scary doctors and experiments, only stuffed animals and bedtime stories. Diaper changes and getting Vanitas into his favorite sleeper onesies before bed would become part of their daily routine, Vanitas growing to adore the feeling so much, he couldn't sleep without his newfound comfort..

But for tonight... this first night...before he knew anything about what was going on inside Vanitas's head. Noe just held him. He didn't know alot about his friend, nor everything he had been through... and he tried to pretend he didn't know anything he'd learned from Mikhail, wanting Vanitas to tell him on his own. But he knew Vanitas needed this... and he was more than happy to be there with him.

"Goodnight mon ange..."

Vanitas instinctively held tighter and nuzzled closer.

[call-sign-shark]

Following the heart-wrenching posts of @red-riding-wood, @kittenonpluto and @aurorag98 I feel like I have to write this. By no means I have experienced traumatizing interactions with @mrkdvidal1989 aka Killian Vidal but this whole situation and what he did to girls here make me enraged.

First of all, I want to reassure all the beloved mutuals who have been reaching out to me or who have been worried about my well-being because they saw me interacting a few times with Killian. I am perfectly fine and I'm not much here this week because I have been working a lot.

As for my relationship with Killian... Well, we were barely talking to each other actually. I know I am bad at replying to my DMs but this is not the reason why I ghosted him -- I purposefully did so because, like many of you, the guy gave me the biggest red flags. We talked a few times, and he called me hot when he saw the gym pics/selfies I posted. He quickly suggested we meet together to go to the gym and watch horror movies during my stay in the UK and to this I replied positively while knowing I would never ever do so. Right from the start I suspected him to be a liar and I felt he had built up everything about his life. Also, I come from a military family with many relatives working in special units of the French Navy, and let me tell you something: I screamed at the thought of a former soldier (from the SAS!! lmao) spending all of his time writing reader-insert fanfic for a female audience and discussing with Cillian fangirls. I don't say it's impossible, but it's VERY unlikely.

To me, Killian was just an attention-seeking catfish I'd never meet and who I found both boring and childish. In my opinion, I thought he just wanted to have a small court around him to strut around, nothing more. I tried to search for info about him to warn people, I mean I even doubted he was a man... However, I found nothing plus he seemed to be IRL friends with a few mutuals here who actually chatted with him via phone so I didn't want to take the risk of spreading hate about someone just because of a gut feeling. Never in a million years, I would have imagined he was toying with girls from the Peaky Blinders community, collecting nudes, gaslighting/harassing them, breaking them into pieces, promising marriage, and going as far as to promise a life-saving medical treatment to a dear friend of mine. I am devastated by what I have read this morning, and "devasted" is not even powerful enough. Learning from Red that he talked about fucking me when we meet while we never talk about sex, never flirted or anything (we just small-talked once in a while lmao) might be a bit creepy but it's nothing compared to what he has done to girls here.

I am deeply sorry to all the people who have been hurt by his horrible actions and are now facing long-term consequences because of him, some of them being my close mutuals. I send positive vibes, love, and healing to every one of you who had to deal with this psycho. I know a lot of people have already said that but my DMs are opened if you need a safe place. The Peaky Blinders / Cillian Murphy community is a nice place, maybe the most welcoming place I've ever seen on the Internet but we should all keep in mind that it is not safe from ill-intentioned users and predators. Please stay safe and, for the victims, don't blame yourself. You haven't been naive nor stupid or anything. The only one to blame is the person behind Killian Vidal's persona, and for the evil you've done, I hope you'll get fucked with a chainsaw. Or just fucking rot in hell.

Shark.

[oh-no-its-dragons]

Dead Dove

So over on the RQ server we were talking about dead!Xaden fics and @sarcasticmothwrites mentioned that you can't write a dead!Violet fic from Xaden's POV because of the chain reaction.

And the plotbunnies apparently decided to take that as a personal challenge.

Warning: Dead Dove, Do Not Eat

I feel it when Sgaeyl's life spills out, soaking back into the Source.

It begins with a pounding in my chest, and the sensation of claws around my heart. The daylight turns solid black around me, shadows forming a wall without even needing a command. For a moment I think it's one of those fucking Sages trying to teach me respect again, and I start to throw up my shields.

That's when I realize where it's coming from. The navy blue night sky of Sgaeyl's presence on my hill as if she'd never left, as if I'm not standing on barren earth here now where I used to let her power and her love wash through me.

She'd banished me, but she'd never completely severed our bond.

I wonder what could make her reach out now and when I see the stars falling in her sky I know. She's dying.

The wrench in my gut when I realize she's dying and I won't die with her is harsher than would have expected. It's been years, years of loneliness, of dragging myself up through the venin ranks, learning their secrets and leaving them for the rebellion to find-

For Violet to find-

Oh gods, Violet. If Sgaeyl is dying, then Tairn is going with her to whomeever takes the souls of dragons, and Violet…

There's no way for me to know which part of their bond was reason for it, whether Violet's already gone or taking her last breaths against Tairn's bloodblack scales. The scar on my chest burns, my scarred and faded relic burns, my own breath burns in my chest.

I should be dying with them, Violet in my arms or my hands on Sgaeyl's side. If I was a better man, I would be dying with them, or maybe if I was there I would have saved them.

Instead I'm alone here, wrapping myself in layer after layer of shadow like the blankets I hid in when my mother left, as if I have any right to be upset. As if I have any right to grief or regret after everything I've done.

In my mind, on my hill, the stars have gone out of the night sky now. The dark blue fades lighter and lighter until it's gone, replaced with the parched, bone-white sky that's all I ever see now. Dead sky and dead earth, and me standing here wondering if maybe I've been dead the whole time.

I am realizing just how much the knowledge that Violet was out there, still fighting, kept me tethered to my sanity. I haven't let myself think about it, but now my walls are broken and every feeling I put away in the last three years rushes in. Has Bodhi forgiven me for leaving the burden of the rebellion to him? Have Garrick and Imogen finally gotten around to talking to each other? Has Sloane been able to come out of her brother's shadow?

Are they still alive?

Do I deserve to know if they are?

No, not yet. I've played at this, but I haven't done enough. I stand up and the shadows around me retreat.

I stare at the back of my hand, where black veins snake under my skin and disappear into the whorls of my rebellion relic. My heart never let go of Violet or Sgaeyl, but the rebellion had been my family. It's time to take this fucking seriously.

Back on my hill, I plant my feet on the dead ground and send myself as deep as I can go into the ground. Sgaeyl returned to the Source. Tairn went with her, and a part of Violet would have stayed with him, I'm sure, no matter what Malek tried to make her do. Fallen stars. The inkpot sky on Winter Solstice the first year after Threshing when Sgaeyl took me back to Aretia, hours on her back feeling her breathing and the cycle of energy between us. I know this. I know her. And she reached out to me at the end, so maybe I can even believe she wanted me to do this.

I pull, and I hear her clear as the last words she said to me, "I chose you!" She did. She chose me. She told me I was ruthless, and relentless, and she liked that. She had given me such a gift.

That gift is still mine, the last lifeline. I feel her warmth in my veins, flowing upward. I can almost, almost feel her breath on me as it reaches my heart and mixes with everything else I've taken, everything I've carried, and begins to flow into the rest of me.

I pull and there's more, there's so much, there was always so much and I'm no longer afraid of burning out. I can carry all of her, because that's all that's left, and I feel the burn that Tairn's energy had always felt like at the corner of my hill, like when I snuck into my father's good liquor cabinet as a kid. When I recognize it I drink it in like a drowning man because I know, I know-

Ozone and hope flash through me and I can feel her hands in my hair. Her lips on my neck. I can hold Sgaeyl and I can hold Tairn but somehow my Violence is the one who's always been too much. I shatter, my awareness ghosting through what feels like every shadow on the continent.

Every venin I can find is torn apart by their own shadow. We're hard to kill but not immortal, not when reduced to shredded, rotten meat. I feel the shadows of running feet, of dragons wheeling mid-air to change tactics, the obliteration of shadows that disappear in fire.

I come back to myself choking for air, and somehow, impossibly, Violet is holding me. I only feel the fever when her hands are cool on my cheeks, and I wait for something awful, something I know I deserve.

"Say something," I manage to get out.

"Come home."

So I do.

[tired-truffle]

Something’s Gotta Give

A CullenxLavellan fic

Chapter Word Count: 4.4k

Part 11 - One Step Back

"I've never felt more human than I do right now, holding her in my arms, desperately wanting to kiss her. I've never felt a need like this before. I need to touch her. I need to feel her. I need to know she's alive and okay." - Ban Gilmartin

Warning: Historical methods of healing lung infections

Masterlist

The mere thought of Corypheus made Ash's blood boil. She couldn’t wait to get her hands wrapped around his disgusting throat and squeeze the life out of him - impractical as it was. He deserved to suffer for what he’d done to Rae - for what he planned to do. But first, Ash needed to heal. 

After her conversation with Rae, Sweetpea had wrapped herself around Ash’s head, warming her despite the chill that had settled in her bones. It had been decades since she’d felt cold, and she hadn’t missed it - her body struggled to regulate its temperature as a side effect of the burns. But it hadn’t taken long for the heat and the softness of Sweetpea’s tail caressing her cheek to lull her into a dreamless sleep. 

When she’d next awoken, she thought for a moment that she must be underwater, trapped under a heavy weight. Every breath was a struggle, her lungs burning and her chest feeling like it was seconds away from bursting and covering everything in her viscera. It was a different kind of agony than the searing pain of her burns, but just as unbearable and excruciating. 

Her ears throbbed as if they had been stuffed with thick wads of cotton. Every sound was muffled and distant, making it difficult to distinguish the words being spoken around her. But with all her concentration, she could barely decipher the hushed voices mentioning 'fever' and 'fluid'. 

Infections were a death sentence, especially without the aid of magic to combat them. The Inquisition lacked skilled healers, and with the severity of her burns…

“I don’t care what you have to do, just fucking fix her!” Rae’s scream burst through the muted barrier around Ash’s ears. 

Ash's stomach churned uncomfortably, a gut feeling warning her against what was to come. But before she could form any objections, the all-encompassing darkness.

Her screams tore from her raw throat, pulling her from the depths of unconsciousness. Hands, rough and unyielding, pinned her down as she thrashed against their hold. There was fire in her lungs and blades slicing between her ribs. With each cough, a gut-wrenching gurgle came from her sides and a viscous liquid seeped from her chest.

Pus, she would later learn when the healers had settled her. The thick, yellow-green substance had collected in her lungs and they had to remove it before she drowned in it. The healers had no choice - ordered by her sister - but to perform an agonizing procedure, cutting into her lung and stuffing a balled-up cloth in the incision to soak it up. It would repeated every few hours.

Sweetpea took one sniff at the cloth and promptly gagged, scurrying from the tent like her tail was on fire. Ash was inclined to agree, though she had no strength to speak, and spent what must have been a few days dozing in and out of consciousness - only able to communicate her pain through grunts.

Slowly, the burning in her lungs started to subside, and she became lucid. She found herself longing for the peaceful bliss of unconsciousness, anything was better than the persistent ache and stinging fire of her burns. Each shallow breath felt like inhaling flames, and the rattle of phlegm in her chest refused to subside.

Rae’s visit was a balm to her weary heart. The rags were producing less and less pus each time they were removed and with a wave of her hand, she dismissed the healers from their watch over her sister. She would take over now, giving them a much-needed break. They did not dare argue with their revered Herald. 

Rae brought news with her. While Ash was feverish and murmuring her delusions to the healers, the Inquisition was heading for Skyhold, an old fortress in the mountains that Solas had become aware of in his travels. 

Slipping her hand into Ash’s, the two lapsed into a comfortable silence. Rae hummed a quiet tune under her breath, slowly lulling Ash into a state of half wake, half sleep. 

But peace never lasts for long. 

With all the grace of a Templar in full plate, the Commander pushed past the tent flaps, his armour rattling as he moved. 

“Herald, we have need of your—“ he began, as strict and direct as always, only to halt in his tracks, eyes widening as they landed on Ash. 

A coy smirk ticked at her lips - a cover for how much she hated that he saw her like this; vulnerable and weakened. “It is impolite,” a ragged breath, “to barge into a lady’s room without knocking, Commander.”

“I-I…” he stammered, though to her dismay his cheeks remained pale. Had her injuries made her lose her touch? Surely tits were still tits, even when they were burned. Was it because she was under a large pile of blankets? “I apologize for the intrusion, though I am glad to see you awake.”

Ash grunted noncommittal, she wasn’t a fan of wakefulness, it brought pain and fevers and confusion. Sleep was much more peaceful, dreamless and blissful. But even she couldn’t sleep forever. 

“What is so important that you sought to rob my sister of her privacy, Commander?” To anyone who didn’t know her, Rae would seem irritated and impassive, but Ash knew all her quirks, every subtle sign. From the twitch of her ears to her relaxed posture, Rae was very much enjoying giving her war commander a hard time. 

He straightened, his eyes widening further. “Please accept my apologies, Herald. I fear all this travel has made me forget my manners.” 

“Apology accepted,” Rae said with indifference. “At ease, or whatever. And spit it out already.”

“Right,” Cullen nodded his assent. “Josephine and Leliana are requesting your presence urgently. There is a…delicate matter that needs your attendance.”

“Does Mother Giselle have her big hat in a twist?” Rae slanted her head, an almost evil quality growing in her smooth grin.

Cullen chuckled. “Something like that. It was urgent enough that they did not bother finding a runner and insisted I fetch you personally.” 

Ash found that…intriguing, they had the power to boss him around like that? She remained silent. 

Rae clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I see, but I can’t leave Ash alone.”

“I’ll be fine Rae, you have important religious figure business to attend to. I will survive in your absence.” Ash squeezed Rae’s hand with a whisp of her former strength - which hadn’t been much to begin with. She may be skilled with magic, but muscles she had not. 

Rae turned half towards her, an unimpressed slant to her brows. “Absolutely not. The next thing I know you’ll have pitched yourself off the bed and gotten your gross lung pus everywhere.” 

Ash crinkled her nose. “That sounds terribly painful and frankly disgusting.” She coughed, wincing as it irritated her open wounds and, well, everything. “I’d much rather lay as still as possible and let you all do the heavy lifting.” 

Rae narrowed her eyes, ready to argue, before Cullen interrupted. “I will stay, Herald. If that is amenable with you, Ashvalla.”

“I would be honoured by your company, Commander.” Ash gave him a wolfish grin, ignoring the sharp burn across her cheek as her burn stretched and cracked. 

Rae eyed Cullen skeptically, weighing her options. She was loath to leave Ash alone, even for a moment, but duty called and the Commander had offered a solution.

"Fine," she conceded begrudgingly. "But Commander of the Inquisition or not, if I hear you've been bothering her-

"I would never dream of it," Cullen assured, though she was sure he had dreamed plenty.

Rae fixed him with a piercing stare, green eyes boring into amber, before she leaned down to brush a kiss over Ash's forehead, whispering so only she could hear.

"I'll be back soon. Try not to seduce the Commander while I'm gone.”

Ash laughed, the sound morphing into a painful cough.

"No promises," she rasped with a wink.

With one last warning look at Cullen, Rae swept from the tent, leather boots scuffing against the dirt.

Cullen hovered in the doorway, looking everywhere but at her. 

“I don’t bite, you know,” she teased, patting the spot on the cot where Rae had vacated. “Unless you want me to.”

There was the blush she so adored, tickling the tips of his ears, almost hidden in the low light. “I would prefer to remain unbitten, if that’s all the same to you.”

“Suit yourself,” Ash said, unbothered. “But please sit, your hovering is making me anxious.”

With a shake of his head, a smirk pulling at the scar bisecting his lip, he perched on the side of the cot. 

Ash smiled at him, genuine, and softer than she’d meant to. “Are you going to hold my hand too?” She wiggled her fingers, forcing her lips into a grin. 

Just because she was in pain and feeling mildly delirious, didn’t mean she had to get soft on him. 

He was a Templar for ten years, do not forget that your heart was only recently kept beating by the spirit that possesses you, she reminded herself, repeating it like a mantra in her mind. 

Cullen rolled his eyes, and Love trilled happily in her chest when his leather-gloved hand found its way to hers. “Better?” he asked, mirth creasing his crow’s feet. 

“It will do. For now.” 

“Even injured and bedridden you find ways to be difficult. I cannot say I am particularly surprised.” 

Ash shrugged with her uninjured shoulder, wincing as it tugged on the burnt skin of her back. She couldn’t lay on her side because of the incisions, but laying on her burn was not her preferred position either. Ideally, she’d float in mid-air, but she had yet to figure out how to achieve that feat. “It’s in my blood.”

“On that, we agree.” His eyes travelled the length of her body, quickly, instinctively. “How are you feeling?”

Ash raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the bandage-covered arm resting above the furs, her neck and cheek also wrapped in white cloth. 

He had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Forgive me. I only wished to know if you are as well as you could be, given the circumstances.”

“I was roasted by an Archdemon and somehow I still live. I’d say I’m pretty good.” She grinned using only one side of her face, attempting to stop irritating her facial burns. Ridiculous, but she made an effort. That had to count for something.

Gaze darkening, a pinch appeared between his brows, his lips curving into a frown. He was very handsome when he scowled; Ash couldn’t decide if she liked his glowers more or his blushes. 

Ash sighed, anxiety pulling at the lines on her face. “If you want me to be completely honest.” She made a disgusted noise and his scowl of irritation turned into a scowl of disapproval - a minor improvement. “Then I…everything hurts. And by Mythal does it itch. I never would have thought the itching could be worse than the pain, but I’d rather get stabbed with a thousand tiny needles or tear my skin off in strips.” Another rattling breath. “These stupid cloths in my lungs make it feel like I’m breathing wet fire, which I can confirm is far worse than breathing regular fire. And I’m so fucking afraid that after enduring all of this, I still won’t make it. That the illness will take me anyway. But I can’t tell Rae any of this. She has enough on her plate and I won’t add to it. I can’t be a burden on her.”

She blinked, she hadn’t meant to say all that, but in her pain-fueled haze, it had tumbled from her mouth like rocks down a cliff. 

Silence settled between them and Ash refused to look at him. 

“I may not have much…experience, with your predicament, but I have spent a significant amount of time around the Herald in the past few days, and let me assure you that you are not, nor have you ever been a burden on her.” He spoke with such gentle conviction, his hand squeezing hers, and Love pulsed weakly in her chest. But the spirit had always been a sucker for affection, for men bestowing kind words upon her, it meant nothing. “As I believe I said before, the Herald is less sullen with you around. You give her…drive, confidence. Though you may be stuck here, you give her something to fight for, to keep her head up.”

Why couldn’t the Archdemon have burned her tear ducts off?

“It’s alright Commander,” Ash ignored the blurring of her vision, “you can say cunty, I give you permission.”

His head shook, exasperation tilting his small smile. He refused to fall for her trap, smart man. “Be that as it may, she is happy you are alive and recovering. As am I.”

“You were so close to getting rid of your biggest irritant,” Ash teased. 

Cullen shook his head. “You overestimate yourself. That title belongs to the rashvine Sera continues to try to put in my smalls, which has not ceased even in our time of strife.”

A giggle tumbled from Ash’s lips, the skin around her eyes wrinkling and her smile widening, despite the pain it caused. “She’s just trying to find a way to get you to loosen up. Or she just hates authority. Either way, I think it’s funny.”

“I’m glad one of us is amused,” he said, as dry as wheat stalks in autumn.

Ash paused, her mind racing as a thought took hold and fought to escape. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, but was unable to hold it back. “Why are you being so nice to me? It's strange. You’re supposed to be a big, mean Templar.”

Cullen shifted on the cot, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face. "I suppose holding your hand at your sickbed does undercut that image. Though it is not an image I wish for you to have of me so I can’t say I’m upset that I do not fit your description. I am trying to make amends, for my past actions towards mages." He paused, gazing down at their still joined hands. "I have many regrets. I no longer wish to be a man blinded by fear and hatred, I would like to be someone that mages could trust, that you could trust."

Sincerity hadn’t been what Ash had expected, and she blinked twice, unsure of how to respond.

"As for you specifically, at first I saw you as nothing more than a nuisance. Another reckless mage determined to get under my skin."

Ash laughed softly, relieved he hadn’t continued with his vulnerability - she was not in the space to respond appropriately and didn’t want to ruin…whatever this was. "Can't say you were wrong."

Cullen huffed a quiet laugh of his own. "No, I suppose not. But I was wrong, I have seen how deeply you care for others, how hard you work, how much you’re willing to sacrifice. I fear I misjudged you.” 

“I’ll just have to work harder then,” she teased. “Though, I should thank you.” Ash discarded their conversation in favour of a new one that she was much more comfortable with.

“Whatever for? I’m ashamed to say I was little help to you after…you were injured.”

Ash brushed him off with a dismissive noise blown through her teeth. “You had much more important tasks than tending to me, and there was little you could do after I had the bright idea to stand in the way of Archdemon fire.” He opened his mouth to argue, but Ash did not let him speak. “What I wanted to thank you for was the chest plate you insisted I wear. From what I’ve been told, that is the only reason my…” she shot him a wolfish grin, “assets were unharmed. Should you ever wish for repayment, I have the perfect idea of how we could achieve this.”

A dark pink tinge spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Ash did her best not to show her satisfaction. “Oh, I…Maker’s Breath, no. No repayment is necessary. I am simply happy to hear you were less harmed.” 

“Let me know if you change your mind.” 

His blush deepened and his hand twitched in hers. “I…” He released a deep, long-suffering sigh, but his hand remained. “I assure you, I will not request any repayment.” 

“If you’re sure.”

“Very.”

She wasn’t sure if that stung or not. He was a gentleman who would never dream of taking advantage of her like that, but at the same time, for some illogical reason, Ash wanted him to want her. Were the burns deterring him? Or maybe that she’d have permanent scarring? He didn’t seem like the type - he was a soldier, he must have his own scars hidden beneath his armour. And tits were tits, Ash had found a majority of men were not as picky as they pretended to be. They may gripe and moan about her weight, but they folded as soon as they thought no one was watching.

Jaw creaking, she suppressed a yawn. The singular hour of being awake had taken its toll on her. 

“You should rest,” Cullen said, grateful for the chance to distract her. 

Ash narrowed her eyes, even as she fought another yawn. “I’ve had plenty of rest.”

“And you will require plenty more if you are to recover.” His eyes flickered to her ribs where the cloth remained plugged in her lungs. Rae must have said something. 

Ash scowled. “I dislike when you’re right.” It was petulant and pouty, but she was allowed to have a few childish arguments when her entire body throbbed and her skin felt like it was two seconds from crawling off her body and laying itself over a tanning rack. 

“That does not change the fact that I’m correct.” That damned smirk tugged at his scar and Love fluttered insistently in her chest. “Or would you prefer I fetch a healer to confirm?”

“No,” Ash said too quickly, though she was much too tired to care. “Stay. Please.”

His face softened and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. Ash was pleased he hadn’t let go, even through her teasing. “As you wish.”

Ash felt her eyelids growing heavy as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. The dull ache in her ribs and the incessant gnawing of her burns were pushed to the back of her mind by the comfort of Cullen's steady presence at her bedside. His large hand engulfed her long fingers, allowing the tension in her body to slowly unwind.

She studied his face as her vision began to blur, taking in the strong line of his jaw and the wrinkle between his brows that seemed permanently etched there. Even in repose, he looked focused, vigilant - the result of years of intensive Templar training. She wondered if he ever truly relaxed. The thought made something in her chest constrict.

"You'll stay?" she confirmed again, too exhausted to care that she was being needy, her words slightly slurred with impending sleep.

“As long as you need.”

He didn’t know what he had promised. As long as she needed? She was embarrassed to even think about how attached she had started to become. No one else put up with her flirtatious teasing like he did, what was she supposed to do without him? Life would be dreadfully boring. Blessedly, she did not get the chance to voice her thoughts as sleep took her once more.

Upon waking, Ash felt a cold emptiness where Cullen's hand should have been and he was nowhere to be found. They had moved again, the tent having shifted and her cot sloped at a different angle. Her ribs were sore but it was dull, no longer the sharp stabbing of the open hole in her lungs.

Though Cullen may have left, she was not alone. 

Seated at the side of her cot was Dorian, his mustache perfectly styled, and an old-looking book in hand - Ash imagined it must contain all kinds of Tevinter secrets. 

“What are you doing here?” Her question came off much harsher than intended, she’d only meant to verbalize her confusion at seeing Dorian of all people in a gross healer’s tent - it lacked his pristine. 

The mage looked down his nose at her, closing his book with a severe snap. “I am here because someone needed to watch over you - the Herald’s orders, if you were wondering - and I was deemed to have too much free time on my hands. Never mind that all I’ve been doing for days has been trudging through mountains packed to the brim with Ferelden snow. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to feel my toes again, though all this sun is doing wonders for my complexion.”

“At least you’ve got one good thing going for you.” Her throat was dry, but no longer as irritated as before.

“Yes, and you know what is less good?” He narrowed his eyes, swivelling on his stool to scowl more completely at her. “That my friend decided to play the hero and almost got herself incinerated in Archdemon fire. Your sister may be Andraste’s Herald, but that does not mean you must perish similarly to the goddess.”

If not for the undercurrent of concern, Ash would have thought that Dorian was truly mad at her.

“I’ll consider that next time.”

“Next time?” Incredulousness raised his brows. “There will be no next time, you will be staying far away from that thing as long as I can help it. Best not to give it a second chance.”

Ash studied his face, her eyes tracing over the hard lines and tense muscles. There was a fierce look in his gaze, but she could sense the fear that lurked just beneath the surface. It caught her off guard and she felt strangely moved by it. After all, they had only known each other for a little over a month.

“Ugh,” he made a disgusted noise, and waved his hand at her as though she was a pesky fly. “Don’t make that face at me.”

Ash frowned. “What face?”

“That one,” he said snippily. “The one that says you know what I’m feeling even though I don’t want you to, and that you feel some sort of sympathy for me and my pathetic emotions. It’s unnerving. And furthermore, I’m supposed to be the one feeling sympathy for you, not the other way around.”

Ash smiled, though judging by the glare that pulled at Dorian’s features, it was still too soft. “I just didn’t think you liked me that much.”

He huffed, lifting his chin. “You’re one of the few people who tolerates my Altus presence. It would have been lonely without you, obnoxious as you may be. Who else am I supposed to gossip with?”

“Varric, The Iron Bull, Vivienne, Rae—“ Ash listed until Dorian cut her off with a sharp exhale through clenched teeth. 

“Alright, I get it, but none of them are as…fun as you.”

“I thought you’d started to get along with Bull?”

“Getting along with and enjoying one-on-one chats are entirely different things, my dear.”

Ash waggled her uninjured fingers enticingly at him. “But you could, if you wanted to.”

He scowled harder. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“A big, muscular man like Bull? I’m sure his private chats would be, uh, interesting.” 

“As was your talk with our stuffy Commander, I’m sure,” Dorian purred, a knowing spark lighting up his dark eyes. 

Ash grinned, though the skin of her cheek felt tighter than it had before. She knew enough about burns to know that that wasn’t good. She’d been sedentary, and if she didn’t start to move soon, her skin would heal in a fixed position and further limit her mobility. “If you won’t spill, neither will I.”

“I have nothing to spill about. You on the other hand, I saw the way the Commander came out of your tent, you must have at least said something scandalous to him.”

“You truly do have too much time on your hands if you were sitting around waiting for him to come out. I’ll have you know that I fell asleep, so I didn’t say anything.”

She repositioned her shoulders while she spoke, and winced as pain radiated through her arm. She was going to have to start moving soon. Dorian's sour expression softened with concern. "Are you alright? Should I fetch a healer?"

"I'm fine," Ash muttered through gritted teeth. It was better than it had been, surely she should be able to handle it by now. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to focus past the pain. When she opened them again, Dorian was staring at her intently.

"You know, you don't always have to put on a brave face," he said gently. "Especially not for me."

Ash looked away, a faint blush colouring her pale cheeks. She wasn't used to others seeing through her act so easily. With most people, the witty banter and coy smiles were enough to keep them at arm's length. But Dorian seemed intent on getting past her defences - possibly because they were so similar to his.

"I'm not - I mean, I just…" She faltered, uncharacteristically lost for words.

Dorian leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "It's alright," he said. "You've been through quite the ordeal. No one expects you to bounce back so quickly."

Ash glanced back at him, taking in the sincerity etched across his carefully primmed features. She wondered briefly what she had done to deserve a friend like him.

"Thank you, Dorian," she said softly. "I appreciate you checking in on me."

"Think nothing of it," Dorian replied airily, though his eyes were kind. "I should hope you'll return the favour once you've recovered. Maker knows it’ll be unbearable without your company to brighten my days."

Ash laughed, then winced again as soreness lanced through her healing body. Dorian shook his head, clucking his tongue in sympathy.

"Now try to rest, won't you?" he implored. "We've only a day left to Skyhold, and we'll need you at your best."

Ash nodded, exhaustion settling over her like a shroud. Her eyes drifted shut even as Dorian settled back in his chair, intent on keeping watch over her as she slept. The Fereldan mabaris must be rubbing off on him, despite his protests otherwise. His steadfast loyalty brought a small smile to her lips as she surrendered to sleep - though this time, more willingly than before. 

Next Chapter

A/N: I spent a lot of time looking into old healing methods for lung infections, and this seemed the most probable for where they currently are, though pretty gnarly.

I hope you're liking it so far! I'm happy we got some good Dorian time, and there is plenty more of that to come <3

I'm also very partial to Cullen holding her hand :)

[trashmouth-richie]

tagged by miss @bettyfrommars

“A wee game I thought would be fun: choose an excerpt from one of your posted fics, 600 words or less, that will make people curious for more. Share it with the title of your fic and little to no context.”

**from Open Arms: Chapter 3 - Every Now and Then I Fall Apart

tw: text alluding to addiction, forced relationships, depression, self hatred. 780 words whoops 😬

Rick had passed out next to you, his naked body slung over yours in some lame attempt of cuddling. You didn’t know how many lines you had done, or the number of shots you took, before stumbling in here.

Didn’t remember the lick of his tongue in your mouth, the feel of his hands on your curves, your was body numb from the drugs and to him. All you remember is right now, waking in a puddle of tears, the taste of blood on your lips, your nose full of it.

Peeling Rick’s limp form from you, you make for the bathroom connected to his master bedroom. Your reflection was horrific. blood dripped from your nostrils and coated your teeth, eyeliner dragged down your face like a halloween mask gone wrong. Your body, stark naked except for a purpling hickey on your collar bone, and white residue between your cleavage.

You look away in disgust, hatred for the eyes that stared back from the mirror.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to wake up like this. Having spent the better half of every night for the last seven years the same way. Reaching for his hand, watching him slip through your fingers. Voice hoarse from crying, yelling, screaming his name.

Reaching for the plush hand towel Karen kept, you plop it into the sink and turn the faucet to hot, wetting it completely.

“So I'm a stranger now huh?”

Eddie’s words from early stuck with you long after you had left. Eddie fucking Munson. Seven years…No high or amount of time could ever make you forget his face.

The pain was always there. You were only able to paint over it with each new high you could conjure. But no matter the number of brush strokes, no matter the opaqueness of the paint color, Eddie always showed through. Like a ghost in the background of a photo.

The sink was nearly overflowing before you pulled the towel covering the drain, wringing the scalding water from it as you sat on the toilet lid and draped it over your face. The heated temperature having your skin raw and burning, a welcomed kind of pain.

Seven years and here he was, waltzing back into town like he hadn’t left you in shambles. Although him being back brought forth memories you wished would stop, seeing him alive and in the flesh settled a sore in your soul.

It also dug up anger. And under the wet towel you saw red.

Answers. That’s what you needed from him. You were just a kid then, you couldn’t understand, and maybe you still didn’t want to know why. But you craved to know, your mind gnawing at your skull to make sense of why he would decide to leave.

You had adapted to your surroundings, learned how to survive. He couldn’t. He was weak and spineless, that’s what everyone had said, and after a while you believed it too.

Stronger than Eddie Munson had ever been, you kept going. Living this god forsaken life because you didn’t have a choice.

You had your own place, a cute little two bedroom apartment. One you decorated to your liking. You had a job that paid your bills. You had someone that loved…someone that took care of you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

You were different, and so was he. What did he have? Nothing. No one.

The towel dripped water onto your bare thighs, and you concentrated on that little tick rhythm until it picked up, sending water down in almost a wave.

Maybe that’s how he wanted his life to be, maybe that was why he left in the first place. Maybe you were standing in his way the whole time like a roadblock.

You didn’t realize the heave of your chest, how your breathing was uneven and shallow, choking off.

Then you heard it. The gut wrenching sobs coming from yourself.

It didn’t work anymore. Quite frankly you wondered if it ever had.

Pretending Eddie was an asshole and that you were better without him was the only way for you to deal with him leaving in ‘82.

The lies you continued to tell yourself about Eddie were falling flat. Your brain could be fooled, but the space he lived in your chest couldn’t be coerced that easily. He was inescapable, nightmares or not, you yearned for the hours when he would visit you.

In your dreams he was real. Still in Hawkins.

Your sobs turned hysteric. Lungs burning with no reprieve as you felt the same loss and emptiness that burrowed in your chest seven years ago.

Why? How could he leave without you?

[wisecrackingeric-2]

Summary:

Set ten years after the events of Resident Evil 4; Luis, Leon and Chris have been in a long-term relationship and finally decided to have a Son.

Only Luis finds out that being a Father reminds him of his a Grandfather more than he was expecting.

So one night when their Son wakes up crying, Luis decides to take it upon himself to comfort both himself his baby.

Absolute gut-wrenching Fluff ensues.

((While this Fic is supposed to be read as apart of my ‘Luis Serra Lives’ AU, it can be read as a stand-alone too! It can also be easily read as just a Leon/Luis Fic as Chris doesn’t make an in-person appearance))

A/N: Repost cuz I didint realise until now that I actually haven’t posted the fic itself onto Tumblr!!!! If y’all could check it out on AO3 too that would mean the world,, this work is very sentimental to me and yes I did almost cry writing it what of it

———

Luis wasn’t usually a light sleeper.

At least, he didn’t think he was. Not until he had his own child, that is.

Most nights nowadays were spent sandwiched against Leon or Chris- Whoever was home at the time- With his back facing their chests, and their arms draped protectively over his shoulders. Usually accompanied by one or the others’ legs being entangled between Luis’, too.

The two of them usually came home late, and if Luis wasn’t awake, they’d slip under the covers with him wordlessly- Knowing that they’d probably be forced to wake up earlier than their boyfriend in the morning, anyways.

But Luis didn’t mind. He never minded; Putting up with their grouchy, sleep-deprived attitudes and their constant old-married-couple back and forth banter was more than reasonable for him. Especially after everything.

August 2004 felt like a lifetime ago now. So much had changed and so many years passed that it was impossible for Luis to look back and feel any connection towards the man he once was.

He remembered- extremely vividly- lying on that cold, hard concrete and practically begging for Leon to tell him he was a good person during what he was convinced were his final moments. His mouth was full of blood and he could hardly keep a cigarette between his lips, let alone light it.

He’d asked Leon, in an act of desperation, ‘What do you think, Leon? People can change, right?’

It was a desperate plea for forgiveness. He wanted to change so badly yet he always still retraced those same habits that got him in that position in the first place. He thought back to his Grandfather in his ‘dying’ moments; And he wondered if he’d be ashamed or proud.

But Leon had saved him regardless. In every way a person could be saved. Not only did he literally shove some kind of miscellaneous herb into his mouth and pick him up to drape his bloody body over his shoulders- But once they’d arrived back in the USA, Leon did everything in his power to make sure Luis didn’t slip into that self-deprecating cycle of guilt and self-pity he seemed to be oh-so familiar with.

Leon proved to Luis that people could change. And not only that, but people were deserving of love regardless of what they have done.

Luis loved Leon in a way that was so undeniably human and raw and vulnerable it almost hurt at times.

The pair of them couldn’t keep their eyes- or hands- off of each other.

Then Luis was introduced to Chris Redfield; Big, friendly, puppydog-like Chris Redfield who so painfully obviously had the biggest crush on Leon it made Luis feel like he was going insane. The two of them would stammer and blush and shift their weight awkwardly every single time they were alone; And, hell, Luis would be lying if he said he didn’t find the guy attractive as all hell. So they approached him about the possibility of Polyamory;

And here they all were, ten years later, so ingrained and fixed in each other's lives that they practically couldn’t be seen apart from one another. Their day-to-day was so domestic- so routine- And Luis wouldn’t have had it any other way.

If you had asked him ten years ago where he thought he’d be in life, his answer would probably be dead.

Past-Luis probably couldn’t have even fathomed being so unabashedly loved, so unashamedly domestic and genuinely happy.

Was he always happy? No, far from it, in fact. There were plenty of nights where he still felt the ghost of Krauser's knife holed in his spine, or the squirming Plagas inside of his chest like a ghost limb. Sometimes his face still grew hot from the memories of his Grandfather burning alive in his childhood home. He found it hard to fall asleep by himself sometimes- So Leon and Chris would always make an effort to comfort him. One of them would be pressed up against his back, and the other laying across his chest. Reminding him with their physical bodies that he was Ok.

Tonight was exactly one of those nights; Luis had been tossing and turning in his sleep relentlessly since he got home and shed himself of his usual Lab coat. Although the agreement with the US government was that he’d tag along with Leon on missions, he found himself working in the Labs with Rebecca more often than not- And of course, that eventually turned into a full-time job after Leon had finally retired.

Still, though, Luis came home later than expected. And the days stress weighing down on him seemed to trigger some deep-seeded memories from his childhood that he’d rather not forget.

That seemed to usually be his brain's go-to trauma response, at least; ‘Flash some memories of your Grandfather while you try to sleep and you’ll be A-OK’.

Luis couldn’t remember when he had made it to his bed- Nor could he remember when Leon had slipped under the sheets beside him- But he hardly slept regardless. He tried counting sheep and snuggling into his partner's embrace; but nothing helped. There wasn’t even anything specific that was causing this lack of sleep. He just.. Couldn’t. He just had to let his brain replay memories of his childhood with his Grandfather like an awfully cruel movie.

So when the sound of his Son’s crying filled the air in an ear-piercing scream, Luis was already prepared and sitting up on his elbows before Leon had even stirred awake.

“I’ll go get the baby,”

Luis whispered, leaning over to kiss Leon on the temple of his head before forcing himself up straight.

His voice was husky and gravelly, and despite having been awake for at least a few hours his limbs were all still too stiff to avoid a popping noise when they stretched.

Leon responded with a quiet ‘hhhhrmmphhh’ before he shuffled back down under the covers, pressing the ends of his blanket up to his ears in an attempt to drown out the baby’s crying.

Luis just huffed a laugh at the sorry sight of his tired partner and got up on his feet with a groan.

Standing up to exit their shared bedroom, Luis did his best to tie up his long, graying salt-and-pepper hair in a messy half-ponytail with the hair tie he always insisted on having wrapped around his wrists. Years ago, Luis had insisted to Leon that ‘He wasn’t trying to grow his hair out, he just didn't trust the barbers’.

But ten years later with his hair reaching his mid-back at this point, that was obviously a lie. Besides, Luis liked it like this; From what he could remember, his Grandfather always kept his hair long, so it was sentimental in a weird way.

“Loooeeeeesss….”

Leon reached an arm out from beneath the blankets to grab at his’, blue eyes blinking slowly to try and adjust to the light.

“Mwhere are you goin’ love…?”

“I just told you,” Luis chuckled, “I’m gonna go put Matteo back to sleep”

Leon made a noise of protest and tried to sit up from underneath his sheets, pulling Luis in closer by the arm.

“Nonono, don’ get up, I can go get him..”

“Sssshhhh, just go back to bed mí amor,”

Luis gently pushed Leon back down onto his pillow with one hand, leaning over to press a sleepy kiss against his lips.

“I was already up. You just go back to sleep, sí?”

The blonde huffed a reluctant sigh but still sunk back under the covers regardless. His lips were pursed in a little pout as he let go of Luis’ hand.

“But you’re always up to get him. Y’know I’m happy to do it once ‘n a while, right?”

Luis paused for a moment, biting his lip as he tried to figure out how he should respond. Leon was half-asleep, a quarter of the way to being absolutely dead to the world; but he was still right.

Luis was always the one to go put Matteo back to bed when he woke up screaming like this.

He always insisted that Chris or Leon stay in bed, go back to sleep; And tonight was no exception. But being faced with the question he suddenly found that he couldn’t actually figure out why.

Luis always just assumed that it was the least he could do in return. Chris and Leon, despite being ‘retired’, were still constantly called into the office or on smaller Ops- Sometimes for days at a time, even. And while Luis had his day job with Rebecca in the labs, they were much more forgiving when it came to time off.

His two lovers had given him the entire world, in his mind. They’d given him a space to live and to grow as a person and they’d given him more love than any other human being had ever shown him; and most importantly, they gave him the opportunity to be a Father. They all were.

He got the opportunity of a lifetime to look after someone just as his Grandfather had looked after him.

So maybe Luis just wanted to repay them in some way.

They always insisted he didn’t need to do that; that him just being there was more than enough.

But that nagging voice in the back of his head never left, no matter how hard he tried.

“I know…”

Was all Luis could respond with, his voice a little deflated in defeat.

“Just… Just let me do this for you, just this once. ¿Ok, cariño?”

“Okay…” Leon yawned, his voice still slightly reluctant as he snuggled his face further into the pillow. And like a light, he was out within seconds.

Luis smiled and huffed a breath of air through his nose at the sight of his sleepy partner. With one final ruffle of his blonde hair, Luis was snapped back to reality when he heard his Son wailing once more from upstairs.

Luis made his way up to the second floor with a slouched posture and dragging feet; he slipped his reading glasses on somewhere half-way up, and was thoroughly greeted by the high-pitched cries of his baby the second the door creaked open.

Matteo’s room was simple; It didn’t need to be very big, after all (And even so, it was bigger than Luis’ old childhood room with his Grandfather.)

The walls were covered in pastel blue-and-pink flowers painted on courtesy of Ashley one weekend, and the roof was littered in pale blue, glow-in-the-dark stars.

Matteo's cot sat tucked up against the wall, and stuffed toys littering the floor where they must’ve slipped off and landed in a maze-like heap. Luis could just barely make out his Son’s silhouette against the bars of the cot;

And Luis’ heart promptly shattered into a million pieces when he saw Matteo reach out his little baby-arms into the sky at the sound of his entering the room.

Luis skilfully stepped over the pile of toys laying across his floor, before pressing a gentle hand against the wooden bars of Matteo’s cot.

Just as expected, the baby had kicked his blankets off- Probably the cause of his screaming- And had his tiny hands balled up in even tinier fists as big, fat tears fell down his chubby cheeks.

Luis cooed in an attempt to keep himself from crying.

“Ssssshhhhh… ¿ver? Estoy aquí, Teo…”

His words were more for soothing himself rather than the baby as he felt his voice grow wobbly at the sight. Ever since ‘Teo’ was born, Luis became an absolute crybaby- Chris and Leon teased him about it constantly, but never in a mean-spirited way.

Seeing his Son in any kind of discomfort felt worse than any knife to the back ever could; His heart squeezed and all he wanted to do was wipe away those tears forever and never let go of his little boy until he was smiling and laughing again. He wanted to hold and cradle him every second of the day- and if he could, he would.

‘You’re always hogging our son’, Leon had teased one day, watching Luis bounce their kid against his hip. From beside him, Chris reached over to give Matteo a kiss on the cheek.

‘Yeah, you never let us hold him’

‘¡Tu idiotas! You can hold him if you want!’ Luis had responded, feeling a little guilty. But his partner's laughter confirmed it was only a joke.

‘Ignore us, Luis. Teo likes it more when you hold him anyways’

‘He likes it more when you guys tuck him into bed’, Luis had offered, earning laughter from Leon, whose index finger was being held tightly by Teo’s little hands.

Luis was promptly broken out of his trip down memory lane by another sharp, high-pitched scream out of Matteo’s mouth, and although Luis did his best to soothe his Son by rubbing the pads of his thumb across his reddened and tear-stained chubby cheeks- It was no use. Matteo kept screaming and grabbing his hands out into the air, trying to reach for Luis’ long locks.

Through the screaming, Luis couldn’t help but chuckle a little; Teo was always grabbing onto his hair one way or another. He figured it must’ve been some kind of self-comforting baby thing, so he just let him. Matteo hardly ever pulled at it, anyways. He just kinda… held on.

No matter how hard Luis tried to sway his baby boy back to sleep from above the cot, it was all for naught. He just kept crying and wailing, and the longer it went on, the more Luis couldn’t handle seeing his Son in tears like this.

So against his better judgment, Luis cupped his hands underneath his small back and lifted him up with a small ‘There we go…’, cupping the baby’s head inbetween his hand and elbow, firmly grasping onto his leg with the other.

Luis had very quickly figured out that the usual bouncing and ‘there-there’s did not work on his Son. The motion only served to make his crying worse generally, so the brunette resorted to- extremely softly- rocking Matteo back and forth in his arms.

That only worked for a couple moments before Teo was back to wailing again. This time slightly quieter, Luis noted to himself victoriously. He silently wondered if he ever cried as much when his Grandfather took care of him.

He couldn’t tell if he was just tired and therefor had his emotions dialed up to 100 (You know what they say; Never trust your brain past 10:00 PM) Or if he was genuinely upset by his Son’s crying, but Luis felt practically desperate to get him to stop. He didn’t even care about the noise; Just seeing his little bundle of joy’s face all scrunched up and wet from big, fat tears rolling down his face was infinitely more worrying to him than the noise.

So, as gently as possible, Luis bought Matteo up to his face, and after pressing his delicate little forehead against his, Luis started to place feather-light kisses against his baby’s skin. He placed them so tenderly that his own skin tingled from the sensation. As if Matteo was made from porcelain.

And to Luis, he may as well have been.

Every tiny action, every small breath was met with internal cringing- Luis was so self-conscious of just how unfathomably small Matteo was that even just brushing his nose up against the baby’s was enough to make his heart squeeze in worry.

But, at least there was one bright side; Matteo was slowly starting to quieten down his wailing. Every pillowy kiss against his plush skin forced Matteo to stop howling until eventually his voice was broken down to cracked sobs.

But even that seemed to come with it’s own price; Matteo never stopped crying. Screams were replaced with wobbly little whimpers and whines, and his bottom lip quivered every time those big tears of his fell down his chin.

Luis didn’t even know it was possible for his heart to ache with empathy more than it already had, and he secretly wished Matteo would just start screaming again so he didn’t have to see his beautiful boy sobbing silently like this.

“Nonononono, no llores niño hermoso, no llores…”

Luis pressed his forehead up against Matteo’s and squeezed his eyes shut, dipping him just a tiny bit so that his long, curly hair would fall over Teo’s head like a curtain; engulfing the baby in darkness even further. He pressed kisses against Matteo’s small nose and wiped away the tears with his own- At least he tried to with his fast they were falling.

“Deja de llorar por mí, sí? Deja de llorar… Deja de llorar…”

Luis tried to hum in between his words of encouragement, and even though Matteo probably couldn’t understand him- It seemed to be working regardless.

“¿Ver? Ahí tienes, no llores nena, lo estás haciendo tan bien… Tan bueno para mí, Teo”

All Luis could do was let his words of encouragement and comfort sink into his Son's skin, even if he couldn’t fully understand them. He hoped that somehow the message got through regardless of their language barrier, that by some miracle, Matteo understood what Luis was trying to tell him and took it to heart.

“Te amo, Teo. ¿Tú lo sabes? Te amo mucho más de lo que podrías saber. Te amaré pase lo que pase”

Luis couldn’t tell who he was talking to at this point; Matteo or himself. But it didn’t matter either way. His words rung truer than anything that had ever come out of his mouth.

Luis had spent so much of his life lying. He’d spent so much of it running and selling his soul to the highest bidder that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be so open and vulnerable with someone.

His Grandfather’s cottage, Valdelobos, Umbrella, Los Illuminados; The names blended together in his mind at this point.

He’d spent too long running.

He found out what a true chance at life looked like and it looked like Leon, Chris and Matteo.

Every stereotype and throwaway comment that Luis heard about how staring at your baby is like ‘Love at first sight’ was so unbelievably true; Luis just wished he could express his love in a way his beautiful boy could understand.

But Matteo still remained awake. His tears had almost come to a complete halt with Luis’ soft words, but he was still staring up at his dad with those big, sleepless, curious brown eyes; it made Luis chuckle.

“No puedo dormir, ¿Oye? Yo tampoco puedo…”

Luis hummed thoughtfully for a moment, methodically running his thumb across Matteo’s soft, thin brown hair before coming up with an idea. He smiled at the thought alone, and almost felt his heart leap out of his throat when Matteo half-smiled back.

Luis began to rock Matteo back and forth as he began to sing a song he just barely remembered his Grandfather singing to him when he was just a boy;

“Duérmete mí niño, duérmete mí amor,

Duérmete pedazo de mí corazón,”

Luis smiled as Matteo began to quietly babble in response, holding him even closer.

“Este niño mío que nació de noche

Quiere que lo lleve a pasear en coche.”

Matteo reached out his tiny hands to grasp at Luis’ stubble, running his fingers over the hair as his little eyes began to droop lower and lower. It took all of Luis’ energy not to grab his face and squeeze him with a million kisses right then and there.

“Este niño mío que nació de día quiere que lo lleve a la dulcería,”

Luis let his eyes flutter shut as Matteo yawned and lulled his head to the side. Tiny even breaths let the brunette know that his Son had fallen asleep- Yet he kept singing, determined to finish the song. Just like his Grandfather always would.

“Duérmete mí niño, duérmete mí amor,

Duérmete pedazo de mí corazón.”

Once the lullaby had softly ended, Luis just stood there. Cradling Matteo in his arms silently. The only light source being from the small, glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the ceiling. Not a single creak could be heard, in sharp comparison to just a moment ago. The loudest noise in that room were Matteo’s tiny breaths.

Luis didn’t want to let go. Leon and Chris teased him about it all the time, but he truly, truly didn’t want to part with his beautiful boy. He didn’t want this moment to end. A moment that felt so precious and so loving that Luis knew he was bound to remember it for years to come.

Luis wanted to protect Matteo with his whole world- he knew it was unrealistic, and that eventually, his Son would grow up to be his very own person- but that didn’t mean the need wasn’t still there. Luis had seen things that no single human being should have ever experienced, and yet his own baby crying was somehow worse than all of that combined. He never wanted to see Matteo cry again. He wanted to hold him and kiss him and shelter him from anything that could ever hurt him.

Just like his Grandfather had for Luis all those years ago.

That was almost entirely the reason Luis had approached Leon and Chris about the idea of having a child in the first place;

He wanted to be just like his Grandfather.

It was strange. The older he got, the less he remembered of the man- yet the more he missed him like a child. Luis thought about him quite often. And even more so now that he was a father himself.

In retrospect, his Grandfather was hardly there in his life for a very long time. He was only ten- maybe twelve at the most- years old when he had died. Yet Luis remembered as clear as day the way his knees trembled and his fists balled up hard enough for his fingernails to be imprinted onto his palms when he watched his childhood home burst into flames. He stared at that fire until it was nothing but ashes in the morning, quite literally.

Luis had gone through all the stages of grief a million times over. He used to be mad at his Grandfather for hiding that wolf’s bite that inevitably lead him to becoming sick; he used to resent him, in fact, insisting that his work as a biologist would be enough to reprimand it.

Luis used to beg for his Grandfather to come back- and, hell, he still sometimes did. He still cried like the grief was fresh, and he still found constant solace and comfort in Leon and Chris’ arms.

Luis remembered nothing but good things about his Grandfather.

He remembered how the two of them would go fishing on warm afternoons.

How he’d make him tomato soup every night after dinner.

He remembered how wise and intricate his words seemed to seven-year-old-Luis, when in actuality, he was just speaking fancy English.

He remembered how his Grandfather still encouraged his Trans identity and love for Biology despite their circumstances.

He remembered how he’d encouraged Luis’ fantasies surrounding Don Quixote- how he’d recreate the fantastical scenes and read him every version of the books under the sun back-to-front just so he could fall asleep.

Hell, Luis still kept an old copy of Don Quixote in Matteo’s room just for good luck; him and his two partners had even agreed on the name for their baby after seeing the name ‘Matteo’ in the credits of a Don Quixote adaptation and finding it stuck. Luis hoped someday he’d be able to read his favorite book ever to Teo and he’d enjoy just as much as he did.

When Luis said he wanted to be a father;

What he really meant was he wanted to be like his Grandfather.

He wanted to give that same undying love and affection to another person. He wanted to be his Son’s hero and somebody who could protect him from anything.

He wanted to be there for Matteo in a way his Grandfather never could before he died;

He wanted to watch Matteo grow up and live a full life.

Just like how his Grandfather always wanted.

Luis wanted to be there for Matteo right until the very end.

Luis wanted to be just like his Grandfather for Matteo. He wanted to make him proud.

“Te quiero mucho, Teo. También habrías amado a mí Abuelo.”

Luis hadn't even noticed he’d begun crying, let alone the quiet footsteps from behind him until a small knock on the door allerted him to another presence in the room. He was forced out of his forehead-touching position with Matteo to look around and see Leon leaning against the doorframe; his appearance tired and disheveled with a soft smile still on his face.

“How’s Teo?”

“He’s good,” Luis smiled, whispering lightly.

“I just got him back to sleep.”

Leon made his way to Luis’ side and cupped his Son’s head with one hand, leaning down to press a gentle, cautious kiss on his head.

Luis’ eyes never broke away from Teo’s face, even as Leon leaned his head against his shoulder. The brunette reciprocated, feeling his partner let out a sigh of relief.

“Where’s Chris?”

Luis broke the silence, desperate for some conversation. He felt like he was about to burst into tears if he didn’t talk soon.

“He’s staying with the Winter’s tonight, remember?”

The brunette just hummed at Leon’s response. Ethan Winters; the name sounded familiar. He was pretty sure they were expecting a child soon, too. Chris seemed to be very protective over him; Which seemed deserved after what he heard they’d been through. Luis hoped he’d get to meet them someday.

Another beat of silence.

“…Luis?”

Leon finally spoke up, his voice soft; as if their tender moment was made of porcelain.

“…Are you Ok?”

“I’m fine.” Luis was quick to answer. Too quick. Leon gave him that look and his partner was forced to relent, shaking his head slightly with a small smile. If he wasn’t smiling, he’d probably be crying.

“I will be fine,”

Luis corrected himself. Leon always knew when something was up, and Luis didn’t have the heart (or the energy) to try to lie. He wore his heart on his sleeve in his old age.

“I’m just… I don’t know. Difícul de explicar. Words don’t seem to cut it.”

“I understand.” Was all Leon said in response, snuggling further into the crook of his neck as his hand remained on Teo’s head.

Luis was grateful Leon didn’t try to pry further.

The silence between them, however, was too much for Luis to bear. To keep himself from breaking down and potentially waking Matteo up, he gave his Son one last kiss on the forehead- letting it linger for a couple moments- before slipping him back into his cot and pulling the up blankets over him.

‘Buenes noches, niño hermoso”

He whispered, running the pad of his thumb against his cheeks for a beat before he reluctantly pried himself away from his sleeping Son.

The second he turned around to face Leon, it was like all of the night's anxieties and grief caught up to him in an instant; his body suddenly felt like lead and his eyes stung with tears.

He could barely make out Leon’s expression in the darkness, but he knew from gut instinct alone that it was one of sympathy.

“L-Leon…?”

Luis whimpered, his lips quivering as his eyes welled up.

“D-Do you think my Grandfather w-would be proud of me…?”

Leon’s posture softened in an instant.

“Oh, Luis…”

Luis couldn’t hold it together much longer; he collapsed into Leon’s arms in an instant, feeling awfully small and vulnerable as he cried silently into his partner's shoulder. He could hear Leon murmur some reassuring words from above him, but he couldn’t make them out; the blondes chin rested atop his head as his arms squeezed him tight, rocking Luis back-and-fourth in an attempt to soothe him.

Luis, ironically, felt a little bit like how Teo must’ve been feeling just a moment ago.

“You wanna know something, Luis?”

Leon finally said loud enough for him to hear, pulling away just slightly so he could cup Luis’ face in his hands; wiping away the tears from his cheeks.

“Your Grandfather would be so, so proud of you. I know that for a fact. He would be over the moon for you”

“B-but w-w-what if I’m n-not doing e-enough for T-Teo? I-I j-just w-wanna be like m-mí A-Abuelo..-“

“You’re doing more than enough, Luis. You’re going so above and beyond you have no idea. Listen to me,”

Leon grabbed his chin and forced him to make eye contact.

“You’re not alone. You understand? You have us. And if your Grandfather were still alive, he would be by your side and telling you what an incredible job you’re doing. You are the best Father, understood? Your Grandfather would be so proud of you.”

That was enough for Luis to break down into tired, open-mouthed sobs against Leon’s chest. The two of them had to return to their own bedroom to keep Matteo from waking up; But it was worth it.

Luis stayed curled up against Leon for the entire night, having his hair combed through by his partner's hands as he cried against his shirt.

Luis eventually fell asleep. And for the first time in quite a while, he actually had a decent night's sleep.

He had Leon. He had Chris, and he had Matteo.

He promised to himself that he would make his Grandfather proud.

He would be a good Father to Teo. He would do anything for his beautiful boy.

And nothing in the world could ever change that.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Yellow City, chapter twelve

Parker knew he was still new to all of this. He did. He knew. He’d only been here two months, on the heels of four plus years of… whatever all this was.

Regardless: he could swear there was tenderness there, and that just... absolutely could not be.

Chapter twelve of Yellow City. Warning: this fic is explicit.

AO3

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

Arthur knew he wasn’t right.

He did. He knew.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? As long as he stayed nuts, and let Hastur play the game, he’d never have to deal with—

“Put ‘em up!” Arthur cried, unafraid of multiple bank robbers because Hastur could hold as many guns as they—

“Please. This vote matters more than almost any other,” he begged, hat (non-existent) held to his heart, peering up into the suspicious gaze (thousands of eyes, incomprehensible terror) of the being before—

“Take him away, boys,” Arthur said to (imaginary) coppers as he covered the crooked judge Tango, whose infamous criminal dealings had finally run their—-

“Well, it would just be rude to ignore this lovely gift of—” (strange, fleshy, quivering) “—cookies you brought me,” said Nodens, who was an easy sell for the vote, and seemed glad to be part of—

But it didn’t always work.

Arthur wailed, gripping his hair in both fists, rocking back and forth, and the only word he could say was Faroe.

#

Parker was… so done with this.

He had his own shit to figure out. Seriously. Whatever his position under Hastur was, the grief of new information from his ex-god, the point of his entire life—but that didn’t matter, because Arthur screamed.

Arthur screamed, and not the happy type of scream, and Hastur held him, and Parker was confused.

Parker knew he was still new to all of this. He did. He knew.  He’d only been here two months, on the heels of four plus years of… whatever all this was. Regardless: he could swear there was tenderness there.

It was something about the way Hastur held him. The way Hastur kept Arthur from clawing at his eyes, or murmured to Arthur softly as he howled. The way Hastur endured these horrible, gut-wrenching times of sorrow that Arthur’s contract demanded.

The way Hastur leaped full-bore into the fantasies as soon as whatever magical period of time required had passed.

Parker was an observant man. He always had been. He didn’t want to see what he was seeing here: The King in Yellow was happier when Arthur was not upset.

That made no damn fucking sense.

Arthur never stopped long enough for Parker to spend much-needed analytical time.

“All right, so their lives are brief!” Arthur declared in (Blackstone Square, still stained by the ichor of an attempted coup centuries ago) the city center, holding his own in public debate. “That makes my point, not yours! That means those lives should be protected and celebrated, not taken away!”

And the murmuring (crowd of horrifying deities who’d existed since before time) gathering of shakers and doers seemed moved by his points and listened.

Parker knew what he was seeing. He did. But he couldn’t believe it. Because change—

No. It wasn’t change. They were bored. Arthur was new. That was all.

Arthur gasped. “The children’s hospital is on fire!” he declared, and took off to interrupt a bog-standard bit of worship with servants and incense and very startled priests.

Parker followed. He had no choice.

#

It wasn’t change. That couldn’t happen. He was seeing it wrong.

The sex did not help this resolution.

It was easier to dismiss when Hastur initiated. When Hastur initiated, it was violence and screams and the mind-bending horror of Arthur being filleted and made to enjoy it. Parker liked it rough, honestly enjoyed some bleeding and bruising, but that was too much even for him.

But when Arthur initiated—which was most of the godsdamned time—

When Arthur took that lead, Hastur gave. When Arthur made the first move, Hastur opened. When Arthur took things in hand, then Hastur…

Hastur spread, exposed, bloomed some organ Parker could not identify in gold and ebony folds that was literally impossible to look away from, like a fist around the mind, and it took all Parker had not to crawl over there on hands and knees and deliver needy worship.

Arthur just stuck his face right in there without hesitating.

Parker would have hesitated.

(Parker told himself he would have hesitated.)

It was impossible, when that happened, to stay unaffected. Impossible to feel disgust, to keep on his feet in any sense of the word, and Parker sank down or curled up and writhed in his seat or in the corner or wherever he was then, taken on that rising tide, and when Hastur climaxed, Parker always did too, even if he didn’t touch himself, because fuck everything, gods were rude.

It wasn’t like Hastur didn’t know.

(Though if Parker were honest, he would admit he enjoyed it, deep-down loved that he didn’t need to fight, didn’t need to push, that he could just drown in pleasure without clinging to control, could just let go.)

But in those times, there was change again. Those times, there was no fileting. Hastur still took control (which Parker understood), but when Arthur led the way, set the pace, and brought (and gained) satisfaction neither faked nor forced, those times were… were…

They were almost tender. They still ended wild (and Parker would never hear Arthur’s voice raised without thinking of these times again), but the joy didn’t seem to be the violence and mental control. They seemed to be… making Arthur happy?

Parker did not know what to do with this observation.

It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be genuine, because that would invalidate everything. His rage toward the gods. His understanding that they needed to be taken down. His very belief, on which he’d built his house and raised his fort and planted his flag.

If gods could change (never mind learn to love because what even the fuck was that fantasy), then it doubly invalidated everything he’d tried to do.

Not that his life wasn’t already invalidated. It was. But this made it worse. This placed Parker completely, absolutely, totally in the wrong (and unable to earn his god’s love) because it meant his core assumptions were flawed.

(And again, unable to earn—)

Therefore, no.

Nope.

It was not true. He would not believe it. He would endure, and find his way through Hastur’s manipulation, and uncover the reason Arthur was being twisted (it wasn’t love, and if it was, it was wrong), and not think about the way Arthur looked at Hastur as he tried to pleasure him (because Charlie had done that, too, and Parker was in no condition to consider it). Then, when Parker got the chance—because someday, a year from now, fifty years from now, five hundred years from now, he would—he’d strike. Do something. Get revenge. Claim justice. Both justice and revenge.

He just had to hold out until then.

#

“It’s the docks! The murder happened this morning, and we have to—”

Did Arthur have to run everywhere?

“No, I need to see Matthew Cathode, because if he sells out, we lose the libraries, and—“

Did Arthur have to save everyone?

“Catch her! Don’t let her get away!”

Did Arthur ever fucking stop?

(When Hastur was fucking him. Or he was crying. Or asleep. That one was safe to think about.)

Parker had always been fit, and the Defiler’s false seal had made him strong; but fuck, he had never liked running.

He was gasping like a fish as they all got home this time (home, Hastur’s huge and spooky temple, sure, home), but no matter how tired he was, he couldn’t stop thinking.

Hastur had already moved to the bathing portion of the evening—utterly unnecessary to do this with water and scents, but he seemed to enjoy it—leaving Parker the first bit of free time he’d had all day.

Things had been weird out there.

Not that Carcosa would ever feel normal to him. But even for a zoo of the gods, it was weird.

The constant gaze had changed.

Oh, the fascination was still there. The amusement. The wariness (trying to actually fight Arthur or—heaven forbid, fight Hastur—ended quite badly for most parties). But now, there was… speculation.

Yes. That was the word.

Parker was good at languages, a skill he’d never really used before coming here. Over four years with Y’golonac, he’d picked up bits and pieces as a matter of survival, and now, he picked up other things.

“Could the human be responsible?” was the gist of a lot of questions, and Parker didn’t like that.

“Marked, so we can’t just kill him,” was another (though it took a few to figure out (mgepmggoka for claimed in a permanent verb form), and Parker didn’t miss that.

“Contract didn’t work! Again! It’s got to be his fault!” came a lot, and Parker really didn’t like that.

He saw no reaction from Hastur, but Hastur was hard to read. Struggling with words left Parker keenly observant of body language, and who the hell could understand a god’s?

(Parker could, and read them very damn well, but then he’d have to admit they were changing, so it was easier to embrace incompetence.)

Something was brewing.

Maybe that was why Hastur had marked Arthur (which sure seemed to be a big fucking deal).

Parker wasn’t sure that would be enough.

#

There came a knock on the temple doors one morning when Arthur was sane.

It wasn’t a weeping morning. It was a pillow held over his face while curled like a shrimp morning, and Hastur let him do it, and it was okay (as much as anything was okay) because at least today, Arthur wasn’t screaming.

The knock came again.

“Curious,” the King in Yellow said. “Though the Mother could send far worse.”

Figured. Was probably Asenath. She showed up sometimes, talking gently to Arthur, being a dick to everyone else. “Fuckin’ philosophical of you,” Parker muttered.

Hastur ignored that and went to greet his visitor.

Parker shifted in the bed. Over the last month, after being placed at the table to sleep several times, he’d realized that whether or not he got to sleep in the bed entirely depended on how well he played along.

Was he a good supporting character? Had he joined in The Questioning? (There wasn’t always questioning.) Had he held down the perps, or chased down the fugitives, or in some other way participated in Arthur’s nonsense?

If Parker did well, he got the bed. If he didn’t, he got the table. Fuck it, he wanted the bed, so he played along.

Not that Hastur had explained this. He had not. He’d let Parker figure it out for himself. The ass.

There might not be playing along needed today. “Having fun under there?” Parker said.

For a moment, it seemed the pillow would not answer. “Sure,” it said.

“At least you’re not howling.”

The pillow took time to answer. “Am I normally howling?”

“Yeah.”

The pillow considered. “Fair.”

Parker wasn’t sure why he was pushing. “You think howling’ll bring her back?”

The pillow inhaled. “You’re an asshole, Parker.”

“Yeah.” It was true.

The pillow shuddered. “I don’t want to get up today.”

Parker laughed.

“Fuck… what?”

“That slick foreign accent of yours, through a pillow, bitching about getting up,” said Parker. “Even funnier than when you’d get bitchy at a crime scene.”

“I wasn’t bitchy,” muttered the pillow.

“Yeah, you were.” Parker rolled onto his back. Above him, a canopy floated, posts unneeded: a sparkling golden expanse, splashed with black stars like some wild fantasy.

Looking into it felt like falling up. Parker closed his eyes.

The pillow sighed. “Maybe I was. But only because you were a dick.”

Parker considered that. “Yeah.”

The pillow’s breath was shuddery. “I miss my kid.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

Parker frowned. “What? Suffer?”

“Yes.”

Parker snorted. “Good news. You can just go fucking crazy and not suffer anymore.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

“Says the snooty pillow,” said Parker.

“Fucking… what’s your problem today?” the pillow snarled.

And Parker just said it: “I fucked up.”

Silence.

“What? Not gonna kick me when I’m down? Say, ‘I know?’ Say, ‘No fucking kidding?’”

“Sounds like I don’t have to,” said the pillow.

Parker rolled away from him. “Maybe I wish you would.”

The pillow sighed. “So. Here we are. Blood on our hands. I want to die, and I’m not allowed. You want to suffer, and you’re not allowed. What in fuck.”

Parker snorted. Snorted again. And he started to laugh. “What in fuck. Yeah. That’s it. What in fuck.”

The pillow joined him after a moment. “Gods, we’re… we’re screwed.”

“So screwed.”

“Did it to ourselves,” the pillow choked.

“Yeah,” Parker agreed, and slowly, their shared laughter tapered off.

The pillow sniffled.

Parker wiped his eyes. “I don’t got a plan now.”

“Neither do I.”

“So what do we do?”

The pillow didn’t answer.

Asenath did. “Morning, Tweedles,” she said, striding in like she owned the place, dressed in a sleeveless gown with a slit up one side in a vibrant and beautiful green.

Parker’s eyebrows rose. “What party’d you come from?”

“The ‘glad I’m not you’ party. Get up.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Tweedles?” asked the pillow weakly.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” she said.

Parker scowled. “Why are you here?”

“To keep an eye on you drops of sunshine,” said Asenath, and sat at Parker’s sometimes-bed-table.

“Where’s Hastur, then?”

“Occupied,” said Asenath.

That seemed ominous. Parker really, really didn’t like that. “Since when are you doing favors for that guy?” he said.

“Since the Mother agreed it’s a really bad idea to leave you unsupervised.”

Chills ran down Parker’s spine. “Nobody would just bust in here. It’s Hastur’s fucking temple. It’d be suicide.”

Asenath didn’t answer that. “Get up. I’ll wait.”

Shit. Something bad really was going down. “He gets up, he’ll lose his damn mind,” warned Parker.

“I…” The pillow shifted. “I can do a little. Today.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Asenath. “I’ll make some tea while you do.”

Arthur emerged from the white-linen pillows, face creased, red-gold waves flattened on one side of his head. He stared at Asenath like he’d never seen another human before.

“Give him a hand, would you, sweetums?” said Asenath.

Parker wasn’t sure why he obeyed. “Whatever. Come on, Lester.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re on first-name terms,” Arthur groused.

Asenath carefully presented no expression.

“Whatever,” said Parker as if he did not care. “Do I need to carry you like a bride?”

“No.” The grouchiest no that had ever been said, that. Arthur rolled a few times to reach the edge of this absurdly huge bed and staggered toward the little bathroom area Hastur had set up for them.

Parker followed. “Shit’s happening. Stay sane, if you can. Anchored.”

“What would you know about anchored?” said Arthur, addressing the part of that he safely could.

“Only been worshiping a god of rot for decades,” said Parker.

Arthur took care of business, cleaned his teeth, then headed into the enormous, hot pool.

Parker followed course, but couldn’t let it go.“You think that felt good?” he finally said. “You think that was comforting? Stabilizing?”

“You kept doing it, so you must have gotten something out of it,” said Arthur.

“I believed him,” Parker blurted. Today was a day of hard truths. “Turns out he was stringing me along.”

Arthur sounded unmoved. “Uh-huh.”

Parker bared his teeth. “He treated me nice.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. I mean. We didn’t go on no dates, or nothing. But... he helped me.”

“To trick you.”

“Yeah.” Parker’s voice cracked. “That’s what he’s doing to you, you know. It’s part of something. The King in Yellow doesn’t really love you.”

“Maybe.”

No, it was important they shared this heartbreak. Parker scoffed at him. “Maybe, nothing. You think Y’golonac is tricky? King in Yellow is fucking known for it. He’s fooling you.”

“Sure. But to what end?” Arthur ducked under, scrubbing his hair clean.

Parker got mad, and waited until Artur surfaced to yell, “How in fuck should I know? I’m not a manipulative god!”

“Fair,” said Arthur. “But I think it may be simpler than that.” He sloshed for the stairs out.

Parker stared after him. “What? You think it’s what?”

Arthur looked at him. “Apologize to Hastur.”

Parker stared. “Great. You’re already nuts. Fuck.”

“No,” said Arthur, and his gaze was steady, and his expression was tense. “I’m serious. Apologize, and he’ll feel better. Then it’ll get better for you.”

Parker stared harder.

“They’re brilliant,” Arthur said. “But their hearts are… almost like a kid’s.” He grabbed one of the warmed towels Hastur left for them, then padded around the intricately painted screens and spoke, words muffled. Asenath replied, similarly unintelligible.

Parker stood in the water, staring like a moron.

No. No. That couldn’t be. That…

That fit every damn thing he’d seen.

Wanting what they wanted, and throwing tantrums when they didn’t get it.

Weirdly black and white morality, however distinct from human thought.

I don’t feel better yet said Hastur the Unspeakable, the Feaster from Afar, the Lord of Interstellar Spaces.

“What the fuck?” Parker said. “What the fuck?” he said again, and stomped out of the water, grabbing a towel on his way out.

#

Asenath studied Arthur’s face. Softly, she sighed. “Really?”

Arthur shrugged again. “Like I said. I’m fine.”

“You look… I don’t know. Physically better, but your eyes, not so much.”

Arthur smiled weakly. “That’s because sane hurts, Asenath.”

She waved her index finger in a circle at his face. “I told you, no one is sane here. This isn’t sane. This? This is not sane.”

“Sure it is. Full acceptance of my situation. Full acknowledgement of what I’ve done.” Arthur’s hands shook. “Fuck, I want coffee.”

“They don’t have coffee.”

He startled. “Sure they do. I’ve been drinking it for years.”

She just gave him a look that decried all arguments. “Better, though. Less like bones.”

Arthur shrugs. “He makes me eat.”

She studied him.

Arthur couldn’t meet her eyes. “What is sane, then, if this is not it?”

“No longer beating yourself up for something you can’t control or repair.”

Arthur shook his head and looked away.

Asenath fiddled with her teacup while Parker finally joined them—in his towel, soaking wet, and scowling

Parker sat.

“Classing up the joint, are we?” said Asenath.

“I killed you once and I can do it again,” he said.

She laughed. It was a surprised laugh, far from angry, and she shook her head. “Really?”

He just looked away.

“Don’t…” Arthur started. “We’re… we’re going through it here. Just don’t. Please.”

“For your sake, sure,” said Asenath. “That, and I think we can all agree I got the better deal, anyway.”

“That’s beneath you,” said Arthur.

Asenath studied him.

Parker was silent.

“You know, you’re right,” said Asenath. “Sorry, trashpanda.”

“What the fuck is a trashpanda?” Parker snapped.

“Anachronistic term for a raccoon, because bud, your face is some colors it’s not supposed to be. Are you sleeping?”

He looked away again.

Arthur took a slow breath. “If you’re going to do that, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Now, they both stared at him.

“I fucking killed her,” Parker said.

“He fucking killed me,” Asenath said at the same time.

“Yeah?” said Arthur. “And look where we all are! Here we are, and we’re stuck, and we’re owned, and maybe it mattered in the beginning when both of you got brought back from the dead to serve your new owners, but how can it possibly matter now?”

Parker stared at him, all eyes.

Asenath touched Arthur’s hand. “Thanks. You’re right. You are. I’m being a dick. Thanks.”

Arthur dropped his gaze. “Not totally useless,” he muttered.

“You think you’re useless?” said Asenath.

Arthur shrugged, not looking her way. “Rescuing tea towels isn’t helping anyone.”

She leaned back.

Parker swallowed.

She conjured a teacup and slid it his way.

Parker took it. “Thanks,” he murmured, meaning so much more than tea.

Asenath did not say try not to break that one, and so progress on all sides was made. “So… tell me, Arthur: what do you think it was like here before you came along?”

“Eh?” he said.

She just looked at him.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Arthur.

“Yes, you do,” said Asenath firmly.

Arthur swallowed. “I guess…like it is now. The gods did whatever they wanted.”

Parker inhaled and held it.

“You think you’re not helping, too,” Asenath said. “Both of those statements are incorrect.”

“In what way?” Arthur said.

“Let’s start with the gods. You know the Dreamlands are wrecked.”

Arthur rubbed his face “Yes. I know that. I mean… I don’t fully understand, but I know that.”

“The only life left for all these gods is contracts,” said Asenath.

Oh, Parker really, really, really didn’t like this. He scowled. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Asenath eyed him. “Guessing the Defiler wasn’t big on catching you up on current events.”

“You know he wasn’t!”

“Right. I’m expecting you to hang onto this,” she said. “Remind him.”

Parker’s jaw clenched. “I’ll try.”

She nodded. “So here’s the thing. All the gods had their own place out there, once. Those places came from accidental worship, from dreams of humans, from people adoring gods they did not know. But when the Fire of Y happened, it ended all of that.”

Arthur just nodded. His strain to stay here was terrible, making his hands shake, writing lines in his face.

She kept going. “Realms collapsed. Entire domains just folded up like fucking napkins, too stained for anything but the trash. The world behind the world collapsed.”

Arthur was trying. So very hard, he was trying. “So why didn’t they just go back to Outer Darkness?”

“Because they would lose the forms that they spent millennia crafting. They would abandon all the flesh and power and individuality they spent centuries hoarding. They’d exist, but not as themselves; it would be almost like being erased. There is no dying for them like there is for us, where some essence of self continues on. To return to Outer Darkness would be loss of everything they’ve become, and as close to death as they get.”

Arthur struggled. “Okay. I think I’ve got it. So they… took their sinking ship, because there wasn’t a lot else?”

“Sinking ship?”

He shook his head. “Please keep going.”

She eyed him. “All right. So. The King in Yellow is this big… plans guy? And they almost always work. He’s fucking brilliant. Everybody kind of hates him for it.”

“Good thing he wasn’t the one aiming for a world filled with rot, then,” quipped Parker.

“Yes,” said Asenath, and Parker’s smirk melted. “He’d have won. He’d have had backup plans, not just one straightforward idea based on one guy who could fuck it all up if he slipped in the shower.”

Parker stared.

“My point is, he saw where this was going,” said Asenath, “he expanded his own domain, and made it… habitable for his siblings and relatives. But that doesn’t mean it’s ideal for them.”

“A sinking ship,” said Arthur.

She nodded. “Turns out you were right. Yes.”

“So?” said Parker.

“So, it’s been difficult to balance this. We are all in his home. Even the Mother, when she chooses to step into the mortal world. But it doesn’t suit any of us because it’s made for him.”

Parker was frowning. “But there’s nowhere else to go.”

“Yep!” she said brightly. “Until two weeks ago, when somehow, this little guy conjured his hometown from his childhood.”

“You don’t know that was him,” said Parker, and wasn’t sure why he was feeling defensive.

“We don’t. However, no one else here has any reason to remember Harper’s Hill.”

“How do you know that?” said Parker. “How would anyone know that?”

“Everyone knows everything they can about this little guy,” said Asenath, gesturing at Arthur. “He’s changed Hastur. He’s changed Dagon. He’s changed the minds of every single god he’s talked to. When I say Arthur Lester is making a splash…”

“Nobody is changing,” Parker snapped.

Asenath’s look said please don’t be an idiot. She moved on. “The Mother set things up in terms of how they could access Earth from now on. She did it to protect us; she did it to punish the gods. Contracts are literally the only way any of them get to go to Earth now—and it’s seriously limited, and always temporary, and if they try to screw over their host, everybody suffers.”

“She made it fair.” Parker looked completely flabbergasted. “She… tried to make it fair.”

“Well, yeah,” said Asenath. “No system is perfect, but she tried.”

“But I thought…” Parker stopped.

Arthur looked so thoughtful. “You thought it was to their advantage.”

“It is to their advantage!”

Arthur had one of his moments of clarity, and he sat up. “They need us. They need humans.”

“Now, you’re getting it,” said Asenath.

“Oh, bullshit,” said Parker.

“It’s not.” Arthur looked at him. “Unless you really think Hastur would have put up with me bossing him around for five years and calling him fucking John for just any reason.”

Parker made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Fine. I’ll give you that. He wouldn’t do that if he had any choice. He would’ve done it some other way.”

“What’s this… why are you… talking about this?” said Arthur.

“Because Harper’s Hill isn’t the only thing that’s gone wonky,” said Asenath. “The Contract system stopped working, and I hate to say this, but Arthur, you’re the only new thing that’s happened here in centuries.”

They both stared at her.

“What do you mean, it stopped working?” said Parker.

“I mean that the King in Yellow worked carefully with the Mother to create the contract system,” Asenath said. “And until this week, it’s worked exactly as intended.”

“This week?” said Parker.

Arthur trembled.

“Same time the weird little town showed up,” she said. “Nobody’s been able to create a contract all week.”

Parker stared.

Arthur rubbed his face, heels of his palms digging into his eyes. “Where’s… where’s Hastur?”

“Doing maintenance.”

Parker couldn’t wait. “You’re not fucking telling me you think Arthur’s fucked up the contract system.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” said Asenath. “But they’re thinking it.”

“Why?” said Parker, who already knew.

“Because he’s changing everything.”

“So I’m destroying what little is left, is what you mean,” said Arthur unsteadily.

“Not what I said, hon. It’s for the better.”

“Because he’s alive,” Parker said and knew it was not true.

“Naw,” she said. “Arthur’s not the first living human who’s been brought here, and he won’t be the last—though without a black mirror, it takes an awful lot of doing. They generally lack the patience for it.”

Kid’s heart, Parker thought.

But Arthur wasn’t hearing them. He looked at her, and his gaze was naked. “Where’s Hastur?”

“He’s coming,” she soothed.

Parker was very good and did not comment.

Arthur rubbed his eyes. “I can’t.”

“We’ll share the load,” said Asenath. “Let go.”

He gave her such gratitude in that expression that Parker’s chest mysteriously ached.

“We?” said Parker.

“He just stuck up for you. Not gonna do the same?” she said.

Parker stared. “You’re more of an ass than I am.”

“Had longer to work on it, my dear.”

And that brought another thing to mind: “I heard them say you’re the last ‘original witch.’ The fuck does that mean?”

“Pre-Fire, dear one,” she said.

“What’s with the pet names?”

“I’m trying not to insult you.”

He sighed. “What’s the significance of being from before the Fire?”

“I’m the… I was the last witch who remembered how things were. Just changes the atmosphere a bit down there.”

“They were talking about it like it’s a sign of the end.”

She sighed. “They’re blaming him for that, too. Stupid, I know.”

Arthur finished his tea and put the cup down. “So. Are we ready?”

Oh, great. “For?” said Parker.

“Cathode. Fuck’s sake, Parker, I’m not putting the briefs together for a hobby. You’ve got to read them.”

Parker folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them. “Cathode. Sure. Who the fuck?”

The doors banged open like a gong, and they all jumped.

Hastur floated there, silhouetted against the bright sky. His hide seemed darker than ever, true void enfleshed, and his golden robe gleamed like twin suns, too bright, casting watery reflections all over the temple.

Parker shuddered. He’d never get used to this, he realized. To the presence of a god, of a being so huge. His eyes watered.

Arthur headed for him at once. “There you are! Cathode’s waiting.”

Hastur caught him up, and Arthur leaned in, draping over the unspeakable limb that held him. “I see. Let us make you presentable, shall we, little detective?”

“I’m fine!” Arthur declared, completely nude.

“A different tie, perhaps?” said Hastur, fitting him into a sort of trousers and suspenders situation, all yellow, loose in the legs and cinched around the ankles—and it should have looked so incredibly stupid, but on Arthur, it did not. It made his nipples dusky and his chest well-formed, teased his stomach dipping out of sight beneath the temptingly loose waist.

Arthur looked tasty. Parker already knew he would not look tasty.

“You sure about this tie?” said Arthur dubiously.

“Far better with your eye color,” said Hastur.

“Guess you’re the expert,” Arthur said as Hastur brushed his hair.

Asenath stared at all of this in silence.

“Up,” said Hastur, tossing an identical outfit to the table.

“Yeah, yeah,” Parker muttered, grabbing it.

“Fuck me,” Asenath whispered, still staring at Hastur.

“What, witch?” he said.

“I’ll come today.”

Hastur hesitated. “We are grateful for your aid this day, and relieve you from this burden.”

“Sure, cool, thanks. I won’t miss this. We’re seeing Cathode today, apparently.”

Many of Hastur’s tentacles clenched.

“We need her,” said Arthur. “Cathode and you got a history, remember? Mama Laveau’s approval is going to matter.”

They all eyed him.

“Cathode,” said Hastur.

“Yeah. You remember.”

“Of course,” Hastur lied, and offered a hand to Asenath.

“Thanks, I’ll walk,” she said sweetly.

Parker dropped his towel and slouched forward, looking grim.

“Hey,” she said. “Weird. That actually works on you. Sort of a… Hollywood sexy fireman thing.”

He stared at her. “A what? Fucking… what words are you speaking?”

“True ones.” She vanished the tea set with a wave of her hand. “Let’s roll out.”

#

Arthur’s jog was steady and smooth.

“He really runs everywhere?” Asenath said, breathing easily. She’d swapped out her dress for the kind of bodysuit she’d worn in Cloud City.

Parker thought she looked more comfortable. “All the damn time,” he panted.

“You know you’re dead, right?” she said. “You shouldn’t be breathless.”

“The Mother brought you back right.” Parker didn’t bother mentioning the more obvious changes, because they had already been clear, if internal. “Mine didn’t want me strong.” And how bad that had been, to be torn from barely-remembered Dark World afterlife, to be reborn naked and screaming, weak and wet, shuddering from strengthlessness he’d never known in his life, even as a child.

“Hm,” said Asenath. “Hastur’s got it bad, you know.”

“No, he doesn’t. It’s a plan.”

Asenath just looked at him.

“It’s manipulation,” Parker stated.

She rolled her eyes. Then her gaze locked onto something far ahead, and her eyebrows rose. “Ooooh,” she said, soft. “Cathode. Kthanid.”

“Oh, shit,” said Parker, and began falling behind.

“Don’t.” She grabbed his arm and forced him to keep up. “Not now. This is gonna get tricky.”

“No shit!” he hissed. “Let me go!”

“No,” Asenath said patiently. “You are not my favorite person, Detective Yang, but Arthur forgave you, so for his sake I’m not going to let you trip yourself up here. Stick with us. United front. I’m here, too. And Arthur’s got his own magic.”

“He’s got—” Parker stumbled and bared his teeth. “What the fuck does he have, anyway? Is there a name for it?”

“It’s Arthur.” She shrugged. “I dunno. I guess we could call it… Lestering?”

Parker stared at her in disbelief.

“Stairs,” she said, and there were.

#

What she’d seen was a forest, trees well-spaced and free of underbrush, beyond which rose a crystal castle.

The thing gleamed like pain, refracting, and Parker couldn’t look at it clearly. It shone with blue from the sky and yellow from the other sky, with glaring reflections like attacks from the double-suns, and the stairs were just fucky.

Just. Just fucky, no two ways about it.

Asenath subtly fed magic into him, and he was so fucking pissed she had to.

At the top of the stairs, the crystal palace gaped open, no gates or doors, merely a squared-off way through the wall huge enough to accommodate even gods of Dagon’s size. Arthur ran right through, sliding his hands over himself, making motions that were clearly smoothing down his jacket and adjusting his hat and fixing his tie.

(Parker knew part of this madness was his withholding the truth of Faroe’s death, and that knowledge ossified, tumored, so his heart had to beat around it in pain.)

Hastur was uncommonly silent. No prompting, no asking questions (“What now, little detective?”), or any of that. He just followed, and he stopped at that entry, same as he had outside Dagon’s area.

Parker knew the facts of this place. Knew who’d built it, knew why. It hadn’t hit him before that Hastur actually tried to honor other gods’ territories even though he’d built them.

Y’golonac hadn’t done that. Not at all. Any time he could slip a tendril of rot into someone else’s soil, he did—and they just burned it away, and little fuss was made, and occasionally duels, and violence. But Hastur… wasn’t doing that.

It wasn’t respect, exactly. It felt more like… a touch of caution. Maybe even a lack of foolishness.

Moving slower now, Asenath released Parker’s arm. He had a choice to stay with Hastur, or follow. Y’golonac had hated Kthanid. Parker thought Hastur did, too. Whatever this turned out to be, he had to see it play out. He followed.

Arthur jogged into the central courtyard without even an ounce of hesitation. “Hello? Mister Cathode?”

And holy fuck, the god did come.

Huge. Bigger than Hastur (though that was no indication of power), this being walked in absolute silence, warping the air around him as if it shifted essence in response to his presence (which most definitely was an indication). Vaguely humanoid, he had bat-wings, and a face full of tentacles, all of them questing and lifting and moving around as though sensing Arthur’s presence. His eyes were a deep gold, gleaming and polished.

Parker was breathing too fast.

“Shh,” Asenath said. “Let him handle it.”

Arthur took off his hat, or tried. “Mister Cathode. I’m sorry we’re late.” Because he saw—

For one weird moment, Parker saw what Arthur saw: a distinguished man, old, with a long but neatly trimmed beard. He wore a suit with a black cape, spats on his shiny black shoes, and a walking cane that screamed hidden sword and he knows how to use it. Kthanid tilted his head. “Mister Lester. You are late, indeed; but I’m inclined to forgive you. Come. Walk with me. Let us talk.”

“Is it okay if my husband stays at the gate?” said Arthur. “I know you don’t want him in here. I know you’ve had some strife.”

“Your husband,” repeated Kthanid, absolutely unreadable. “Yes, I think that’s for the best.”

The husband growled. “I do so as a courtesy.”

“And it is appreciated,” said Kthanid. He nodded at Asenath. “Mother’s Own.”

She beamed and waved. “Did you like the cookies?”

“Yes. They reminded me of something I’ve never tasted now, or yet, though I like them very much.”

“Speculoos cookies,” she said. “Though to be fair, I stole the recipe from Biscoff.”

The fuck was she saying? Parker made a face.

Kthanid chuckled, low (and what was that sound, how was it so calming), and gave her a nod. “Good. Do as you like.”

Asenath tilted her head toward Parker.

“He still smells of rot,” said Kthanid. “Keep him close.”

“Can do,” she said, and threw her arm around his shoulders.

Parker glared, but did not pull away. “We following?”

“Fuck yeah, we’re following.”

Kthanid walked.

Arthur, who did not seem to have heard (or comprehended) any of that, walked with. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Yes. We share an interest, though I feared your—” owner “—partner might prevent our meeting.”

By the door, Hastur made rude curls with his tentacles.

“Let’s clear the air on that,” said Arthur, walking calmly, hands in the pockets of his silky yellow trousers. “I know he’s got a past with you, sir. I also know you have no reason to believe some guy you’ve never met before, but I stake my honor on the fact that he has changed for the better.”

Changed. For the better. That couldn’t even happen. Parker clenched his teeth. It was why they all just needed to fucking die: gods did not change.

(But Hastur had. And Hastur still was.)

Nope, Parker thought. Negative on that.

Kthanid studied Arthur, face-tentacles tasting the air around him as though to discern what perfume of madness he wore. “I accept that for now. Assuming he can behave.” He had no eyebrows to waggle, but he somehow gave that impression.

Arthur colored a little. “He does when it matters.”

Kthanid’s laugh was an amazing thing. It was the second time Parker’d heard it, and for the second time, it soothed his nerves, flattening the hackled edges of his thoughts. He shook his head sharply, trying to keep his guard up.

“Fair enough. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here today, and let us see if our goals truly do align?” said Kthanid.

So Arthur did. Arthur talked about people without options; about the poor, those without help, who started working at the docks (everyone did) but never really managed to rise beyond that. He talked about education, and funding, and food. He talked about children, and orphanages, and little girls who… who had…

And he stumbled a little, getting lost in his thoughts, briefly forgetting where he was, what he was doing, why.

“And some would take advantage?” Kthanid prompted gently.

“Yes! Yes,” said Arthur, audibly relieved to have found the path through the thick woods of his mind, and resumed.

Kthanid was…

Parker had trouble staying mad around this guy. It was infuriating. Or it would be, if he weren’t around this guy. “Fuck,” he murmured.

“Just let it happen,” Asenath murmured back. “It’s his thing. Calming. Soothing. Even healing. If Arthur stayed here long enough, he might recover.”

“We both know that isn’t going to happen. No wonder he doesn’t get along with blondie back there,” Parker murmured. “This is… this is the opposite of insane.”

“Yes.”

Stupid gods. Parker hated them all.

(Or wanted to.)

“So this vote is going to take away what freedoms they have,” Arthur explained. “They won’t even have opportunities to do more, no matter how skilled, or anything else. It can’t happen, sir. This matters more than maybe any other vote in my lifetime.”

“That may be true,” said Kthanid, and ducked with him through another doorway into a room that blew Parker’s mind.

The center of this palace was huge. Open. A great, vaulted chamber, dark up high and dark all around and fucking bright below.

Many stories down sat an enormous round mirror. In it, a different sky shone; clouds slid across, and birds, and it was the wrong blue, and it scared Parker because it was somewhere else, maybe somewhen else, and he knew he’d never seen that particular sky before but he could have if he’d been born sooner.

“This is my Viewing Room,” said Kthanid, and gestured. “Through my looking glass, I can see any possible outcome to any action by any living thing in the worlds.”

“That’s really valuable, sir,” said Arthur. “But who maintains the lines?”

Parker could not for the life of him figure out what Arthur had translated that into.

“I do,” said Kthanid. “Through my essence. It is a gift from an Outer God, he who is known as Yog-Sothoth. I’m sure you haven’t met.”

Kthanid was probably amusing himself with that statement—Yog-Sothoth was banished, and had been forever—but like always, Arthur did something weird in response. “Oh, sure,” he said. “He’s all right. Mama Laveau is still pretty mad at him, though.”

Kthanid stopped and stared at him.

Asenath stopped and stared at him.

Parker looked back and forth. “Um,” he whispered. “You know he’s crazy, right? He didn’t speak to Yog-Sothoth.”

Asenath stayed quiet.

“Interesting,” said Kthanid. “That was one of the possibilities I saw, but I didn’t think…”

“What was?” said Arthur.

“A gift,” Kthanid said again, as if rewinding to the previous subject. “Such an interesting one, too. Do you have any requests?”

Parker shook his head. Whiplash, both of them.

Arthur stared. His eyes tightened. He licked his lips. “Yes,” he said.

Kthanid waited.

“Could…” Arthur swallowed. “I’m sorry. This is going to… shorten our… our meeting. But could I see my daughter?”

“Oh, fuck me,” Parker said.

“Yes,” said Kthanid, and steadied Arthur, who’d begun to hyperventilate, who’d lost all strength in his legs, who stared up at this god of anti-madness with tears streaming down his cheeks, who—

There was a whump, and Parker found himself at the gate, next to Asenath, as if he’d been thrown there. “Fuck!” he shouted, and tried to run back in.

Hastur grabbed him up.

“NO! Let me go! He’s alone in there!”

“He’s fine,” said Hastur grouchily.

Parker snarled. “He’s seeing his daughter right now. That what you want? You think that’s going to go well? You think he’ll be fine after that?”

Hastur was so still. It seemed even his massive hearts had gone silent, and Parker twisted wildly in that grip to no effect. “He will be fine,” said Hastur.

Asenath paced, exhaling, puffing out her cheeks. “That’s a whole thing. Damn.”

“His daughter, or an alternate?” said Hastur.

“Dunno. Kicked out,” said Asenath.

“What are you waiting for? Go get him!” snapped Parker.

“Arthur is marked,” said Hastur. “Kthanid is… regrettably honorable.”

“Regrettably!”

“He won’t take or harm him,” said Hastur.

“You sure? Because I ain’t sure,” snarled Parker, feeling so much better now that he could be angry again. He kicked the air. “Arthur’s got that whatever that makes him special. All the gods want to keep him. That guy just might want to do a bait and switch, or something worse.”

Hastur ignored that like it was worth nothing. Like the protest made no sense. Like Parker (exhibiting protectiveness for reasons he had yet to analyze) was being absurd.

Parker kicked wildly. It did nothing.

Kthanid reappeared. He carried Arthur in his arms.

Hastur went very still.

“He sleeps,” said Kthanid, handing a very unconscious Arthur over. “He will be all right.”

“You showed him his dead child?” Hastur rumbled, and it was a warning growl.

“Yes,” said Kthanid. “I think you’ll find he needed it.”

“What did he fuckin’ see?” said Parker, louder than necessary, because his anger was slipping again, and it wasn’t fair.

“If he chooses to tell you, that’s his choice to make,” said Kthanid. “I will betray no confidence.”

“We’re done here,” said Hastur, sweeping back down the stairs.

Parker stared.

“Do you want to see something, too?” said Kthanid so gently, so lightly, so kindly.

And Parker knew what was on offer, and didn’t know how this guy knew to give it: Charlie.

Oh, no. No, no, no— “Fuck no,” said Parker, and ran down the stairs, ran with all his might, so hard and so fast that he damn near fell and broke his neck, damn near matched Hastur’s flying speed. Then he had to stop at the bottom and bend over, gasping, exhausted and trembling.

“Come on, tough guy,” said Asenath, fortunately not nearly as kindly as Kthanid had been, because that tone, Parker could take.

“Fuck you,” he said, but because she’d been wry, he let her take him home.

#

Parker sat at the little table that was sometimes his bed, freshly bathed, feeling utterly wiped out.

He could’ve seen Charlie, but why? What good would it do?

What good… would it do?

Arthur was still asleep. Hastur had woken him long enough to get him to eat some fish and some fruit compote, and that was it. Whatever it had cost that man to stay sane and see his daughter after death, it had wrung him right the fuck out.

Asenath was gone. Parker wasn’t sure when she’d left. She hadn’t said anything.

“Such a unique little human,” Hastur was murmuring (as if anybody cared), finally tucking Arthur into bed.

“Surprised you aren’t fucking him,” Parker said because he was hoping to get hit because that would distract because that would (surely) help. “You usually do when some other guy touches your shit.”

Hastur was silent.

So much for that volley. Parker sighed. He tapped his fingers on the table. And then he figured, Why the fuck not? Maybe he’ll get mad, and said, “Sorry. By the way.”

Hastur grabbed him. Just yanked him out of the chair, up into the air, so close to the mask that the power of Hastur’s magic threatened what little stability Parker felt he had left. “What?” said Hastur.

Parker almost lost it. Held on, grasping what Arthur had said earlier, though now he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea or bad. “Sorry. That… before. When we…”

Hastur waited.

In for a penny… “I’m sorry I took him from you. Okay? Sorry.” So graceful, he thought. Terrific with words. This would go over swell.

“Did Arthur tell you to do that?” said Hastur, who never missed a damn trick.

Whatever. “Yeah,” said Parker.

“And you listened,” said Hastur.

“I get it, okay?” said Parker, not sure what he was going to say next. “You staked a claim, or something, and it don’t matter if nobody could see it. You knew. And Arthur still picked me over you that night. Okay? I get it. I’m sorry.”

Silence. Stillness. Parker shivered. Was this it? Was the violence he’d craved before about to be dumped upon him after all, now that he knew it would do no good, would earn no favor? That would just figure, wouldn’t it, to suffer and be shredded and cry, when the god he’d once served wouldn’t even care?

“An unexpected wisdom,” said Hastur, “and most pleasing.” And he tucked Parker into the bed.

No shredding or breaking or crushing or gouging. Parker waited a moment to make sure that was real, then finally released the breath he’d been holding.

Beside him, Arthur did his buzzy little snore, the tiniest sound, like some kind of baby bug.

It was soothing. Parker was here, in one piece. He hadn’t been crushed. Maybe that conversation hadn’t done any good, but it hadn’t done any harm. “Hope you’re happy,” he muttered to Arthur’s stupid limp face.

“Sleep,” Hastur commanded.

Parker could not refuse.

#

He woke. Woke, to the sound of Arthur singing elsewhere in the room. Woke, to a feeling so familiar, so missed, so shocking in its return.

Parker woke, and was afraid, because for the first time since he’d died, he felt strong.

[carrrothead-vol2]

11, 22, & 55 for the fic writer asks - @allthe-queens-men

Thank you @allthe-queens-men for those lovely, and very complicated asks!💜

11. Link your three favorite fics right now

Oh no, the decisions! (going with first three poly fics that immediately popped to my head, tho there are *so* many faves)

The fandom classic Tikini’s “Princes of the Universe”. I rly tried not to binge it; I did.

“Paralax” series by sweetestsight. I still remember that lovely punch in a gut the first time I read it, all those years ago (and then, when I found myself back in this fandom, discovering that the series were now completed)

“Sing a Song (of reckless love)” by sammyspreadyourwings. That’s just heart wrenching and makes me cry every time, and I love it.

22. Are there certain types of writing you won’t do? (style, pov, genre, tropes, etc)

I don’t rly like ABO dynamics and mpreg; I occasionally might read those tropes, but I won’t write them myself.

First person pov is also tricky, but I’ve done it in another fandom and I rly liked the way it turned out. I’ve been entertaining an idea for a “Stand by Me”-type childhood friends’ story that would be written in first person pov, but we’ll see how it goes. (I might chicken out in fear of ppl ignoring my fic lol)

55. Of the characters you write for, which is your favorite? Has that choice been swayed at all by your followers/readers’ reactions to certain ones?

Oh, yes, I love writing sneaky Deaky, the sassmaster, the queen of one-liners, the quiet, yet observant dudebro, who’s both pragmatic and mysterious.

Well, I like writing them all, but I think it’s my John who I was most surprised to get positive feedback for, because I wasn’t rly sure in the beginning how to best write him.