#knitting is dangerous apparently?

[the-sn0wy-0wl]

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[skipppppy]

The life of Stanford Pines must be so bizarre from the perspective of a random townsperson who doesn’t know him. Imagine you live in a sleepy lumber town, where the most interesting thing you’ve heard this week is that a plot of land on the outskirts of the woods was sold and someone has started constructing a cabin on there.

You later learn by word of mouth that he’s a phd student doing some kind of long-term research project. You don’t see his face until one night he comes blasting down the street on a trail of destruction, eyes yellow and glazed over, trashing public property, inflicting gruesome injuries on himself, and laughing like he’s on an erratic, drug-fuelled bender. He then goes home and locks himself in his cabin again. This becomes a cycle; he stays isolated for weeks, then comes out once in a blue moon to wreak havoc and be a nuisance to the authorities.

Then one day it stops. He doesn’t come back out. The next time you see him he’s at a grocery store looking completely different to how you remember; his hair is grown out, he’s put on weight, his clothes are completely different and he’s stopped wearing glasses. Some townsfolk finally work up the nerve to talk to him and you learn that he invited them to his cabin on a tour. His home is apparently FULL of dangerous research equipment and the scientist, who had allegedly been very quiet and level-headed on the days he wasn’t having his “episodes,” has had a complete personality change, he’s loud and confident and less than honest and a little sleazy but a damn good salesman and entertainer.

He hosts tours out of his home for the next 30 years. Over time he’d changed it into a museum of sorts that sells overpriced knickknacks to unsuspecting tourists, but aside from his shady business practices he’s a well known member of his community. He changes up the exhibits every few months, brings his niece and nephew to stay one summer and they become town darlings, and even exposes a beloved public figure for running a spyware scheme.

One day you hear he got visited by the FBI. They start going round town asking about him. A week or so later he gets arrested. The town goes CRAZY theorising why but then there’s a massive earthquake and in the chaos of that you forget what happened to him. One minute you hear that the feds were surrounding his house and the next they’re all leaving like they forgot what they came for. Another week later he resurfaces and announces he’s going to run for Mayor, dominated the polls, wins the popular vote, but loses his position immediately due to an extensive criminal record.

Then there’s gossip that he completely changed his appearance again. He’s lost his fez and is walking around in a coat and cable knit turtleneck in the middle of the July heat. Then you hear from someone else that he looks the exact same and didn’t change anything. Then you see two identical men walking down the street, one matching the description you saw. People are BUZZING to know what happened and you eventually learn that the “new guy” was actually the same Scientist and the guy that had been running the museum was his twin brother who stole his identity after he went missing. Then the apocalypse happens

[sthilarions]

Charles almost gets killed by a torture hex. Pain is the most effective way to kill a ghost, and Charles is so so strong but not built for suffering like Edwin is, and Charles is already fading when Edwin finally finds the right counter-spell and drags him back to solidity.

Two days later, Charles gets almost torn in half by a giant monster, and Edwin knits him back together with giggling ringing in his ears and green light at the corners of his vision. Edwin’s hands dig into Charles’s wounds and pull Charles back together with a combination of magic and sheer force of will and every twitch of Edwin’s fingers drags tortured sounds out of Charles’s mouth, and it’s right about when Edwin pulls the last bit of skin together and Charles screams that Edwin thinks please, God, Despair, Death, whoever is there, whoever cares, let me take his pain, I’d take all of his pain to never have him hurt again.

It’s another day after that, when he’s reading through a book of healing spells to find a way to make sure this never happens again, that he gets an idea.

It’s another week, full of research and muttering and scribbled runes, before he comes to Charles with what is, as far as Charles knows, a pretty standard request. “I’ve found another protection spell for you. Stand there - to your left a little - good. It can’t stop you from getting injured, but it will take most or all of the pain of the injuries.”

“Oh, wow, that’s brills, mate! I could fight way better like that. I mean, pain is almost all ghost injuries are, anyway, yeah? That’s amazing!”

Edwin casts the spell, handwritten across several sheets of paper, and the glow as it sets in to Charles’s skin blanks out his vision long enough that he doesn’t see Edwin’s skin flush golden, too.

Edwin declines Charles’s suggestion to test the spell outside of combat, so Charles is still a little unsure for the first fight, but when he gets slashed with a cat-claw blade and feels absolutely nothing, he looks down at himself, grins almost maniacally, and wades back into the fight like he’s unstoppable.

He does seem to be, in fact. He fights like Superman, all but invulnerable, and Edwin says his combat efficiency has increased over 30 percent. He throws himself at monsters and ghosts and demons and takes them down with barely a twinge, no matter how hard they hit.

Edwin’s taken to standing further back than he used to in fights, which Charles figures is because the fights are getting into melee more than they used to.

They’re fighting some bastard with a hellwhip, all fire and iron barbs, when the first thing goes wrong. Charles gets hit, and he feels the twinge that’s all he gets from the worst hits now, but through the twinge he hears Edwin gasp.

He turns to Edwin and the whip hits him square in the back as he turns, and Edwin lets out a strangled groan.

Edwin seems to realize Charles is too distracted to do his job, because he dispatches the whippy bastard with a spell, and Charles is to him in a moment. But Edwin snaps and brushes him off and demands to tend to Charles’s injuries, because not hurting doesn’t mean they can’t be dangerous. As he tends to the wounds, Edwin’s breath keeps hitching, and Charles can’t get him to say why.

A week later and Charles gets hit with that same damn torture hex, because apparently they didn’t do a good enough job of defeating that wizard the first time. And he thinks for a second that this might be what finally breaks through Edwin’s protection spell, but it’s still only a twinge, albeit the harshest one yet - but Edwin lets out a suffocated yelp from behind him.

Charles starts to turn, and the wizard looks frustrated, and throws the hex at Charles again. And Edwin goes down to his knees.

And the wizard hexes Charles again, and Edwin curls forward, his breath in quiet pants that for a second are the focus of Charles’s entire world.

Charles puts some things together very, very quickly, and then before the wizard can try another spell, his head’s rolling on the floor.

—

Edwin has never seen Charles this angry at anyone, not in the thirty-one years they’ve been together. He had never imagined that Charles could possibly be this angry at him.

—

Charles screams at Edwin for hours, tears dripping down his face and vanishing before they hit his chest.

He pauses every hour or so and demands Edwin take off the fucking “protection spell” right fucking now, and every time Edwin refuses, and Charles starts yelling again.

Normally crying makes Charles’s throat hurt, one of the few bits of quotidian pain that stuck with him to ghost-hood. He doesn’t notice that it isn’t hurting now until a bit after sunrise, when Edwin refuses again, and Charles notices his voice is hoarse and tight.

Charles stops.

He turns away.

“No more cases, Edwin.”

“What?”

“I am not working on any cases, I am not doing anything that could put either of us in danger, until this spell is off.”

“You can’t - “

“I’ll see you later, Edwin.”

Charles walks out of the office, and Edwin stands staring after him.

—

It takes a month. A month of Charles spending time out of the office, and chilly silences, and Edwin trying to make arguments for his position and only getting a few words in before Charles is out the door.

Charles gets back, one day, to see Edwin sitting on the floor of the closet, holding a box of Cluedo in his lap, which they haven’t used since Charles found out.

“I’ll take it off.” Edwin’s looking down at the box, refusing to meet Charles’s eyes. Charles nods.

It doesn’t take very long for Edwin to work the counter-spell, and Charles immediately tests it, grabs for the first magical weapon in his bag and presses it against his hand. It hurts, and he presses harder until there’s a drop of blood and it’s accompanied by just as much sharp sting as it should be.

Edwin doesn’t say anything about Charles believing Edwin might be tricking him, because Charles isn’t wrong to, because he had, before. And if Charles doesn’t trust him anymore, that’s his right.

Charles sighs, looking down at his hand, then looks up at Edwin. “If you ever break my trust like that again, I’ll - “ he breaks off and looks back down. He sighs again.

“I won’t do anything. I’ll forgive you, because I’ll always forgive you, Edwin. But - please, please, please never do anything like that again, I can’t take it.”

Charles is crying, and his throat hurts.

Edwin’s voice is hoarse too, as he promises, never, never again.

And Edwin’s far too far away, Charles thinks. He has been for the last month. For longer, pulling far away during fights and after them - but it’s best not to think about that. With his mind resolutely on the present, Charles steps over the space between them and pulls Edwin into his arms.

“Let’s play some Cluedo, yeah?”

[solxamber]

This is a funny lil idea I just had but have you ever thought about rook and a reader that acts like his behavior is normal? Like, they know he's literally stalking them but is perfectly fine with it for some strange reason.

And when they finally do start dating, everyone is either

1. Convinced that he’s threatening your life

Or

2. Judging you like crazy because WHY

Totally Normal Romance || Rook Hunt

You've fallen hard for the hunter and you're dating! But when you tell your friends the good news, they immediately try staging interventions. Huh, I wonder why?

thank you for waiting! I loved the idea a lot and it became way longer than I expected but I hope you like it!

You’ve somehow managed to fall into a relationship with Rook, the Academy's resident “Hunter” and renowned tracker of students who can't even attempt to hide without him finding them.

Most people would be a little alarmed—okay, extremely alarmed—by Rook’s knack for showing up whenever you breathe a little too loud. But you? You’re weirdly, unapologetically chill about it.

The day starts as it usually does. Rook is outside your door bright and early, practically sparkling, ready to report how many steps you took in your sleep, how many breaths you exhaled, and what percentage of your dreams contained images of his dashing silhouette.

You nod, acting like he’s merely sharing the weather, and go about your morning. People are whispering in the hallways; they’ve noticed that the school’s “greatest hunter” is now your personal shadow.

Some think you're being held hostage in an unholy union. Others are convinced you’ve cracked under the pressure of Rook’s endless poetic monologues and have, in fact, lost your mind.

When the two of you officially start dating, the rumors take a delightful nosedive into the surreal. Rook is, naturally, over the moon, reciting sonnets about your “captivating acceptance of his pursuit.” Friends beg you to “see the red flags.”

You just smile as Rook emerges from behind a tree on your morning jog to hand you a flower he found “radiant with the essence of your aura.”

Intervention Attempt 1: Adeuce

You’re just sitting down to lunch when Ace and Deuce suddenly approach you with identical expressions of horror and determination, like they’ve somehow stumbled into a horror movie and taken it upon themselves to rescue the clueless protagonist. Ace, as usual, decides to take the lead.

“We need to talk. About... him.” He jerks a thumb toward Rook, who’s lurking—quite visibly—behind a tree, watching you with a delighted grin as if the entire world is his favorite reality TV show.

You shrug. “Rook’s just being his usual sweet self.”

Deuce’s mouth falls open. “That’s... sweet? The dude’s literally hiding in a tree to stare at you.”

You wave a hand. “He’s just thoughtful, you know? He knew I needed a pick-me-up yesterday, so he waited in my closet for two hours just to surprise me with a motivational haiku.”

Ace’s expression is somewhere between pity and disbelief. “You’re serious? That’s... sweet?”

“Uh-huh.” You pop a fry in your mouth, unfazed. “Honestly, it’s kind of nice to have someone that dedicated.”

Ace and Deuce share a silent, horrified look, one that clearly says, Our friend has lost it. Then, Ace leans in close. “You know, if he’s threatening you, you can blink twice or something. We can handle him.”

You burst into laughter, almost choking on your fry. “Guys, come on! Rook’s harmless. It’s just his way of showing affection.”

Behind the tree, Rook notices you laughing and beams even wider, waving with both hands like you’re his entire world. Ace sighs, looking like he’s just signed up for an impossible mission. Deuce’s brows knit together in concern, like he’s mentally preparing himself to guard you from the “danger” Rook apparently presents.

Intervention Attempt 2: Leona

Leona lounges on the couch as you walk into the room, looking way too relaxed—except for the sharp glint in his eye as he watches you. You know that look; it’s the we need to talk look, though Leona would sooner eat his tail than say it outright.

“You know that guy who keeps creeping around you?” he starts, his tone casual, as if he’s talking about the weather. “The hunter dude?”

“Oh, Rook? Yeah, he’s great!” you reply with a smile, clearly missing his hint.

Leona raises an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Great? The guy basically tracks your every move like a lion on a hunt. He’s probably memorized your breathing patterns by now.”

You laugh it off, waving a hand. “Leona, you make it sound creepy. Rook’s just… committed.”

Leona smirks, leaning back with a lazy yawn. “Committed to what, stalking you?”

You shrug. “It’s romantic in its own way! He writes poetry about me, makes sure I’m always safe... It’s kinda nice knowing someone’s always watching out for me.”

“Watching out for you,” Leona mutters, barely concealing a snicker. “Sure. Or just watching you.” He tilts his head, examining you as if you’re some rare species that’s suddenly shown up in the savanna. “You sure he hasn’t put a spell on you? You sound completely out of it.”

You smirk. “Leona, you’re just not used to people showing appreciation.”

Leona narrows his eyes, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You keep saying stuff like that, herbivore, and I’m gonna assume you’ve completely lost it.” He yawns and flops back onto the couch, muttering under his breath, “That crazy hunter and his weird haikus…”

You walk away, oblivious, and Leona just shakes his head with a smirk, quietly wondering if he’ll end up having to pry Rook off of you someday.

Intervention Attempt 3: Riddle

Riddle stares at you over his teacup, his brows knit with concern as you talk about your latest “date” with Rook. You've barely started describing his newest poetic declaration when Riddle sets his cup down, looking thoroughly alarmed.

“I… don’t understand,” he interrupts. “Did you say he was waiting in the shadows outside your dorm window at midnight? And he… recited sonnets?”

You nod, completely unbothered. “Oh, yes! And he was so sweet about it. He even had a rose between his teeth, Riddle. He really went all out.”

Riddle’s expression looks like he’s been hit with cold water. “And you… didn’t feel unsafe?”

“Why would I?” you laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s Rook. He’s just being his passionate self.”

Riddle’s face hardens, and he stands up, clutching his teacup with barely contained fury. “This is unacceptable! You must report this immediately—stalking is a severe issue! You don’t have to tolerate this treatment, no matter how he frames it!”

You blink, surprised. “Riddle, it’s really okay. He’s not stalking me; he’s just… really attentive.”

Riddle’s lips thin, and he looks at you with pity, as if you're just too naive to understand the danger you’re in. “It’s worse than I thought,” he mutters, eyes blazing. “He’s… he’s manipulating you into thinking this is acceptable!”

Riddle finally sighs, shaking his head. “If you’re too afraid to tell him off, I’ll do it for you. As a dorm leader, it’s my duty to protect students in my care.”

“Riddle, I appreciate it, but I don’t need protection,” you insist, patting him on the shoulder. “Rook is harmless.”

Riddle huffs, looking like he’s already planning out the verbal lashing he’s going to deliver to Rook the next time he sees him. “You’ll see,” he says. “When you realize the danger, remember I warned you.”

You just smile, and he glances at you like you’re a sheep walking happily into a lion’s den.

Intervention Attempt 4: Malleus (And Lilia?)

When Malleus summons you to Diasomnia for what he calls an “urgent matter,” you’re intrigued. However, when you arrive, his expression is downright grave. The flickering candlelight gives his face an eerie glow as he looks at you, his usually calm demeanor laced with worry.

He leans in close, and his eyes narrow. “I understand you… spend much time with Rook,” he says, voice almost a whisper.

“Uh, yeah? We’re dating,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Malleus blinks, clearly taken aback, as if he was expecting an entirely different answer. “So you willingly�� permit him to lurk in the shadows around you?”

“Well, yes, he’s got that whole poetic ‘silent protector’ thing going on.” You shrug, but Malleus doesn’t look any less alarmed.

“I see,” Malleus says, more to himself than to you. “So he’s already gained control over you.” He sighs, looking deeply concerned. “Fear not. I will protect you from him.”

Before you can respond, Lilia, who’s been silently watching with a smirk, bursts into laughter.

“Oh, Malleus, you’re taking this far too seriously,” he cackles, clapping a hand on Malleus’s shoulder. “Rook isn’t dangerous—well, unless you count bad poetry as a weapon.”

Malleus doesn’t look convinced. “You find this funny?” he asks, frowning.

“Of course I do!” Lilia grins, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. “They’re dating, Malleus. Rook doesn’t even know how to scare a fly when it comes to them.”

Malleus turns back to you, still worried. “Are you… certain you’re safe?”

You nod, but the look of pity in his eyes says he’s clearly unconvinced, as if he thinks you’re only defending Rook out of fear. Meanwhile, Lilia gives you a wink and a mischievous grin, enjoying the absurdity of the whole situation.

Intervention Attempt 5: Azul

You’re strolling past the Mostro Lounge, hoping to grab some food, when Azul intercepts you, looking unusually serious. He gestures for you to follow him into a private corner, glancing around as if he's worried someone might overhear.

“I understand you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Rook,” he says, his tone grave, though there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s already calculating something.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, we’re dating.”

Azul’s expression shifts to something between shock and pity, as if he’s just heard you’ve taken up with the Grim Reaper himself. “Dating? So… you’re aware he’s stalking you?”

You shrug. “He’s not stalking—he’s just keeping an eye out. Very vigilant, actually.”

Azul’s face darkens. “Right… vigilant.” He clears his throat. “In that case, allow me to offer the services of Floyd and Jade for your… protection.”

You blink. “Protection?”

“Yes. For a reasonable price, of course,” he says with a smooth smile, back to his usual self. “Consider it a sort of… insurance in case this arrangement with Rook takes a… dramatic turn.”

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Imagine if you had two skilled guards who could tail him as closely as he tails you.”

Before you can respond, Floyd appears out of nowhere, draping an arm over your shoulder and grinning. “We could totally scare him, too. Make him feel like he’s the one being hunted!”

Jade nods from behind him, his smile too sharp to be comforting. “Yes, we’re more than happy to shadow Rook if you’d like.”

You stare at the twins, whose predatory smiles seem to stretch further the longer they look at you. “Guys, I appreciate the offer, but Rook’s fine. I’m not being held captive.”

Azul raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push, instead sighing in that dramatic way of his. “Very well. The offer stands should you need it. Just remember: one word, and we’re at your service.”

As you walk away, you catch a quiet exchange between the twins.

“Do you think we’d even get the chance to tail him, Jade?”

“Hmm… I’d say it’s more likely he’d follow us, Floyd.”

You shake your head, amused. Only Azul would find a way to capitalize on your love life.

Intervention(?) Attempt 6: Vil

You’re backstage in Pomefiore, helping Vil with his costume adjustments for his latest role when he pauses, hands on his hips, giving you a long, evaluative look.

“So… you and Rook?” he finally says, an eyebrow raised with an almost resigned air.

“Yeah.” You grin, shrugging. “I mean, he’s… intense, but it works.”

Vil sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple as if that would ward off the headache he’s certain to get from this conversation. “You realize that most people would find his behavior concerning, right?”

You wave him off. “He’s harmless. Just… expressive.”

He gives a soft, humorless laugh, as though he’s not sure if you’re just that naive or that confident. “You’re both completely mad, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you say, leaning back with a shrug. “But I like it that way.”

Vil sighs again, and there’s a glimmer of a smile, even if it’s hidden behind a look of sheer exasperation. “Well, at least he won’t make you look bad. He’ll be too busy swooning in the background to do anything truly reckless.” He adjusts your collar with an air of finality, giving you a nod. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

And with that, he returns to his preparations, mumbling something under his breath about how only you could take Rook’s intensity as a “feature” rather than a “warning sign.” But you catch the faint smile on his face as he walks away, leaving you feeling oddly reassured.

Final Intervention: Idia

Idia’s “intervention” is the sort of spectacle that would probably have your other friends dial emergency numbers if they walked in. He's got his laptop perched on a stack of comics, his tablet propped up, and an honest-to-Seven laser pointer he’s brandishing like it’s going to physically ward off any poor life choices.

He points at his first diagram, titled in neon-green font: "Why Your Boyfriend Should Not Be Tracking Your Every Move Like a Supervillain”. It's complete with cartoonish red arrows and diagrams that could pass for an undergrad thesis on questionable behavior.

Rook’s sitting beside you, nodding along with a strangely approving look, as if Idia's crude drawings are just part of the "unrefined genius" he'd expect from mere mortals.

When Idia clicks to his next slide—a very intense pie chart on “Reasons You’re Definitely in Danger"—you shrug. “Look, Idia, everyone’s got their quirks, right? He leaves poetry scrolls for me; you send messages only through encrypted text channels with six layers of memes as the header.”

Idia stares at you, blinking, and drops his laser pointer. It rolls pathetically across the floor, and he looks like he’s two seconds away from fainting. “Th-This isn’t the same! I don’t leave my IP address in your flowerbeds!”

Rook, thrilled, interjects. “Ah, but would you not feel a poetic stirring in your heart if you did, monsieur? Every new line I compose is a love letter to the chase!”

Idia sways. You’re genuinely worried he might black out.

Life, as it turns out, continues with a healthy dose of Rook’s “love language,” which to everyone else looks like the dictionary definition of a security risk.

Yet, you find yourself smiling every time he swoops in with that glittering look in his eyes, poetry scrolls under his arm and a thousand strange ideas.

And even if everyone around you is either looking into exorcisms or planning escape routes, for you, it’s just another day of living your best life.

Masterlist

[loganhowlettshousewife]

i want everyone to know that i woke up at 2am and grabbed my phone and typed out the draft version of this, and then promptly fell back asleep. i literally could not remember a word of what i’d written when i woke up. anyway here’s the drabble that came to me in my dreams apparently.

-

logan falls for you, hard. and for once, he’s not afraid of it. he’s dangerous and always hurts those around him, directly or indirectly it doesn’t matter. he hates getting close to people just to watch them get hurt again and again, watch them start to resent him for the bloodshed that seems to follow wherever he goes.

but with you it’s different. you can heal, just like him. you get injured on a mission and the stab wound knits itself back together, the bullet hole closes. you don’t have a single scar on your body; someone who didn’t know any better would think you’d never been through any hardships.

he wakes from a nightmare, claws in your chest, and panics for a moment as he pulls them out, watching your shocked face. but your expression melts into a loving one in a moment, pain receding as quickly as it came, your hand reaching out to cup his face. 

“‘i’m okay,” you tell him, and it’s true. your pretty silk pajama top is ruined, but through the holes in the fabric he can see the smooth skin of your chest, unmarred. the blood remains, a reminder that he’s hurt you, but you just hold him tight until you fall back asleep. 

he watches you and wonders how he got so lucky, how there could be someone so perfectly suited for him. not just in your personality and appearance, because he’s fallen for many people in his two centuries of living, but someone he can’t ever hurt.

his biggest fear, suddenly made irrelevant.

the first time you have sex, you tell him to let go, not to worry, he can’t hurt you. the animal part of him yearns to claim you, violent and intense the way his nature wants him to be. and for once, he can.

he’s close, pounding into you harder, goaded on by your cries of his name. he leans down as if to kiss you but goes for your neck instead, canines sinking into the skin, breaking the surface and drawing blood. he pulls back, licking the blood off his lips, your blood, and that’s the final push you need. your orgasm hits you like a wave, and you clench around logan, who groans and thrusts into you one, two, three more times before coming.

it’s as he’s cleaning you up that he notices something strange. at first he’s confused, and then his stomach drops. you’re not healing. he wipes the remaining blood from your neck, as if when he moves the washcloth away it’ll be gone. it’s not.

you must see it on his face, because you giggle and say, “i wanna keep it. want everyone to know i’m yours.”

and fuck, that does something to him. he’s possessive of those he cares about, but it’s usually treated as an inconvenience, an annoyance. but you love it, you revel in his possessiveness.

“how are you- it’s not healing?” he’s still confused, but secretly pleased. 

“logan,” you whisper, “you know my healing is different from yours, right? i have the power to heal myself and others. it’s not automatic like yours, i can control it.”

he didn’t know that, actually, but he’s glad. because it’s just one more thing about you that makes you perfect in his eyes, more than perfect in fact. you’re choosing not to heal the mark he left on you, claiming you as his. you’re accepting it, accepting logan even with all his flaws and detriments.

you never heal any of the marks that logan gives you. no, those you wear with pride.

[athforskz]

I’ll Take Care of You - Han Jisung

Masterlist

Pairing: Han x reader (afab)

wc: ~2.1k

Type: fluff, smut, established relationship

Warnings: Exhaustion, stress, mention of collapse, cunninglingus, little bit of somnophilia (if you squint), aftercare.

a/n: Always remember to take a break when you need it!

Enjoy lovelies!

It had been such a tiring week. You were stretched thin mentally and physically, juggling constantly between school and work. Needless to say that your personal life has taken a nose dive. You barely had time to hang out with friends, visit with family, or see your boyfriend, Jisung. That one bothered you the most. No matter how many times you told him you felt bad for not spending time with him or turning down plans, he always said he understood. But you could tell it bothered him. The way he’d give you a small smile would tug at your heartstrings because you saw the slight disappointment and sadness behind his eyes. There had to be some way to make it up to him, but you didn’t have the brain capacity to worry about that now.

At the moment, you were stumbling your way off the train and walking back home from your job. You worked the second shift so it was currently about mid-evening. Your boss sent you home early on the account of your less than desirable performance. It wasn’t your fault you hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, nor the past few nights for that matter. You had pulled a couple all-nighters to finish projects or study for your degree. Okay, maybe it had been your fault for choosing to go back to school, but you just wanted to do your best.

You finally reached the front door to your apartment, fumbling and ultimately dropping your keys multiple times, mumbling out an explicative “…fuck.” Jisung was inside lowly listening to music when he heard the lock click. He was confused as you were the only other person with a key besides him, but you weren’t scheduled to be home for at least another six hours. Right?

Jisung’s face lit up as he saw you kick open the door and drop the bag from your shoulder onto the ground. You entered with a deep sigh.

“Jagiya! You’re home early?” He sprung from the couch to make his way over to greet you. All you could do was give a weak smile, leaning your head onto his chest when he pulled you into a hug and kissed your cheek.

“Something happen with work?” He asked you.

“Mhm kinda,” you responded shortly to avoid details. You didn’t want him to worry after all. Jisung placed his hands on your shoulders and pulled away slightly to look at you. He could see that the bags under your eyes had darkened and your appearance was overall a little disheveled. Your body shivered for no apparent reason as he took in your mein. He knew you only shivered like that when you were exhausted; a sign that you were dangerously close to collapsing.

“Honey, when is the last time you slept or ate something?” His eyebrows knitted in worry.

“I slept for a few minutes after I studied. As for food, can’t remember.” You answered truthfully. Maybe it was yesterday morning? His eyes had widened. A few minutes of sleep?! Don’t know the last time you had food?? His brain was already in overdrive as he led you to the couch to sit you down, then retreated to the kitchen. Jisung just needed to get you something quick for now, then he’d order you a full meal later.

Jisung returned from the kitchen not even a full minute later to find you half asleep on the sofa. He sat beside you opening up the breakfast bar he grabbed.

“Can you sit up for me please, honey? I just need you to eat this then I’ll help you get to bed, yeah?” He gently rubbed your thigh to wake you up. You groaned in response. “I know, but you gotta do this. C’mon sit up with me.” Jisung pulled your body towards his, your head slumping on his shoulder. He held the snack up to your lips and you took a bite before closing your eyes again and chewing. When you swallowed you opened your mouth again, effectively letting your boyfriend feed you. He’d occasionally kiss the crown of your head as you chewed, whispering a “Good job. You’re doing so well for me, jagi,” as encouragement.

Once you finished the light snack, Jisung lifted you from the couch and took you to the shared bathroom. He sat you down on the counter making sure you were pushed up far enough so if you swayed too far one way you wouldn’t fall off. Jisung’s main goal at the moment was to get you as relaxed as possible before putting you to bed. He knew you well enough to know that if he didn’t relax you, you’d only sleep a few minutes again, then force yourself to get up and study. If he was going to do this he had to do it right. Since being with you, he knew you loved doing a specific routine before going to bed to help you unwind. Sometimes he’d even do it with you just so you both had a little bit of time together.

Jisung opened the drawer pulling out a few items for your skincare regime. He lined up the products in order before turning to you and placing a soft fluffy headband over your head to keep your hair out of your face. He pulled out a matching one that you had bought for him a few months ago and put it on himself. You let out a tired giggle as he poked his own cheeks and bobbed his head around, the bow on his headband making him look like a bunny.

You automatically closed your eyes once he brought a makeup wipe close to your face. Gently wiping away most of it. He tossed the wipe in the trash before getting a warm washcloth and wetting your face with it, then did the same to his own. Jisung moved over to stand comfortably between your legs, giving a chaste kiss to your lips before applying your facial cleanser. He hummed a low tune as he massaged your skin.

“Babe, you know I can do this myself.” You quipped. All he did was place his pointer finger on your lips with a quiet “shh.” You decided not to say anything else, figuring he wouldn’t take no for an answer anyways. Besides, you were enjoying all the attention.

After each step he’d do for you he would do the same for himself too, right down to patting in your moisturizer just the way you always do it. You had no idea Jisung paid that close attention to your nighttime routine; it was comforting in a way.

“All done, my pretty.” He placed a hand under your chin bringing you closer until your lips connected. The kiss was soft, nothing too brash or overly needy, it was full of love and warmth. You pulled away first as you felt the need to yawn overcome your senses.

“Thanks, sweet cheeks.” You weakly smiled. He chuckled while wrapping your legs around his waist and carrying you off of the counter and to the bedroom.

“…m’ tired, Sungie.” You complained while laying your head on his shoulder.

“I know, y/n, baby. I promise we’ll sleep in just a few. Need to get you out of these clothes first.”

Jisung sat you down on the bed as you slumped over. “C’mon, arms up.” He directed, and you did what he asked. He took your top off and unclipped the annoying bra that dug into your shoulders. Your breasts fell free and you breathed a sigh of relief. Next, he commanded you to lift your hips so he could easily slide off your pants. Now you were left in nothing but your underwear. A cool breeze from the open window hit your back. You shivered at the air, “too cold.” You whined. Your boyfriend was already on it as he grabbed one of his oversized hoodies. He helped you put it on before laying you back in the middle of the bed, making sure you were extra comfy and kissing your cheeks. Your eyes fluttered shut.

Right when you thought Jisung was going to snuggle up beside you, you felt his warm breath tickle your thighs and his hands on the hem of your panties.

“Sungie? What are-“

He hushed you before you could finish the question. He simply kissed your legs as he pulled the pesky cloth completely off. Jisung knew if he wanted you totally relaxed there was just one more step he needed to do.

He needed to make you cum.

And he’d gladly do it with his mouth.

It was no secret that Jisung was a munch, he was proud of it actually. Who wouldn’t be if someone constantly had their cake and got to eat it too? You were his cake and he’d find any excuse to eat you.

Jisung gazed at your already glistening heat taking in the sight and absolutely intoxicating scent of you. He ran a finger up and down your slit to gather the slick before bringing it to his mouth and licking it off. He moaned at your unique taste that he could never get tired of. Your sleepy face flushed in a deep blush as you watched your boyfriend’s actions.

“Just lay back and relax for me, jagi. I’ll take care of you.” His sultry voice graced your ears.

Almost simultaneously when your head hit the pillow his plush lips connected with your lower ones. Your back arched when his tongue pressed between your slit and licked up to tease at your clit. Jisung pulled away slightly while sucking before diving back into your core. A symphony of moans and whimpers escaped your throat and mixed with the obscene noises of him slurping, licking, and sucking your pussy.

Your body was so tired but still you reached down to grab your boyfriend’s hair with both hands, tugging slightly. He wrapped his arms around your thighs to keep you spread open for him. Free to continue his loving assault on your clit. So much of your sweetness was leaking out of your slit and mixing with his saliva to drip down onto the sheets, making an embarrassingly large wet spot just beneath your butt. Your whining became higher pitched as you neared your impending orgasm.

“Ah- Ji, so s’ close!!” You managed to warn him. The imaginary band in your lower belly nearly snapping. Jisung could tell you were close even without the warning by the way you pushed your pelvis closer and rolled your hips on his mouth. He pulled your hands from his hair and interlaced your fingers with his, your grip becoming tight as you held hands.

He then proceeded to dip his tongue into your entrance pumping it in and out of the clenching hole. That was enough to send you toppling over the edge. A silent scream came as your body shook violently once your orgasm overtook you and you came all over your boyfriend’s mouth.

Jisung slowly licked you clean, savoring the taste of your sweetness on his tastebuds. He kissed his way back up to your clit and gave it one final suck making your body jolt and a whimper leave your lips. When he finally looked up to your face he could see you had fallen asleep.

The intense orgasm must have knocked her out. He thought.

He had a sly look on his face, feeling proud of himself as he wiped the remainder of your slick off of his chin. Jisung moved up from his spot between your legs to lay behind you. He pulled you close and kissed your hair.

“Sleep well and sweet dreams, baby.” He whispered to you as he listened to your soft snores before drifting off to sleep himself.

Jisung’s plan worked perfectly. You had slept all throughout the night until the next morning. No interruptions. However, you did wake up in a slight panic.

“Holy shit! What time is it?!” You yelled as your eyes shot open. You tried to fumble your way out of bed but your boyfriend stopped you. Quickly pulling you back down by your hips and cradling your body.

“Jagiya, calm down. It’s Saturday, you have nowhere to be!” He laughed as you sighed in relief. “Our plan for today is to nap as much as possible and eat in between. I already ordered from your favorite breakfast spot. It should be here soon. How does that sound?” He punctuated with a kiss. Something so simple sounded so amazing.

“That sounds like the perfect day. Thank you, Sungie.”

And that’s just what you two did. If you weren’t sleeping, Jisung had food ready and waiting for you. He had done everything and more for you the rest of the day, much to your dismay. But you couldn’t lie, the Jisung princess treatment was definitely nice.

Likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated!

Taglist: @doitforbangchan / @jehhskz

[marvel-starwarsfangirl]

Crosshair's character in TBB honestly makes a lot of sense when looking back at CW. He and his brothers have such an implicit trust in each other (something we saw in "Into the Breach"). With the exception of Cody, Crosshair says "we don't usually work with regs." The Batch is literally Cross' ride or die and it's not surprising he expresses a sense of superiority in S1 of TBB. He literally spends all his time with his brothers who show off just as much as he does. And when Rex says to leave Cody in Kix's care, Crosshair voices his concern. From the very beginning, loyalty is something he highly values.

Every single time Crosshair opens his mouth and makes a rude comment, Wrecker always comes in to defend him. I can imagine Crosshair just getting so comfortable with making comments because he knows that his brothers will defend him. When he falls from the pipe on Skako Minor, Wrecker doesn't hesitate to jump after him. Cross also trusts Wrecker to not let him fall when they jump on to the Keeradaks.

Crosshair is also very quiet and observational. He's the first to notice danger and the one to hang back to be the lookout. The amount of faith his brothers have in his abilities probably means so much to him.

Now, imagine you're Crosshair in TBB S1. Your squad, who've been your ride or die since day 1, leaves you behind and you don't know why. That implicit trust that was once there is gone. That loyalty you once thought you had didn't matter apparently. But you still want them to come back because of how tight knit your bond used to be. Not defending his choices, but I bet that's what was going on inside his head.

[thicctails]

what do euclid and scalene think of stan and ford in your au? also your au is cool

That's a great question!

Short answer: Stan is their blatant favorite, and they're not really sure how to feel about their son's ex situationship but they're not overly fond of him.

Long answer:

At first, the two of them weren't quite sure of what to think of Stan. The twins were being sent to stay with him for the summer so their parents could scream at each other without having to worry about also feeding their children, but neither of them really knew too much about the man, aside from the fact that he'd been a brilliant researcher and lived in the middle of the woods.

Quickly, they discovered that, while he wasn't the most attentive guardian ever, he cared a great deal about the twins, and would show it in his own way, like keeping Mabel stocked up on yarn, or always making sure Dipper's cuts were cleaned. They decide that they like Stan, though Euclid does occasionally pull small, harmless pranks on him. It's been a while since he's gotten the chance to joke around, after all.

The portal incident almost makes them lose faith in him completely, they're terrified of something causing this dimension to burn, and they urge Mabel to shut the device down. The two of them worsen their injuries when they try and pull themselves into the third dimension when Mabel lets go of the button and floats towards the portal, but neither of them get fully out of the 2D plane by the time the portal fully activates. This leaves them very exposed and vulnerable to the figure that comes out of the portal.

Ford comes out of the portal angry and scared, having just gotten into a fight with a strangely panicked Bill. He's bleeding from a set of gouged claw wounds on his arm from where the demon tried to make him hold still, and he had to tear himself away when he saw the open portal. The sight that greets him is one that seems like a twisted nightmare brought to life, with his brother close to what looks like some strange, bootleg versions of Bill. Stan looks ecstatic to see him, but he's still kneeling near the... Things and oh God there are children down here-

Needless to say, Ford doesn't hesitate to raise his quantum destabilizer and bark at his twin to get himself and the children the hell away from the horrifying, half 2D/half 3D monsters that are lying on his basement floor.

To his dismay (but not surprise) Stan ignores him. Actually, he goes beyond ignoring him and actively puts himself in the line of fire. The children are quick to follow, with the young boy shoving the girl behind him as she asks Stan who he is.

A gopher man that Ford hadn't previously noticed faints when Stan tells them.

Apparently, those children are Ford's grand niece and nephew, and the primary colors from hell are their... Friends? Guardians? They certainly seem to be very protective of the children, because the second Ford approaches them, they bristle and make a sound that reminds Ford of tv static. Their resemblance to Bill is uncanny, and he wants to ask them about him, but he decides to hold off on it when the red one's remaining eye turns into a whirring mouth of teeth.

Euclid and Scalene do their best to keep the twins well away from Ford, fully agreeing with Stan that the man is dangerous. The conman is now firmly set in their good graces now that he saved their lives, and once their everything stops hurting and they learn that Ford plans to evict Stan at the end of the summer, they go out of their way to make things hard for Ford. Trying to use any technology? Nope, Euclid has decided that it will not be working today. Try to write in your journal? Scalene has taken the letters and arranged them into an image of a middle finger.

Unfortunately, Dipper still looks at Ford like he hung the stars and actively ignores the Cipher's warnings not to engage with him, Mabel still is trying to find a way to measure him so she can knit him a "Get Along" sweater, and Stan, despite his anger, still wants to reconnect with his brother.

Their favorite humans are obsessed with this scruffy owl man and it drives them nuts.

[utilitycaster]

Do you think this episode is so boring because they brought back the Nein and reminded us how good they are? I keep thinking about this as I'm absently watching this episode, saw your post and would love to hear your thoughts on it. Because like, at least to me, most villains this campaign are painfully boring. But the Weave Mind are also boring. That was fine, M9 handled it perfectly and I loved it. Ludinus is arguably the only kinda interesting bad guy and a PC's mom is in mortal danger and I can't manage to care.

I don't find Ludinus and the Weave Mind boring! I don't find Liliana boring either! And I found Ozo Cruth and Otohan Thull DREADFULLY boring but actually, the fights with them are pretty fucking great. I mean, I have a LOT of criticism about the first Otohan fight that boils down to "this was EXCEPTIONALLY poorly signaled and I'd be PISSED if my character was killed for someone else's arc at this point in the story" but Otohan being boring is about the non-combat elements; she felt very real and compelling as a THREAT, just, she could have been a giant blender of magic knives that the party was going to be dumped in for all she had an impact on the story as a person. But I do think it is because we've seen the Mighty Nein and Vox Machina recently and remembered that they're orders of magnitude more compelling.

I think it's really like...I don't even want to say Bells Hells isn't bonded, but they lack something. I think I alluded to it in the tags of one of my posts but there's no banter between party members or sense of urgency. Like, I enjoyed the whole All-Minds-Burn/Myceit scenes a lot, actually, but after Imogen's initial (justified) panic the pacing felt unbelievably slow until we got to combat. I have found that really, for a good deal of the campaign, you have to kind of take things episode by episode and enjoy the good set pieces and scenes because it simply does not make for a pleasing and rewarding whole. The reason I didn't care about Liliana is, to be fair, partly because I think having her die would be an interesting development, but also because there wasn't a sense of "we can't stop and fuck around with mushrooms, LILIANA IS DYING" within the episode itself. No one was comforting Imogen as they ran through the tunnels. The Mighty Nein showed more personality and investment in the lead up to a fight that really, they had no more stake in other than the broad world-ending ones. As someone who's been playing a LOT of Veilguard which is all about building a close-knit team, and who's had VM and the Nein the past month to compare Bells Hells with, that lack is immediately apparent.

I said, over a year ago (possibly over two, I don't recall) now about one of the relationships in the campaign that it felt like when I see a single episode from a soap opera I don't follow. The actors are imbuing lines with emotion, but everything feels kind of disconnected. Like, this is all in a deeply subjective realm, I cannot give you a strong argument based on logic here as it's very much vibes-based, but I feel like when I watched this, my thought process was "BAFTA-winning Actor Laura Bailey is doing an excellent job of conveying the emotions 'terror and anguish over a dying relative' in this line read, and not "Imogen Temult, a character I've been familiar with since October 2021, is devastated over the potential demise of her mother.' " And I never had that issue with C1 and C2. Like, you can call it je ne sais quoi or the juice or the sauce or chemistry or the spark or whatever the fuck but Campaign 3/Bells Hells simply doesn't seem to have it for a huge number of people who have adored pretty much every other Critical Role work, and that means something. My personal thought is that it's because this has been such a plot-focused campaign without strong DM prepping of what kind of characters would be appropriately invested that we've had the problems we did (rampant indecision, lack of party chemistry due to lack of early opportunities to mingle and meld, lack of investment in each others' lives due to insufficient time focused on backstory-related plotlines), but I could be wrong, and ultimately the root cause isn't super important to this question, which is just. they don't have the it factor.

[thicc-ray-of-sunshine]

'Cypripedioideae'

-A practical lesson in botany

You tag along with Ford in search of an elusive bit of flora and find yourself in a sticky situation as nature takes you both for the ride of your life.

(it's the obligatory sex pollen fic) inspired specifically by this post from @chunkitakii

You were tired. The arches of your feet had started to ache, making the continuation of your hike rather uncomfortable. If you had known this would have turned into an an all day thing you would have at least worn your comfier boots. You stretched out your legs a little on your next step forward, trying to shake the strain from your poor ankles as you walked.

“Are you quite alright Darling?”

Observant as ever; Ford almost immediately caught on to your discomfort, brows knitting together in concern. You flashed a small smile his way and squeezed his right hand in gratitude.

“Yeah. Just a little tired, my feet are starting to hurt. Wish I wore my other boots.”

A small pout appeared on your face at the mention of your footwear that caused a soft chuckle to escape from Ford's lips.

“Yes they would have been more appropriate. Although I had not expected our outing to take this long so the fault is mine.”

His tone was measured and his apology sincere as he offered his hand back to yours to hold. You graciously accepted, bouncing up on your toes to peck his cheek affectionately. You could see the faint pink hue that rose to the apples of his cheeks and tickled the tips of his ears as he interlaced his fingers with yours. He really was too easy to fluster despite being so unruffled elsewhere.

His pace slowed substantially so he could comfortably walk with you. It was not completely uncommon for him to always be slightly ahead of you, his long legs making his strides a fair bit wider than your own. Typically though he liked to be next to you like he was now, being able to see you put his mind at ease when you were out in the woods like this. He liked being able to know exactly where you were in case if any danger were to arise. This was also the reason he chose to have you on his right; leaving his dominant hand free to be able to protect you from any potential threats that came your way. This way he could also still have a free hand for note taking while also being able to be as close to you as he pleased.

From what he had described to you what you were searching for was some type of slipper orchid. He had heard of it in passing from when he was dealing with some gnomes a short while back. Apparently it was something that generally they avoided so it was described to him as a precaution but when he pressed for answers he was met with a strong resistance. So of course here he was, scouting it out and putting his inquisitive nature to the test; ever so eager to find out just what made this flagrant piece of flora so off-putting.

It was odd you realized, to be chasing after a flower in the middle of fall. It wasn't typically the time for such a plant to be alive, forget actively blooming but you guess that was just another reason Ford was so enchanted. Although even if you didn't find it today it was still worth the trip. You always loved going on adventures with Ford, absolutely reveling in seeing him completely in his element. Big amber colored eyes focused and poised yet not at all hiding the excitement thrumming through his veins at the thought of discovering something new.

He was nothing if not analytical in his approach, left hand always alternating between holding his chin in thought and jotting down his findings and anything else he deemed important. Your favorite part was when he'd sketch things; every stroke of his pencil was thoughtful, almost reverent as he portrayed everything as accurately as he could. Sure science was his forte but truly he had a clear calling for art as well and you told him so often.

You were taken out of your reverie and your fond thoughts of Ford rather abruptly, Ford having put his left arm out in front of you to stop you. You observed quietly, waiting for him to explain the hold up. Silently he gestured to the leaf covered ground, towards the very edge of a small clearing in the trees. There you could see it, or at least what you assumed he was looking for. It's not like there were any other flowers around at the moment, forget orchids. You let him corral you closer so you could both get a better look at it. As soon as you got within a couple feet from it he did exactly what you expected him to do. He had a scientific process for cataloging his findings that he followed to a T.

He started by circling the plant, keeping a safe distance from it since he was still unaware of what in particular made it so dangerous. He meticulously viewed it from all angles, pausing to write in his field journal every few moments. You were more than content to watch the process, finding a fallen log not to far from where Ford was crouched to sit on. You patted the spot on the log next to you when he circled back around the plant again. He smiled at you, knowing how much you liked to watch him sketch.

“Come sit with me. I've got a good angle from here.”

Your voice was sweet as you beckoned him to your side, which he followed wordlessly. He was not even a little bit shocked that you had, in fact, captured the orchid at its best angle since you did always have an eye for such things. Just another thing he adored about you he mused as he got to work.

You huddled closer to him; the heat radiating off of his body too sweet of a temptation as your own began to feel the effects of the cooling temperature. He merely hummed in response as you laid your head on his shoulder, watching the quick scratches of his pencil against the paper as he brought the flower to life on the page. It really was masterful how he so elegantly captured the petals so delicately. It was a very pretty flower, odd in a way but nonetheless beautiful. There were three large petals protruding from a circular base; one large fan-like petal at the top of the flower and two smaller slender petals that curved outwards from the pistil. There was a large sac adjacent structure just below it, which from what you knew of this particular family of orchids was the ‘slipper’ and where they got their name from.

As Ford drew he told you about what he knew about it already through some preliminary research.

“It's a member of the ‘orchidaceae’ species, better known as ‘orchid’ which can be found in essentially every habitat with the exception of glaciers. Which is obvious.”

He paused for a moment to erase something before continuing both in his sketching and his lecture.

“I suspect that this is a member of the subfamily of ‘cypripedioideae.’ They're more commonly known as ‘slipper orchids’ or ‘lady’s slippers’ which you already know.”

Pointing his pencil in the direction of the orchid, he gestured to the ‘slipper’ part of it.

“That. Is the labellum. It's one of three types of petals on an orchid. The other two are the dorsal petal, which is the one protruding from the top of the orchid and then the lateral petals which are the ones coming out the sides.”

He continued to point out each individual part of the flower as he drew it. Labeling each part and creating a hyper realistic diagram for himself while you nodded along, smiling at the sound of his voice.

“The labellum is interesting because it serves as a sort of trap for local pollinators in a similar fashion to pitcher plants, the ‘Nepenthes gracilis.”

Your eyebrows raised at this; you never heard of a carnivorous orchid before.

“I thought those were carnivorous. You're not gonna tell me this flower has a taste for flesh now are you?”

He laughed at that, turning his head a bit to catch your eyes, filled with mirth as you leaned closer into his side.

“No Dear cypripedioideae are not a carnivorous species. The labellum is used to trap pollinating insects so that they are forced to climb up the staminode and or stamen so they have no choice but to pollinate.”

You nodded again thoughtfully at his explanation, filing it away in your brain for later when you would both inevitably talk about it at home. Maybe next time you should bring your own little notepad to take notes in, you'd bet Ford would love that.

Now it was time for the final part of his dutiful process; collecting samples. Very regrettably, he pulled away from you to stand once more; moving closer to the orchid. He was still incredibly cautious, the gnomes warnings staying in the forefront of his mind despite his excitement. Safety first.

He reached in and pulled out a pair of his custom six fingered gloves from his messenger bag along with a small knife and a small glass container. Again, with caution, he inched closer. Very delicately he selected one of the pistils and sliced it off. With great care it was placed into the small glass jar before he secured the lid and put everything back into his bag.

All was well when he moved to stand. That was until his jacket got caught on a piece of deadwood by his knee and had him careening forwards and onto the ground below with a loud ‘oof.’ Unfortunately for him you were nowhere near close enough to save him from either his fall or the accompanying embarrassment.

A healthy amount of panic arose in Ford as he opened his eyes and came face to stamen with the orchid he had tried incredibly hard not to touch. His body reacted instinctively; leaping backwards and away from the potential danger and landing square on his ass. You had already made your way over to him, kneeling over him before he could say anything about contamination procedures and potential risks.

“Oh my gosh! Ford are you okay?”

Your voice was riddled with concern as you helped him up. As soon as he was standing you had his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks a little as you turned his face side to side, assessing the damage. He felt your thumb swipe over his cheekbone briefly as you tilted his head to one side before releasing him from your grasp.

“Nothing but dirt and a very handsome face. I'm very glad nothing happened to it Can't say the same for your ass though.”

Ford rolled his eyes at you when you snickered; attempting to feign annoyance and failing miserably, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks. His eyes locked back onto the orchid for a moment, squinting; searching for any obvious signs that he had put you or himself in danger by making physical contact with it. Using two fingers, he brought his left hand to the wrist of his right to take his own pulse; it was normal. He repeated the process and did the same for you, earning the same results. You let him fuss over you for a moment as he gave you a very clinical once over.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary he deemed both of you okay. It was high time you had both returned to the shack, having spent several hours too many trying to find such an elusive plant. Any further medical examinations would need to be done in the lab anyway.

“Maybe it's just something that effects the gnomes? They have similar bodily functions as humans but maybe the potential effects are more potent due to the reduced size. I'm not sure I'll have to-”

Ford's lower abdomen lurched painfullly, forcing his body to double over abruptly. You shouted his name and he could barely hear you, his pulse loud in his ears and beating erratically. Everything was numb as you coaxed him to look at you, trying to blink away the sudden blurriness in his vision. When his eyes finally focused he could see your lips move but he still barely hear you over the buzzing in his skull. This was very bad.

His thoughts began to race; what possibly could trigger such a reaction? He feared the worst and that he had inadvertently poisoned himself; but if it was deadly why didn't the gnomes just say that? It didn't make sense, there was no reason to -.

Just as abruptly as it began, it stopped. The painful cramping of his body has completely dissipated and he could see and hear as normally as he could about two minutes prior. Your hand smoothed up and down his back comfortingly, displacing the fabric of his trademark coat a bit.

“C’mon baby let's get you back to the house.”

You cooed gently at him, slowly helping him stand again as you began ushering him back in the direction from which you came. In no time you were both walking rather briskly in effort to get back to the lab as soon as possible so you could really make sure Ford was okay.

As you were walking Ford noticed that your lips were red and irritated, nervously biting them raw out of worry and anxiety. Vaguely he felt bad which was weird because typically he would feel awful about it. Before he could delved to deep into it the answer hit him when his whole body suddenly tensed and then subsequently relaxed.

His brilliant mind came to a grinding halt, putting the pieces together as he subconsciously inched closer to you. He let out another gasping breath as he ripped himself away from your side. He was left a stumbling mess ahead of you as his brain was bombarded by a single clearcut message; he needed to fuck you.

“I-it’s an aphrodisiac!”

He blurted it out in a harsh breath, holding his arm out and signalling you to stay where you were. He couldn't have you touching him like this, no matter how much his body screamed that you should.

He watched as your face turned several shades of red at his words and he found it irresistibly attractive. No. He couldn't think like that, he could handle this. You both just needed to get back to the shack and to his lab where you could sort this out

“W-we need to get back to the lab as soon as possible. You cannot touch me, I don't want to aggregate this stuff more than I already have. I would like you to walk ahead of me so I can still ensure your safety but please be sure to be several steps ahead.”

Physically he struggled to get the words out of his mouth, his speech already starting to stutter and slur at the edges. It made you worry immensely for his safety, even more so now that you couldn't see him while you were walking.

Once you had turned back to check on him, finding his face flushed a brilliant shade of red and panting hard. A singular bead of sweat had rolled down his face from where it gathered at his hairline. You watched as it dropped from his strong chin to the forest floor below.

“Don't - don't look at me I can't-”

His voice was strained and he found himself unable to finish his though as he was wracked with images of your wanting eyes staring at him from a very different position; beneath him as he pulled you apart by the seams. He couldn't have you looking at him, especially not like that. He knew you didn't mean to but it didn't detract from the clear desire that was written there. It was only logical you would react that way; he was physically aroused, so of course a baser part of you would find it attractive behind the worry you felt for his condition. A condition that worsened astronomically as he felt another wave of pain pass through his abdomen near his stomach. A wheezing sound left him and he physically fell to his knees, leaves crunching loudly beneath his weight. You were at his side in seconds, completely forgetting or choosing to disregard his warnings to not touch him. He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts of ravishing you on the forest floor away as you put a hand on his shoulder. He couldn't. He didn't want to hurt you.

Neither of you had any time to react as Ford's body moved for him, tackling you to the ground from your kneeling position to kiss you hard on the mouth. His body snaked around yours, body pinning you and arms coiling around you in an almost suffocating grip.

“I don't wan’t-. We need to - I need.”

His thoughts and words were a jumbled mess, coming out choppy and fragmented between kisses at your jaw. His eyebrows pinched and he looked pained before he rutted deeply against your hips, jaw slacking in pleasure and letting out a salacious moan that stole the breath from your lungs. His eyes snapped open, the spike of pleasure clarifying in some way as he leapt off of you, suddenly aware of himself and his body. You watched bewildered, sitting up from your place on the ground as he staggered away. You quickly followed, not willing to let him out of your sight. He braced himself on a nearby tree, folding his right arm in front of him to pillow his head there.

“Stanford?”

Your voice was apprehensive, unsure of the situation and maybe feeling a little out of your depth.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

His voice was a whimper, cracking around the edges as he desperately tried to fight off the feelings of immense arousal that clawed at his gut. He knew that he would need to take care of this. Before it got dark, before a trek back to the shack would be impossible, before his body would-.

All his thoughts were cut off as you took your chin in your hands again and kissed him rather fiercely.

“You're the one in pain right now so let's fix that first okay?.”

Without another second to consider; you were underneath him again. He had forcefully pinned you to the tree he was against and promptly shoved his tongue down your throat. It was clumsy and overzealous. The usual finesse and meticulousness he kissed you with was replaced by an animal desperation and hunger, his fingers digging into your waist somewhat uncomfortably. A groan left his throat when you languidly slid your tongue against his, reciprocating his feverish kisses in kind.

Ford was gasping for breath when he broke away, breathing haggardly and chest heaving. He continued his kisses down the side of your face and across your jaw to your ear, whining when the fabric of your sweater stopped him from getting to the skin of your neck. Rather roughly, he used his hand to shove the fabric downwards to reveal your neck to him and promptly latched his mouth onto the exposed skin. Your squirmed helplessly as he mouthed at your throat, moaning as he pinpointed where you were most sensitive and sucked a dark mark into the skin there. He buried his nose into your neck, glasses cutting into your skin as he began a slow grind against you. His arms curling around you on more, guiding your hips to move against him.

His mind was spinning, doing somersaults and getting caught in a positive feedback loop as you moaned out his name breathlessly. The neurons in his brain fizzing and popping as pleasure zipped down his spine, urging his body to seek out more. Without asking for permission and with an embarrassing lack of coordination he tore the sweater off your body, leaving you in the T-shirt you had worn beneath. You were immediately knocked further off kilter as he tugged the material of your shirt up, holding it there and shoving your bra down enough to swirl his tongue around a nipple.

Your hands shot into his hair, clutching the back of his head and scratching your nails into his scalp as he leaves his tongue across the tops of your breasts, very nearly slobbering into your chest with an almost animal insistence. It was like he was trying to take a bite out of you, the way his teeth kept burying themselves into your skin ravenously. Not enough to break the skin but more than enough to leave small indents where his teeth had clamped down onto the flesh there.

Everything about this was so foreign, Ford was always so calculated and relatively gentle when it came to sex. He liked to take his time and ‘enjoy the journey’ so to speak. And sure, it wasn't completely uncommon for him to rough you up a little in the act but this was extreme. You had never even imagined that Ford could get like this, hell you weren't even sure he knew he could. Despite the rather problematic nuances of the whole situation you were still inexplicably turned on. You could feel the slow drip of your obvious arousal eeking out into your underwear; knowing for a fact that you were beyond soaked. Something that Ford seemed to want to know if the shaky hand popping open the button of your jeans was any indication. You could do nothing but hopelessly cling to his broad shoulders as he pressed his dominant hand past the denim and into your panties. A shuddering groan cleaved through his chest at your wetness, his mouth tearing off of a breast in an obscene wet pop.

In spite of the obviously crippling effects the aphrodisiac was having on him he was still trying very hard not to hurt you. His whole body was tense and shaking as he gingerly parted your folds and sank his middle finger into the hilt. He held it there, his body quivering under your hands, trying to find the mental and physical strength to be good to you. Your own body couldn't care less, your self restraint nowhere near his level as you tried to rock yourself onto his hand. You whined pathetically when he completely removed himself.

There was no preamble and nothing that could prepare you as he ripped down your pants and underwear and viciously jammed two of his thick fingers up into your messy cunt. You howled like a wounded animal, digging your fingers into his jacket. Your head whipped back against the trunk of the tree as Ford’s thumb hastily found your clit and circled it vigorously almost to the point of being painful.

“C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.”

Ford was panting haggardly into your ear, broken praises and calls of your name on his lips as he pleaded for you to cum.

“Please please please my darling I need you to cum on my fingers. Please, you're doing so well.”

His voice scratched against the walls of his throat as he spoke, clawing its way out beside the barrage of whimpers and moans; sounding manic and on edge. The bark of the tree scratched roughly at your back as you arched helplessly against Ford's chest, the sensitive skin of your nipples brushing against the knit of his sweater as your breasts jumped with the force of his actions. His hand now positioning in and out of your sopping cunt at a punishing pace as he sucked on the skin of your already bruised neck.

“Stanford!"

You screamed out his name. Your body giving Ford, as well as yourself no other warning as you were blinded by the white hot pleasure singing up your body from where Ford's fingers fucked you. You heard him groan triumphantly, biting into your shoulder as his fingers were replaced by the hot line of his cock spearing into you. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream at the sensation; your body burning at the intrusion and trying to accommodate him through the walls of your vagina convulsing from your violent orgasm. He didn't afford you the time to recover as he pulled all the way out and then slammed home in one subsequent motion. He gathered you into his arms, holding you as close to him as sustainably possible as he pounded ruthlessly into your pussy.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can’t-”

He sobbed apologetic sympathies into your hair as his body betrayed him and forced him to pile drive into you at a splintering speed.

“Oh god Ford!”

You grasped blindly at his face and neck, trying mindlessly to bring him to you; needing to feel his lips on your own.

“A-h Ford kiss me."

Needing no further prompting; his mouth found and locked with yours witlessly, tongues and teeth clashing together wildly. Ford's lips kneaded yours raw, biting and licking at them whenever you pulled away. Giving you just enough time to suck in another breath before diving back in for more, the frames of his glasses digging into your cheek uncomfortably. His hips never stopped, cock punching up into your cervix at a blinding velocity as you writhed in his arms.

He looked pained as he rocked up into you. He was far more feverish looking than before, a blanket of red coating his cheeks and hair plastered to his forehead from the sweat pouring profusely from his scalp. His brows were pinched tightly together and his mouth twisted into a grimace, looking anguished as he chased his pleasure. Your fingers itched to fix his glasses, which were nearly falling off the bridge of his nose and were continuously knocked around with each cant of his hips into yours.

You twisted in his grip. Unintentionally changing the trajectory of his thrusts, making the fat tip of his cockhead spearhead against a spot inside you that had you seeing stars and your cunt clenching tightly around him. Ford let out a guttural groan, hooking his hands under your knees and hitching you up on his hips as much as the jeans trapped between you would allow. The new angle giving him the ability to hit that same spot over and over again; the thickness of his throbbing length dragging deliciously against the sensitive walls of your drooling cunt.

The sounds your coupling produced were entirely pornographic. The lewd slapping of skin against skin and the cacophony of moans coming from your joining would make it incredibly obvious to any passerby to what exactly was taking place. Thankfully you were far enough out into the woods that you were very certain that no other humans would hear you screaming your lungs out as Stanford fucked the brains right out of your head. The various supernatural entities that lurkred within the woods however would probably not be so lucky.

An unholy sound rattled it's way out of your body as you felt yourself careening towards the edge of your second orgasm, cunt seizing around Ford's penis as he steadily plowed into you. He let out a choked noise, pushing somehow deeper inside of you as your back arched violently off of the tree. Like a crack of thunder, you were thrown headlong into another mind-blowing orgasm. Your face morphed into what could only be described as a rapturous expression. Ford watched hypnotized; your face painted in bliss as your eyes rolled back into your head and your jack went slack to release a long drawn out moan of his name that ended in a little whimper.

A newer wetness gushed around his cock from where he bore into you, making the glide into your waiting sex that much easier at every thrust. His mind was blank as his pace turned sporadic, hilting deep as he came inside of you with a sob of your name.

You blinked back the blur in your vision, keenly observing Ford as he rode out the waves of his own petit mort. His head was thrown back, Adams apple bobbing up and down as he gasped desperately for air as if he was drowning. Which he was; completely drowning in the pheromones as he felt like he might go insane from the euphoria tearing through his body. His hands dug harshly into your legs, another stuttering tortured sob wrenching through him as he realized that his body was not satiated.

“It's not- I'm not- I need more.”

You could hardly make out what Ford was saying through the haze of your orgasm. Only truly understanding when you heard the deafening sound of tearing fabric as pressed your hips came flush with Ford's and his still moving cock.

He has ripped your pants clean in half through the inseam you realized, taking your ruined panties with it. The clear display of brute force hit you in the temples and sent you spinning, even more so when Ford pulled off of you to force you onto the forest floor, clambering on top of you and throwing your useless legs atop his shoulders.

As soon as he was in between your legs again Ford pitched back into your greedy cunt, effectively folding you in half and and fucking his cum back into your still quivering sex. Leaves and small sticks scraped against the exposed skin of your back as your body rocked upwards with the absolutely savage way he was fucking you. He was hunched over you and was rutting into you like a dog in heat, the weight of his body against you giving you no option other than to take it. And take it you did, crying out over and over as he rabidly hammered into you, his balls slapping hard against the meat of your newly exposed ass as your knees dug into your chest. His belt buckle jingled as it smacked against the tender flesh there on every powerful thrust. You knew it was going to bruise, much like the rest of your body when this was all over.

You felt the muscles in your inner thighs burn as Ford mindlessly stretched your legs open further around him, using his left hand to hold you by your right ankle. His eyes were glazed over behind the fogged lenses of his glasses. Completely unfocused as he continued to relentlessly plow into you at breakneck speeds. Shockwaves of pleasure reverberated through your body with each pitch of Ford's hips, the angle at which he penetrated you catching your clit on every backstroke and making your cunt sing. You panted heavily into his face, unable to form words past a slim vocabulary of yeses, pleases and Ford's name. A scream ripped through you as a particularly harsh upstroke, his cock battering against the end of your vaginal canal in a way that was just shy of being too painful. The way you had froze up, cunt clenching harshly around him, had him repeat the motion again and again, chasing the feeling. His forehead dropped down to your collar, mouth blabbering nonsensically against your skin.

“Oh god! My Love - my Darling. Please- oh god I'm so sorry-!”

He was powerless to fight against the whims of his body influenced by the effects of the slipper orchid. He continued heedlessly, pounding into you mercilessly. His mumured apologies falling on deaf ears, you were busy being a moaning, shrieking mess beneath him on the forest floor. Your peak just over the horizon and within your reach. You reached out and grabbed it, cumming in a hellascious manner as you thrashed wantonly in Ford's grip.

The orgasm he tore from you was truly earth shattering; our eyes crossing and rolling away with the rest of your sanity as you clawed at his shoulders and chest. Somehow the pounding became even more aggressive as Ford barrelled towards his own climax. The force of his thrusting actively pushing out and displacing the well of your combined spend inside of you with a wet 'plop' as it spattered across your inner thighs and dripped down your ass. His pace turned frenetic, railing into you sloppily as he cried out.

Ford let out an agonized howl when he finally hit his peak, as if the act itself was painful. His body jerked physically; as if he had stepped on a live wire as he came the hardest he ever had in his life. Wounded cries ripppled through his chest, trying to hang onto the last vestiges of his sanity as he well and truly lost his mind in pleasure. The euphoria and relief he was feeling being far too much for his logical mind to handle.

A sob wracked through his exhausted frame when he finally felt his penis begin to turn flaccid within you. You were both shaking violently, clutching onto each other for dear life as his hips turned to a slow grind. His cock was still pulsing inside of you, his ejaculate spilling deep within your womb as his own body eeked out the last swells of his orgasm until his hips came to a stop.

Neither of you said anything. Choosing to coil your arms around one another as you both found control of your faculties. Ford let your legs drop to your sides, his hands finding a new purpose in smoothing up and down the sides of your body, attempting to soothe and mitigate the cold you probably felt due to his reckless treatment of your pants. And also you. God he felt awful. Guilt twisted into his gut like a knife as the reality of what he had just done set in. He threw his head into your shoulder and sobbed openly, unable to keep the grief he felt from hurting you inside his traitorous body. Your heart twisted painfully in your chest seeing Ford like this. Gently you brought your hands, that were rubbing his back and shoulders comfortingly, up to curl your fingers into his hair.

"Hey. Hey. Shhhhhh it's okay. You're okay.'

You shushed him, cooing gently at him and placing kisses to his hair as he shook like a leaf in your arms. With great care, you pulled his face from your neck to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot from crying and he wouldn't meet your gaze, looking guiltily away at the foliage next to your head. Tenderly, you pulled him towards you to press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. Hands caressing his cheekbones as you coaxed him to look at you.

You could see the guilt there, the shame that was written in them as he looked at you and you couldn't stand it so you brought him in for a kiss. He kissed you with fervor; slowly as he poured all of his love and his guilt into one passionate gesture. Praying that you would be able to forgive him for the great transgressions he had made against you and your bruised and battered body. That you would understand that he had no choice in the matter and that he would do anything to win back the trust that he had inevitably broken.

When he pulled back your eyes were soft, admirable in how they looked up at him. How could you look at him like that? Like he hung the stars in the sky even after he violated you; your trust. Greedily he leaned into your grasp, nuzzling the palm against his cheek . Your voice came out in a scratchy whisper against him.

"I'm okay. We're okay."

You said so little yet it was more than enough. Ford felt tears sting the edge of his eyelids as you smiled at him, warm and genuine. You were okay. You didn't hate him. You still loved him. Letting out a heavy sigh of relief he leaned down further and rested his forehead against yours, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug.

He only let go when you pushed at his shoulders, his weight becoming too much to bear on your tired body. Gingerly he pulled out of you, the two of you groaning at the loss. Ford watched enraptured, jaw slacked as a copious amount of his semen seeped out of your sex. Unconsciously he ran his fore and one of his middle fingers through it, gathering the viscous fluid in his digits and pushing it back into you.

The lewdness of it all and the implications of such and action brought the blood to simultaneously drain from your face and cause it to flush furiously. The concept of another round a frightening concept to your weary body. A small whimper seemed to release Ford from whatever sexual spell the pheromones pumping through his system had him in. He physically shook the thoughts of taking you again out of his head, mumbling out an apology before wiping his fingers off on his pants. The feeling now dull enough to resist as he tucked his oversensitive length back into his pants with a hiss; the fabric of his underwear feeling harsh against him.

His cock still somehow had the audacity to jump slightly in his pants as he stood, taking in the sight of you. You looked beyond wrecked; your face was still twinged feverish and your chest heaved with each breath you took, still trying to regulate from the strenuous activity. A chest that was fully uncovered in the golden light of the the evening, the sun not having fully sunk past the horizon.

Your shirt had been pushed all the way up past your sternum to fully expose your breasts, discarded bra trapped around your waist. There were hickies and bites everywhere; bruises blooming against the flesh of your neck and chest. Some were darker than others and some were clearly discernable as fingerprints. There were also the clear indications of where he had carelessly bit at you, the worst of it being at the hollow of your throat from where it met your collar just below your shoulder. The skin there shown a dark purple, almost black in certain spots, and right next to it an almost perfect indent of his teeth. He shuddered, a baser part of him extremely pleased at leaving you so disheveled. Male ego sated.

He tutted at the state of your jeans, denim hanging loose above your knees and in two different pieces. Everything ached as he knelt next to you, helping you sit up and righting your remaining clothing. Your panties were trashed, having been another casualty in the throes of passion and unhinged lust. Scanning the ground around the clearing he found your sweater that had been thoughtlessly tossed to the ground earlier and pulled it down over your head before you could start to shiver. He pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead as he smoothed down your hair, brushing out the small pieces of foliage that clung to it and most likely checking for any signs of a concussion.

You hummed contentedly at the contact, enjoying being pampered so thoroughly while your brain was still a gooey pile of mush. With much care, Ford hauled you to your feet; where your poor sore legs wobbled and ultimately failed you, forcing you to look to Ford for aid. Tired brown eyes met yours as you smiled dopily at him, your hands finding his face again and kissing him leisurely. He took the time to hook an arm under yours to support you and sighed against your lips.

"Let's go home dear."

[bumblebeesweettea]

Where's Rook? R!Lucanis

Fandom: dragon age Veilguard

Rating: general

Characters: Rook, Lucanis Dellamorte, Solas, Bellara lutare, Davrin, Taash, Emmerich, Neve Gallus, Harding

Relationships: Rook x Lucanis

Genre: Angst

WARNING! This Drabble has serious game spoilers mentioned in it.

Synopsis:

The reactions of romanced Lucanis and the companions to Rooks apparent death.

___

The Fade had become a tempest, its wild magic thrashing violently in a relentless gale. Lucanis felt Spite writhe within his mind, straining against the chaos. “Merida...” he hissed, throwing an arm up as a shield against the cutting wind. As Rook plodded toward the corpse of Ghilan’nain to retrieve the dagger, a chill seeped through Lucanis’s skin. Spite was uneasy; there was something sinister about the Fade’s current swirling frenzy.

A scent permeated the air—mossy earth mingled with the tang of ozone. It wasn’t Ghilan’nain nor their companions, but something else. Someone else. Lucanis started toward Rook, doubt twisting his gut, too tenuous to voice his fears. Battling the wind, his emotions churned, a storm of dread: he needed to warn them, to tell them something was wrong, that losing Rook was unthinkable. Just as his fingertips brushed Rook’s back, a brutal force flung him aside. He’d been through enough battles against mages to recognize a mind blast.

Lucanis rolled, scrambling to keep his footing, head darting as he sought potential threats. Ghilan’nain’s body lay still, the Fade felt has stopped tearing itself asunder, but Rook—Rook was gone.

“Rook?” Lucanis called. Frantic eyes scanned the shadows, desperation edging his tone, “Rook?!” No. No, please. Not Rook. Anyone but them. Panic unfurled cold and merciless from his gut, clawing up his spine, breath shallow and quick like a cornered animal. ‘Control yourself, you damn fool.’ He forced his legs to move, shaky steps around the crater that claimed Harding’s broken form. Maker... Harding... ‘Mourn later when you're safe. Find Rook first,’ he ordered himself.

“Professor! Professor, where did they go?” Bellara’s voice pierced through, frantic, yet it barely registered. Spite surged, scratching at his consciousness, but Lucanis was too shattered to restrain him. “Where are they?! WHERE ARE THEY?!” Spite roared, the creature's wings thrashing in agitated fury. Lucanis could feel the demon’s raw fear and bewilderment. Neither of them could stand the loss of Rook. Finally, with trembling resolve, he turned to his remaining companions.

“Emmerich, where did Rook go?” he demanded, his voice strained but steady. Emmerich, the Mortalitasi, a beacon of calm amid chaos, met his gaze with a gentleness that sparked a corrosive mix of anger, shame, and helplessness within Lucanis. It was the look Emmerich often gave those in distress to put them at ease. But Spite hissed, impatient and vexed. He didn't wish to be coddled.

"I don’t know, dear boy,” Emmerich replied, a furrow knitting his brow. “There was such a torrent of Fade and magic, and now it’s vanished. I can’t sense—ah!” The older mage abruptly fell silent, a smile creeping across his face, and Lucanis turned to follow his gaze. The blue blade of the Lyrium dagger shimmered, briefly unburdening Lucanis of his dread. There they were. They’d only been temporarily misplaced. Relief uncoiled in him, limbs heavy with anticipation as he took tentative steps toward the emerging rift, yearning to welcome Rook back.

But it wasn’t his beloved who emerged.

“Smells like moss and air before lightening. Old and dangerous,” Spite rumbled. It mirrored the strange scent they’d perceived earlier. The figure materializing before them was the one from the lighthouse memories: the Dread Wolf, Fen'harel. Lucanis’s instincts bristled, eyes narrowing as he regarded the new intruder with a cold fury. He had come alone, stepping from the rift like a challenge made flesh.

"Where’s Rook?” Lucanis demanded, his voice sharpened with menace. If this man had harmed Rook, Lucanis would escort him to the afterlife alongside Ghilan’nain. Solas considered the beleaguered adventurers, his gaze serene and distant.

“They are where they need to be,” Solas replied.

“What does that mean? Where are they?” Lucanis spat, a dagger sliding from his belt, intentions bare, in his grip. Solas cast him a look—a mingling of chiding and pity—that stoked Lucanis’s ire further.

“They have played their part here. Now they take my place in the prison so that I may complete what I began,” Solas said, calm and unyielding. “I’m sorry, but their sacrifice was necessary.”

Sacrifice. Prison. The words ricocheted in Lucanis’s mind, taunting him with visions of the Ossuary. Of the torment, pain and relentless fear. Was Rook trapped in such a hell? Suffering in isolation? Or, were they...? Spite, consumed by rage and confusion, surged forth. Lucanis’s body lunged forward, wings unfurled, dagger poised. Strong arms wrapped around him, yanking him back.

“Spite, no!” Davrin’s voice was urgent in his ear.

“Give. Them. Back!” Spite howled, thrashing against Davrin’s hold, desperation unrestrained. “Give. Them. Back. To us!” Lucanis felt his elbow connect with Davrin’s face, yet the warden held fast, tightening his grip.

“Spite, please!” Davrin implored, “you’re going to get Lucanis killed.” Another pair of arms encircled them both. Taash joined them, silent but Lucanis could feel the tremble in Taash's embrace.

“Taash...” he and Spite whispered in unison. Lucanis wasn’t alone in his grief; he wasn’t the only one who had lost someone they loved. And mere moments ago.

Solas watches the scene unfold, his expression a mask of enigmatic neutrality, yet there’s a flicker in his eyes—perhaps pity, or guilt, or a fusion of both. He raises the Lyrium blade, “I am sorry, though I know you won’t believe it. A victory like this, pitted against gods, demands its toll of suffering. Stay in the lighthouse, let yourself grieve, and ready yourself for the world that awaits. Your task is complete. Thank you for everything you’ve achieved.”

With a fluid motion, he slices the air, a shimmering rent into the fade, and slips away through it. Spite, seeing his quarry vanish, flares with renewed defiance, but Davrin and Taash’s grips are unyielding. Bellara races to them, her arms encircling Taash’s waist, her cheek pressed against the sturdy bulk of the Qunari. She doesn’t anchor Lucanis and Spite, but she steadies Taash, holding them together through sheer force of will. Neve, not given to embraces, steps to Lucanis’ side, her fingers curling around his forearm with a firm, chilling grip—a deliberate touch grounding him to reality tinged with ice magic. It gave Lucanis an anchor for his mind.

“Spite,” Emmerich murmurs softly, placing himself before Lucanis, “it will be OK, you need to let Lucanis out now.” Emmerich’s voice, the pressure from the arms around him, and Neve’s cold grip were a tether to the present. The storm within him subsides. The fierce battle for control ends, leaving behind a chasm of grief. His mind drifts to Lace Harding, her laughter a memory, and to Rook, whose absence leaves a gaping wound in his heart.

His shoulders sag, the weight of loss more crushing than any foe. “Rook,” he whispers, the name a prayer and a lament. Dellamorte’s do not kneel, but Lucanis would be lying if he said his knees didn't buckle dangerously. Bellara’s eyes meet his, understanding and sorrow mirrored in their depths. She releases Taash, stepping forward to clasp Lucanis’ hand, her warmth an offering.

“We’ll find a way,” she vows, voice steady despite the tremor of uncertainty beneath. She had tears in her eye and it was apparent she was barely holding on herself. “For Rook, for all of us.”

Davrin nods, a grim resolve settling in “We’ve faced darkness before,” he says, “and we’re still here.” Taash grunts in agreement, their presence a silent pillar of strength. Neve’s grip tightens momentarily, a silent promise of solidarity.

Emmerich nods, as calm as ever, though like everyone else there was a slight tremble in his fingertips. “We’ll mourn today. And tomorrow we will rise. For Harding, for Rook. And if Rook can be found. Then we will find them.”

[guiltyasdave]

a mouse crisis christmas

pairing: Logan Howlett/Wolverine x mutant! f!reader (x original female character)

word count: ~1.1k

summary: Before Christmas, you and Logan have an unexpected house guest.

warnings/tags: soooo much fluff, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, Logan's POV

a/n: a little christmas something from the logan x cat!reader universe! this is first and foremost a present that i wrote for @sizzlingcloudmentality because we came up with 'mouse girlie' together, i love you loads my sweet sweet friend. honestly idk if anyone else but our weird asses will even like this, but we thought kitten needed a friend, so here we are <3

dividers by @saradika-graphics who is a queen <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

Something’s wrong when Logan opens the cabin’s front door, slipping off his shoes to not spread any melting snow on the wooden floors. Your own shoes are already placed on a towel, the tips still wet with the powdery coldness from outside. You rarely go outside when you don’t have to these days. Refusing even the smallest risk of getting your feet wet, your nose wrinkling at the mere suggestion. 

More alarmingly, there’s a scent in the air that he doesn’t recognize. Mixing with yours, a fragrance that he could pick out anywhere. He hears your voice, warm, quick words interlaced with laughter. The only reason he’s not already by your side, defending you against the intruder. 

He finds you in the kitchen, indeed not alone. There’s a woman, sitting on the counter, feet dangling below her. Almost drowning in one of the sweaters that you’ve knitted this winter. A new hobby, you had said. 

She’s the source of the scent, there’s no doubt in his mind. Small brownish tufts of hair frame her face, a small pointy nose and dark eyes that flick up at his footsteps. Her whole body appears to be vibrating, nervosity emanating from every pore. 

As he pieces her scent and her appearance together, the animal part of his brain provides an answer almost immediately— a mouse. 

Not dangerous at all, if he had to guess. But still, an intruder in his home. 

You step into his line of vision, and some of the tension eases from his body. It’s an involuntary reaction, one that only you can elicit from him. 

He blinks slowly, gaze trailing over your face. Foolishly, he had thought you two were the only ones with such animal-esque mutations. 

You’re wearing one of his flannels, and his fuzziest woolen socks. So your feet did get wet. 

“I found her in the barn!” you begin to explain, the warm touch of your hands finding his shoulders, soft pressure against his still raised hackles. Keeping yourself between his body and the strange woman’s. His smart girl. “She was all alone and it’s freezing out there.” 

“If you wanted a pet, you could have just told me.” An eyebrow’s arched, apprehensiveness coloring his expression. 

You scoff, slapping a hand against his chest, but your grin still sparkles on your face, like you’re in on a joke and he’s not. “She’s not a pet!” you complain, indignant. “Don’t be rude, baby.” 

The smaller woman is still perched on the wooden counter, wide-eyed, her head twitching back and forth between you both. 

You turn around to look at her, your expression so full of fondness that it almost, almost makes him smile. He reaches out instinctively, caresses the soft skin of your cheek, warmth growing in his chest when you lean into the touch. 

Taking a step closer, mouth tilting towards your ear, he can’t keep his own grin from forming on his lips. “Thought you’re supposed to eat mice,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe in that way that never fails to make you shudder. 

Your eyes widen almost comically and he chuckles before gently moving past you, towards that creature that apparently, the cat dragged in. 

“So you were just scampering around in our barn, huh?” 

The woman nods, a quick, jittery movement. She looks even smaller up close. Her eyes dart towards the front door and back to him. 

“She didn’t have anywhere else to go! It's so cold outside, Lo,” you chime in from beside his shoulder. “And it’s almost Christmas,” you add with a pout, shiny eyes pleading with him. You know damn well how he can’t deny you anything. Never could. “She can stay for a bit, right?”

“Fine.” 

-

Annoying, that’s what she is. Not the word you would use, of course not. You’re absolutely enamoured with her, almost joined to her hip these days. 

He can’t help it, it still makes Logan smile to watch you giggle with her, the way your face lights up when you look at her. He had often worried that you might feel lonely out here, that you might wish for friends. 

So this is good. Really, it is. But still. 

He’s not jealous, of course not. Just… annoyed. 

Annoyed with her tapping little steps on the wooden floors, annoyed with her squeaky little voice, annoyed with the fact that she ate all the nuts and olives stored away in the pantry, annoyed with her weird diet in general, loads of cheese, seeds and bread that you sweet talk him into buying, annoyed with her loud chewing and her obnoxiously large front teeth. 

“But isn’t she just the cutest?!” you ask, hugging his body and bumping your face against his chest, your thoughts still revolving around the woman currently sleeping in the tiny guest room. 

He grunts non committedly, reaching down to gently tickle your neck. You giggle and curl yourself tighter around him, breaking off into a long purr when he hits your favorite spot. 

Warmth grows in his chest and he tightens his arm around your shoulder. 

-

It’s Christmas Eve. Snow is swirling in the dark night behind the windows, but inside the fire is crackling, engulfing the three of you in warmth where you are huddled together underneath the tree. 

It’s a ginormous one, a pain to get through the front door, but it was the one that you and the mouse woman had wanted, so who was Logan to say no. 

Now, with a hundred lights glittering from it, starting right at the top where Logan had begrudgingly lifted the woman up on his shoulders so that she could place them under your careful supervision— he has to admit that it was worth it. 

You’re leaning against him, the lights reflecting in your eyes and a wide smile on your face. The woman’s head rests on your lap, her body curled up in front of the both of you. 

You and him usually forgo presents, content to just spend some uninterrupted time together with both of you certain that there’s nothing more you could wish for. 

But when he had spotted a jar labeled as a ‘gourmet selection of nuts and seeds’ at the specialty store, he had grabbed it without even being that bothered by the ridiculously high price. 

He was glad that he did when the woman’s face had lit up and in return, she had presented him with a self knitted scarf, a hobby that she had picked up from you. 

It’s late in the night, snow still falling silently outside, when Logan is lying in bed, two sets of calm breaths beside him, occasionally interrupted by a small purr or a sleepy squeak. 

He shakes his head, still wondering how he ended up in this situation, but he can’t be mad about it any longer. 

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are love <3

and merry christmas!

[welcometololaland]

10 things - 2024/2025 edition

happy new year, everyone! 2024 has been a year of change for me in so many different ways, and i've posted very little fic this year, mostly due to writers' block and time constraints. so, instead of doing the writing round up i thought i'd list 10 things i'm grateful for in 2024 (fandom edition) and 10 things i want to do in 2025 (also, fandom edition). please feel free to make your own if you wish! consider this an open tag 🏷️

2024 - things i'm grateful for (in fandom, in no particular order)

1. my ride or die friends who deal with my self doubt and breakdowns and (being 100% real) paranoia about situations that simply don't exist - @rmd-writes @celeritas2997 , the popcorn squad and others. wouldn't be writing without your support!

2. the writers who have trusted me to beta for them - @heartstringsduet @basilsunrise @rmd-writes i think i'm forgetting some (so sorry if so). michelle, being with you through first aid was such an amazing experience, and i feel so lucky to have seen you develop as a writer!

3. the people who have read my fics and encouraged me including the wip wednesday and seven sentence sunday tags! - i literally would not be anywhere without you. you actually give me life.

4. the friendships i've made on discord with people who just wanna know me for me and share little snippets of their lives - @reyesstrand and @heartstringsduet the little squirrel photos y'all send me are soul soothers for real! @st-elle-ar and @clottedcreamfudge and @lightningboltreader and @birdclowns for the cat pics! @howtosingit for your commentary and spoiler services 💜

5. the grace given to me by @carlos-in-glasses and @actual-sleeping-beauty - you two are so kind and encouraging and tell me all about your knitting projects even when i go missing for weeks on end. thank you for being my friends <3 and i don't even think you guys know you are both my yarn obsessed friends but you ARE.

6. everyone who has trusted me enough to collab with them on projects - the legends on never the same twice, @rmd-writes @strandnreyes. i loved working with you and i hope you had a positive experience! looking forward to more collabs in 2025.

7. the document gremlins, betas and sensitivity readers i've collected this year - @rmd-writes @strandnreyes @lightningboltreader @celeritas2997 @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut ty ty ty ty some of those fics were in danger of being lost forever but we revived them!

8. @she-walked-away for making me laugh with your hilarious posts and olympia2997 who apparently doesn't exist on tumblr but leaves the most unhinged comments of all time on my fics.

9. everyone who has translated my fics or made art or gifs this year! inspired by you and in awe of you! @donghaian @whatsintheboxmh @heartstringsduet @guardian-angle22 i know there are more i'm so sorry if i've not listed you here!!!

10. everyone in the various fandoms i'm in who have created brilliant works in 2024! i am inspired by your work more than you know <3

2025 - things i want to do (in fandom, in no particular order)

1. read more, and read more broadly. expand my horizons a bit. read things that are a touch outside my go-to zones just to test the waters. read stuff by new authors!

2. spend time co-writing because that's actually my favourite thing to do. i have some things in the pipeline with a couple of people which i hope work out!

3. finish. the. damn. fic. (eurotrip). IT'S SO FREAKING CLOSE.

4. spend more time with my 2019-2021 beloveds - alex and henry. write more rwrb fic. engage in the fandom a bit more.

5. finish the ring-in 2.0 within 1 month of the LS finale (weep).

6. take one hand off the wheel with fandom relationships - my therapist tells me i need to stop trying to control how everyone feels about me and instead let people show me the kind of friendship they're interested in maintaining. scary because i think i may lose some people along the way but OH WELL WE BALL.

7. worry less about the engagement! god! i need to stop looking so much! *shakes fist at self*

8. write a little more regularly with less word count expectations.

9. learn how to be okay with smaller comments (from myself). sometimes i feel terrible if i don't write a damn essay but sometimes it stops me from reading which is horrible!

10. be a better fandom contributor than i was in 2024 - i think continuous growth is important and i'm always open to feedback (as long as it's constructive and genuine)! my mission is to always make a positive contribution and to make people feel good about themselves, and if i can even do that for one person in 2025, i think i will achieve this goal.

ty for the 2024 wrapped tags @hippolotamus @rmd-writes @reyesstrand @emsprovisions @nancys-braids @carlos-in-glasses @lemonlyman-dotcom @alrightbuckaroo @strandnreyes @thisbuildinghasfeelings @whatsintheboxmh @heartstringsduet @firenati0n @cha-melodius. you are real ones! consider this a tag back if you would like to do a 2024/2025 10 things edition.

[tactical-jellyfish]

Tf 141 with an s/o who loves fiber arts!

Word count= roughly 1,750

Warnings: No! Just fluff with the lads :) Enjoy (but inly if you wanna)!!!

Kyle, who really never thought that knitting would be this hard, considering how much you raved about it keeping you both calm and properly stimulated. Now, he sits by your side on the living room floor, shakily holding two bamboo needles in his hands and trying to hold the "working yarn" (the yarn attached to the ball, apparently) the right way as you tenderly lecture him for being a dunce. "No, baby, you need to get through the stitch first before you yarn over-" Your voice is so pretty like that, trying to steer him from making another weird-looking hole for no real reason, but Kyle just whines again as you take the swatch into your own hands, finish off the whole row like some magic creature of the yarn and thread.

"You said that this was supposed to be easy, luvie." He whines into the crook of your neck, having loosely wound himself around your side as you showed him exactly what to do for the fourth time this hour. Some part of him loves the unfailing tenderness, the softness of your voice and the way you poorly hide the fact that you're laughing at him under your breath. "Sorry, i just thought-" There's a snort from your lips as giggles envelop you, your smile turns wide. Kyle's heart melts a little in his chest "I just thought you'd be better at this-"

Kyle gasps in mock offense, before pushing the needles to the floor, already planning his revenge for that little slight. "Say that one more time, and I'll give yer little magic sticks to my nieces and tell 'em they're swords." He revels in the shocked gasp you give, and grins as you bat him upside the head. "Hah, funny man. Try." Your voice is quieter, a little bit more dangerous, just daring him to do that very thing. Kyle saves his own ass by pecking your cheek, gently taking your hands into his own. "I wouldn't, babes, you know I wouldn't." There's not a modicum of lie in that statement. Kyle knows that the sweetest ones are the most terrifying, and his mum would never let him hear the end of it if he lost you. "Yeah, I do know you wouldn't, jus' wanted to mess with you." It's Kyle's turn to gasp now, but he smiles when you kiss his cheek in return, leans into you like a lapdog despite himself. Tonight's going to be good, and he knows it.

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

Johnny, who remarkably managed very, very well with embroidery. You had been so happy to see him, posted on the couch next to you, working away at the hoop, having only very few questions on how he should hold the thing, if the tension you kept talking about was a little bit off. For an hour, maybe two, it was lovely. Simple silence as you leaned up on his shoulder, working a larger project as the Scot figured out exactly what he was doing on his own. Deft hands, you watched him pick apart the small knots in the thread without issue. It flooded your heart with pride. "Are you finally going to let me see the thing, Johnny?" You questioned playfully, trying to straighten your spine to get a peek before there's a big hand shoved over your eyes, and a thick accent chiding you for your gall. "No!" He squawks, you just know that he relishes in not letting you see, riling you up through your own curiosity, because Johnny is, at his core, a cheeky little shit. "Ye gotta wait, mo leannan, ye cannae jus' peek like that!" It draws a grumble from your lips, but you close your eyes, gently take hold of his wrist in your hand and nod, giving a softer affirmation before he coos at you. "Don' worry, it's almost done anyway." He soothes you with a soft peck to your temple, and just like that, you're calm again, all heart-eyed and dumb with love, relaxed. It's another thirty minutes before the finished product is tenderly set into your lap, and you gasp in surprise before seeing it. It's... stupid. An old sketch of his that really had amused him all too much, one of you from a picture at a night out (you had tripped on a root and he managed to get a picture of your face mid-fall) that he had always seemed too damn enamored with. "Oh my god." You press your hand to your face in shame, already feeling ridiculous before Johnny laughs brightly, pressed a firm, wet kiss to your cheek. "You look lovely! Don't ye? I think you look lovely." It's a sweet sentiment, enough to endear you to the terrible, terrible thing that your fiancé has chosen to immortalize and drive a too-fond sigh from your lips. "You're lucky that I love you." You grumble, giving Johnny a half-hearted glare before he swoops in to sweetly kiss your lips, because he really does know you too well. "Aye, I really am" He doesn't miss a beat, still grinning like an idiot. It makes your chest soften, your guts go mushy and fluttery. "Don't be coy, MacTavish." You reprimand. He grins, and kisses you again for good measure.

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

Simon, who really didn't think this would be necessary, but here he is, sitting next to you cross-legged on the floor with the hook in hand. "Like this, right?" He speaks gruffly, and loosens his posture for you to peek over his shoulder. He feels the ghost (pun intended) of a smile pulling up at his lips when he hears your affirmative hum. "Yeah. You're doing real good, honey," Your voice wafts into his ear so nicely, floods his mind so deliciously, the only person that Simon knew he would always listen to, his angel right here on Earth. "Out of curiosity, have you ever done this before?" When you finish your question, Simon does let that smile grow on his face, lets the warmth flood into the cavity of his chest, seep into the crevices of his soul, heal the damage bit by bit. Simon leans his head on yours, and takes in a breath. The truth was, he had. One night, after a particular date when you had entirely infodumped a current project to him, he had done a little research. Then, promptly after, learned to crochet, even if it was only the basics. It paid off now, with you on his arm and impressed with his skill. "Nah. Maybe I'm just good at this, hm?" He denies that, shuffles his cheek closer into yours, soaking up the warmth that you radiate, relishes in the soft chuckle that you give. "Mmh, maybe you're gonna be even better than me, is that your plan?" Your teasing is soft, given out of affection. It makes Simon smile, makes him relieved that he's once again managed to make sure that a date went well. "No. Just pick things up fast." The mood really is dead in the water, but Simon really loves that you seem to thrive in that, that you still peck his cheek anyway despite him practically having negative game. "Smartass." You chirp at him, setting down your own piece on the floor before wholesale resting your head on Simon's shoulder. He fights a chuckle. "Better than being a dumbass, isn't it?" The joke wasn't his (he stole it from Johnny), but when you laughed, Simon knew it was well worth it anyway.

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

John, who was more than content to help you work on another big project of yours. He was endlessly proud of you, how wonderfully you worked on those commissions and how perfect they always looked when you finally shipped them off. But disaster always strikes at one time or another, and the cat is often the cause of that. After maybe an hour of soothing his panicking partner, John had you wrapped up in a blanket in the corner of your own office, gently taking the needle into his own hands to sew the small tear in the fabric back together as you sniffled a little bit. Were you more than skilled enough to fix this issue yourself? Yes. But John felt particularly loving lately, wanted to make sure that his lovely, hyper-competent partner knew that they could rely on him. Because they always could. When he speaks, its gently, glancing up from the fabric in his hands to look into your eyes, still a little bit bloodshot from the tears. "Don't worry yourself, sweetheart. My mother didn't raise a man who doesn't know how to do repairs." The comfort was genuine, both an assurance of his skill and a statement that you could just lay back, let him take the reins for once and allow you to calm down a little bit. "But-" you sniffle, wipe at your nose with a tissue, and John doesn't allow you to question this. "Nope. None of that self-doubt, yer therapist already said that's bad, didn't she?" You nod, John watches your cheeks flush a bit simply because he remembered, that he cared enough to stow that away in the back corners of his brain. Oh, if only you knew how much he adores you, your little heart would blow up. "I can't just let you do my work for me, John, that's not right." The small rebuttal makes him pause in the middle of a stitch, gently set the needle down. His darling had the morals of a saint, why was he surprised by that? "Who said that I was doing your work? Maybe I'm just your guest of honor, sweetness." John speaks softly, shoots you a cocky grin that finally brings a smile back onto your face. "Yeah, yeah, alright," He smiles as you stand, wraps a strong arm around your midsection as you tuck yourself into his side, calming all of the way back down, turning back into the wonderful, sweet, bordering perfect partner returning to form once more. "That means that you have to sign it, too, you know." You tease in return as John nervously swallows, knowing damn well he is hopeless to ever replicate the pure beauty that is your signature on professional pieces. "Well, I'm not so sure about that-" He uselessly stutters to the joke, feeling his own cheeks heat up more than a little bit at the invitation. "Oh, don't be like that, I could teach you." Now that makes Price melt.

[dyslexic-mess]

“I'm here for the Joker,” The boy said and bruce nearly dropped his cup.

He’d come out of nowhere and it had taken the man a moment to recognise him. Phantom, an odd character he’d sparsely worked with before, stood in the Batcave with his eyes trained on bruce. The green irises bore into him, conveying just how serious the young hero was. Bruce sighed. 

“Well, he’s not here-”

“You know that's not what I mean, Dark Knight.” Phantom cut off, not giving an inch. How a 5’6 teenager managed to look down at him, he’ll never know, but the use of his ‘title’ told Bruce this wasn’t a visit from phantom as a hero. He was visiting as Phantom, The Ghost King. That never ended well…

Phantom the hero was merciful, bashful, even playful and flippant in what little experience bruce had but Phantom The Ghost King? They had only met twice before and the first time almost ended in an interdimensional war.

When he didn't respond again, Phantom softened only marginally. Apparently sympathetic to the bat's position. He crossed his arms. Not in a self-important way, but more how a disgruntled parent might when dealing with a stubborn child. 

“Look, I’ve tried to give you time but my subjects grow restless”

Phantom spoke again, knitting his brows and raising a hand as he spoke. Bruce scowled back “So let them. Surely they can't expect you to drag a man to his death prematurely” he argued. Phantom cocked his brow.

“The joker's death is far overdue. He should have faced his justice years ago.”

“You don't get to decide that!”

The moment after he said that, Bruce regretted it as the room took on a chill. The boy's eyes shone brighter and something crackled in the air. He didn't move. How he spoke and held himself didn't change an inch but suddenly, the air was filled with a sense of danger and bruce could swear he saw the faintest silhouette of a crown above Phantom's head for a moment. 

“Actually, I do.”

His voice was final. “I came here out of respect for you and your territory, not to ask permission.”

“You have 3 days, Dark Knight. If The Joker is not in my domain by then, I will have no choice but to take him myself.”

And Phantom was gone. Leaving nothing but icy air in his wake.

[em-prentiss]

love to keep me warm

----

“I’m in my pajamas,” Emily mumbles, teary-eyed.

Aaron looks up. His mouth opens, no doubt to console, but Jack beats him to it.

“It’s okay, Mom.” Emily looks up to find his eyes wide and earnest. “Me and Dad are in our pj’s too. We won’t change, right?”

She never imagined she’d cry before even stepping foot in the damn hospital.

Or, Emily goes into labor on Christmas Eve.

Word count: 3.6k

For @leavemurph <3 because she's the best <3

----

“Is it a Nintendo?” Jack interrupts through Home Alone 2.

Emily is watching the movie with blank eyes, the fist she has clutched in her pajama pants doing nothing to help her through her contractions. They’ve become more frequent in the past few weeks, unexpectedly rolling through her as her due date looms closer; January 9th seems far to her, but apparently her body thinks it’s tomorrow. Her back has already been aching for a week, and the increasingly intense contractions aren’t helping any. They went from uncomfortable cramps to sharp pain just over the course of this afternoon, fiery stabs suddenly attacking her abdomen. Still, Emily waves them away. A nagging voice whispers in her ear, but she ignores it. Because it couldn’t be. Not yet.

She’s breathing through the pain, lips parted, when Jack touches her shoulder.

“Mom.”

Emily jolts.

“Sorry, honey.” She sucks in a breath, blinking the haziness from her eyes and turning to look at him. “Were you saying something?”

“My present,” he catches her up, hazel eyes bright, “is it a Nintendo? The 3DS—”

A small laugh worms its way out of her chest. “You’ll know tomorrow.” Fondness seeps through her words, drenching them until they’re dripping saccharine. “It’s just a few hours away, Jack. Wouldn’t it be better if it stayed a surprise?”

Jack’s pout is half hearted. “Will you tell if I get you another cookie?” He bribes. It seems a dangerous skill for a ten-year-old.

“Not even if you got me all the cookies in the world.” Emily ruffles his hair, earning a grumble. Speaking of cookies—“Can you help me up, please?”

He’s up and in front of her in seconds. Emily smiles as she takes his hands, both of them a little cold despite the steady fire burning in the hearth. The moment she stands the pressure returns on her hips, Lucy weighing on her bones as she wriggles around restlessly. 

“Thank you, honey,” Emily presses a kiss to Jack’s brow.

He hums, eyes already back on the TV. “Y’welcome. Tell Dad he’s missing the good parts.”

Emily manages a small laugh.

Her short walk to the kitchen is, in fact, a waddle, each shuffle of her feet sending pain down her pelvis. She makes a face and ignores it, placing a hand on her bump as if she can physically stop her daughter from dropping lower. A small flutter greets her hand; Emily smiles despite herself as she walks into the kitchen, her mission accomplished when she breathes in the warm scent of the cinnamon sugar cookies Aaron is taking out of the oven.

“Your daughter’s abusing me,” she grumbles, shuffling over to the piping hot cookie tray. Heat radiates from it in waves. Emily grabs a cooled one from the previous batch and pops it whole into her mouth.

“I’ll have a talk with her,” Aaron says, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Emily hums at the taste of cinnamon on her tongue, the cookie warm and sweet, crumbling easily beneath her teeth. But she can’t even enjoy it; mid-swallow, the pain rushes through her again, making her groan into her closed mouth. 

“What?” Concern knits Aaron’s brows, “What do you feel?” 

Somehow, Emily manages to swallow the cookie. 

“Contractions,” she croaks. They’re not anything new, but, “They hurt like a bitch.” She all but whines, tears misting her eyes as Aaron’s hand wraps around her elbow.

“How long have you been having them?” He’s nudging her into a stool. Emily sits, her fingers clutched in his shirt as he helps her down. 

“I don’t know.” Her voice shakes. Sweat slicks her skin. “Uhh…since lunch? Before—before we started the movie. Way before.” Her lip is suddenly between her teeth. “I’ve been—fuck,” she hisses, her nails sinking into Aaron’s flesh. Pain flares in her abdomen, shoots up her back. She whimpers.

“You’re in labor.”

Emily clutches at the counter. She can’t be. It’s Christmas tomorrow, almost two weeks from her due date. Two.

She was supposed to have more time.

“N-No,” she’s shaking her head, cool air slapping her cheeks from the vigorous movement, “I can’t be. I’m not ready.”

“You are,” Aaron soothes, so calm it makes her want to break something. “Honey, we have to—”

“It’s early.” She chokes out. “She’s not supposed to be here until January, Aaron, it’s still—it’s still early.” Her voice wavers again, but not from the pain. “How can you be so sure, anyway, they could just be—”

“Have they been getting closer? Lasting longer?” At her silence he cups her cheek, gentle but firm. “She’s coming now. You gotta let her, Em.”

Emily closes her eyes, her whimper stifled into her bitten lip. She’s shaking her head as Aaron holds her up, carrying her weight against his chest. There’s a quick press of his lips to her hair, a murmured, I know that pushes tears to her eyes.

She’s having her baby tonight.

The contraction is still rolling through her when Aaron calls for Jack. She feels the vibration of his voice through his chest, the pattering of footsteps on the floor static in her ears, muffled as if she’s underwater. Emily twists her fingers in Aaron’s shirt. He palms the back of her neck.

“—shoes on and come here when you’re done, stay with Mom while I get the baby’s things, okay? I’ll stay with her till you come back.”

She doesn’t need anyone to stay with her. Emily opens her mouth, about to say it, when another contraction hits. It sends pain across her abdomen, burying the feeling of Lucy shifting around. She closes her eyes and gnaws on her lip.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“She’s having the baby now?”

“Yeah. Let’s go, we have to get to the hospital.”

“But isn’t it too ear—?”

“Jack,” Aaron says tightly, feeling the way Emily tenses, “buddy, it’s okay, it happens. Babies are rarely born on their due dates. Can you do what I asked?”—a soft, breathless yeah—“Quick, bud, c’mon.”

A swish of air. A hand skating up the length of her arm, the warmth of Aaron’s fingers cupping her cheeks. Emily opens her eyes, finding his blurry outline crouched in front of her.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “How are you holding on?”

She shakes her head. Her tongue is heavy, her jaw tightly clenched against the pain.

Aaron’s eyes are pinched with poorly concealed concern. He stands up and rubs her arm, mouthing some reassurances she can’t hear into her hairline. They vibrate through her skin until Jack’s sneakers come into view, from the corner of her eyes. He’s holding a pair of her shoes—the only pair that fit her anymore—which Aaron takes in hand and kneels down to fit on her feet.

He slips her right, already sock-covered, foot into her shoe, deftly tying the laces together in a double knot. When he’s done he moves on to her left, and through the haze of pain she can only think of one thing.

“I’m in my pajamas,” Emily mumbles, teary-eyed.

Aaron looks up. His mouth opens, no doubt to console, but Jack beats him to it.

“It’s okay, Mom.” Emily looks up to find his eyes wide and earnest. “Me and Dad are in our pj’s too. We won’t change, right?”

She never imagined she’d cry before even stepping foot in the damn hospital.

****

Forty eight minutes later she’s shivering in a hospital gown, numbed from the waist down from her epidural. Six centimeters dilated and the clock inches closer and closer to 9.

It’s there, under the annoyingly bright fluorescent lights of her hospital room, that it hits.

She’s having her baby on Christmas.

Emily’s vision is blurry before she knows it, hot tears rolling down her cheeks with all the ease of a hot knife slicing through butter. Her control on her emotions hung on a thread that has long since snapped, pregnancy a pair of scissors that rendered her a puppeteer with no control over her puppets. From the first few weeks she started crumbling, compartmentalization blown to pieces before she even started to show. It’s something she despises, even more than the aches and pains almost continually rolling through her body. Tears drop at wrong delivery orders and itchy clothes, unsatisfactory baby names and ugly shades of paint for the nursery. And now her daughter is going to share her birthday with a major holiday for the rest of her life.

The sob doesn’t build long in her chest before it breaks free. 

Aaron straightens from where he’s sitting next to her bed. “Emily,” he perches on the edge of his chair, leaning against the handle separating them, “what is it, sweetheart? Are you still in pain?”

Emily’s lip wobbles. “Our daughter is gonna be born on Christmas. Do you know how much it sucks to be born on Christmas?” Her voice breaks on the last word, thick with the taste of her tears.

Aaron blows out a slow breath. The sound irritates her, a flash of annoyance sparking under her skin. But then he takes her hand and rubs his thumb into the tight skin stretched over her knuckles, replacing the bone-deep cold with his warmth.

“It would suck,” he agrees quietly. Emily chews on a sob and turns away, the confirmation in his voice too much for her to take. Aaron brings her back with warm fingers under her chin, gently forcing her eyes on his. “It would suck,” he says again, “if we weren’t her parents. We’ll make it special for her, Emily, you know we will.”

The distant feeling of a contraction ripples through her body. Emily clutches his hand, blinking back superfluous tears until it passes. “How?” She croaks.

His brows tick the slightest bit upwards. Aaron idly brings her hand up to his lips, muffling his thoughtful hum into her knuckles. “Well…we could split the day. Merry Christmas in the morning and happy birthday in the afternoon.” He murmurs. A few more ice-cold breaths and the corner of his mouth ticks up. “Gingerbread pancakes for breakfast and a cake after lunch?”

“...Gingerbread pancakes?” Emily frowns tearily. “Do those even exist?”

“We’ll make them exist. We’ll make up a new tradition for her—for us. It’ll be ours.” Aaron reassures, squeezing her hand. It warms in his grip. “We’ll make it work, Em. It’s hardly the hardest thing we’ve had to do.”

Truthfully, he almost convinces her. It’s hard not to; his eyes are warm, his hand warmer still and his voice bucketfuls of cloud-like softness to calm her down. Emily sniffles, seeing gingerbread pancakes, and almost starts to smile.

Until a thought unfurls in her head and more tears spill down her cheeks. 

“J-Jack’s not gonna have a normal Christmas anymore.” She hiccups, eyes burning. “Neither of them will. And”—she aggressively wipes the hot tears on her face—“I think I traumatized him. Fuck, he saw me crying—”

“Emily—”

“We should tell him we got him the Nintendo.” She sniffles, “He’s probably upset. God, what kid wouldn’t be upset that their sibling is being born on Christmas—”

“Honey, you’ve got to save your strength.” Aaron says gently. He wipes her tears, uselessly, because more spill down her cheeks. “Jack isn’t upset, okay? Jess just texted that he can’t sleep, he’s so excited.” 

Emily blinks damp lashes at him. “She did?”

Aaron’s smile is endlessly patient. “Yeah, she did. Come on now, let’s think of the good stuff.” He slips the hem of his sweater over his heel and gently dabs under her eye. “In a couple of hours, we’ll have our baby. And, just think about it—we’ll have more time with her than we thought we would. Fifteen more days than we thought we’d have. Isn’t that—” Aaron swallows, his hand faltering as a faint shine gleams in his eyes. “Isn’t that good, Emily?” 

Fifteen days. Fifteen more days to know her baby, to get to speak out her name and run her finger down the length of her cheek. 

More tears pool on her lashes. God, she’s sick of them. “Yeah.” Emily croaks, half laughing, half sobbing. “Yeah, it’s good. Fifteen days.” She wipes under her eye.

Aaron smiles softly. “She just couldn’t wait,” he lays his palm on the curve of her stomach, “must’ve heard about all the fun we’ll be having and got jealous. Did you, Lucy?” Impossibly, his voice softens further. “You just wanted to be part of it, huh?”

Emily smiles blurrily as she dries her face with the heel of her hand, watching Aaron lean over the handle to talk to her bump. That in itself isn’t unusual, but:

“You’re talking so much,” the thought slips past her lips before she can catch it, half delirious already from the pain and her epidural. Her hand finds his face, the pad of her thumb dipping under his jaw. “You never talk this much.”

She must really be on the ledge.

“Well, you’re freaking out. I have to do something.” Aaron murmurs. “What, should I stop?” The teasing lilt to his voice makes her cringe.

“No. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.” Emily mumbles, apologetic even though the brown of his eyes is warm. “S’mean.”

Aaron’s hand covers hers. Their fingers lock together, the metal of their rings notching with a tiny click. “You’re in labor, Emily. I think you saying a few mean things is warranted.”

“So you do think it’s mean?” Her eyes brim up with tears again. Great, she traumatized Jack and is bullying his father—

“No, baby.” He smothers a sigh into her knuckles. “I think you should stop worrying about my feelings and focus more on getting this little princess out,” his other hand drops to her stomach, knuckles gently tracing over the scratchy material of her hospital gown. Lucy stirs, but she doesn’t jab an elbow into Emily’s gut in response. “She’s not kicking anymore,” he notes.

“Mmm,” Emily sniffs, stealing her hand from his grip to place it on the palm lying on her stomach. It’s a bit of a useless exchange. “S’weird. She’s, like…rolling. Shifting.” Her brows furrow, even as Aaron smiles. “Can’t really explain it.”

A contraction makes her lace their fingers together, squeezing his hand though it doesn’t hurt, not really. When it passes he grabs a water bottle off her beside table and pushes it into her free hand, murmuring something about restoring all the water she’d lost. Emily glares at him weakly but takes it, her throat drier than she’d like from what seems like hours of crying. Neither of them are surprised when she drains the whole bottle in one go.

Emily’s eyes restlessly flit to the clock again; she groans when she finds it’s not even 9:30 yet, the clock’s long hand hovering between 4 and 5. The exhaustion is heavy in her bones, though it seems she’s hardly done anything but cry. Aaron makes her down yet another bottle of water at that, and when she’s done he wordlessly conjures a wet wipe and wipes the dried tears from her face.

She’s about to scold him for opening up their unborn daughter’s pack of wipes when a knock sounds and the door opens. The nurse comes in, cheerily announcing that it’s time for another checkup.

“How are we doing, Mrs. Hotchner?” She asks as she pokes and prods, pressing the transducer to Emily’s stomach. Lucy’s heartbeat comes through, and both Aaron and Emily exhale.

But the relief quickly disintegrates.

“Tired.” Emily grumbles.

Izzy smiles sympathetically. “You’re still at six centimeters. You could take a nap, if you’d like. It’ll probably still be a while.”

“It’s a good idea,” Aaron says when she’s gone. “Today was busy.”

It was busy. They’d been up since the morning, wrapping presents and hiding them—Jack’s—in their closet. Aaron had gone to the mall for some last minute gifts that slipped through the cracks, and she’d stayed home with Jack, hanging stockings while stepping through mountains of wrapping paper, half of them shredded to streamers from Sergio’s claws. But it was a good kind of busy, a good kind of ache that lingered alongside Lucy’s constant presence. It’s a kind of busyness she never thought she’d get to have, fated to celebrate holidays surrounded by friends but ultimately on her own. Now warmth flows from a home she can call her own, a family that makes her count lucky stars she never even believed in.

“Yeah,” Emily hums, abruptly closing her eyes at the feeling of another contraction. She lays her hand on her bump, thumb drawing circles as she tries to imagine meeting the little girl beneath her skin, finally getting to hold her, place a face to the name. She’d already imagined Aaron’s eyes, their dark hair—and hopefully those Hotchner dimples that she wouldn’t stand a chance against. The vision makes her breath hitch.

“Does it hurt?”

“Mm, no,” Emily mumbles, trying to open her eyes. She does it with some difficulty—forehead scrunched, squinting into the same alert pools she just saw beneath her closed lids. He is a little blurry again, but she blinks forcefully. “I fucking love drugs.”

Aaron laughs lightly and leans over the handle of her bed, kissing her temple. “I think that’s your cue for that nap. Close your eyes,” as soft as his voice, he adjusts the blanket up to her chest, “it’ll probably be the last good sleep you’ll have in a while.”

Emily snorts weakly. “If you can call having the whole bottom half of your body numb good…” 

But she can’t complain too much. Except—

“I’m cold.”

Aaron reaches for the hem of his sweatshirt. The pajama shirt he’s wearing underneath rides up his stomach as he pulls it off, exposing a sliver. Emily chews on a smile, trying to hide it as his pajamas come into view. Jack had insisted on them—she kind of had, too—and Aaron stood no chance in refusing the bright red pajamas. He tried, but not very convincingly; Emily thinks she—impossibly—loves him all the more for it.

Aaron fishes his arm through the neckline and folds the sweatshirt back the right way. Softened strands of hair wilt into his face, shaken loose in raven threads above his eyes.

“Here,” he kisses the skin between her brows before gently stretching the neckline of his sweatshirt and guiding it over her head. Her hair gets trapped under it; Aaron pulls it out as she clumsily shoves her arms into the sleeves. Warmth settles over her, stretching over half her belly, though the blanket over her legs doesn’t do much.

Hospital beds always leave her with a distinct chill. The ones for her checkups were different, but beds like these remind her of the crushing fear she’d been left with last time, the loneliness and pain knowing her friends thought her to be gone. Now the extra space is heavy with the cold, even though she’s not anymore. 

Emily stretches her hand over the handle. Aaron takes it, pressing his lips to her knuckles before encasing them between both of his warm hands.

“You’re in your pj’s,” she mumbles, a half smile getting squished into her pillow. Christmas pj’s, no less.

A faint smile curves his lips. Dimples. “Mm, solidarity and all that,” he says. “Go to sleep.”

“Bet the nurses had a good laugh,” her words start to slur.

“Bet they did,” his teeth show, a small laugh escaping as pink colors his cheeks. “Now close your eyes.”

“Y’know, I’m starting to think you just don’t like me.”

“I love you,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to catch her lips. They’re warm; she tingles all over. “I just want you to rest up, okay?”

“I guess.” Emily whispers. Her eyes flick up to his. “Just don’t let go of my hand.”

Aaron threads their fingers together. 

“I won’t.”

****

Emily is in awe.

She’s sticky, she’s sweaty and numb, her legs useless, but she’s in awe. Her arms are full of her baby, the downy pink of her blanket rubbing softly against her arm. Lucy’s eyes are closed as she sleeps, quiet as the stillness of the room, and Emily can’t stop tracing the soft, miniature curve of her nose—her own nose, in a different face. 

“I did such a good fucking job,” she mumbles tearily.

Aaron’s lips press together, dimples blooming in his cheeks. “You did.” He nods.

“And you did, too.” Emily sniffs. She takes his hand and squeezes. “Thanks for my baby, Aaron.”

This time he does let himself laugh. “It was my pleasure, sweetheart.” He tucks stray bangs back behind her ear, escaping from the braid he’d put her hair in. “Believe me.”

Emily bites her lip between her teeth, a poor effort to conceal the bubbly giggle in her chest. It’s strange; she’s distantly aware of bone deep exhaustion, a heaviness lining her eyelids, but she looks down and feels floaty. Christmas miracle, Aaron had called her when she was placed into Emily’s arms, red and screaming.

She has to agree.

When Jack sits on the edge of her bed and holds his sister, Aaron’s hands supporting his, he looks up at her with wide eyes.

“She’s way cooler than a Nintendo.”