#life reason for life incidents life incidents

[y3sterdaysproblem]

the shift - c.s.

takes place after this

cw: yelling, crying, mentions of drug use, implied sex

wc: 4.2k

part of the fwb!chris series

it’s been weeks.

weeks of radio silence from chris, and you weren’t giving him anything to work with either. in your head, you said what you needed to say, and the ball was in his court.

he never responded after the last message, more than likely trying to pick up the pieces of whatever relationship he had, for whatever reason. she didn’t seem worth it. she seemed boring, innocent, annoying. every time she spoke it sounded like nails on a chalkboard and you had to check to make sure your ears weren’t bleeding.

ever since the party and the incident, you’ve kept yourself as busy as possible; picking up shifts, going out with friends, cleaning your entire apartment every few days, just to avoid thinking about how badly you fucked everything up, just to avoid the chris sized hole in your life.

being alone was never something that bothered you, always enjoying time by yourself to do whatever you wanted to do, even if that was just rotting and doom scrolling, nobody could tell you you couldn’t do it.

you’re doing exactly that, body wrapped up in a blanket as you lounged on your couch in comfortable clothes, legs tucked under you. the tv was on a low volume in front of you, and at first you thought the knocking was coming from the show that played lowly, but when you paused it and heard it again, you realized it was your door that somebody was banging on.

you didn’t want to move, hoping that whoever it was would just leave you alone eventually, probably trying to sell you some shit you didn’t need anyway, but when your door rattled for a third time, you huffed and threw the blanket off of yourself, standing up and walking towards the door. “i’m coming!” you yelled, approaching the door and finally ripping it open, your eyes widening and heart dropping to your stomach when you saw who was on the other side.

“it’s been a long time since i’ve heard you say that,” he says, a slight smirk forming on his lips.

you’re unamused, staring at him across the doorway silently. he rolls his eyes at your lack of response, pushing past you until he was inside your apartment. you didn’t say anything, shutting the door and turning around to face him, eyebrows raised like you were waiting for him to speak.

chris turns to face you and sighs, realizing you weren’t in the mood for jokes. “I left my favorite lighter here,” he says, and you can’t help but scoff out a laugh. “a lighter? a fucking lighter? you’re here because you left a lighter?” you shake your head in disbelief and push past him, knowing exactly which lighter he was talking about. it was on your coffee table getting daily use from every time you lit a blunt when you would smoke at night or on days off like this. “you’re the most ridiculous person i’ve ever met,” you mumble, mostly to yourself as you reach for the lighter, spinning around on your heels to hand it to chris.

you knew he was following you into the living room, but you had no idea he was standing as close as he was, and the second you were facing him, he was closing the distance.

chris’s hands reached out for you, one hand landing on your waist and the other wrapping around to the back of your head, pulling your body closer to his as he leaned down and slammed his lips on yours, sighing softly once they finally made contact. you’re caught of guard, hands held out on either side of you as you process what was happening, the lighter slipping from your fingers as you finally move to grasp onto the front of his shirt, holding him close for a moment before pushing him back, pulling your head back to stare at him confusedly. “chris, what the fuck?” you question, and his hands never leave your body as he dips his head down to bury into your neck, lips pressing against your skin fervently, teeth nipping like he couldn’t get enough. “i’m sorry,” he whispers against your jaw, pulling your bodies together again, closing the gap you created when you pushed him away. “you’re right, I was out of line, we were both at fault, forgive me.”

you felt like you were dreaming, partly because you’ve never experienced chris apologizing before, especially not so profusely, and also because your body was melting into his habitually, like no time had passed, like you’d never been angry at all. “chris,” you breathe out, head tilting away from him as your eyes fluttered shut. “you can’t just come into my house and fuck me and think everything will go back to normal.”

“i’m apologizing at the same time,” chris responds, pulling his face away to stare down at you. “you were right, she’s too boring for me. I was so mad because I felt like someone finally gave me the time of day, felt like I could be myself around her but I couldn’t. I wasn’t myself around her and I can’t be myself around anyone except…” he pauses and sucks in a small breath before sighing out again. “listen, i’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that. I feel sick to my stomach saying this out loud but I missed you,” he pauses after he says this, eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness.

it was hard not to give in instantly and forgive him, especially with the way his fingertips dug into your skin, desperate to feel you as close as he could. he couldn’t pinpoint why he felt so needy, so eager to feel you on him, all he knew was apologizing was the quickest way to have you sprawled out underneath him just the way he liked, but you were still far too angry to crack just yet.

“chris, do you even remember what you said to me?” you question, still wrapped up in his arms but with enough distance to glare up at him. “do you remember what you called me? how you backed me into a wall and made me cry? how you embarrassed me in front of all of our friends? or do you only care about making up so we can go back to fucking?”

you start push away from him fully as you speak, his hands falling to his sides as he watches you back up and create a bigger gap between you both. his mouth opens to speak, then closes again, his shoulders drawing up into an awkward shrug. “I know I was mean but I was mad,” he defends himself, dismissing it like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “you might as well have left a hickey on my neck, it gave the same impression.”

you let a small breath of air puff out from your nostrils, a mix between a scoff and a laugh, unable to believe the words coming from his mouth. “mean?” you sneer. “you think you were just mean? you yelled at me in front of everybody, called me a whore, called me exhausting, said nobody would ever deal with me, you said I was stupid and that I ruin everything, but you think you were just mean? chris, there’s been days that I lay in bed half the day because all I can think about is if what you said is true or not.” you’re unaware of the way the tip of your nose starts turning red and your cheeks turn blotchy, a clear indicator that you’re about to start crying, only realizing it once you see chris’s expression change and the way he shifts uncomfortably between his feet. that’s when your nose starts to burn and your eyes start to flood with tears.

“I didn’t mean it, I was just mad,” chris tries to console, taking a step closer to you again, but you back away to keep the same distance. “listen, we say rude shit to each other all the the time, what’s the difference now?”

“the fucking difference is you did it in front of twenty people!” you yell, a fat tear sliding down your cheek. “I can handle you being mean, don’t think I can’t, but you berating me like that just proves how awful of a person you really are!” chris is stunned into silence, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, but only for a few moments as he’s never been too good at keeping his mouth shut. “berating is a little much, don’t you think?” he starts, already starting to feel himself get annoyed by your accusations. “sure, I was mad, but you left fucking lip gloss on my neck! I mean, how do you think she felt knowing I dragged you off to talk and then I come back with shit all over my neck?!”

“how do you think I felt?!” you yell back, not caring about the fact that your neighbors could definitely hear you. “who gives a fuck what she felt, she’s a fucking nobody! what about me?! why do you never stop to fucking think about the way your words affect me?!” you’re fully sobbing now, cheeks covered in thick tears, voice cracking as you choke out your words. “i’m supposed to be your friend over everything. fuck the sex, fuck the weed, fuck the stupid little bitches you bring around that you let get between us, you’re supposed to be my friend before all of that and you showed me that you care more about some attention from a prude than the feelings of somebody you’re meant to care about.”

chris reaches his hands up to his face and rubs it harshly, groaning into his palms as he processes what you’re saying. “can you stop with all these jealous little comments? she wasn’t just a prude or some girl that got between us, she was nice and funny and pretty and she didn’t care about fucking me or smoking my shit. she didn’t care about what I had, she just listened to me and liked being around me. she saw me.” his hands drop back to his sides and as his eyes refocus on you, he can’t help the twinge of sadness that pangs in his chest as he sees your expression, sees how distraught you really were. he even considered cutting this conversation short to pull you into his arms and apologize until your tears had dried. chris was a little bit too much of an asshole for this, though.

“she saw you?” you laugh wetly, running an anxious hand through your hair. “what exactly did she see? did she see the way you play with your lips when you get nervous? did she see how you always place your phone face down when you’re with people so it doesn’t distract you from the moment?” you take a couple steps closer to him, close enough to reach out and touch him if you wanted to. “did she see how you always eat your fries before your burger even though that’s fucking weird and wrong? did she see the way you flinch every time someone says they love you, even if it’s your fucking brothers, because you can’t even grasp the concept of love existing when it involves you? I bet she didn’t see any of that shit, because she doesn’t care about you.” you pick your arm up before you can stop yourself, sniffling loudly as you jab your finger into his chest, staring at it as you made contact to avoid his eyes that watched you intently. “not… not like I do.”

chris furrows his brows together at your words, head tilting down to glance at your finger pointed into his shirt, then brought it back up slightly to look at you again. “like you do? is that a joke?” he asks, voice quieter than before. you groan and slam your palm into his chest, pushing him away again before turning around and starting to pace in your living room. your heart was beating so loud you could feel it in your ears, the sound rushing through in a rhythmic boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom. “listen, i’m sorry that I yelled at you, but she actually meant something to me whether you believe it or not. she actually wanted to be around me and spend time together.”

chris tries to reach out to stop your pacing, but you only shoved his hands away as they came closer to you. “so what are you doing here, then?” you snark, looking up at him as you walked a straight line, then stopped and turned around to walk it back. “shouldn’t you be with her, your perfect princess?”

he groans at your attitude, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. “oh my fucking god,” chris mumbles under his breath, almost like he was speaking with the omnipotent being for the strength to deal with you. “i’m not interested anymore,” he tells you finally, bringing his head back to look at you. “I told you. you were right, her and I aren’t compatible no matter how much attention she gives me.”

your feet stop on your carpeted floor, turning to face the man in front of you. “so what, you wanna go back to just fucking all the time? is that what you’re here for?” you ask him, crossing your arms over your chest. chris shrugs his shoulders awkwardly. “I miss the sex yeah,” he starts slowly. “but I also miss… the other stuff.”

you furrow your eyebrows at him, not appreciating his vagueness. “other stuff?” you question, and chris nods. “like… going for drives together, or watching movies and eating leftovers. listening to you ramble on about shit I don’t care about. I think I miss just being around you. i’m not sure, though, i’ve never really felt that with anybody else.”

your heart felt like it couldn’t beat any faster without risking the chance of it actually beating out of your chest, pounding so hard now you were sure chris could see it under your ribcage. “you actually just miss me?” you ask in disbelief. he nods again, nervously playing with his fingers. “yes,” he admits. “can you just forgive me and we move on?”

you narrow your eyes at him, mulling over his words carefully. “no,” you say flatly. “what?!” chris sputtered, holding his hands out in annoyance. “what else do you fucking want?! I was wrong, i’m standing here in front of you admitting my faults, I don’t know what the fuck else you could actually want from me!” he’s beyond frustrated now, ready to give up and walk out.

you tilt your head, keeping eye contact with him as a small smirk appears on your lips.

“I want you to admit you’re in love with me.”

chris’s chin tucks into his chest, head shaking as he processes what you just said. “you what?” he questioned, taken aback by your request.

“you heard me,” you respond sassily. “there is no way the only reason you’re here is because you miss me. you said it yourself, you want all the little things back. when was the last time you just wanted to be around a girl?” you take a step closer to chris, your eyes locked on each other’s as you reduced the space between your bodies.

“I don’t fucking know,” chris responds defensively, bumping into the coffee table as he tries to back away. “i’m not-“

“don’t even,” you interrupt. “i’m not in love with you!” chris shouts. “you think i’d be dumb enough to fall in love with a girl that would never love me back? I took a step away for a fucking reason and tried to put my energy in somebody that would actually return my feelings.”

“maybe if you fucking told me what your feelings were I could tell you if I returned them or not,” you groaned, infuriated by his dumb boy-ness and lack of awareness. “don’t,” chris sighs out, his fingers itching to reach out for you. “you don’t get to say shit like that and get my hopes up.”

you reach out and sling your arms around chris’s neck, stepping up so your bodies are pressed against one another. “chris, please let your guard down for fucking once and be honest with me,” you say in a soft tone, staring up into his eyes that are starting to soften, his hard exterior damaged under your gaze. “I can’t,” chris chokes out, his own hands coming up to rest on your waist, pulling you closer. “yes you can,” you coax, threading your fingers gently through the hair on the back of his head.

chris licks his lips slowly and stares down at you, drawing in deep breath after deep breath to try and ground himself, feeling like his heart was going to crawl up his throat. “i’m sorry,” he says softly, shaking his head a bit. “I can’t tell you what you want to hear.” you sigh and drop your head forward to rest on his chest, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment. “i’m right here,” you tell him. “just let me in, chris.”

he lets out a shaky breath and brings his left hand around to your back, sliding it up under your shirt to feel your skin under his own, his right hand sliding up to your jaw to tilt your head back, allowing him to lean down and press your lips together again, slower this time, like he was trying to savor it.

you relaxed into the kiss, feeling the familiarity seeping back in as your chests pressed together and his hands held you close. “tell me,” you beg quietly against his lips, feeling him pull you closer as you spoke. chris slid his hand around to the back of your head, holding you firmer against him. “shut up,” he breathes, moving his mouth over your cheek and to your jaw, leaving gentle kisses in its wake. “chris, there’s no way i’m the only one feeling like this.”

“you already know how I feel, why do I have to say it out loud?” chris asks, teeth dragging along your skin carefully. “because if you know that I love you, I want you to tell me you love me, too.”

chris pauses his movements, pulling his head away to stare down at you. your head is tilted up to look at him and his hand still rests on the back of your head, gently holding you in place. “you what?”

you swallow thickly, realizing that there’s no backtracking now. you’ve already crossed an irreversible line and had to double down on your words. your next words were whispered softly, but it felt like the sound reverberated through your whole apartment.

“I love you, chris.”

“don’t mess with me, please, I can’t-“

“i’m serious,” you stop him, seeing the look on his face. it was one of pure desperation, almost begging for you to be telling the truth. “i’m in love with you.”

chris releases a shaky breath, one full of nerves and adrenaline. “fuck,” he whispers, leaning back down to slam your lips together again, this kiss full of passion and desire. “say it again,” he begs, voice muffled against your mouth.

“I love you,” you soothe, sliding your hand that didn’t rest in his hair up his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm. “i’m right here.”

chris snakes his own hands down your body until they reach the backs of your thighs, scooping you up into his arms so your legs wrap around his waist, a small squeal leaving your lips at the sudden movement. he started walking towards your room, using your back to push the door open before taking a few steps to your bed, leaning forward to lay you against it, then keeping his place between your legs to settle above you.

“are you serious?” he asks, needing reassurance more than anything. “because if you’re fucking with me, I swear to god i’ll-“

“can you stop freaking out?” you ask, reaching a hand up to cover his mouth. “do you want me to be in love with you or not?” you raise your eyebrows up at him, your expression clearly saying ‘well?’

“yes,” chris rasps, nodding his head and pulling away a bit more to take in more of your figure. “yeah, more than anything.” you nod in response, reaching up to grab his shoulders to pull him back down towards you. “okay, well then if you can’t say it back, at least fuck me like you love me.”

“yeah, okay. I can do that.”

you’re laying under the covers, body pressed up against chris in every way possible; your head on his shoulder, arm over his stomach, leg draped over his, both of you relaxing into your post sex bliss. you didn’t even know how long you’ve been in your bedroom, too exhausted to keep track of time.

“chris?” you say softly, breaking the silence. he hums quietly to let you know he’s listening as his fingers trail up and down your back gently. “why are you so against relationships?”

chris pauses his movements for a split second, not expecting you to ask a question so deep. “uhh,” he starts awkwardly. “I don’t know.” you push yourself up on your elbow at his answer, staring down at him inquisitively. he reaches forward and gently moves some hair off of your shoulder, eyes trailing over your naked frame in admiration. “you definitely know,” you push.

he sighs and meets your gaze again, knowing that you weren’t going to drop the subject. “of course I know, but… it’s not exactly the most fun conversation to have in bed with the hottest girl i’ve ever met.” you shake your head and gently tap his nose. “you’re not getting out of this with compliments!” you tell him determinedly.

“alright, alright,” chris caves, shifting a bit underneath the covers. “my parents got divorced when I was really young and it really messed with my brothers and I but especially me. I was so dependent on being around my brothers at that time and my parents couldn’t even be in the same room without arguing so they never had a set schedule for who would have which kid and when. there would be days at a time that I would only see matt or nick while I was at school because they were at my dad’s house and I was at my mom’s. I hated being separated from them and I always blamed my parents. I blamed their relationship and their lack of commitment and lack of trying. in our eyes, it looked like they just gave up one day. when you’re a kid and you see love seemingly just disappear overnight, it doesn’t put the best taste in your mouth, so, I was like… eight years old when I decided I never wanted to love anybody.”

as chris speaks, you run your hand over his body gently, wherever you could reach; his chest, his collarbones, over his cheek, pushing hair out of his face gently, gazing down at him attentively to let him know you were listening. “that’s a big commitment when you’re that young,” you say gently, and he nods, pursing his lips and avoiding your gaze. “yeah, but… it’s worked.”

“has it?” you question hopefully, tilting his head towards you, his eyes flicking up to meet yours apprehensively. “can we not talk about my feelings?” chris asks, turning on his side to face you, his arm wrapping around your waist tightly. “it’s bad enough talking about my shitty upbringing, I just want to lay here and look at your pretty face.”

your cheeks burn red as his body pushes you onto your back again, hair splayed out on your pillow as he hovers above you. “i’m so lucky,” chris hums, dipping his face down to latch his lips to your chest, pressing gentle kisses on your skin as he moves the blanket off of you. “you’re not lucky yet, chris. you haven’t locked anything down,” you tease, trying to ignore the goosebumps forming on your skin. “shut the fuck up, you’re mine and you know it.” chris grumbles, tightening his grip on your waist.

“yeah, yeah, whatever, bitch. why don’t you put that mouth to better use and eat me out?” chris pulls his head away from your body to stare down at you with wide eyes. “you’re lucky you’re hot or I would smack your bitch ass,” he tells you, but despite his words starts moving down the bed, settling himself between your spread legs. “good boy,” you tease, patting his head gently.

chris grips your thighs tightly and pushes them further apart, sinking his teeth into the fleshy skin, eliciting a small whine from you.

“ouch!” you pout, grabbing onto his hair and trying to pull him away, but he stays put, sucking a dark, purple mark into your thigh. when he’s done, he pulls away and smiles at his work, then looks back up at you where you’re watching him with a longing expression. “see?” he says proudly.

“all mine.”

a/n: don’t get excited and think this is over, yall. they are toxic after all.

fwb!chris masterlist

taglist

@liiixsturniolos @madelinesturn @ifwdominicfike @sophand4n4 @chris-hallelujah @sophsturns @rafesapprentice @045696 @scorpioosworld @byhrxb @vickytaa @taelovesmattsturniolo @secret-sturniolo @theboredknightcat-blog @slvtf0rchr1s @gabri3la-sturns @delilahsturniolo @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @vanillsstuff @sturnlsstuff @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @mattsbratt333 @mattsfavoritestar @dominicfikeenthusiast @certified-sturniolo @mattsside @sofiaaguilaxx @idrk2292 @dylansfavwife @sturnl0ve @sturnioloangelxoxo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @milasturniolo @mattsdillion @birkinbratsworld @aria003 @poppingmypussy4chris @annsx03 @ouchywow @pasteldreams @sweetshuga @pip4444chris @chriss-slut @yourebeautifulqueen @watercolorskyy @courta13 @craftycrafter26 @meg4-matt44 @colorthecosmos444

[xxyanderegurlxx]

Ashryn Viviana "Rook" De Riva

1: She says Treviso truly she doesn't know where she's from originally Viago found her on a contract in Orlais in a secret Labatory ran by a venatori high mage and of course she has no memories of her life before cause ✨trauma✨ and there were no records of her either burnt by the venatori that experiment on her, Manius Servanus

2: Chaotic neutral, she will do anything to if she believes its right and hate stubborn people who won't listen to reason probably why she punch the first warden

3: Elf and Rogue

4: if she didn't get kicked out of the crows, probably Olais working a contract.

5: Sarcasm and humor, that her go to emotion 😂

6: Taash and Davrin. She understands Taash not being able to fit in with being a qunari being raised in Rivain while her mother taught her under the Qun. Ashryn doesn't know if she was Dalish or a city elf or anything, she has no idea where she belongs between the two always feeling like a puzzle piece that got left behind and so Ashryn completley understand what Taash was going through, but they also bond over dragons, Ashryn used all kinds of books about dragons never thinking she would ever meet or fight one. And then with Davrin, he rejected his path of life finding his true calling as a warden Ashryn was in awe with his courage some people just stick to chosen path and never change but he did, and it helped that he had some crazy stories about the monster he hunted.

7: Lucanis, this truly took her one by surprised Ashryn never really had romance in her cards, she was a crow she expected she was going to die before anything like that could happen. Ash had more than heard of Lucanis Dellamorte, she may have had tini tiny crush on him if we even call it that she never met him or even seen him before since she was under a different talon than him but since she had a personal hatred for the Venatori and heard of his exploits of kill all those mages she became a little enamored Teia obvious found out and teased her for days about it but life went on and then she got kicked out of the crows after the incident with the Antaam and completely forgot about "the demon of vyrantium" until Neve brought up recruiting him and its been almost a year since she even thought of about Lucanis Dellamorte and then she gets to Ossuary and meets him the first time and she cured in elvish cause fuck he's hot and then when she startes getting to know him, the fact he gets everyone a gift, his obsession with coffee and the fact he loves wyvern, he became just so adorable and just a person in her eyes

8: Solas, she never trusted him in the beginning, but she started to understand him little by little that as a leader he made a lot of choices that he had to and then the bastard broke that small bit of understanding trust that she had with him when throwing her in the fade prison

9: it was strenuous but after saving it from the blighted dragon, she's in the good books with Crows now.

10: None actually but she does sing, and from she has been told beautifully to and dancing.

11: Twin Blades or her bow.

12: Pansexual

13: She's a literal crow if there's a contract, she does it though she does prefer contracts for the bastards on the world. So she really has no problem with killing.

14: Reading, and drawing she likes drawing her friends at the lighthouse or sights she seen

15: Ashur- She really respects him and his caused and felt guilty for having to choose Treviso, but it was her home, she couldn't abandon it, Evka and Antonine- Those two are just funny and reliable. Vorgoth- She has no idea what he is, but he fascinated her to no end.

16: Dragons for sure, though she loves all animals just not bugs, she hates them with a passion.

17: Yes, she enjoys the sights and the people but after all that has transpired, she thinks she has had enough adventure to last a lifetime and wouldn't mind just going back to being a normal crow though she would miss her friends.

18: Since she would be kicked out the crows, I see her going to Minrathous to meet Neve about tracking down Manius Servanus and to finally figure out her past and where she came from and what the hell did, he does to her.

19: In a fantasy life at old age happy with her friends and family by her side but possibly on a contract it's the life a crow after all

20: She fights him of course this world may not be perfect but still it's her world where so many good and bad things that happen to her shape her into the person she is today, and she wouldn't change it for anything.

21:Lightning Flask

22: Elvis, Antivian

23: She pretends she okay and that she has everything handle until she's alone to break down

24: She's hopes there is one

25: Duelist

26: Probably a dog, like a Siberian Husky or maybe a German Shepard

27: She barely remembers her life before she was ten-year-old all she knows was that she been living as an experiment for years and then Viago saved her, and she became a crow

28: Sadly, she doesn't feel like she should be the leader, but Varric asked her to be it and no one else seemed to want the job

29: Shadow Dragon, because she hates slavery and the Venatori just as much as them if not more and maybe should've met Dorian early and found out about the truth of her past earlier on

30: I just can't help but love Ashryn, she is unapologetically flawed, but just lovable as well, she's always caring about others and always forgetting about herself. She's sarcastic and funny but really kind as well, and even though she doesn't think she should have become the leader of this group she steps up and did her best and I think deep down she knows Varric is proud of her

Rook Questionnaire

inspired by @cassieuncaged's BG3 Character Development Questions but for Rook instead!

1: Where in the Thedas is your Rook from?

2: What is your character's alignment?

3: Race and subclass?

4: If your Rook was a companion, where would they be found?

5: What emotion did they usually pick?

6: What companion are you platonically close with?

7: Romantically close with?

8: Who are they suspicious of?

9: Does your Rook get along with their chosen Faction?

10: Are they proficient in playing any instruments?

11: Weapon of choice?

12: What is their orientation?

13: What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it?

14: What hobbies does your Rook have?

15: What NPCs do they like? Which one's do they dislike?

16: Do they have a favorite creature in the Thedas?

17: Do they enjoy life as an adventurer?

18: What would your Rook be doing if they weren't recruited by Varric?

19: How do you think they'll meet their end?

20: Would they side with Solas or fight him?

21: What is your Rook's favorite ability?

22: What languages is your character fluent in?

23: What do they do after an absolute crisis?

24: Does your character believe in the afterlife?

25: What specialization best represents your Rook?

26: What animal best represents your Rook?

27: What was their life like before the events of Veilguard?

28: Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader?

29: If you could choose a different faction for your Rook, which one would they have joined and why?

30: What's your favorite thing about your Rook?

[potatobugxo]

if you're taking requests, maybe headcannons or a one shot y/n comforting either kissy, doey, or huggy? Offering them cuddles, head kisses, anything like that?

I'LL DO ALL 3 🥰🥰

I'll do scenarios of the reader comforting them after their traumatic occurrences... Poor babies 🥺🥺

warnings: trauma (all characters) severe injuries/body gore (for kissy and huggy's parts) doey has a severe mental breakdown

pairings: kissy missy, doey, and huggy wuggy x reader (separate)

🩷kissy missy🩷

-after fighting off the prototype and barely surviving, you're the one to nurse kissy back to health

-using stray bandages and medical supplies, you manage to clean her burn-like wounds, and mend her broken arm

-the poor baby is severely traumatized after what happened, and she's still shaking from the incident even after you're finished patching her up

-you cradle her large head in your arms and she curls into you, and you pet her fur, making soft cooing noises to calm her down

-"it's okay, kissy, you're safe now, sweet pea..."

-it takes some time but she eventually calms down in your arms

🌈doey🌈

-after the prototype destroys safe haven, doey is beyond shattered, his entire life and reason for living having been destroyed

-youre the only one left that he still cares about

-as he starts to lose it, his rage bubbling to a boil, and he starts to transform into his more monstrous form, you do your best to quell his anger

-you hug him tight even as he tries to break free from your grip as he screams and cries and thrashes around

-"I'm so sorry, doey... I'm so, so sorry..."

-it takes a long time but doey finally calms down after you hold him for long enough, and he just starts sobbing in your arms

-he shrinks back down to his normal size and wraps his long, doughy arms around you as he cries, mourning the loss of the friends he swore to protect

-there's little you can do to reassure him everything will be okay, but you're all he has left, and you're the only reason he didn't go on a killing spree

💙huggy wuggy💙

-after huggy's nearly fatal fall down further into the factory, you find him curled up in a corner after he managed to scrape his wounded body off the floor

-he's covered in injuries when you find him, his blue fur stained with his own blood, his head busted open and one of his arms barely dangling by a thread

-the worst of it was his stuffing-like intestines bursting through the seams of his blue fur

-you rush to help him, finding anything you can to tend to his wounds

-you use his own bowtie as a tourniquet to tie around his arm, before you have to pull the rest of it off, as it was beyond saving

-huggy is crying and growling and whimpering as you mend his wounds, and though most of the damage was external, he had many internal injuries as well

-once you're finished you pull him into a hug as he rests on the floor, his breathing uneven. you coo to him, planting soft kisses to his face

-"I promise I won't let anyone hurt you ever again..."

[monstersholygrail]

dray the crisis is hitting again can I get yandere mad scientist and their also mad scientist reader who loves experimenting with them? Thank u!!

Omgeee my first yandere ask, thank you sm!! Hope you like it, it kinda went all over the place (much like the couple lol)

Ever since Yandere!Mad Scientist was a boy the twisted darkness of scientific exploration spoke to the depths of his soul. He carried it with him throughout his childhood and the so-called deranged experiments he would conduct on the neighborhood animals.

When you, the new neighbor’s child, cried over the loss of your cat, Yandere!Mad Scientist felt something shift inside of him for the first time in his few years on this earth. He wondered briefly if this is what his parents meant when referring to emotion. He wanted… more of this strange sensation. He also wanted to use his gifts for someone else for a change. Another first your presence has given him.

He knew you would appreciate the gift that resulted from his experiment, and appreciate him, even when no one else ever has. Something in him told him you would understand. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny, no, he believed in cold hard facts and science. But perhaps in this one exception… it was your soul calling out for him. It had to be. Who was he not to answer?

The moment you throw open the gift box in your family’s living room to reveal your cat’s moving head on a mechanical body and your joyous squeals mingle with your parents horrified screams, he knew. The way you marveled at his accomplishment as you hugged your cat close before your parents tore it away from you in terror.

He knew you were meant to be his. And someday when he wasn’t so little and you weren’t under the control of your parents, you would be. By the possessive look you flash him as your parents usher him out and threaten to call the cops, he knows you have the same idea.

As you both continued to age, Yandere!Mad Scientist’s experiments only got more complex and dangerous. Though now you were right there by his side, driving his theories down even darker avenues. Your creative mind just as twisted as his, if not more so. Your genius unparalleled.

Of course, a series of strategic maneuvers had to be set in place every time you both snuck away to meet up given your parents had permanently banned you from seeing ‘the freak kid next door.’ They still hadn’t gotten over the little cat incident. The fact that you kept the cat alive to this day probably not helping them move on either.

But nothing could keep you away from each other. He was yours and you were most definitely his. With your work together you two would take control of the world and destroy anyone who tried to get in the others path. They were all of inferior minds to you two, they had no right to deny you what rightfully belonged to you and him.

No one would be able to touch you or keep you from him again. It was only a matter of time.

When you and Yandere!Mad Scientist got to college it was the real first taste of freedom either of you had ever had. He thought that this was it. You two would never be separated from now on. He’d be in an off campus apartment with you after school and during school you two would have all the same classes.

But then you have to go and betray him, doing the worst thing imaginable. Choosing a different major than him. While he had gone the expected path— the correct one— of a Science Major. You had chosen… Psychology. It was possibly the first time in his entire life that Yandere!Mad Scientist had been furious at you. You wouldn’t believe how tempted he was to handcuff you to him so you’d be forced to always remain by his side

He was actually searching online for a good sturdy pair the night you came to him asking for help with a project, the first you two had spoken in days following the fight you had about it. And that’s when he learns of your true motivations, the reason behind your desire to be a… Psych major of all things.

You see, you had started working on a memory control device that would surely help your plans for world domination. Of course, he immediately agreed to working on this with you. You two had never worked separately since you met and he wasn’t about to start now. Only he was allowed to know the inner workings of your mind, to understand the way your genius wove its clever webs. He was the only one who ever understood you and that would remain true for as long as he had a say about it.

Together, the work on your project progressed rapidly. The two of you working on it day and night. It was a little tricky, given you two only shared a few classes together where you’d pass flirtatious notes filled with complex algorithms. But he made do.

Though as you learned more from your classes and began applying them to the device, something started feeling… off about it all. More algorithms were attempted that he doesn’t remember running, beakers he doesn’t recall turning on were left running till they overflowed, and days seemed to pass him by where it felt like he had done absolutely nothing despite your excited rambling on the progression of the project.

One night, as you two are cleaning up from that night’s experiments, he comes across one of his many notebooks. Buried deep under a dozen others just like it. But this one has a book mark with an arrow pointing down saying ‘Read me.’ On the marked page lays a whole series of numbers and formulas he’s never even seen before in his one handwriting. With a sticky note at the top reading ‘Forget Something?’

He reads through what appears to be his work over and over again. No, this can’t be real. He never did any of this, it’s impossible. But as he watches the formulas grow more successful with each equation, realization dawns on him. It is possible. He just lost his memory of it. He looks up, eyes instantly catching onto your form across the room just as you look back up at him.

That playful smirk and mischievous glimmer in your eye that he loves so much. It’s as clear as day. As is what you’ve been doing to him. His lips curl into a mirroring expression and you just laugh, returning your gaze to your work.

Ah, so that’s how you want to play it, huh? That’s more than fine by him. He can play it right back to ya. To show you that his brain is all yours for fucking around with, so long as you’re his to do the same.

The next time you come to, the pair of you are sitting in an unfamiliar lecture hall. The teacher droning on about a topic you can’t really hear. Still half-asleep with your head resting on your arms.

“Wakey wakey, darling,” he murmurs in your ear, hand petting your head affectionately. You look too cute all groggy and disoriented as you slowly wake up from the device’s effects. He understands why you used it so much on him. Seeing you like this was absolutely irresistible.

You groan, eyes scrunching up tight. Your head feeling like it weighs about a metric ton and your eyes begging to remain closed forever. You open them anyway, lashes fluttering as you try and focus in on your surroundings. The lecture hall is completely unfamiliar to you. And given the stone walls, you’re in a completely different department.

“W-where am I?” You ask, voice slightly slurred from misuse.

He is having too much fun watching you. It’s wild seeing the device be used and the impacts it has on its users. He briefly wonders if you’ll forget all about this feeling just as he had. He cups your chin with a surprising tenderness, slowly bringing your attention back on him.

“Don’t you remember, dear? You decided to transfer into the Science department. Now, we’ll be together in all our classes. Just like you wanted,” he rumbles, his voice like a hypnotic lullaby as his thumb soothingly caresses your jaw.

It takes a moment for you to break through the comforting haze of his touch so his words can register. Your brows furrow deeply, having no memory of leaving your previous major. The words begin to repeat in your head, echoing and pounding against your skull.

Remember.

He can the moment clarity begins to dawn on you. Your eyes losing that dazed effect to them. He practically watches as you put the pieces together, realizing what must’ve happened just like he did. Though he has to give you props for how fast you realized. Your genius only made him fall harder for you, want even more of you.

But when you burst out into a fit of quiet giggles, your eyes lighting up with pride, he can feel the strings you have wrapped around his heart grow impossibly tighter. It was that pride in your work, pride in the success of the device, and even pride in him for managing to get one on you.

Your laughter is infectious and soon he’s laughing right along with you in the lecture hall, leaning in close and marveling at what you two can do when you put your minds to it.

He looks into your eyes, his hand sliding to cup your cheek and holding you like you’re the most the precious thing in the world to him. And just like back when you were kids, with one look he knows what you’re thinking.

That there is nothing better than experimenting with each other. In every way possible.

[rei-ismyname]

Cyclops, Masculinity, and the Hellfire Club

After Jean walks in on Emma's 'therapy session' with Scott, the two women have a long discussion in which he is not welcome. Scott deals with his feelings by getting drunk by himself at the Hellfire Club. People just will not leave him alone though, starting with this unnamed psychic dancer. She's presumably doing her job under the assumption that this is what men are here for. It's a normative and reasonable assumption, but Scott is pointedly uninterested in participating in this marker of masculinity.

The dancer's words remind us of Emma - telepathy, seduction, and a call to let loose - though there's markers of Jean there too, the wife he hasn't been able to communicate with. He rejects the whole thing as 'sexless and unarousing' instead of a 'no thanks, I'm not in the mood' or similar. Instead of rejecting Emma by proxy, my read is that he's rejecting the physicality of it, compared to the mind sex that's been going on. Also, Scott does a lot of 'calling the shots' - too much even. Exercising sexual, gendered power doesn't appeal to him.

This is nothing Scott hasn't been told before. I'm reminded of the butte sex incident specifically, where Phoenix urged him to 'get out of [his] head' so they could have sex. The dynamic and the power differential made the traditional gender roles hazy.

I think Scott agrees with the dancer here in some ways. He's been viewed as uptight his whole life and there's so many instances where Scott isn't the instigator of sex and intimacy. Here in the Hellfire Club with their regency cosplay the gender roles are super patriarchal. Scott rejects or tries to escape the expectations of traditional gender roles and the art reflects that - shifting from the male gaze to Scott's famous gaze. Interestingly we never see the dancer's face so we don't know who she's presenting as. It's Jean who has the significant association with black lingerie and red hair but it's Emma who's associated with BDSM.

Scott gives an awkward apology and explanation, doing his best to strip the illusions away. I can't help but feel like he's trying to convince himself that his complicated feelings for Emma aren't real but he's not doing a very good job. Why did he even come to the Hellfire Club? There's plenty of places to get drunk without running into people he knows or people that know him. He's wearing his X-Men jacket and his unique visor, not exactly incognito.

He completely avoids eye contact with the dancer and everything is tinted red, suggesting we're seeing everything through his POV. His gaze has a long association with angst and self doubt - I have to wonder how well he 'sees' the person he's making assumptions about. He's not exactly denying her personhood, but he's not especially interested in it either. It's ironic that he'd go to the one club that has a intimacy-free version of both his significant relationships with women at this point. One thing's for sure, he's not interested in performing masculinity, but he's in a space where he can't escape the expectation.

The faceless, nameless dancer eventually leaves. Scott's brief solitude is interrupted by a particular kind of toxic masculinity turned up to 11 - Sabertooth. He approaches from a dominant position in the ancient greek sense, from behind - while pointedly calling Scott 'boy.' He ignores this, and Sabertooth gets in really close to smell his drink, describing it as 'gay.' Deeply childish, but explicitly challenging Scott's masculinity. Creed accuses Scott of 'having issues' in a pretty egregious pot/kettle situation.

Scott responds, but simply by telling him to get out of his face. 'Seriously.' Creed switches to that other marker of masculinity - violence, or at least threats of it. Scott ignores that too, rejecting chest beating and puerile verbal sparring. Sebastian Shaw intervenes and orders Creed to leave Scott alone. Shaw has his own thoughts on exercising patriarchal power, but leaves when Scott isn't interested.

Scott is about to leave because 'his pride can't take it anymore.' He doesn't elaborate on this because he's accosted by probably the most prominent uber masculine person in his life - Logan. Logan accuses Scott of 'making the X-Men look like losers' and it's hard to read this as anything but a gendered challenge. He expands on Creed's judgment of Scott's choice of beverage by implying it's not 'real' (ly masculine) - slamming a bottle of Jack Daniels on the table. Scott's not interested in that either.

Logan doesn't really give Scott a choice, framing it in the context of a challenge. Denying that he's here to convince him to return to the X-Men, he tells Scott that Emma was murdered after he left. Leaving him to chew on that, Logan lays out the stakes of the challenge and departs for the urinal - that most bioessentialist of masculine spaces.

Making the subtext text, Creed follows him in for some insecure dick measuring. Rejecting any kind of serious discussion with an uncharacteristically cerebral Sabertooth, Logan issues violent threats and returns to Scott. It's got massive ex vibes in the best Creed/Logan homoerotic manchild way.

Scott finally opens up, discussing his relationship woes with Logan of all people. He shares how each of them makes him feel, explicitly tying the tension to the boy/man dichotomy. The 'pressure' and 'expectations' feel significant, something he should really talk to Jean about. Unfortunately he's got Logan instead, who's not especially interested in listening at all. He chimes in about Jean, of course, but he's here for tough love.

Scott ponders how anyone could think he'd shoot Emma. Above all he's not going back to the mansion and he's not drunk (or so he claims.) Logan, asshole that he is, suggests Scott should be grateful for what he has. 'You always get the best girls' which has got to be the worst possible thing to say (and super gross). Sure, he's having relationship troubles, but he's trying to figure out his emotions and his trauma. Logan frames this as 'all you do is whine' which is both not true and very rich coming from him.

I've never identified with Scott more than when he says 'I hate you.' Logan manages to make it all about himself, explicitly stating his jealousy. 'All I ever wanted was what you got' accusing him of throwing 'it all away to run wild with the White Queen.' He's right that Jean would like it if he came out of his shell, to a degree, but their problem is one of trauma and communication. Logan's possessive, reductive, and frankly ignorant diagnosis misses the forest for the trees. Scott's problems aren't his problems yet he gets the kind of advice one might expect from this hypermasculine space.

Further minimising Scott's issues, Logan shifts the conversation focus entirely to him. He outright says that Scott's problems are nothing compared to his and guilts him into helping assault The World to uncover Logan's past. He probably would have said yes if he just asked as a friend, but instead he kidnaps him when he passes out. Logan says he's 'trying hard' but doesn't finish the sentence before urging him to put aside his problems.

So instead of talking with his wife or getting to brood alone, Scott ends up hungover on a black ops mission. He got to verbalise some things he'd been keeping bottled up, but in a sense he was assaulted by masculinity and toxic expectations at every turn. Dude needs better friends. The narrative doesn't portray this as a positive thing - in fact it's pretty messed up. I wonder if he regrets going to the Hellfire Club.

Despite the superhero context, Grant Morrison does a swell job of portraying an AMAB person withdrawing from masculine-coded spaces and expectations, at least in my experience. Especially when you're friends with people like Logan, whose only mode is toxic hypermasculinity. I think if he was framed as being unequivocally right it'd be overpowering. Morrison's issues with writing women are on display, but overall this issue is powerful, especially for the time.

[choccy-zefirka]

Letter from a Concerned Citizen

Most esteemed Professor Volkarin,

I hope my humble missive finds you well. I am proud to own a bakery on Garden Street in Nevarra City, and count your fellow Mourn Watchers among my elite clientele. While I was not personally present during a certain… incident at my establishment, when my clerks relayed it to me, I was most appalled and horrified at the besmirching of your good name, and felt compelled to warn you. Please do not be alarmed; I am certain a renowned necromancer such as yourself will be able to handle any danger! I merely wish to keep you informed.

Yesterday, a highly disturbed individual of a most foul countenance, quite unfitting for my reputable place of business, disturbed my employees’ peace and attempted to order a wedding cake. Despite, as I just noted, looking like a grotesque creature from the darkest recesses of the Fade — morbidly obese and wish a thuggish, disfigured face — the woman claimed that she was betrothed to none other than your illustrious self. Which, as you will certainly agree, is preposterous! I am well aware of your shining reputation in Nevarran high society as an elegant and refined gentleman, and it goes without saying that you would never stoop down to breathing the same air as this wicked abomination, let alone taking her as a monstrous mockery of a bride. Why she would approach my store with such a blatantly obvious lie, is beyond all reason, though it might be possible that she was desperately seeking an excuse to gorge her waddling, bloated self on one of my precious cakes.

Naturally, my clerks swiftly and resolutely showed her the door, and hastened to relay the incident to me. Whereas I, in turn, must pass the knowledge on to you, dear sir. Now you are armed with the knowledge that a, pardon the alliteration, lardy lunatic is shambling through the city, pretending to share a sacred, Maker-blessed bond with you —

The letter goes on, but the bottom half of the sheet has crumpled into a dark, brittle sliver of curling rags, as if singed by a sudden, angry burst of magic. The response has been scribbled hastily on its reverse side, in rapid, slanting quill strokes that have stabbed through the paper in multiple places.

Dear sir,

Your “missive” found me devastated — that I allowed myself to be called away on other business, and my dearest fiancée went to your “establishment” on her own. Were I beside her, I would have let you know what I think of you, then and there. As it stands, I shall merely say that myself and the love of my life would rather have our good friend Lace Harding make a cake for us, than ever set foot in your store — or indeed breathe the same air as you — ever again.

Good day.

In lieu of a signature, the paper has been inscribed with an elaborate glyph that, once beheld, would subject the reader to a haunting. The haunting is to last seven weeks, corresponding to the number of insults the addressee has highlighted in bold while reading.

[ass-fuehrerin]

The Line

Hwang In-ho/Seong Gi-hun

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: Gi-hun’s mind is a patchwork of missing time, blank spaces where memories should be. His life is simple — work, drink, exist — until nightmares start clawing their way into his waking hours, and the man at his side stops feeling like an anchor and starts feeling like a trap.

There was a before. There will be an after. The only question — where to draw

the line?

CW: post-Gi-hun’s second Game (with implied ending); psychological trauma (amnesia, PTSD-related dissociation, hallucinations, paranoia); physical trauma; complex emotional entanglement & gaslighting.

✐ᝰ

Gi-hun remembers nothing. As in nothing at all. Not a single fragment of that goddamn notorious incident and almost not a single one of the past several years has survived in his memory. It's as if someone took a scalpel to his mind and cut them out, leaving only the phantom pain of something missing. Something important.

He, along with several others poor desperate bastards, was kidnapped by collectors due to their gambling debts, and forced into some sort of slave labor in an isolated facility, enduring physical and psychological torture until he managed to escape.

At least that’s the story he was told — the supposed cause of his severe memory loss, leaving him with only fragmented recollections of the past.

“Dissociative amnesia,” the doctor had called it. A defense mechanism. The mind, in its desperate bid for survival, buries the unspeakable so deeply that it might as well never have existed. “PTSD.” Gi-hun’s mind simply decided the past was a wound not worth carrying.

So he didn’t carry it. Simple like that.

Instead, he built a life. Brick by brick. Well, at least he tried. He tried to wake up, get dressed, work, eat, drink, and kill his free time that was dragging like a chewing gum (so, more like survive it). Usually together with a man he knew (or thought he did), but didn’t remember meeting.

Young-il.

Their relationship didn’t fit into a neat little box — didn’t come with a label Gi-hun could slap on and say, "Yeah, that’s what this is." It felt old, like something that existed long before he even became aware of it. It felt odd, as if they’d been connected, but he didn’t really know how.

It was complicated.

When he woke up in a hospital bed — blank, erased, empty — it was Young-il sitting beside him and filling in the gaps, helping him piece together the puzzle. The one who told him they used to work and gamble together. Three of them — including Jung-bae. The explanation made sense. It didn’t feel… right though. And yet right enough that Gi-hun didn't question it. Maybe that is what bothers him. How easily he accepted that.

But maybe it wasn’t that difficult due to their common language — loneliness.

Gi-hun had lost his mother and never mustered the courage to insert himself into his daughter's life. Young-il had told him to go — offered to pay for the trip, even — but Seong refused. Money didn’t fix things like that. It was enough that Young-il had gotten him a job at the same vague company — or something like that (to be honest Gi-hun didn’t know a thing about it) — where he himself worked as a manager. Some low-level work, driving deliveries, moving packages, sometimes people, never asking questions.

There were no friends either. Sang-woo was still buried somewhere in America, his only contact — at least, Gi-hun thought so, though he didn’t remember it well — being a single wire transfer, hush money, sent to his mother, as if trying to buy back his absence. Jung-bae had vanished after his divorce — for reasons Gi-hun never managed to figure out. That left no one.

Just Young-il.

Young-il didn’t have anyone either. His wife had died in childbirth. He once mentioned a half-brother somewhere, but it was a passing remark, long lost in the haze of soju. He never brought it up again, and Gi-hun never asked.

Despite the glaring differences in their social standing, they spent a ridiculous amount of time together. Drinking in dingy pojangmacha stalls, playing endless rounds of janggi (Young-il taught him the rules, and over time, Gi-hun even started winning occasionally), or just sitting in silence for hours — either meaningful or empty, he wasn’t sure.

Talking, though — that was rare.

There was a subtle tension between them. It wasn’t spoken, but it was always there, lingering in the space between their words, between the clinking of bottles and the shuffle of their feet on cracked concrete.

It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. No, that wasn’t the right word to describe that.

It was something else.

Their “twoness” was quite strange, and Gi-hun could never brush off that disturbing feeling, no matter how used to it he had grown.

Every conversation, every glance, every shared game left a strange, crawling itch under Gi-hun’s skin. Like something half-remembered, like a dream that was slipping through his fingers just as he was about to wake up.

Like an answer trying to claw its way to the surface, only to be shoved back down before it could breathe. He didn’t know what the answer was. What question was he even trying to answer? He only knew that when he looked at Young-il for too long, he wanted to scream.

Or hit him.

Especially after waking up in a cold sweat from yet another shitty dream.

A nightmare too vivid to be a nightmare.

The same setting, over and over — a surreal maze of pastel walls and twisting staircases, like a playground built in hell. Masked garish-pink figures. A cocktail of terror and a faceless green mass. The gut-wrenching horror of a game where survival had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with luck.

And always, always, that one figure dressed in black. A shadow at the edge of every nightmare, the sight of which filled Gi-hun with something primal — dread, rage, betrayal, and a searing loss he could not name.

The figure bled into reality. Hallucinations. Another PTSD-gift. A distorted, mechanical voice that whispered in his ears. And also blackouts — minutes, hours, sometimes whole days gone.

Young-il knew.

It seemed like he knew him better than Gi-hun knew himself.

He was the one who dragged him to therapy. Psychiatry, to be specific ("You'll need meds," he had said, too sure, too knowing). Gi-hun went. But after the first session resulted in the worst blackout ever spitting Seong out into reality after God knows how many hours, with his fists still in Young-il’s shirt and a bruise blooming on the man’s cheek, Gi-hun started rationing his appointments — just enough to get a prescription and leave.

The doctor said all this was normal.

Young-il said all this was normal.

Gi-hun knew all this was anything but.

Yet, he swallowed the pills. Drowned himself in alcohol. Ignored the sick, festering contradiction that clawed at his ribs whenever Young-il was near — because he couldn’t tell if this man was keeping him afloat or dragging him under.

Young-il’s presence became a constant pull on Gi-hun’s thoughts, a weight he couldn’t shake off. It was not even that Young-il was a bad person, or that he’d done anything that should set off alarm bells. Nothing like that — quite the opposite. Sometimes when Seong managed to shake off the tenacious claws of dark feelings, he found comfort in spending time with him.

Besides, when he woke up from his nightmares — breathless, shaking, throat raw — the name that burned on his cracked lips wasn’t Young-il.

For absolutely no fucking reason it was In-ho.

The only In-ho he even remotely knew was the owner of the nearest pojangmacha to his house. And this decrepit old man — the kindest soul ever to walk the earth — was far from the concept of a menace.

But sometimes — when Gi-hun’s vision blurred and the hallucinations took hold, he saw the black mask slip over Young-il’s face.

To cherry-top this pile of shit — sometimes that was exactly when he wanted to kill him.

Sometimes.

"Sometimes" had a way of turning into "too often."

His mind was a damn mess.

Gi-hun feared himself — his fractured self, his unpredictable outbursts — but he feared for Young-il even more. He brought it up only once, and he could bet he saw it: the way Young-il’s sharp features grew even sharper, which made something in Gi-hun want to recoil.

He never mentioned it again.

Instead, Gi-hun kept taking the pills. He kept drinking. He kept ignoring the way Young-il looked at him — curious, sharp, like he was peeling Gi-hun apart, layer by layer, like a frog.

Seong couldn’t pinpoint when he began to sense the shift in his own perception of… huh… them? — from what seemed like just two people passing time together to something deeply unnatural, something fucked up.

But it was exactly in that very way Young-il watched him sometimes. Like he was waiting for something. Like he was checking whether Gi-hun remembered anything. Whether it was all coming back.

There was a contradiction in everything between them — an undercurrent of trust that felt like a lie. Gi-hun didn’t know if it was something Young-il was hiding, or if it was something about him that he couldn't understand. But the more time they spent together, the more it felt like a trap he’d walked into without realizing it.

Young-il didn’t seem to mind. His calmness, the ease with which he existed in Gi-hun’s life, was something both comforting and suffocating at once. Gi-hun felt as though he was being swallowed whole, piece by piece, and still, he couldn’t help but want to trust that man. Even when that trust made no sense at all.

The distance between them was narrowing. Every small talk, every joke, every half-smile from Young-il started to feel too loaded, too meaningful. A kind of slow drowning that Gi-hun couldn’t fight, even as he started to wonder on rare occasions if he even wanted to.

There were moments when their bodies and hands brushed against each other, just barely, subtly, like an accident. But with too much intention in it and too much awareness. As if Young-il was pushing the boundaries. Gi-hun told himself it was nothing. It was just the alcohol. The late hours, the heat of the games, and fruitless conversations. But when he looked at Young-il, he saw the flicker of something odd in his eyes — something he couldn’t even begin to understand.

A question, a challenge.

Gi-hun didn’t know if he was ready to answer it. He wasn’t even sure it wasn’t just his imagination. Another hallucination among many.

He refused to think about it altogether.

And still, somewhere in between those “sometimes��� and his pathetic attempts to exist their meetings grew more frequent, their time together stretched longer as did their exchanged glances and accidental touches over shared games and meals — kimchi jjigae, banchan, steaming bowls of rice.

Gi-hun didn't even think he could embrace it, watching everything as if from the sidelines, as if it were happening to someone else.

And still, one night, in the quiet of his apartment, beneath the gentle rustle of cherry blossoms in the April breeze flowing through the open window, their fingers brushed against each other on the floor once more — and for the first time, intertwined — twisting their lives even tighter into an already intricate, tangled knot of red threads.

He refused to acknowledge it.

And still, the moment he clutched Young-il’s hand tighter he felt a jolt of electricity, a shock piercing his chest that he couldn’t ignore.

Gi-hun wasn’t sure if he was holding on to Young-il’s hand because he wanted to or because he was scared of what would happen if he let go. And still, —

at that very moment, he drew a line — separating the foggy “before” from the clear “after.”

To early though.

The line was still to be drawn in two months. The happiest two months in Gi-hun’s recent memory.

ــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــ

Young-il’s nearly week-long business trips had long since become a mundane routine for Gi-hun. What hadn’t was Young-il showing up in a horrifying state — head bloodied, stomach riddled with a bullet — after returning from one of them.

To Gi-hun’s own astonishment, he neither screamed in a panic nor froze in shock. Instead, something in him clicked into place. Without a moment’s hesitation, running purely on instinct, he loaded Young-il into the company car and drove him straight to the private hospital — the same one where Young-il had once sent him for psychiatric care.

In the small, dimly lit waiting room, no one so much as acknowledged Gi-hun’s presence. Doctors and nurses flitted past without a glance, as if the rigid figure on the couch — frozen like a wooden idol — were merely part of the furniture. No one asked questions. No one inquired what had happened (not that Gi-hun himself had any answers), who he had brought in, or why.

His emotions, dulled by the sheer force of stress, barely registered. And yet… something gnawed at him. An elusive, intangible detail. His hand clenched the black leather armrest so tightly that his knuckles blanched, but the buzzing, persistent thought refused to fade.

Something’s wrong.

Hours of empty waiting bled into each other before a nurse finally approached with a polite nod, inviting Gi-hun into the private recovery room. Whoever they thought he was, Seong didn’t know. But they let him in without hesitation, granting him unmonitored access to an unconscious Young-il. The nurse gave a brief report — he would need some time to recover from the surgery — but assured him that the patient’s life was not in danger.

Gi-hun sank into the small chair opposite the hospital bed.

Young-il’s breath was slow and even, deep in anesthesia-induced sleep. For once, Gi-hun saw him truly relaxed. The man was always composed, as if every muscle in his body, down to the cellular level, operated under strict control. But now, his face was strangely serene. Gi-hun let his gaze linger.

Almost absentmindedly, his hand reached out, wrapping around Young-il’s — warm, solid, real. A genuine, fleeting (more like unconscious even) smile disrupted the grim tension on his face. His eyes drifted, following the tangled web of wires looping over the bed and pooling onto the floor, before flicking back up to Young-il’s peaceful features.

Something’s wrong.

The thought stabbed through his skull with razor-sharp clarity. But why?

His gaze flickered downward again, drawn toward something at the edge of his vision — something his mind had registered before he had.

A patient file. Hanging just beside the headboard.

He wasn’t even sure why he was looking at it. He didn’t even mean to. And yet his eyes found the name printed across the top, and —

Nothing.

What the..?

For a second, absolutely nothing happened. Just the quiet hum of the hospital lights, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. His brain refused to process what he had just seen.

Then, the world tilted.

Not physically — no, the floor remained where it was, the chair still solid beneath him — but his sense of it shifted, like a sudden, nauseating drop on a rollercoaster. A slow, creeping wrongness sank into his bones, spreading from the base of his skull to the tips of his fingers. The air thickened. He tried to swallow but found his throat dry.

His fingers twitched. He reached for the clipboard. But the movement felt distant, like his own hands weren’t really his. Like he was operating a puppet on invisible strings.

This isn’t real.

His pulse hammered in his ears as he forced himself to look again, eyes scanning the printed letters, trying to make sense of them.

Wrong.

The name was wrong.

But that wasn’t possible, was it?

His grip on the clipboard tightened, a cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He should know this. He should remember why this was wrong.

He shook his head. No. No, this isn’t right.

His breath stuttered — short, uneven gasps — but he forced himself to sit still. Forced his fingers to loosen around the clipboard, forced his mind to obey.

The doctor said this could happen. Hallucinations. Memory distortion. His brain was just playing tricks on him. That was all this was. He had grown used to it, hadn’t he?

He gripped the armrest again. Pressed down until his knuckles go white. Focus. Ground yourself. Breathe.

But his lungs wouldn’t work. His eyes kept dragging him back to that name, over and over, until the letters weren’t letters anymore, just shapes carved into his skull.

The answer was right there, dangling just out of reach, like something seen through fogged glass —

And then, without warning, the glass shattered.

And this time he didn’t plunge into some sort of a blackout or a fever dream. It wasn’t some twisted game of his mind.

Game.

A rush of images — too fast, too chaotic, too real — slammed into him like a truck.

Blood. The scent thick in the air. The taste of copper on his tongue. A voice — his own? Someone else’s? — screaming.

Concrete. Cold beneath his knees. A sharp, searing pain tearing through his body.

A number. White. Painted. Flickering in the darkness behind his eyelids.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred at the edges. His entire body seized.

The hospital room flickered, shimmering like a heat mirage, bending at the edges.

His ears ring — no, not ring, scream, a piercing high-pitched wail that swallows every other sound. The nausea comes next, curling in his gut, thick and relentless. The air is syrupy, clinging to his lungs like tar. His stomach twists. His pulse is wrong, pounding too fast, too hard. His throat spasms.

The taste of metal floods his mouth. Copper. Blood.

A voice. Distant. Mechanical at first. And then — human, painfully familiar —

“Player 456.”

No.

White. Black. No — Red. Blue. Floor flooded with corpses. A bright shiny room. Twisting, suffocating. Hands grasping at empty air.

A staircase. A scream. A gunshot. Another one. Not here. But inside his head, cracking through his skull like a fucking lightning strike. Too loud. Too real.

The scent of sweat and fear. The rough fabric of a black coat beneath his fingertips.

And then —

he wasn’t in the hospital anymore. He was —

No. No, no, no.

His stomach lurched. The room was wrong. The air was wrong. He was wrong.

He wrenched himself back into the present with a violent jolt, his body convulsing with the effort. His head snapped up, eyes wide and wild, chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic gasps.

“Young-il” hadn’t moved.

Nothing in the room had changed.

Except for Gi-hun.

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Hwang wakes an hour later.

His senses return to him in pieces, sharpening one by one like a blade being drawn from its sheath. Awareness seeps in, cold and mechanical. The first thing he registers is that he isn’t alone.

The second is who is with him.

Gi-hun.

And something is very, very wrong.

He isn’t just sitting there. He isn’t waiting.

He is staring.

Hwang should speak. Move. Do something.

But his hands won’t unclench from the sheets. And for the first time in years, his pulse stutters — with something dangerously close to fear. Seriously?

Dark eyes, too wide, pupils blown wide open in the dim glow of the hospital monitors. Not with confusion, not with worry, but with something else. Something raw. Something dangerous.

Hwang hates (sometimes to an extreme degree) that the gaps in Seong’s memory — minutes, hours, or even days of lost time — are his own routine by now. They are threads woven into the tangled web of his life, and he knows each one intimately.

He knows Gi-hun.

Three years have passed since Gi-hun’s last games.

Three years since a blank spot carved itself into his memory of them — and everything they entailed. The fleeting, fragmented return of those memories, surfacing in unprocessed bursts of aggression, is a passage Hwang has memorized cover to cover.

He’s studied Gi-hun like a well-worn book, returning to its pages time and again, willingly — almost religiously. A book meant to be owned, displayed neatly on the shelf of his personal library, within reach whenever he pleases.

To Hwang’s vague irritation, what began as a mere ”scientific” interest has degenerated into something painful, like an ingrown toenail he refuses to remove, for no reason at all. Or rather, for a reason he refuses to even put into words.

So, wehether he wants it or not, he knows Gi-hun.

And yet —

Something in that book has changed.

A new passage. Or, the old one, crossed out?

He knows Gi-hun.

He knows the way his body moves, the way his face twitches when he’s trying to hold something back.

This is different. This isn’t just confusion. It isn’t frustration or a hollow aggression. It’s understanding. A sharp, jagged awareness flickers behind Gi-hun’s eyes.

Hwang swallows. So that's how it is. So many years, and that’s how… — well, how stupid.

Awareness.

In his gaze.

In his posture.

In his voice.

Hwang blinks once. Twice. No surprise. No confusion. Just a quiet, detached acknowledgment. This was inevitable. But why the hell… why the hell was he so… disappointed? Upset? Really?

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Gi-hun breathes in. Then out. Slow. Deliberate.

Like he’s tasting the words before saying them.

Like he wants “Young-il” to feel it — deep in his ribs, where the knife Gi-hun pulled out of himself twists the hardest.

He tilts his head, eyes dark and steady: “What was the line? ‘Young-il. Just like my number.’ Yeah… —

A pause. A breath. “Young-il's” face barely shifts, but Gi-hun sees it anyway. The moment he registers the change.

A heartbeat too long.

Hell of a joke,

In-ho.”

[wickerwax]

to wit -- too witty (Codywan First Kiss Bingo #5)

(Shout-out to @panravenc who made a post about sick codywan headcanons that got me thinking about how I would play it! ^^)

Cody strode on deck with his helmet already in place and precisely on time, and Obi-Wan’s attention snapped onto him like a piqued nexu.

Item One: Cody was, until now without fail, a minute or two early at a minimum.

Item Two: Cody tended to prefer his helmet off when they were having this sort of intra-ship meeting, especially in hyperspace, and especially when he had more reason to glare people down than he needed access to his in-helmet comms.

Item Three: His dear Commander had the very slightest unsteadiness in his gait, which was practically screaming something is wrong.

He nodded to Cody, who signalled him to start. His suspicion went into the stratosphere and onwards immediately. When he reached out to get a sense of him, Cody’s shields felt wobbly, and there was a throbbing sort of discomfort leaking through.

Still, he wasn’t about to have an argument about it here with witnesseswhen Cody was clearly trying to fly under the sensor-net.Obi-Wan went through the updates they had – reiterated the ETA on the drop into sublight, the overview of the supply list, and requests for changes to be passed on the the Quartermaster first. Consolidation helped avoid mistakes.

Also Quartermaster Cross (apparently short for I Will Be Cross-Referencing This And It Had Better Match Or I’ll Be Taking The Difference Out Of Your Bones) was a dedicated and extremely efficient man, and Obi-Wan had no interest in making his life harder so – to him, first.

Cody sent text-comms to his ‘padd a couple of times, and nodded along, but did not speak, did not remove his helmet. He had clearly locked his knees to keep from wobbling. Obi-Wan wanted to offer him a seat but no one else was sitting and, given the entirety of the situation, the likelihood of being not only ignored but getting Cody’s active and monumental disapproval had him hesitating.

He wound the meeting down neatly, incredibly relieved that it was a short thing today, and requested (face in his ‘padd, voice deliberately absent, nothing odd about today!) that Cody stay behind for a quick conversation about a small incident in the training rooms.

Since the training rooms were the only place where incidents happened on a semi-regular basis and mostly consisted of ‘someone got elbowed in the nose again, please remind the men to be aware of their surroundings’ it was neither an unexpected nor interesting request.

The deck cleared but for the nav’ staff, and Cody, and Obi-Wan gave him a friendly gesture and said, “Office?”

The brightness in his voice and his narrowed eyes – facing only Cody – was as close as he could get to calling Cody on his bluff without making anyone else similarly suspicious. Here, anyway.

Cody paused for a long moment, then nodded slowly. Obi-Wan, with a smile like a bantha-heeler on a good day, herded Cody into the halls and towards their joint office.

He deposited Cody in his chair, keyed the door shut, and headed over to the kitchenette with his suspicions locked and loaded. “Helmet off, my dear.” he said, setting the jug to boil. “I’m quite sure it won’t be doing you any favours.”

Silence behind him.

Obi-Wan pulled out preferred mugs for the two of them, opting for comfort. “I’ve only those terrible fake-citron splemsip packets unfortunately, but they do help. Can’t expect a fresh citron-anything with supply lines being what they are.”

He twisted around to find Cody hesitating over his helmet, hands hovering. “My dear,” he said, gentle as a summer twilight, “I know you’re not feeling well, Cody. Let’s see what we can do about it.”

The release hissed, and Cody’s face appeared. Colour burned too bright across his cheeks and forehead and he was visibly sweating, his short curls lank with it. Shadows made hollows of his eyes. “Can’t – throat hurts.” he croaked. Sniffed. Congestion made it horribly bass-note.

Obi-Wan took him in and paused. “I think we might need more than splemsip.”

Cody made a sharp negative sign.

He huffed through his nose. “You have my solemn word vow to only forage through my personal supplies for flu relief.” Obi-Wan considered that for a moment, then added, “If it gets worrying, I will be telling Helix. I’m not losing my Commander to some common cold.”

He finished making the drinks and carried them over, delivering the splemsip directly into Cody’s hands. “Force, Cody, being in full armour can’t be comfortable. Or helping.”

Cody gave him one of his favoured blank-adjacent looks. This one said, I did what I had to do. Obi-Wan poked him gently in the shoulder and watched him sway far too heavily from very little provocation, then raised a slow eyebrow.

His Commander faltered briefly, then settled into the glare of a mantled hawk as he sipped at his medicinal citron drink.

Heaving a beleaguered sigh at his stubbornness, Obi-Wan investigated the state of supplies in their office. First, he unearthed a spare robe which he deposited on Cody’s lap with a suggestion that it might prove more comfortable than armour for the time being. Rustled up some mild painkillers – drew a complete blank on decongestants, but hopefully the drink would help with that.

When he excavated himself from the tiny ‘fresher with the pills, Cody had managed to remove his armour – stacked rather more messily than his wont – and was swathed in Obi-Wan’s spare robe over his blacks.

“Well done for seeing sense, Commander,” he said, amused. “Can I also tempt you to relocate to the couch?” It wasn’t sleeping length, but any amount of reclining had to be better than the hunching currently occurring. Poor Cody’s spine was in danger of getting stuck like that should the winds change. He was stoically refusing to make a face for the old adage to apply to, after all.

“Undressing wasn’t enough for you, General?” Cody rasped, though at least less painfully than earlier. He was smirking, but the lines around his mouth still read like aching.

“Anything you wish to do is enough, Cody darling, though I believe that conversation is best left for when you aren’t actively running a fever.” He fetched water, offered it and the painkillers. “These should help.”

“Is that true?” Cody asked, not moving to take them.

Obi-Wan blinked at him. “Well, strictly speaking they’re for pain, but they do tend to reduce fevers when those symptoms are happening in concert-”

“Anything I wish to do, Kenobi.”

He drew in a slow breath. “Ah. Commander, I-”

Cody stood up abruptly – and wavered, wobbling on his feet as his body objected to the motion. Obi-Wan moved without thinking, ducking under his arm and looping his own around Cody’s waist to take his weight. The metal cup clattered loudly on the durasteel, covering the much softer rattle of the pills in their soft tabs. The water was a loss, of course, although he was more concerned about it being a slip hazard. He tightened his hold.

Even through two thick layers, Cody’s skin was notably warm. “This is really not – Could we get you situated before -”

Cody’s fever-hot palms closed around his shoulders. He stopped speaking. He – well, he hadn’t meant to bring up the bantha in the room – hadn’t expected Cody to feed him so blatant a line, if he was honest. Had been playing his part according to Cody’s lead for months now, wary of crossing lines without invitation.

The weakness this cold was having on Cody’s balance and ability to reliably keep his knees locked hadn’t extended to his hands it seemed, for he had pulled them flush together and – while it was a very pleasant thing to be pressed against his very attractive Commander, now wasn’t the best time for it. Obi-Wan would have made like an eel except he was the only thing keeping either of them upright.

“I feel dreadfully manoeuvred, darling.” he tried to joke, and lost it to a wheeze when Cody dropped his face into Obi-Wan’s neck and clutched hard at him.

“The things I want to do to you, General.” he growled. At least half of the growling was congestion.

Obi-Wan patted his back consolingly.”As I said, my dear. Post-fever?”

Cody made a noise that, in a healthier man, would have taken him out at the knees. As it was, his knees were the only ones responsible for neither of them being on the floor, and his poor Commander followed it up with a nasty coughing fit.

“Right. Cody, if you don’t let me set you up on the couch at least, I am going to carry you through the halls to a bed and let your brothers’ gossip chain do what it will.” he said firmly.

“I will never forgive you, sir.” Cody choked out, breathing all rattles and lost bolts.

“I will accept your enmity if you are well enough to perform it.” Obi-Wan shot back. “Can you even stand unaided? Cody? Would you let a single one of our men get away with that?”

To his credit, Cody gave standing a valiant try. He unpeeled himself from Obi-Wan and planted himself like a reed with particularly flimsy roots, but the intention was admirable. If foolish. He wobbled dangerously.

Obi-Wan watched with steely eyes and lowered brows. “Now, let go of my tunic.”

Cody’s eyes were brilliant with frustration. His mouth curved downward. “I don’t think I should.”

“He can be taught!” Obi-Wan ran his hands along Cody’s arms and stepped back in to brace him. “Sitting down while I comm Helix, or am I parading you across the ship with as much style as I can muster?”

“I have quite literally dragged your ass out of your horrible little womp-rat nest when that dodgy-”

“Yes, yes, sometimes the biology gets knocked about unexpectedly but we still see the medic-”

“That is not-”

Obi-Wan took a moment to brace himself properly, then hauled Cody up into his arms. Cody yelped, then groaned. “High noises still bad.”

“Why, what a shock that a bug capable of overwhelming your robust immune system should be resistant to the vicious medicinal efforts of splemsip.” He shifted Cody’s weight slightly, then nodded. “If you pull the hood up, perhaps everyone will just think I am transporting a very lost fellow Jedi.”

“Sir-” Cody squeezed his eyes against the throb of his headache and slumped into him, arguments subsiding.

“Cody, if you want to have the conversation you implied earlier, I am going to insist on you using my name when we’re off-duty. And you, my dear, are so deeply off-duty.”

He nudged the keypad with a little bit of Force use, and slipped into the hall. His senses were on high-alert and he thanked the Force that their office wasn’t so far from his rooms. He only had to duck into a side-hall to avoid being seen the once, and he tucked Cody’s head against his gently while waiting for the coast to clear, worried over the thoroughly crackly breathing.

Jabbing at the door control to his rooms, he swept Cody in and got him situated on the bed. “Don’t move,” he said, pointing threateningly at him as he clicked his comm off his belt and sent off a message to Helix to request assistance for flu symptoms in his quarters. “I’m going to get water again, and this time you’re going to behave and drink it.”

“Behave is not-” he broke off to cough again, then resumed doggedly, “-not what I thought I’d be doing in your bed, Obi-Wan.”

“Post-fever, Cody, so you’re already not behaving.” He brought one of his stashed hydro-packs over. “I should have thought of these earlier really, the straw will be easier.”

Cody took it, nearly pouting as the fever got hold in earnest and his reticence slipped. “I’d rather suck something else.”

“Have you been storing these up?” Obi-Wan asked, perching on the edge of the bed and reaching to press the back of his hand to Cody’s forehead. “Oh, darling, that’s definitely Helix territory. Drink your water.”

Bright-eyed, and in the process of glazing over, Cody gave him an awfully endearing attempt at a sultry look as he stabbed his straw into the bag. “Don’ need to store anything. Look at you.”

Charmed, Obi-Wan ran his hand through Cody’s sweat-damp curls. He leaned his head into the touch as he drank, eyes sliding closed. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

His door chimed.

Slipping away for a moment, he returned with Helix grumbling behind him. “Of course it would be you, Cody.” he said, “Half the battalion gets sniffles from some lurgy incubating since our last campaign and Sir Never-Gets-Sick over here drops like a ton of duracrete.”

“Your morning has been busy then?” Obi-Wan said, “With any luck, that other half is immune or threw it off before it took, and not just taking longer about showing symptoms.”

“Sniffles.” Helix repeated. “Hardly even worth mentioning but for the volume. Couple of the Maintenance boys have a low-grade fever, gave ‘em some reducers, they’ll be right as rain. Our dear Commander, as I hear, is well past that.”

Cody, supine on the bed, made an irritated noise. It sounded a lot like a washing unit trying to chop wood. “’m not dead, unconscious, or missing from this room.”

“Give it time,” Helix said darkly, checking his temp. “What was the plan if the General hadn’t interceded, Cody? Crawl into a vent shaft for the MSE droids to find during the night cycle?”

“Thought I’d skip right to the airlock actually.” Cody returned snidely. Coughed. “Why’s there three Generals now, I didn’t think this was that sort of dream.”

Obi-Wan dragged a hand over his face. Helix barked a laugh as he sorted through his medications. “It is not that sort of dream, Cody. Should I step out, Helix?”

His CMO shrugged, preparing his shot. “Do you want the good General Kenobi and his twins to leave, Cody?” He leaned over the bed and poked at Cody’s arm.

“I want the floor to stop moving.” Cody said faintly. “When did the General get twins? I thought we had – ow, fuck, Helix!”

“Sensitised pain reception, that’s unfortunate.” Helix mumbled, mostly under his breath. “Avoid bumping against shit, vod.” He scooped up the half-drunk hydro-pack abandoned on Cody’s chest. “Sir, I need you to take these pills and finish this pack. That’s an order, copy?”

His eyelids were drooping again. “Copy, sir.”

The pill-swallowing was an experience best left to the imagination. Cody’s very unhappy throat made it into a production that took both Helix and Obi-Wan to hold him through – the pills themselves and the coughing fit that followed.

“They really are better ingested than anything I have right now that’s intravenous,” Helix said regretfully in the aftermath. “But he should be able to sleep now, and it should get him through the worst of it.”

“That’s fine,” Obi-Wan walked him back to the door. “I’ll work from in here for the day, and I can always sleep on my couch if necessary.”

Helix gave him a slightly sarcastic salute. “I’d say don’t get sick but that would only encourage you.”

He laughed, “I’m not quite that contrary, Helix.”

“Dubious, sir, I’m dubious. Comm me if he gets worse.” Helix said, and left.

Cody was starting to drift in earnest when Obi-Wan returned to the bedside, propped up on all the pillows he could find to ease his breathing. “Back?” he yawned, wincing.

“I’m back, yes. I’m going to sit at the couch and get some flimsi done, so just tap the wall if you need anything. I’ll hear it, don’t worry.” He traced Cody’s tired, familiar face with his eyes. Every line of him was precious. “I’ll come in to bother you about drinking enough, but otherwise I highly recommend trying to sleep.”

“No- wait,” Cody flailed a hand out. Obi-Wan caught it in his. “I don’t – Obi-Wan, I don’t want to have dreamed – before.”

He threaded their fingers together and squeezed comfortingly. “Which before? I’m happy to confirm what I can for you. For example, no twins.”

A smile curled slow and lazy across Cody’s face. He squeezed back with his too-hot hand. “The talk. We’re gonna talk, right?”

Obi-Wan found his own smile, quite irrepressibly, unfolding in turn. “Yes, darling.” he whispered, and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Cody’s hand. “We’re going to talk as soon as you’re not any level of delirious.”

Cody had gone wide-eyed. The fever-flush brightened across his cheeks. “Obi-Wan.” he said, longing.

“Not a dream,” Obi-Wan told him, turning his hand over to kiss his palm, to brush his lips over the sensitive pad of each finger. “I promise. You just have to get better first.”

“Suddenly I feel the urge to be a model patient,” his bedridden Commander managed, though what slipped through his shields right then was categorically not that. “You probably won’t recognise it.”

He snorted and returned Cody’s hand to his lap, patted it. “Get some sleep, Cody. I’ll be in periodically – we’ll see if I don’t give you an aversion to nurses for the rest of your life first.”

@codywanfirstkissbingo hi hello! Number Five! I used my free space as 'hand kiss' and that should be bingo twice over xD

[ambigrueity]

Incredibly long post about Trey and Riddle's Relationship that I vaguely said I'd do in the tags of my posts somewhere

Disclaimer: this is not intended to be shipping in any way I very much view them as family, even more so after these updates. To start with I'm going to separate their relationship into 3 distinct stages and focus on their perceptions of each other at each stage. I think their relationship is wonderfully written As usual, I ramble so sorry in advance, but I really want to analyze how complex they are.

Stage one: Childhood: ||Riddle|| A friend: Trey and Chenya were Riddle's first friends. Riddle had spent his whole life knowing the four walls of his home and his mother and both Trey and Chenya were his gateway to experiencing the world outside his windows. As such, they're immensely valuable to him. Under his mother he had no other way to grow socially, so when provided with a logical reason for going out and playing (Chenya stated his grandpa believed play is a form of study) he jumped at it because he wanted that connection. Trey specifically was his ideal. I think he looked up to him a lot. Normal home life. His mother didn't confine or trap him in any way. And he could eat whatever he liked. That's why when Trey said that one or two slices of tart wouldn't hurt, it was good enough to sway Riddle. All his life he'd grown up hearing about sweets being poison. But Trey seems happy and fulfilled so surely it's not as bad. However, breaking his mother's rule made him lose everything. The momentary friendship he'd built and any chance of freedom. It impressed upon him the importance of following the rules because breaking them lead to loss. And on top of that, it left him with guilt. I talk a lot about Trey's guilt in this situation (and I will talk more) but Riddle has his own guilt too that just manifested in a different way. More on that later.

||Trey|| A brother: While Riddle might have viewed Trey as a friend (no doubt because he was an isolated only child with a different perception and a lot of baggage tied to the world family), Trey saw him as a brother. He expressly states in his dream that Riddle was smart enough to identify plants and flowers and had enough magic control to get their soccer ball out of the trees, and he felt proud to have a smart little brother. And this sort of label is easier for him because he comes from a rather healthy family with siblings and has a blood brother around Riddle's age. Instinctively, Riddle became someone he wanted to care for, spoil, and cherish. That's why after knowing Riddle wanted to try a tart he wanted to let him. Later on, he tries to dismiss or come to terms with his actions in various ways, stating that it was not his place and of course anyone would get upset if their house rules and dietary restrictions weren't being respected. He tries to make it out into a joke, saying it's become a family incident of sorts that they just laugh about. "Who gets that mad at children playing." But underneath all those attempts to bury his own trauma, lies guilt. Because he feels, deep down, that as a brother he should have protected Riddle better. And instead, after just 2 months, he had to see everything that made Riddle happy stripped away again. More on this later. Stage 2: Riddle's First Year

||Riddle|| A stranger. Riddle's changed. He's developed some of his mother's anger. He's been confined for years. And because of that one incident with the tart, he firmly believes that growth and by extension fulfillment can only happen under the rules. Moreover, since Trey represents that period of his life where he learned that lesson rather harshly, he ices Trey out, pretending he barely knows him. After all, they might as well be strangers after all these years. Especially since Trey is banned from his house. This is a result of the guilt I mentioned earlier. He failed to follow his mother's rules and the punishment put Trey and his peaceful family that he looked up to in the crossfire. I think a part of him doesn't know how to face Trey after all that, worried that he might hate him. However, he cannot fully erase his own memories. So it is Trey he consults when he asks how to challenge a dorm leader for the seat. Even if he's distancing himself by calling him "Clover-senpai" Trey still remains someone he trusts to a degree. After Riddle takes the throne he makes a decision I find interesting. He doesn't select a vice, instead he leaves it to the popular vote. This could be read two ways IMO. Either, he didn't feel the need to have a vice because he was so confident in his own skills, but was aware that it was customary to have one so it didn't matter to him who it was. Or, deep down, he was afraid that no one would be willing to work with him. After seeing his dream, I do think it might be the latter. All of the darkness versions of his card soldiers showed some form of disloyalty. Willing to go along with the idea that they might jump ship, or that Riddle could be overpowered. It's this insecurity born from his own fear of his mother. He knows he's become a reflection of her, and he's worried how other people might react to it. In the end, he's still chasing those relationships from childhood, but is stuck believing that rules are the only way to keep what little happiness he has which alienates him from Trey to a degree. ||Trey|| A brother still: Despite the years, Trey's feelings about Riddle hadn't changed much other than being swamped with underlying guilt. Upon realizing that Riddle was going to attend NRC, his first instinct was to create a space for him. Trey generally, is introverted but excited to see his childhood friend again, he ends up talking to the people around him saying that Riddle was a quiet but studious boy and he hopes that people will welcome him. That was at least, before he saw what Riddle had become (he ended up fighting Floyd at the entrance ceremony) leaving Trey with the realization that this was not the boy he knew anymore. And worse, he was pretending not to know him. I'm sure it hurt, but even so, when RIddle asked about dueling the housewarden, he did try to accommodate him (after getting over his initial shock). The thing that gets me the most, however, is that Trey still saw the good in him. Trey in the rose maze part of Riddle's dream tells Ortho that the first thing Riddle did when he became housewarden was tend to the roses. To him that was a sign that Riddle was still somewhere in there and he was willing to support that. He would have been resigned to accepting that he was a stranger to Riddle if he hadn't been elected vice, but regardless of how Riddle felt, Trey still felt responsible for him. Both out of guilt and because he was still family.

[callsign-relic]

This burning

Desire

Is turning me to sin!

Carrion if you’ve got cannibalistic urges you can’t control I realllyyyy don’t think mortician is the best career path for u bud

Was thinking abt how Carrion’s voice claim is Tony Jay and I really got to thinking about one of the songs he performed, which is ofc Hellfire from the Hunchback movie ehe. I listened to it and while the lyrics are kinda unrelated to Carrion, the overall theme of succumbing to temptation is surprisingly fitting of the little bits I had floating around in my head of Carrion’s backstory was, or how he was like before he joined the main bw Predacons!

On Cybertron, Carrion emerged as a Predacon, already a rather unfortunate hand to be dealt from fate despite the alleged “peace” between the Maximals and Predacons. Carrion was a quiet, soft spoken mech, doing as ordered and trying to deal with his particularly sensitive audials and an aversion for loud noises. He didn’t feel very passionately for much of anything. Given his position among Cybertronian society, there wasn’t very much for him to look forward to.

However, there was something… wrong, with his programming.

For some inexplicable reason, Carrion has the strongest urge to eat the pieces and energon from any mech he sees.

Carrion just doesn’t understand it. After finding a discarded Predacon body in the outskirts of Cybertropolis, the mech can’t resist his urges any longer, and finally indulges himself. And it is here that he learns that breaking apart a bot’s frame, piece by piece, screw by screw, and consuming the spoils for himself is the only thing that makes him feel truly alive. He has a goal in mind— consumption— and he can actively see as he completes it, and feel it in every bolt he swallows and that lands in his fuel tank.

From there he gains a fascination and an appreciation for death and all things macabre. He dedicates himself to his studies, learning all things Cybertronian anatomy and biology related to eventually get him a position as a mortician. He’s conflicted with himself all the same— he knows he is disgusting, he should be ashamed with himself. At first, he is horrified with himself. But he grows dependent. Addicted. And eventually he wants nothing more than to indulge himself constantly.

Of course, given his new role and his new “hobby”, unsavory rumors sprout up wherever he goes. Predacons don’t go near him to save their own hides, and even worse can be said for any Maximals. And along the way, isolating himself from a world who would never understand him and would only care to fling insults instead, Carrion becomes the cold and embittered old mech we know today.

Something finally pulls Carrion from his monotonous life. A Predacon, whose name was in honor of the Decepticon leader from vorns before, issuing a call to arms. Seeking Predacons to join his crew, promising them glory, power, and freedom.

And Carrion joins. Not that he particularly cared for the Predacon’s motivations, more so… he’d finally be able to eat what he liked in peace. Carrion joins the crew on the Darksyde, acting as their medic on their interstellar travels. Until a particular incident with a failed transwarp and a space time anomaly…

Anyway! None of this is final, it’s just the bits that have been floating around in my head. If you’ve read this far then thank u :]

[curtis-brothers-hug]

The grief that Johnny and Dallas must have felt over the Curtis parents.

It’s the worst of both worlds for them. They lost the only parental figures they ever had, but because they weren’t their actual parents, their grief wasn’t acknowledged on the same level as the Curtis children. The Curtis’ got all the condolences, they got none. All of the grief with none of the support. (Not that the Curtis’ got that much support, really.)

And not that Johnny or Dallas wanted anyone to notice. If someone had approached Dallas Winston and said “sorry for your loss,” he would have slugged them. Both of them would die before revealing how lost and alone and terrified they felt, how utterly destabilized at losing their only safety net, their only safe haven. Besides, what right did they have? Their job was to help the Curtis brothers. This was about Darry and Soda and Ponyboy, not them.

But at least the Curtis brothers had each other. And course Two-Bit and Steve were grieving too, but Two-Bit had a decent mom and Steve was Soda’s person. Johnny and Dallas were all alone. And at least the brothers still got to grow up having the Curtis’ as parents. Losing their parents wouldn’t undo the effects of having been raised by them. Johnny and Dallas never got the foundation of love and stability and comfort that the Curtis kids got to have from the day they were born. Johnny and Dallas had to go through losing something they never even got to have in the first place.

The Curtis’ may be traumatized by their parents’ death, but at least they weren’t traumatized by their parents’ life. They’re lucky enough to feel unambiguous grief. If Johnny or Dallas’ parents died, they would be relieved. They’re so angry it was the Curtis parents instead of one of theirs. In a way, Johnny and Dallas were never more jealous of the Curtis brothers than after seeing their reaction to their parents’ death. That’s another reason they were determined to take the focus off of themselves, because they absolutely could not burden the Curtis’ with shit like that.

They both must have had suicidal thoughts. They both already had them, and there’s no way this incident wouldn’t amplify the volume of those thoughts until it was deafening. They both were the only ones to know that about the other, and the only reason they didn’t go through with it was because of each other.

Johnny and Dallas were the only ones who ever saw the full extent of each others’ grief over the parents they never had, but still lost.

[yandereunsolved]

could see yandere john if he had a sheriff darling purposely getting himself arrested just to see them/harass them, Jack too

I have so many thoughts on this.

Sheriff reader is always a lovely thought when it comes to rdr characters. And yes, like father―like son. It depends if we are talking high or low honor.

I'll do both. To please you all.

Yandere High Honor John would not want to be arrested. He is trying to change his ways. He needs to be better for his family. He isn't a religious man, but coveting another person while he is married is definitely a sin. He's already committed enough of those to last several each other.

So he chooses to help sherriff darling. He clears out the local gangs, buys them drinks, stalks them home and watches out for intruders, and even takes care of scum behind their back. Luring people to their deaths in the wilderness is just what friends do for eachother.

Sure. He dreams about what you feel like. He imagines marrying you too. He wants nothing more than to kidnap you and make you a farm spouse. But he won't. At least not yet. He's either gotta get Abigail on board or―keep you a secret. He really doesn't want to. He's tired of them. Secrets have gotten so many people he's loved killed.

Yandere Low Honor John gets arrested a lot. He's already considered a criminal but he can't be hung or jailed too long because he's working for the government. He's too old to care about 'future' consequences. His entire life has been dealing with future consequences.

He wants you. He wants you now.

And he doesn't have forever to wait. But he still loves to play games with you.

No matter your age he will still try and come off as the older, more dominant person in this weird relationship you have with him. But there's also no joke to his devotion. He will and has murdered people right in front of you for you before. And there's little you can do but lock him up for a few days and hope he'll stop.

He has no qualms about keeping you a secret from his family. He also cares about them somewhat less now that you are in his life. He feels like he is saving them out of obligation, not out of love.

Arthur's sacrifice still hits home for him. But why can't darling be part of the reason he never looks back? Abigail, Jack, and Uncle are the only reason his past is still haunting him. So would it be so bad if they died?

Yandere High Honor Jack is still somewhat the person his parents wanted him to be. He's a bounty hunter―a gunslinger, but not entirely at outlaw. He writes and he yearns. He knows he's too broken to be loved but still wishes for it.

So he gets arrested for more minor incidents. Although, he can't hold back from being violent towards people who are already being violent.

He is more respectful of you and your time. He offers to go on patrol with and or for you. He also hunts down escaped convicts.

Now he can't help but hate your job. You're part of the law who so ruthlessly murdered his pa. But it's like one of those romance books he snuck to read behind his ma's back. He'll help you see the error of your ways. Or kidnap you out of them. Whichever is easier.

He's also lessy mouthy, but still a perv. He just usually keeps those dirty thoughts to himself.

Yandere Low Honor Jack is nothing like the man his father and mother wanted him to be. He hates you so fucking much. And he has very few people to take his anger out on. So he takes it out on you.

He makes as much of a ruckus as he can. Chaos runs amok. And he does a damn good job of it. He's crafty. He knows how to evade you. And he spends most of his time doing just that.

He thinks it'll make you 'want him more' since you're chasing after him (quite literally). It makes his blood pump in more place than one. And who's to say he won't get handsy if he manages to knock you off your horse? Just a little kiss. Maybe more.

His favorite game is to try and mark you up before you can stop him. Whether that be from hickies or bruises you get from him attacking you.

Really the only time you can lock him up is when he's blackout drunk. And even then he manages to find ways to escape before you can hang him. It's just so hard to find good help these days. And you heavily suspect Jack is the one shooting (and brutually killing) the deputies you hire. So no one wants to work for you.

Sometimes he delays his escape from his cell just for fun. Teasing you, flirting, and or trying to bribe you―with not only money but also his body.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Hellooo! How are you? I hope you are okay. So I have a request and I hope it's not much. I saw the post with a crush on pantalone, and I really loved it! (I like all your posts tbh) so can I ask you about father dottore and segments and the reader is in a relationship with pantalone, how would they act I wanna know, and thank you so muchh

The air in the Fatui headquarters buzzed with its usual energy: sharp footsteps against marble, hushed conversations about classified missions, and the occasional crash coming from one of Dottore's experiments gone awry.

But today, something unusual loomed over the corridors—a sense of impending chaos that only the Doctor and his devoted (and sometimes meddlesome) segments could conjure.

And it all started with a rumor.

You and Pantalone had been trying to keep your relationship under wraps. The Ninth Harbinger, ever poised and composed, found a certain thrill in sneaking moments with you between meetings and diplomatic missions. You, meanwhile, were content just to bask in his company despite the complications it might bring.

Unfortunately, secrecy wasn’t exactly feasible when your father is Dottore.

It was Theta who stumbled upon you two first.

He had wandered into the garden section of the headquarters during his 'break,' only to freeze when he saw you leaning against a tree with Pantalone beside you, his gloved hand resting lightly on your waist as he spoke softly into your ear.

"Are you kidding me?" Theta blurted, eyes wide with disbelief. "You’re dating the literal Regrator?"

You winced. "Theta, keep your voice down!"

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

Dottore slammed a gloved hand down on his desk, the room vibrating with his barely contained fury. "Pantalone?" he spat, pacing back and forth as Alpha, Zeta, and Theta stood nearby like a dysfunctional peanut gallery. "Of all people, my child chooses that manipulative snake?"

Theta, ever the instigator, grinned. "I mean, at least it’s not Tartaglia. That guy would probably teach them how to duel on their first date."

Alpha crossed his arms. "This is unacceptable. Regrator is dangerous."

Zeta, the voice of reason, cleared his throat. "Technically, sir, they’re both consenting adults."

Dottore glared at him. "Not helping."

You and Pantalone were having a rare moment of peace in his luxurious office. He had just poured you a glass of finely aged wine, his smile soft as he leaned toward you.

"To us," he murmured, clinking his glass gently against yours.

"To us," you echoed, heart fluttering.

Just as your faces drew closer, the door burst open.

"There will be no 'us' here," Dottore declared, flanked by Alpha and Iota.

You groaned. "Dad!"

Pantalone, ever composed, merely raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Doctor. To what do I owe this.. intrusive visit?"

"I’m here to protect my child’s innocence," Dottore said with deadly seriousness. "Something you clearly intend to corrupt."

Pantalone's lips quirked into a faint smirk. "I assure you, my intentions are honorable."

"Honorable, my—" Theta cut in from behind, grinning like a madman. "Pantalone’s about as trustworthy as a loaded crossbow."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Can I have one moment of peace?"

"No," Dottore and Theta said in unison.

It wasn’t just one incident. Dottore and his segments made it their mission to sabotage any private time you had with Pantalone.

Romantic dinners? Interrupted by sudden “urgent lab assignments.”

Walks through the garden? Constantly monitored by Alpha, who insisted he was "on patrol."

Even simple hand-holding was met with disapproving glares from Iota, who somehow always materialized at the worst moments.

One evening, after another failed attempt at a quiet evening together, you stormed into the lab where Dottore was working.

"Enough!" you snapped, slamming your hands on the table. "I’m not a child, Dad. I love Pantalone, and you can’t control my life forever."

Dottore didn’t look up from his work. "Love is a chemical imbalance," he said flatly. "It clouds judgment."

"Yeah, well, so does obsession with experiments," you shot back.

Theta snickered from across the room. "Ooh, burn."

Desperate for some alone time, you and Pantalone devised a plan: a secret weekend getaway to one of his private estates outside Snezhnaya.

It was perfect—or so you thought.

You were halfway through a candlelit dinner when the sound of something crashing through the window made you jump.

Standing in the shattered frame was none other than Theta, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

"Found you!"

Behind him, Alpha and Iota descended from a rope tied to the balcony.

Pantalone sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is getting ridiculous."

"You think?" you deadpanned.

Dottore strode in through the front door, completely unbothered by the chaos. "This ends now," he declared. "You are coming back with me."

"No, I’m not," you said firmly. "I love Pantalone, and you need to accept that, Dad. I'm old enough to make some choices of my own and you have to acknowledge that."

The room fell silent.

Dottore’s expression was unreadable, but finally, he let out a long sigh. "... fine," he said before glancing over at the Regrator and narrowed his eyes at him. "But if he breaks your heart, I will be the one to personally dissect him, put all of his organs in different jars and throw them into the sea."

Pantalone chuckled, raising his glass. "Noted, Doctor."

Over time, Dottore and the segments eased up—slightly.

Theta still teased you relentlessly, and Alpha continued to glare at Pantalone during meetings. But there was a sense of reluctant acceptance in the air.

One evening, as you sat with Dottore in the lab, he spoke without looking up from his work. "Does he make you happy?"

"Yeah," you said softly. "He really does."

Dottore huffed. "Fine. But if he so much as looks at you the wrong way—"

"I know, I know. Dissection."

"Good."

[a-forbidden-detective]

Until their dying day

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt FFF291 - stuff of legends and @fluffbruary Feb 7 using hand as the prompt. Thank you once again for these prompts. Also, with my head canon in mind I’d like to tackle Ron Kamonohashi’s ancestor, Sherlock Holmes.

—

Fandom(s): Kamonohashi Ron kindan no suiri / Sir ACD’s Sherlock Holmes

Characters: Ron Kamonohashi, Totomaru “Toto” Isshiki, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

Pairings: RonToto, Johnlock

Word count: 1099

“AHHH! Now I must clean up my dad’s messes. Imagine, Toto, having a father like him leaving dirt on his trail?”

“You have been going on about that all day long…” But Toto shut up his mouth at once when he saw Ron looked admiringly at the picture of his father. Next to it was a rare photo of his parents together, which he alternately paid attention to.

“May I?” Curious, Toto pointed at the picture Ron next to Ron’s head. The forbidden detective was smiling at his newly christened lover.

After the two had a lay-in caused by the gruelling events of the Plateau Auberge incident, Toto went back shortly to his flat in Asakusa to get some fresh clothes, reported to Amamiya and returned to Ron’s place immediately. It made him anxious leaving Ron alone even though he knew that the younger man could cope with it better than Lily-san, Mia and Sakai.

Toto traced the two figures entwined on the picture frame.

“Your life is so extraordinary, Ron. You have these two great people who have cared for you…” He let out a sigh, he and Ron were ready to die together.

“I love the way you think about me… I truly cherish it,” Ron sat behind Toto, encircled his arms around the police officer and went to tell the story of his parents and the ancestor he wanted to emulate, who was the stuff of legends in the family.

“Come to think of it. Milo mentioned that I reminded him of your ancestor’s trusty companion. Who could that be? Do you know him?”

Ron looked at Toto, slowly got up and walked toward the shelves where one of the boxes contained several photographs.

He handed him an old picture of a man in a British uniform. The man sported a slight moustache with blonde hair underneath the helm. His eyes could be blue with the looks of it. He seemed to be a very handsome man.

“It was him why half of the reason my ancestor could and would never leave London. The other was the cases. His name was John Watson, an army doctor for Her Majesty, the Queen Victoria,” Ron said with a naughty smile on his lips.

“Huh? What do you mean? Were your ancestor and this man more than acquaintances?” Toto was surprised.

“Yes.” Ron responded with pride, his eyes were glowing. “You could say they were my ‘real’ great-great-great grandparents!”

“How long has it been going on?” Sherlock lighted up his pipe, white hair threatened to overwhelm his once dark brown hair. Across him was his partner, Dr. John Watson glaring at him, there was also sadness etched on his face, tears threatened to fall. The consulting detective was holding a telegram.

“You are gravely mistaken, my dear doctor. There’s no more understanding between us. The child I left behind only longs to see his father,” the detective was looking at the luggage in the living room. John Watson was going to leave him. If he did not play his cards well, he would do so permanently.

“I only wish for your honesty, Holmes. To me,” the doctor bent his head. “Only to me. After all that we’ve been through. After all the lost three years I have wasted for you.” Frustrated, he believed this was the last straw. The three years in which the doctor thought that his partner had died broke him apart. He likened himself to those bereaved wives who lost their husbands in the wars. As a former soldier, he beat himself up for being pathetic.

On the table there was an ukiyo-e painting of a woman clad in cobalt blue kimono with white plum blossoms all over it. Her face was hidden on the spectator by her fan. It was sent to the flat a few weeks ago. Next to it was a picture of a healthy beautiful boy smiling seated on a wooden floor. Not even two years old. His hair stood up and his cheeks were round like a bun. One could see that he was loved and adored by his family. Below was a note in English, “Yori-kun says Dada for the first time, Chiyo,” with two shaped hearts drawn on it.

“Are they the reason you left for a few months this year?”

Holmes nodded. He took another puff from his pipe but he smoked it too fast that he experienced a tongue bite. There was a burning sensation on his tongue.

“I understand that you deem it as a betrayal, but she is the closest thing I had when I was far away from you,” the detective said. His eyes pleaded, praying that the doctor somehow would understand.

“You didn’t have to go anywhere, Sherlock! You could have asked for my help! But you told me there were assassins following me ready to kill me if you established your connection to me again after your fall at the Reichenbach,” John put his hand on his face suppressing his anger, the need to hit someone or something.

“Now there is nothing we can do. You have your son. And I…” trailed John, who did not know what to say.

Holmes put down his pipe, walked to him, and without saying a word placed his arms around his partner.

“I understand that you hate me. But I never forgot you, John, during the three years of my absence. I always thought of you, asked Mycroft about you, told him to fast-track the process and eliminate the problem as soon as possible so I could come back to you,” the detective assured his best friend one more time.

The doctor shook his head, slowly pushed Sherlock back and said, “No, you could have told me everything. But you have many secrets and I am not even privy to them! Am I an outsider to you?!”

The question rattled Holmes as he had never seen his partner so angry like this.

“No! No, John!” Sherlock put down his hands. He knew when he was beaten.

“I can’t do this. Please give me time. I have to sort this out first.”

With heavy footsteps, the doctor took his luggage and headed to the door.

Upon hearing the door slammed, Sherlock sat on the floor and closed his eyes.

“They got back together again, didn’t they?” Toto held Ron’s face. He was seated on the forbidden detective’s lap. How did it happen?

“Of course! Until the army doctor’s dying day!” Ron replied.

“Thank god!”

And the two laughed together as they held hands.

~fin~

[batsyheere]

Forget Bruce Wayne. Give me Jim Gordon, the nosy neighbour who likes to make sure new-to-town Danny Nightingale is looking after himself, who enjoys inviting the 'kid' over to enjoy a meal while he goes on about his own daughter or gets Danny to open up about his life.

Give me Danny, oddly charmed and highly protective of this paternal figure who isn't actively trying to adopt him. Who likes to check in and make sure the man is actually resting when he gets injured on the job. Who, after many trials and errors, manages to cook a meal and bring it over instead of ordering takeout. Who has someone actively listening to him even if they don't actually understand every word out of Danny's mouth.

And everytime a Bat tries to come around Jim Gordon is on the roof with a broom, waving them off because this is his kid, Bruce! He called dibs!

[bhgy123]

Psyche Components Explained

Id ego and super ego Psyche Components Explained.ضیاء شبیر zia shabirWrite the functions of id ego and super egoId, ego, and superego are the three components of the human psyche identified by Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis. These three parts are not physical structures but rather theoretical constructs that describe different aspects of a person’s personality and behavior.Id:The…