#needed something to balance out the loss so i decided that i should draw these two being cute

[active-mind-15]

Alright, the big bro Oreshi and baby Bokushi fanart I said I was gonna make is here. Told y'all it would be cute. Bonus art under the cut!

Baby Boku finally got his turn. Fate would have it that he was very enthralled by the concept of the bubble pipe.

I enjoy making these two unlock their inner child through spending time with each other. Expect more of The Pookies™ in future art because I love drawing them together. 🤗

[Art related to my fic, Accidental Siblings.]

[wutheringmights]

Can I be greedy and ask for all of the boys ? And any characters you have strong opinions on? Pretty please? With lots of cherries and chocolate on top? ( for the ask meme ofc)

Anon, I'll finish up all of the boys in the Chain just for you. And trust me, I have an Infinite Amount of Strong Opinions. You have no idea how Opinionated I Am.

If anyone is coming in late to this, here are the boys I have done already and a short summary of my thoughts (click the hyperlinks to get the full Opinion):

Warriors: he's best when he's the trashy anti-Link, and I like him so much

Twilight: kind of boring, but I have a soft spot for him anyway because you never forget your first

Wind: should have been aged up a little so that he can have that identity crisis I'm craving

This... gets long. Really long. 3-hours-of-work-long. Before you read, please note that even when I speak negatively about something, it’s not to diss anyone who does like the thing. I’m not vague posting or being passive aggressive. This is all written in good humor and good faith. 

That being said, let’s a-go!

-Sky-

What I love about them: He has one of the best character arcs of all the Links. I love that he starts off being lazy and kind of a jerk, but grows as a person because he wants to save his friend. And I love that he's truly the most courageous Link. He has no other successful hero of past or legacy to lean back upon to reassure him. He walked into that fight with Demise with no assurance from anyone that he would succeed. Yet, he does it anyway. Because he's a true hero and someone had to be one. And he's rewarded with a curse that he does not initially take seriously. He thinks he's saved everyone, yet he's cursed his spirit, possibly his bloodline, and his entire legacy of the kingdom of Hyrule into a doomed cycle of destruction. All because he dared to face evil incarnate. I love him.

What I hate about them: You know how I called Twilight boring? I should have saved that critique for Sky. LU Sky is actually the most boring interpretation of his character. All of his negative traits? Gone. All of his positives? Also gone. He's the blandest version of himself, and like Twilight, I now feel like I gotta add some spice to him to make him more interesting while still keeping him recognizable. Even so, he's still one of my favorite Links.

Favorite Moment/Quote: When he kicks Twilight's ass at sword fighting. That's stuff is *chef's kiss*

What I would like to see more focus on: You would think that there would be more angst out there about him realizing that he's actually been cursed, but it's still kind of hard to find. He's the Cursed Knight! The beginning of a terrible legacy! Imagine meeting a bunch of heroes for the first time, and instead of being relieved at having someone who understands your experiences, you're filled with horror at realizing that your victory was a false one. You didn't win. Your spirit will never be at rest. Imagine dealing with that realization for the rest of your life. You could never be at peace.

What I would like to see less focus on: I love that he loves his wife, but he's more just the fact that he's married, y'know? I would like to see a little less blind devotion to Hylia and Zelda, and more complicated feelings about being manipulated into being the hero.

Favorite pairing with: Sun/Link/Groose OT3! I have no reasoning behind this other than I like Groose and Groose definitely had a crush on SkSw Link.

Favorite friendship: I won't answer Groose again even if I want to, so I'll say Warriors. I cannot begin to describe how elite this friendship would be if you gave it a chance. They're just two boys dealing with unique positions of leadership and responsibility. They would probably even bond over being shitheads at different ends of the shithead spectrum. It's so good, okay?

NOTP: Ghirahim. I'm not too adverse to this one, but the ship hinges on whether you can redeem Ghirahim or not. In my opinion, Ghirahim is awesome because he's such a fun villain. Redeeming him ruins the fun.

Favorite headcanon: I have a whole life story planned out for Sky. Basically, he lives to be close to 500 years old by the power of the Triforce. He is the Link throughout the Era of Chaos who banishes the Dark Interlopers to the Twilight Realm and seals the Triforce in the Sacred Realm. He actually seals himself in the Sacred Realm as well to keep the Triforce safe, and he fought Ganondorf in when he broke in. Sky, like Time and Wind, does not get a happy ending.

-Four-

What I love about them: Four is origin of the heroes of Hyrule being known for being children. What a legacy to leave behind. He's such an interesting case of an incarnation of the Hero's Spirit, too. He fought Vaati, and he did his job so well that Demise's next incarnation had to be Ganondorf. Four did his job the best out of everyone, and it came at the cost of creating a magic sword that changed him permanently. I like to think that the Four Sword was not meant to split him, that it was a mistake he made with the design. And it's sad, isn't it? You made a defective sword, and like any good sword, it has a symbolic double edge. It gifted you with so much, and yet he can never be the same again. And his story is never well-remembered because it is overshadowed by the Links who fought the King of Evil. He's does so much, yet his legacy is underappreciated.

What I hate about them: I want to prepare you for this Opinion, because I know it's unpopular. Are you ready? Okay. I don't like the Colors. I'm sorry. I want to like them, but they don't interest me at all. Because they are parts of Four’s personality, they have to be one-note archetypes which does not make for exciting storytelling. I also haven't found a fic yet that has been from Four's POV that did the internal monologue of the Colors in a way that wasn't a pain in the ass to read. Maybe if someone can figure out how to do the Colors in a way that doesn't feel like a drag, I would like them more. But in the end, I think Four himself is more interesting than the Colors.

Favorite Moment/Quote: The fact that he didn't want to touch the Master Sword because he doesn't trust magic swords. That is every I need to know about his opinion on his own adventures.

What I would like to see more focus on: I want more of Four as Four. It's getting harder to find content of Four being his own person first and the Colors second.

What I would like to see less focus on: Four being the Colors first and his own person second. There is something about viewing Four as this cover identity for the Colors that doesn't feel right. There's a balance that needs to be strike between his ability to split, how that affects his every day life, and his own identity of being Four. I think I may have read one fic that hit that sweet spot for me, but still.

Favorite pairing with: Shadow. I'm such a sucker for befriending and falling for the enemy. That is all.

Favorite friendship: Dot! Their friendship is super cute. I like the idea of them being super close when they were younger and struggling to keep the friendship going as they age due to how much their paths in life diverge.

NOTP: This isn't necessarily a Four or an LU problem, but people who ship the Colors together? Bro. C'mon.

Favorite headcanon: I'm torn between two different Four and the Master Sword headcanons. On one hand, Four thinking that the Master Sword is just legend until he meets Sky and everyone else is just a fun idea. He sees the legendary sword for the first time and his mind is blown. On the other hand, I also like my Four with a side of hubris. What if he had the option on his quest to draw the Master Sword himself? What if he could tell that if he did that, the consequences would be terrible. He's not sure what would happen, but he knows it would be terrible. So he decided to make his own sword instead to disastrous results. Wouldn't that be tragic or what?

-Time-

What I love about them: Last winter, I did a two hour powerpoint for my friends about the Legend of Zelda timeline. During that powerpoint, I was rating every iteration of Link. What I said about the Hero of Time then holds true to my thoughts of LU Time now. Time is the original Link, more so than Sky in the lore and Legend/Hyrule in real life. Every other hero is a reflection of him. So the fact that his story is about the loss of childhood and the tragedy of that is incredible, and you can see those themes reflected in every other game. Moreso, he’s the only Link with a confirmed tragic ending. Not only does he end his life unsatisfied, but his adventure is failure on every timeline. In the adult timeline, Hyrule is swallowed by the sea. In the child one, Ganondorf returns again. In the fallen timeline, Hyrule fell. I like the idea since that the games themselves are the legends that are past down about each hero, Hylians have also remembered Time as a tragic figure. Yet, they also remember that the happy moments for his life come from small acts of kindness. Even someone as sad as him finds joy in helping others, even if it’s just to small deeds that will not be heralded as grand heroic quests. It’s beautiful.

What I hate about them: This is more about Mask than Time, but Mask is not an adult in a child’s body. He did not rewind time in Termina enough to be considered mentally an adult. He’s a young teenager at best, and that’s me being generous. He is a child who was forced to be an adult and despite the gods being done with him, he cannot conceive of ever having a childhood again. So he can say all he wants that he’s an adult, but he is not. That’s just what he thinks he is.

Favorite Moment/Quote: Anytime we get a flashback to him being a younger adult is great. I want to see more of his in this his early adulthood.

What I would like to see more focus on: I think I just want more of Time being... not a bad leader, but being an imperfect one. I honestly think he’s only the leader because he’s the oldest and enough of the heroes recognize the title of Hero of Time. But he is not the leader type, and he is struggling to keep it together and has to defer to Twilight and Warriors for help a lot. 

What I would like to see less focus on: I’m not the biggest fan of Dad!Time for any of the Links. He’s not emotionally ready for it. And I think he defaults to treating the boys like adults because that’s how he wanted to be treated when he was their age. 

Favorite pairing with: Malon. He has this great partnership of equal respect with her and it’s just. So good.

Favorite friendship: Linebeck. I know. This exists only in my head. But if these two ever meet, you cannot convince me that they would not get along swimmingly. It would be so good (once Linebeck gets over his crush on Time and stops hitting on him, of course).

NOTP: Child Timeline Zelda. Let me explain: I fully believe in Bi Time supremacy, and when in OoT, he definitely had a crush on Sheik. However, one of the worst parts of rewinding time and being in the child timeline is that Zelda is a completely different person now. They may have been friends in the other timeline, but her life experiences are completely different now. She is not the same person as he once knew. And it’s tragic to know someone as who they could have been, not as they are.

Favorite headcanon: After Termina, Time spent a lot of time with the Nabooru because out of everyone he knew, she’s the only who took him seriously even as a child. She has big older sister energy, and he considers her a part of his family. However, being treated as such made it easier for him to ignore his issues and put off his healing process by a few years.

-Legend-

What I love about them: Veteran of Heroes! What a freaking title. I love that he keeps on finding adventures, and that he keeps hustling. Even if he complains about never getting a break, you can tell that he loves helping others. He loves being on the road, never settling down, and finding adventure after adventure. Honestly, if any of the Links had a calling to be a hero, it’s him. Is he tired? Sure. Is he a little jaded after having saved Hyrule and a bunch of other kingdoms multiple times? Yes. But at the end of the day, he likes being a hero. This is who he is. His complaining is not genuine; he just plays the martyr because, at this point, he’s earned the right to.

What I hate about them: If you can’t tell by now, I have a, uh, different interpretation of Legend from popular canon. Fandom Legend is not right to me. He is unrecognizable. It is hard to write him because I feel like I have to balance what other people think Legend should be versus how I think he is. The people who are big Legend enjoyers probably feel the same way about my version of Warriors, and that’s fine. I’m not going to gel with every character and I don’t expect everyone to gel with how I see characters either. It’s goes both ways, y’know.

Favorite Moment/Quote: I like how subtly he tried to approach the Wolfie problem at first, trying to ask questions and get more proof before confronting Twilight. It’s a good touch.

What I would like to see more focus on: If I had to choose one thing, it’s this one throw away line about him never wanting to settle down. I’m telling you, folks! He likes his lifestyle! And did you see him when he does presenting the origins of the hero? He’s not bitter about being a hero! Legend is moody, but he is not angsty about the whole hero thing. Have fun with him please!

What I would like to see less focus on: If you can’t tell by now, Legend is my least favorite Link. There is a lot I want to see less of, but just to name one thing, it’s the headcanon that Fable is his sister. I live and die by common born Link, and whether he’s a legitimate heir or the royal bastard, I am more than bored with the persistent Prince!Legend content.

Favorite pairing with: Marin. It’s a good tragic story and I like it well enough. She’s cute, and he’s cute with her.

Favorite friendship: Warriors. I’m with everyone else on these two have peak sibling energy. They tease and pick on each other, but only they are allowed to mess with each other. They’re each other’s bully, and it’s always good to see.

NOTP: I do not have enough energy to have a lot of strong opinions about Legend’s romantic relationships, but I will mentioned that I have lost a lot of love for Ravio recently and am liking seeing him with Legend less and less. I have no better reason for this than the fact that I finally played ALBW and hate how many of my hard earned rupees he’s taken from me by withholding important, lifesaving items. Rat bastard.

Favorite headcanon: Remember my headcanon about him being the coolest bad boy folk hero on the block because everyone thinks he kidnapped Zelda? Yeah, I still stand by that one. I did good there.

-Hyrule-

What I love about them: If there is any Link that I would call a gutter rat, it is this one. I struggle a bit to talk about Hyrule since his games gives us so little, but in the end, I always fall back on him being a hero of the people. He is the one who has nothing and relates the best to people who are at their lowest. Yet, he is still a hero. He earns the right to be a hero because he helped Impa in her time of need. He’s selfless and competent. Even if he never got a traditional education, I bet he’s wicked smart too. He is the Link that symbolizes all of the parts of the Triforce the most. And, god. I cannot talk about him without mentioning the blood sacrifice part of LA. It’s such a cool concept, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to go from being the rough and tumble, win-at-all-costs fighting to protecting yourself first because if you don’t, the consequences are disastrous. It’s paradoxical, and it must be such a different mindset to fall into. But it must also be a blessing in disguise since now he has a reason to finally care about himself.

What I hate about them: Who started the Hyrule is innocent headcanon? Come over here because we need to exchange some words. If there is anyone who would be a realist and know how the world works, it’s this guy. And while we’re here, who came up with the Hryule is always lost headcanon? I also have some words for you. And you know what? WHILE WE’RE HERE, who let him be named Hyrule? I’m have more than choice words for you. His name scheme is the bane of my existence and the express reason why I don’t write him more. God.

Favorite Moment/Quote: That one panel where he takes utter delight in Warriors hiding from his scorned lovers? That is a central pillar in my understanding of Hyrule.

What I would like to see more focus on: Again, his relationship with other people. Even if his games are lacking in NPCs, we know from lore that he’s a good guy who will jump in to help others. He must know plenty of people, and I want to see who exists in his world with him. 

What I would like to see less focus on: I have an on-going joke with my brother that certain characters are Catholic, even if Catholicism does not exist in the world of the thing we’re watching or playing. Of course, we’re not being serious. we’re just joshing around. So imagine the gut punch I feel whenever I see people say Hyrule is Christian and realize that they’re being serious. I just can’t take it seriously.

Favorite pairing with: Aurora. It’s cute and I’m a sucker for that hero and royalty dynamic, especially when the hero is a peasant. It’s so cheesy, but I love it.

Favorite friendship: Legend. But not the way everyone else pairs them up as the grumpy one and the sunshine one. I think of it more as them being the pinnacle of boys being boys. They’re shitheads. They do stupid shit together. They both have a dark sense of humor. They joke that they’re practically the same person sometimes.

NOTP: uhhhhhhhhh.... Is he paired with anyone else?

Favorite headcanon: I love the idea that he just likes his way of life and refuses to accept anyone saying otherwise. Legend wants to teach him to read? Sorry, but he’s never had to read before in his life so he’s pretty sure he’ll never need it anyway. Want to participate in the treasured Hylian tradition of piercing your ears when you come of age? Why would he ever do that when a monster could rip those earrings off? He’s stuck in his ways and it frustrates everyone else to no end, but he has no interest in ever changing.

-Wild-

What I love about them: When I was 9, I spent my time online on Legend of Zelda forums. I remember one of my forum friends saying that they wanted a Legend of Zelda game where Link lost. And I think of that friend whenever I think about Wild. BOTW Link is the best Link that has ever been. He is the epitome of every trait we associate with any Link. He’s smart and sassy. He’s hard working and kind. But underlining all of that is the fact that he’s still the one who failed. If Demise’s Curse in SkSw is the set-up, the Great Calamity is the payoff. And I haven’t even talked about how confirming him as being non-verbal before the Calamity does so much for his characterization. I don’t even know where to start or how to articulate it. By game storyline alone, Wild is one of my favorites.

What I hate about them: You guys knew this one was coming, but I’m going to have to say it anyway. Fandom Wild.... not good. I’ve said it for half of these boys so far, but god is it true. I have a way I see Wild that is rarely done in the fandom. Fandom Wild has a lot of the traits I also see in Wild, but to all of the extremes. I will mention one thing in particular as being a pet peeve, and it’s how some people headcanon him as always being nonverbal. I know what they’re trying to do, and I think they’re on to something, but they’re also missing the point of what BOTW Link’s character arc is. I just wish more people would forget fandom and work more off of the games for how to characterize him.

Favorite Moment/Quote: Weirdly enough, my favorite moment is when he got mad at everyone for making fun of his Gerudo outfit, so he dumped Goron Spice in his cooking. It’s encapsulates a part of his character I think a lot of people forget about.

What I would like to see more focus on: I think he has a really complicated relationship with his past. He said himself that his old self felt like a different person, and I think that should be explored a lot more. That idea actually fascinates me so much that instead of CTB, I almost wrote a character study fic about Wild. His emotions are not as simple as feeling guilty about letting his friends die and not preventing the Calamity. His emotions would be so complicated and because I don’t have the time to explore it, someone else needs to do it for me.

What I would like to see less focus on: There is a weird fascination with Wild having memory loss and essentially being like a kid again. And this feels infantilizing to me. It honestly bugs me a lot every time I see it.

Favorite pairing with: I can’t decide between Zelda, Mipha, and Revali. They’re all different dynamics and they’re all good.

Favorite friendship: Paya. I firmly believe that Paya is Wild’s best friend. I am the only one in the world who believes this. But I am also the only one in the world who is correct. 

NOTP: Wild is good with everyone. Good for him!

Favorite headcanon: An essential scene of my Wild character study I will never write is one where his horse dies. He goes into shock and walks back to Kakariko to talk to Impa. But once he goes to her, he breaks down in tears and has an absolute melt down over the horse. And Impa sagely says, “It’s not about the horse, is it?” She’s implying that he’s actually mourning the loss of his friends, Hyrule, his life, everything-- but through his tears, he keeps tell her that she’s wrong. He barely remembers them. He doesn’t know them. He doesn’t have any feelings about them. He just really loved that horse. But Impa refuses to listen to him, just repeating over and over again: “it’s not really about the horse.”

And that’s it! That’s all of my opinions! I know a lot of my opinions are polarizing, but everything I said is in good faith, and I am not trying to diss anyone for how they approach these characters.

I welcome you to send me your Opinions on the Links, even if it’s just to disagree with me. I’m cool with it, and I like knowing what everyone else thinks!

[boop-le-snoot]

stephen strange x oral fixation selfship

it made me horny writing this goodbye. i chew on stuff when i am focused and if were dating you better be giving me your fingers to chew on, bubs. and lemme make-out in your lap for 102828 hours. 😤

cant wait for borders to open so i can go to germany and get my tongue split finally.

based on a sex dream. thank you benefits cucumber for being sexy as fuck.

"You're going to bite it clean off one day," his amused voice interrupted her thoughts briefly, causing the girl's fingers to stutter in-between flipping pages.

She raised her eyes upwards, unbothered by the apparent disrespect for each other's space bubble - neither of them was sure when or how they crossed the lines; perhaps, she was naturally that casual about touch and he didn't have the heart to react in any negative way. He craved it almost as much as she was ignorant of pesky things like societal norms and whatnot.

"Yes, Stephen" true to herself, she offered an exaggerated agreement, emphasizing his name, still worrying that damned, plump lip between her teeth. He could see the miniscule wounds, the healed scar tissue below the line of it. It was a long-time habit for her. "That's why I got my fangs filed," teasing, she smiled, baring her teeth. The inhumanly jagged incisors glinted at him mockingly.

"Kids these days," he continued the familiar banter, fighting the smile at the corners of his mouth. Stephen didn't pretend to understand why she decided that fangs and split tongue was something a human being should possess but he wasn't one of those people who told others what to do with their bodies.

Having thought about it more than strictly necessary, he had decided it did suit her, to an extent, to be as peculiar outwardly as she seemed to be on the inside. Stephen's attention slid back to his own book, he almost managed to ignore the tiny girl sitting in-between his outstretched legs, flipping through several tomes at a time.

Every now and then, a focused sigh would emanate from her and he would have no choice but to briefly cast a glance towards her; the little crease between her eyebrows betrayed the intense thought process she was in. Her foot was twitching against his knee, she never seemed to be able to sit still and even more so when her brain worked overtime.

She reminded him of Tony, which in turn, made him want to just wrap her in his arms and never let go. Just like the engineer, behind a wall of sass and snark, there was a gentle, sensitive person with a world full of colors.

Her lips were steadily turning crimson. The more she got into it, the more she chewed.

"Anything of value?" Stephen couldn't bear to look at it anymore.

"Nothing new," she replied absentmindedly, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. Feeling his eyes glued to her face, she raised her head in confused. "Huh?" The eyebrow arch, the exasperated face.

"Do you need a chew toy?" His own face must've mirrored her because her frown deepened.

The very tip of her tongue snuck out, running over her chapped lips.

He followed the movement with his eyes, tenatively reaching out a finger to brush against the puffy, sensitive flesh, torn between watching himself touch her and the miniscule flutter of her eyelashes as she very obviously tried to conceal her reaction.

A worm of malicious glee took a home in Stephen's chest; as much as she liked to act cool and nonachalant, sometimes they did catch her slipping: lingering looks and quiet sighs.

The corner of her mouth rising slowly, derisively should have been a warning enough. But he was just a man, burdened by his vices and at times, weak. Leaning into him not more than an inch or two, she wrapped her lips around his thumb, the dull scrape of her incisor causing his blood to suddenly run cold. Stephen's toes twitched as she readjusted her position, butt on her calves, a hand firmly planted next to his inner thigh.

As gently as she could, she chewed on his thumb, eyes drooping shut in a gesture almost pornographic. Stephen exhaled, noisy, a breath he didn't know he had been holding, at the seemingly innocent bite to his hand.

Breath hot on his hand, he had no choice but to watch the fine hairs on that arm stand up in response to her. Eyes laughing, she may have been mocking him, waving the ambiguity of their friendship (or was it something else?) as a banner of his stubbornness and her own insecurity.

"Like this?" Briefly pausing the gnawing, her tongue snaked out to scoop up the moisture at the opposite corner of her mouth, briefly enveloping his thumb in her hot, wet mouth strictly more than necessary.

"You..." Stephen was at a loss of words, which only prompted for her mischievous smile everybody was secretly afraid of grow.

"Me," she replied with a nod, resuming the slow, delicate gnawing.

It was a head rush. He was sure, if she'd wanted to, she could easily draw blood, pierce his skin with the gentlest of touches. The thought of it was what broke the camel's back.

The free fingers of his hands wrapped around her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "You're trouble," he stated, slowly pulling her in and giving her the time to pull away, should she change her mind.

"Mhm," denying the obvious wasn't in her nature. She obediently followed the movement, shamelessly wrapping her mouth fully around his thumb, shuffling closer to his chest with small movements until she had no other option but to hold onto his shoulders for balance.

He decided quite liked her on top of him, not like that was anything new. As the distance between them closed, Stephen easily slipped his thumb from her mouth, leaving a wet trail of spit on her chin and down her neck as he repositioned the hand from her front to her nape.

The side-smirk was still glowing smug in her face, too adorable for someone who just masterfully trolled a sorcerer twice their age. Stephen leaned in first, catching the plump of her abused lip gently between his own, eyes sliding shut at the sensation of the slightest, most reluctant tremble coming from the girl in his lap.

There were small cues almost all the time she was around any of them; now, Stephen could feel the hitch in her breath, the desperate clutch of her fingers on his collarbones as she displayed the reactions she denied herself out of spite on a daily basis.

His tongue slipped in without any resistance as the barest hint of a moan leaked into the kiss; he wasn't as patient as the girl in his lap, gathering her closer was a feat as quick as it was rewarding. The noises grew louder as she felt the results of her little games under her hips. All want and no finesse, her knees and calves landed noisily outside of his thighs, her center planted firmly over his erection.

Now, it seemed stupid for Stephen to ever have had thought that he stood a chance against her. The hot, wet and messy kiss was just the beginning.

[sparetimeimagines]

Hi so if your requests are open can I request a oneshot from death note nsfw were it’s after Light’s father’s death and the reader usually doesn’t like Light but starts to feel sorry for him and later that day decides to visit his apartment to help him deal with his grief and ask if there is anything she can do for him and he very subtly implies that she can help him by giving herself to him and although the reader is tempted to doesn’t want to because it’s wrong and he has a girlfriend but eventually agrees to it?

Skin | Light Yagami

Tags: Smut, Oral Grief, Character Death

Masterlist

Your fingers trembled holding the dish just along the tips. It was a basic casserole, something your mother suggested you’d always make for the grieving.

“It’s common here in the US to bring a dish for the mourning.” You set the dish on the counter watching Light continue to stare out the window. The least he could do is acknowledge your presence.

“Is there anything I can do?” You politely ask him, though your last nerve was being worked on quickly.

The shrug that rolls off his shoulders was enough for you to lose your patience. His old ways have returned and honestly you’re over it.

“Alright. Good talk. Hope you feel better soon, Light. Sorry for your loss...”

You turn to the door, your hand balancing on the handle when the lock notification chimes.

“Stay.” He finally speaks up, you looking over your shoulder to reveal the brunet closing the distance between you two.

He’s close enough you can smell his cologne, feel the cold of his skin. If anything it was too close for comfort.

His sharp tone made chills rise up your neck and a jump in your stance as he speaks once more.

“Why so nervous?” The ice in his voice makes you shiver once more. “Oh.. I see. You think I’m Kira.” He smirks rolling his eyes. “You’ve known me for so long. Don’t you believe I won’t hurt you by now?”

You swallow hard and he takes a step forward, his fingers hardly touching you. Piercing cold fingers glide across your skin as his hot breath caresses your neck.

“I’m feeling a tad bit overwhelmed. I’m sad really. Will you stay?” His arms close the barrier between your bodies as his chest presses firmly against your back.

He doesn’t wait for your response as his fingers slide up and now along your skin.

“L-Light I-” you choke on your words, letting his touch speak for you.

“Please, I don’t want to be alone.” His hot breath leaves you with a shiver.

Cold hands massage your shoulders with a longing touch, when finally his lips meet your skin.

A sensation like ice burning your flesh. Cold lips piercing the soft outer coat as the burn of his teeth overstimulate your nerves.

“Light... I- isn’t this bad timing?” Your tone wasn’t as reassuring as his touch, when he pushes you back against the couch, lowering your body with his lips finally move to your own.

“You talk too much.” He silences you, his hand sliding under your shirt before you can react. “All I need for you to do is be my pretty distraction. That’s it.” He palms your bra leaving you with a gasp of pure surprise. “Take your shirt off.”

Light’s demands are strict, his face far from playful. “I’m serious. Take it off. I know you don’t like me. But I know you want to fuck me.”

“Fuck you?” You scoff, rolling your eyes in any direction but him. “I don’t even want to be in the same room as you.”

The displeased look on your face makes him laugh, his fingers circling around your erect nipples.

“Yeah, keep holding back your pathetic moans. You love my touch. You want me to fuck your pathetic cunt until you’re trembling.” His smirk is mocking as you close your eyes.

“Look at me.” He pinches your nipple forcing a gasp from you. “Mmhm. That feels good doesn’t it. You’re so touched starved.”

You hold back a moan and it shows across your cheeks, they exposing you with the brightest tone of rouge.

A mocking chuckle taunts you from the towering brunet.

“See. You’re pathetic. Just take your shirt off.” He leans back, watching your fists remained balled at your side.

“Stop fighting it. Look at you.” He grips your wrists, making your arms rise above your head. One of his hands grasp both yours when he lightly runs a finger along your clothed shorts.

“I can feel you. You’re sobbing. You’re literally drenched.” Light dips his fingers into your shorts from the leg, parting your panties until he meets your slick coating. “I love it when I’m right.”

His large fingers burrow into your sticky swollen walls; an untamed moan leaving your lips faster than you could control it.

“Fuck... turn over. Let me see that ass.”

He wasn’t asking, but telling, as his hands grasp your hips and pulls your bottoms off in whole, letting them dangle at your knees.

“Mmm Fuck. It’s perfect.” Light’s hand smacks the side, allowing your skin to bruise by contact. “Mmm. You’ve been hiding this the entire time from me?” He smacks your cheek again.

“You know, that makes me really annoyed, Y/n.” He draws circles into your skin as your heart rate accelerates. “It makes me feel really bad. You know my dad just died right? Yeah. So I’m already upset, and with this on top of it... I feel like need to relieve some tension.”

He shifts behind you, however you’re left blinded facing the wall behind the couch.

“Yes. I’m overwhelmed.”

Pressure and a warm sensation is left from him tracing your core. You bite your lower lip, not wanting him to know how many times you have thought of hate fucking him in one of the back rooms of your office.

The way his cock slides along your folds, your moan hitches in your throat and it’s your instinct to let him know how badly you want it.

But you won’t.

“You’re so stubborn...” he groans getting his cock drop from your core.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Light reaches for his cock, pushing into your folds enough to tease a moan from your pursed lips.

“Mmm. I’d rather think about you. How tight your pussy is... how badly I was to know what your insides feel like.” He slides in deeper, his breath triggering the nerves along your neck, your head jolting up in reaction. “Mmm you’re such a bad girl.”

Light rolls his hips into yours when finally he bottoms inside you, a long loud moan releases from your lips.

“Fuck... You’re so tight.” He gasps with his breath caught. “God damn.” Pulling your hair into a bundle in his palm, he begins thrusting into your swollen cunt.

“God...” you gasp and he tugs at your hair straightening you out.

“Yeah? Don’t act surprised... you’ve been thinking about my cock for a while... haven’t you?” He pulls himself out of your body, soaked from your juices before returning to stuff you whole. “I’m just a grieving soul here.” His hands pull you closer into his body, grasping your neck with a firm grip.

“I’m just a little sad. A little depressed, shall I say?” His hot breath dresses your neck whilst he begins his cycle of pumps with pure lust into your cunt.

“You don’t...” raspy moans leave your lips. “Even like me.”

The smacks of his hips into your sobbing cunt leaves your breath caught.

“Shut up. I don’t have to like you to fuck you like a whore.” A sharp whisper against your ear has your heart pounding against your chest.

Light’s fingers tuck into your lips, pressing against tongue as the hand lowers to your clit.

“Mm fuck.” The whimper below his fingers him pulling out, flipping you to face him.

“Get down here.”

On your knees, he cups the back of your neck sliding his cock past your lips.

“That’s right. You fucking whore. Make me feel better the only way you know how.”

Light thrusts into your mouth as your hands balance on each hip. “Look at me... that’s right... fucking your boss’s son. Jeez do you have some pride.”

The gulps of his cock filling your mouth and the look in your eyes has his peak filling. Beads of precum weld on his cock on he pulls away from your lips.

“Mm... I should cover you in my cum.” He smirks rolling his hand over his head. “Mm how slutty you look, such a perfect distraction.”

He jerks his cock over your head and sees your frown.

“What? Did you think you were going to cum? No.” His cock grows red. “You’re only here because I told you to be. The only reason I’m allowing you to be anywhere near me is because I need to get off. You need to make me cum.”

The speed of his hand glazing his cock with your spit grows and his knees begin to buckle. “Yes... my little slut. Yeah I should keep you around. Have you here to be my little cum dump. For whenever I want to get off, have this slut here to suck me off.” He’s panting pulling you on your knees.

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Mesa? She’s useless. Has no idea what she’s doing. Talks too much. But you... fuck come here.” He grabs your neck, guiding it onto his cock for him to fuck your mouth.

“Yes. Good girl.”

The motion of his hand along his cock doesn’t last long as he uses you to finish his needs.

“Good little slut. That’s right.” He releases himself into your mouth. “Take my cum. Show me your worth.” His hot seed spews down your throat as attempts to keep his composure. “Mmm. Fuck. Yeah you’re gonna stay right here and suck me off everyday. Pretty little slut can handle two jobs, right?”

His thumb handles the dribble of loose cum escaping your lips, guiding it onto your tongue.

Nodding, you suck his thumb while keeping those innocent doe eyes watching him.

“Good girl. I’m sure you’ll be trained just fine.”

He slips his thumb from your mouth and returns to his cock, tucking it back into his pants.

“Now get cleaned up, I have guests arriving soon.”

[love-and-monsters]

Jackalope Fae

GN human reader X M Fae, 8,340 words

This one's a bit all over the place, I'll admit. You rescue a Fae from the battlefield after a fight. He'd injured, but determined to return to his king's side. Unwilling to leave him on his own, you accompany him on his journey.

Content warning for descriptions of battlefields, wars, and injuries

You picked your way across the battlefield, scarf tied around your mouth and nose. No matter how tightly you cinched it, the smell of blood and viscera still made you gag. It was thick in the air, hanging in nearly-visible clouds around you.

There were bodies everywhere. Humans and Fae littered the ground. Your shoes sank into the ground slightly. Red stains covered their sides, soaking into the fabric. You tried very hard not to think about it.

There was no feeling in the world more helpless than the one of standing on a battlefield after the battle. All these people… all these corpses. Husbands and fathers, wives and mothers, children and lovers. All of them were dead and gone and there was nothing you could do to save them.

Something near your foot twitched.

For a moment, you thought it was just a trick of the tears blurring your vision. You went still, staring. The body nearest to you was some sort of Fae. His clothes were too bloody to make out any sort of army affiliation. A set of antlers sprouted from his head and his ears were elongated and floppy, drooping like rabbit ears. The rabbit idea continued down on his legs, which were elongated, fuzzy, and built powerfully.

As if sensing your gaze on him, he gave a little gasp and sucked in a choked breath. A fresh wave of red soaked through his jacket, mingling with the dried blood that was already there.

Alive. This one was alive!

You knelt next to him. “Don’t move.” His eyes opened. They were hazy with pain and blood loss, and a piercing, crystalline blue. One of his hands fumbled for the sword at his waist. You froze, but he was too weak to even draw it. His eyes fluttered shut again.

“Stay still,” you told him, though you weren’t sure he could even hear you. Hurriedly, you slipped your bag from your back and tugged it open. The strips of cloth inside seemed pathetic in comparison to that much blood, but they were all you had. Ignoring the dried blood flaking off under your fingernails, you pulled open the front of his jacket.

Under the coat, his skin was covered in a fine, velvety-soft layer of fur. At least, it would have been velvety soft if it hadn’t been matted with blood. The long cut across his chest still wept blood from a few open areas. You pressed down as many bandages as you could, tying them into place.

The Fae groaned and opened his eyes again. He twisted to look at you, gaze still unfocused. His long, black hair was matted to his face, marring some of his fine features. Despite his circumstances, his face still made your stomach do a little leap. Why were all Fae so damnably attractive?

“I’m going to try to move you,” you told him. He didn’t seem to be registering your words. “It’ll probably hurt, but I need to get you out of here.” Battlefields were breeding grounds for infections. Even the resilient Fae had succumbed to battle-rot and other diseases.

You crouched down, your knees protesting the position. Gritting your teeth, you hooked your arms under his armpits and started to haul.

The Fae made a high, keening noise, so startling that you dropped him. He made a choked noise as he hit the ground, and didn’t move again. For a moment, you were terrified you had killed him, but no, his sides were still moving with his steady breathing.

After a moment, when he did not move again, you bent back down and went back to pulling him. This time, he made no sound. He was as limp as a ragdoll as you hauled him across the battlefield and to your tent.

You could drag him, but there was no way you were lifting his long, lanky form up into a cot. He looked slender, but he must have been pure, corded muscle, because he was heavy as anything. Instead, you spread out a blanket on the floor and tugged him onto it. Moving him had reopened some of his wounds. You could see the fresh blood soaking into his shirt. Hurriedly, you stripped him of his clothes and started padding his wounds with bandages.

He was more injured than you’d thought. There was a massive cut across his chest and more nicks and gashes all over his arms and legs. He was out of it, but his sleep was fitful. Every time you tried to clean off one of his cuts, he would twitch and growl. His eyes even opened once or twice, but they were clouded with pain and unfocused.

Once you were sure that he was in a stable condition, you took his clothes outside and dunked them into the washbasin. You’d left him with a blanket tied around his waist, to preserve his modesty, but you’d needed to completely remove his clothes. Some items had been completely destroyed- they were so caked to his wounds with blood that you had needed to cut them apart to pull them away.

The water in the washbasin slowly grew redder and redder as you washed off the shirt. It had been so thoroughly covered in blood, likely his own and other people’s, that you couldn’t see the color of it anymore. And as the blood washed away, your stomach started to sink.

The shirt wasn’t the deep, midnight-blue of the Sansivore army. It was the bright, emerald-green of the Aerethes.

You took a deep breath and kept scrubbing. He was a member of the Aerethes army. Well, fine. It didn’t matter. You would save his life. Just like all the others.

Once the clothes had been made as clean as you could get them and had been hung up to dry, you returned to your tent. The Fae was still lying there, breathing slowly and evenly. His sleep had gone from something fitful into something deeper, more even. You let out a slow breath. That was a good sign.

You ate dinner and then tipped a little bit of broth in his mouth, carefully encouraging him to swallow. He coughed, sputtering a little, and you lowered the cup. He’d probably gotten enough. He just needed a little, to keep his strength up.

After you finished feeding him, you wrapped him in a blanket, ensured that he was still in stable condition, then went to bed yourself. Despite the aching in your muscles, you were tired enough to fall asleep almost as soon as your head hit your pillow.

You woke to a prickling feeling on the back of your neck, all your senses alert. Something was wrong.

One of your hands stole under your pillow for your knife. It was a small thing, barely more than a scalpel, but that didn’t matter. Precision was more important than size, and you knew exactly where to drive the knife to kill someone in seconds.

Three… two… one! You rolled over, ready for a fight, then froze.

The Fae stood over you. He was enormously tall, balancing on digitigrade feet. You had to crane your neck back to look up into his face. His bright, blue eyes glittered like cold diamonds. His entire body was made up of rippling muscles. He looked like he could tear you limb from limb with little effort. His antlers only served to make him more impressive, like an oversized crown. The effect was a little ruined by the cute, fluffy bunny tail that sprouted from just above his butt.

It was as you looked down at his butt that you realized he was completely naked. The towel was lying behind him, discarded on the floor. Fortunately, his bandages were still attached, and his wounds hadn’t opened up during the night.

“Where am I?” His voice was dry and scratchy from disuse, but hearing him speak at all nearly sent you out of your skin. For some reason, you hadn’t really expected him to speak, much less in perfect English.

“You’re in my tent,” you said, once the burst of shock had worn off. “You should probably sit down. You’re still injured.”

His lips curled and his long, floppy ears twitched. “You are not a healer of the Aerethes army,” he said.

“No, I’m not. But I am a healer, and I need you to sit back down.” There was an unsettling trembling in his legs now, and it was starting to progress upward.

“I need to return. My army needs me. My king. I-” The trembling hit his knees and he wobbled. You darted forward, barely managing to brace yourself against his weight. Heavens above, but he was heavy. He snarled as his wounds were strained.

“Stop struggling!” You lowered him to the ground as gently as you could. He groaned, gritting his teeth. He had little fangs, you noticed. “Lie still. You’ve been injured, and I need to check your wounds for battle rot.”

He stared at you, then, apparently deciding there was nothing else he could do, submitted to your ministrations. You untied the bandages, dribbled cleaning solution into the wounds. He snarled, body flexing. “I know it hurts, I know,” you said, your voice automatically dropping into its most soothing register. “It’ll be all right.”

He snarled again. Even in his prone, injured position, it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “You. Tell me. What. Happened,” he said between flinches of pain.

“I don’t know exactly what happened. There was a battle. You were injured. I rescued you.” He twisted his head toward you, nose twitching.

“You are not a healer for the Aerethes army,” he said after a moment.

“No. I’m…” You paused. There was no official term for what you did, and you weren’t sure which unofficial term he’d know. Not to mention that most of them were unflattering. “I’m here to help.”

He stared at you, gaze growing more suspicious. “I cannot stay here. My people-”

“You are not going anywhere. You can try to leave if you want, but if you make it further than the tent’s entrance, I’ll be stunned. There’s about three severe- hey!”

The Fae rolled over and heaved himself to his feet. He wobbled for a moment before managing to catch himself. He was still naked, you noted, though he didn’t seem to care. Instead he made for the tent entrance.

He made it a grand total of four steps. Which was one more than you’d been betting on, so good for him.

“Are you all right?” you asked. He made an effort to get back up and collapsed again. “Okay. Come on back here.” You took a moment to haul him back onto the blankets. His eyes cracked open and he glared at you. “I did warn you. You’re exhausted. You probably got hit with iron. It’ll take a few days to clear your system.”

The Fae closed his eyes and sighed. “I was hit with iron.” His eyes opened again, this time with clear effort. “I need to… My king…” His eyes closed. “My…”

You waited for a moment, but he didn’t reopen his eyes. His chest rose and fell with stuttering breaths. He looked uncomfortable, but at least he was resting.

Confident that he wasn’t going to get up again, you stepped out of your tent. You cooked yourself breakfast, making a small, extra portion in case he woke up and needed food again. You also boiled off your water and strained it, and spent a few moments checking your medicine stores. You were starting to run low on river root. The army hadn’t traveled by a source of running water any time soon, which was really starting to become a problem. You might have to peel off for a while to replenish everything.

When you walked back into the tent, the Fae was awake again. His bright blue eyes followed you as you put down your supplies.

“How are you feeling?” you asked. It was often hard to tell how sick Fae were at a glance. Pale and gaunt seemed to be their natural state.

He stared.

“Good? Bad?” You crouched in front of him. He stared at you some more, teeth gritted. “I’m trying to help.”

“I do not need your help,” he growled. “I need to return to my king.”

“I’m going to help you do that. But you need to heal first. What good are you to your king if you’re half dead from your wounds?” The Fae’s long ears twitched. He lowered his gaze to the ground. “How are you feeling?”

He took in a deep breath. “I am feeling… tired. Sore. I was struck with iron- it burns in my veins.”

“I don’t know how to treat iron poisoning,” you said. The Fae shrugged.

“It cannot be treated. It must be endured.” He sagged to the ground. “Why are you helping me?”

The question came right out of left field. You rocked back onto your rear. “You needed help.”

The Fae sighed, as if he were talking to someone exceedingly slow. “Yes. But there were many people who needed help. I was not even a member of your army- you are not on the side of the Aerethes, are you?” You shook your head. “I thought not. Your tent is constructed in a different style. And yet, you rescued me. You appear to be trying to save my life. I had considered that you were attempting some method of interrogation, but I fail to see why you would avoid using iron tools or allow me to overcome my own iron poisoning.” He paused for a moment, panting heavily. His chest rose and fell rapidly with obvious exertion.

“I’m not trying to interrogate you,” you said, keeping your voice gentle. “I really did pull you off the battlefield because I wanted to save your life.”

He rolled his gaze back over to you. “Yes, I had surmised as much. So, I ask again: Why?”

You sighed, crossing your legs underneath you. “Do you know what Hippotherinism is?” He gave you a head shake. “It’s… well, a lot of people call it a religion, but I think that’s stretching the truth a little bit. It’s more of a philosophical movement. It comes from the idea that all people should seek to do as little harm as possible and seek to help as many as they can. I’ve been following those principles for years now.”

The Fae stared at you. His gaze was interested, if slightly confused. “What does that have to do with saving me?”

“War is against Hippotherinistic principles. We don’t participate as soldiers and we are forbidden from advocating for it. But when there is a war, we are also compelled to save lives. We aren’t allowed to pick and choose. If there is someone who needs our help, human or Fae or any species, we are compelled to help them. You were the first person I came across in savable condition, so I saved you.”

The Fae stared at you for a long moment, thinking hard. Then he slumped back onto the ground. “You are strange.”

“It’s strange to me that you all spend your time fighting,” you said. The Fae’s eyes opened again.

“I don’t spend my time fighting. I am an advisor to the king,” he said.

You paused, uncertain how to continue without offending him. “But you were fighting. Why else would you be on the battlefield?”

“My king was there. His advisors are also his guards, his allies in battle. If the soldiers fight, the king must fight, and if he fights, we go with him.”

“Well, at least your king fights with you,” you said. “Better than can be said for the Sansivore army.”

He seemed mollified by your compliment. “Yes. If your leader will not fight with you, then they are not fit to lead.” He prodded absently at his wounds, testing them. “To be absent from my king’s side… it is a disgrace. It shows that I am weak. I am sworn to follow the king until my final breath. As I am still breathing, I should be at my king’s side.” He closed his eyes. “But I am not.”

“When you’re healed, you can go back,” you said.

He sighed. “You misunderstand. I have abandoned my position. I am in disgrace.”

You parsed that. Their dignity and position were everything to a Fae. To lose their place in society meant a loss of their identity. “You didn’t abandon it,” you pointed out as gently as you could. “You tried to stay. You were injured in battle.”

“As long as I breathe, I should be at my king’s side. If I was left on the battlefield, I should have died there. I am disgraced, dishonored.”

You sat back on your heels. You had never heard anyone so unhappy at having their life saved. He seemed despondent.

“Can you return?” you asked.

“I must,” he said. “I must, and I will throw myself on the mercy of my king. If he elects to reinstate me, I will spend the rest of my life in gratitude for his kindness. If he does not, the court may kill me.”

You blanched. “The court will what?”

“If the king accepts that I am disgraced, that I have abandoned my position, and with it, my honor, I will have all my rights and positions in the land revoked. I will become one of the nameless, stripped of all that I am. The court will tear me apart and those that kill me will earn fragments of my power or land.”

You stared at him, a hand clamped over your mouth. “That’s terrible.”

“It is a mercy. If I were to become nameless, my life would be nothing. No power, no identity, no position. The king holds my name. Should my failure be so great that he decides to destroy it, I would be dead in all but body. To complete that is merely putting things right.” He gave a few raking coughs, then settled back onto his blanket.

You twisted and untwisted a piece of fabric in your hands. “You said the king has your name?”

“He holds the names of all his advisors.”

You closed your eyes, kneading at one of your temples. Names were important to Fae, both in a cultural and metaphysical sense. If he had willingly given it over to the king, that was a bond beyond anything you could think of. He would never voluntarily give up on going to the king, even if he knew that it meant certain death.

“Okay,” you said, the word coming out in a sigh. “Okay. Fine. I’ll help you.”

The Fae stared at you, ears twitching. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ll help you. Get back to the king, I mean. You’re not in a condition to be traveling on your own, not for a little while longer, at least. But if this is really important to you, then I’ll help you.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips curled up, showing off his short but sharp fangs. “What do you want in return?”

“I don’t want anything. That’s not why I’m doing this. I saved your life, so now I have a responsibility to make sure you’re going to be okay.” He looked at you a little blankly, but didn’t seem keen on protesting.

“You agree that for your service, I will not be indebted to you? Forced into repayment at a later date?” he clarified.

“There’s no terms or conditions,” you said. “I don’t want anything in return for it. If it works, we’ll probably never see each other again. And that’s all right. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

There was a long silence. He stared at you. There was something odd shifting in those crystal-blue eyes of his, but you couldn’t read it. Maybe it was some Fae emotion only they could comprehend. Finally, he shook his head. “Humans are fools. But if you offer this to me, then I will take it.”

“Okay. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning. First things first. Let me take another look at those cuts. I want to set them up so you’re not going to make them worse by moving around. And maybe put some more antiseptic and painkillers on it.”

The Fae lay back and allowed you to poke and prod at his cuts. He twitched as you probed his stomach and chest. Some of the noises were definitely pained ones, but there were a few sighs he made as you moved your hand along his toned stomach that wounded suspiciously like pleasure. You tactfully ignored him. There was no point in embarrassing him.

After you’d finished your examination, you gave him some clothes, which he put on without complaint, despite them being slightly too big for him. He curled up on the ground, back toward you. Despite yourself, your eyes lingered on him, admiring the shape of his body. No. Bad. Bad doctor. You don’t look at your patients like that.

You went to bed and tried very hard not to dream about anything inappropriate. You didn’t quite succeed.

The Fae seemed more alert and active in the morning, but you still refused to allow him to help you take down the tent. “I’ve done it many times before,” you said. Everything you owned could be folded into a bag that was a little more than half your size. You needed to be able to carry all your stuff from spot to spot. It wasn’t easy, but you had developed pretty good muscles from hauling it all around.

“Do you know what direction the army would have headed in?” you asked as you finished lashing the bag to your back.

The Fae fidgeted. “I have a general idea, yes.”

You waved a hand ahead of you. “Then by all means, lead the way.”

The Fae started out ahead of you. He moved with surprisingly fluid strides, despite his injuries, though there was a stutter in his step. You stayed close to him, even if that meant jogging a little. His legs were really long and he had a habit of hopping slightly, like a rabbit.

The pair of you headed northeast. Every now and then, the Fae would pause to sniff at the air or examine some flowers. The markers didn’t mean anything to you, but they seemed to reassure him that you were going in the right direction.

There was something comfortable about traveling with him. He was quiet, but the quiet wasn’t tense. It seemed more like he was appreciating the little sounds of the forest.

As the sun climbed higher into the sky, you noticed him slowing down. He kept putting a hand to his side, fussing with his bandages. “Hey. Sit down a minute.”

He glanced back at you. “I am fine.”

“Uh huh. Then just do it to humor me. I want to take a look. And I want to put more medicine on it so it doesn’t start rotting.”

He bared his fangs, but slumped down against a tree. You crouched next to him, swinging off your bag and rooting through it.

“It will likely take days for us to catch up to them,” he said as you unwrapped the bandages. “They are no longer moving, most likely, but we are much slower than they would have been.”

“Will they stay put for the time it’ll take for us to catch up to them?” you asked. The deepest cut had stopped bleeding and showed no signs of infection. That was good.

“Likely. They usually enchant the location to hide it and settle in.” He gritted his teeth as you dripped medicine into the wound. “Ahh.”

“Sorry. I know it hurts.” He snorted and turned his head away. “You don’t need to act so tough. It’s all right if it hurts. The pain tells you something is wrong and where to fix it.” You patted his shoulder.

The Fae blinked at you. In the sunlight, his blue eyes looked even brighter than before. A strange feeling moved along your spine and gathered in your stomach. You were blushing, you were sure of it. “Everything looks pretty good. I’m glad you’re healing well.”

The Fae pulled himself back to his feet, almost before you had finished securing the bandages again. “We need to keep moving,” he mumbled brusquely, then started padding through the woods again. You slung your bag up onto your shoulders and kept after him.

It was a long day of trekking through the thick undergrowth. The Fae kept ahead of you, but didn’t deliberately leave you behind. Every few moments, he checked behind himself, ensuring you were still there.

By the end of the day, you felt like your lungs were on fire. The Fae seemed perfectly fine, not even bothered. When you settled in a semi-cleared area to start setting up your tent, he glared impatiently. “We should continue.”

“You said they’re not going anywhere,” you said, slumping back against a tree. “We can afford to take a break. And I need some sleep. Humans aren’t as hardy as Fae.”

He hesitated, looking like he was considering continuing without you, then he turned and padded back into the camp.

It took a moment or two to gather the energy to stand back up. Perhaps walking all day had been a bad idea. You weren’t used to trying to keep up with a Fae on foot, and usually you took a more leisurely pace when you were following the army. All of your limbs felt like lead. It was hard to put up a tent with arms that you could barely lift over your head.

The Fae watched as you pulled the tent into place. His gaze was just as inscrutable as ever. It made an odd fluttery feeling start up in your middle again.

By the time you had the fire going, you were almost too tired to move. Thankfully, you had some dried rations. You shoved them toward the Fae. “Here. Eat.”

He opened the bag and started to munch on dried fruit and meat. Judging by his expression, it wasn’t the sort of fare he was used to in the king’s entourage. You slumped on the ground, trying to get up the energy and motivation to actually walk into the tent. Maybe even change your clothes before you fell into bed.

“You are not eating,” the Fae said. You blinked your eyes open. Had you actually fallen asleep for a moment? The Fae was a lot closer to you, practically on top of you.

“No,” you said. “I’m too tired to cook.” A massive yawn punctuated the sentence and proved your words.

The Fae frowned, then held out the bag of rations to you. You pushed them back toward him. “I need to stock up on those, and you need them more than I do.”

He frowned at you. “Humans need to eat.”

“Trust me. I’ve gone longer without food.” You yawned again, stretching your arms over your head. “I’m gonna- hey!”

The Fae dropped the rations on your chest. “Eat.”

“I’ll eat in the morning,” you said. “I just want to sl-hey!”

The Fae shoved you. “Eat.”

You groaned, pushing yourself upright. “I thought I said you should finish it.”

“Humans need food. Fae need less.”

“You’re injured.”

“You are exhausted.” The Fae narrowed his eyes. “Eat!”

He didn’t seem keen on giving up, and it would be faster to just agree with him than to fight until one of you passed out. You munched on the dried fruit and meat for a few minutes. The Fae watched you, ears and tail twitching occasionally.

He didn’t stop watching until you’d finished eating. Once you were done, he lay down, legs curled close to his body. You watched him for a moment longer. He was probably just concerned that you were going to pass out from hunger and possibly delay him. But there had been something in his eyes when he had looked at you. Something close to genuine worry.

That idea made something flutter convulsively in your chest. You swallowed, trying to dampen the feeling. Fuck. Don’t think about your patients like that. With one glance back at the Fae, you crawled into your tent and fell asleep.

You and the Fae set off again early in the morning, soon after the sun had risen. The Fae hung out close to your side. He seemed to be making an effort to stay close to you this time. You couldn’t say you were disappointed by it.

“How long have you been following the army?” the Fae asked. His question was startling. He hadn’t asked you anything out of curiosity, which you had been fine with. Fae weren’t known for appreciating small talk.

“It’s been a couple of years. Before the army, I studied medicine at a hospital. I considered being a medic with the army, but…” You trailed off, shifting your bag on your back. The Fae’s ears pricked slightly.

“But?” he nudged.

“I joined. But they don’t let you help the enemy soldiers. Even the ones that weren’t badly injured. I mean, I get it. They’re the enemy and you don’t want to give them supplies that could be used to heal your own people. But… There was this young man. He was a Fae, I think, but he was young. He looked like a child and he was scared. I had to leave him on the battlefield. I could have saved him. The wound was deep, but survivable. But they told me not to save him. I took another man back, a man with far worse wounds. He died three hours later. And when I went back the next day- the Fae was gone. Battle rot set in. If we had tried, we could have saved him. But we ignored him and he died. And when I looked at his body, something in me broke. I couldn’t be a part of it anymore. So, I left. I can’t save everyone this way. I still have to leave people behind. But at least now I don’t have to just look at people I know I could save and ignore them anyway.”

The Fae stared at you for a long moment. One of his ears ticked. Silence stretched out between you. You could almost hear him grasping for something to say and coming up empty. “Thank you,” he finally said.

You stared at him. “Thank you for what?”

“For bothering to save me,” he said. “There are many humans who would have been consent to save their own army. Many Fae who would do similarly. Yet you took a more difficult path. And because of that, I now live.”

You smiled. “Thought you wanted to die nobly on the battlefield?”

“If I can live and continue to be of service to my king, then I wish to live.” He hesitated for a moment longer. “And your decision to save me was noble. I can’t fault that. You were acting with good intentions and with no regard for yourself. It is something I rarely see. It is… refreshing.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said. The Fae nodded in your direction. His eyes roved over your body for a moment before flicking away, back to surveying the forest.

“It was intended as such.” The walk lapsed back into silence, the only noises being the soft sounds of the forest.

You were distracted a bit by the compliment. You kept replaying it over and over in your mind, rolling the softness of his voice and eyes around in your head.

It was so distracting, as a matter of fact, that, in crossing one of the rivers that flowed throughout the forest, your foot slipped.

If you had been paying attention, you would have tested the rock before you put your whole weight on it. But you weren’t paying attention, you stepped casually onto the rock, and it wobbled under your feet. You heard the Fae shout something as you stumbled and fell into the river.

The water wasn’t deep, but it was shock-cold. Your muscles locked as soon as you were submerged. Your mouth opened to scream and a filthy wave of river water flowed into your mouth.

A hand grabbed you by the scruff of your neck and hauled you back up. The Fae was clinging to you, speaking in a rough voice. He held your soaked body against his chest as you shivered.

The Fae dumped you on the shore and yanked your bag off your back. It was wet, but you hadn’t been in the water long enough for everything to get soaked. The Fae pulled a blanket around you, scrubbing furiously.

You automatically slapped at his hands when he started trying to undress you. He completely ignored you. You were too shocked and cold to fight him off properly, so in minutes, you were stripped down to your underwear. Fortunately, he stopped there.

Shivers rolled through your body. The Fae tugged the blanket more securely around you, trying to dry you off. “Humans are so terribly clumsy,” he complained. “And you are already freezing to the touch.”

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumbled through chattering teeth.

“I am not looking for an apology! Take better care of yourself.” The Fae sat back on his heels and gritted his teeth. His sharp little fangs clicked against each other.

“We can keep moving,” you said. “J-just get me new clothes.” You fumbled for your bag and pulled out your other outfit. Unfortunately, the clothes that had gotten soaked were your heavier outfit. Even with the fresh clothes on, you were still shivering.

The Fae tilted his head to one side. His crystalline eyes glittered with thoughtfulness. He picked the blanket up off the ground and started wrapping it around his shoulders, tying some of the corners together.

As soon as it was secure around him, he scooped your bag up and slipped it onto his back. “I can carry my own stu-” The Fae ignored you, bent down, and picked you up.

You froze. The Fae completely ignored your reaction. He instead tucked you into the blanket around his chest like a sling.

“What are you doing?” you asked. The Fae made a ‘tch’ noise.

“It will be slower if we wait for your to warm up. This will help,” he said. There was something oddly tight in his voice. It was hard to tell through his fur, but you thought you could see him flushing pink. Not that you could blame him. you were pretty sure your own face was on fire.

The Fae took off through the woods. Clearly, he had been slowing down for your benefit before. Each stride seemed to eat up several feet of ground. Your head bobbed against his chest. Even with his speed, you could hear his heartbeat pounding as calm and steady as ever.

Being carried against his chest warmed you up considerably. It reminded you of how long it had been since you had been held by someone. Your chest fluttered. Stop it, stop it, he’s just doing this to be practical. Don’t get all flustered because of it.

The Fae kept running as the sun sank lower in the sky. You nodded off at one point and woke bleary and confused at the tail end of sunset. The Fae had slowed down, moving more delicately through the undergrowth. The foliage was unusually thick and green, and you could see little glowing motes dancing between leaves and branches.

“You were correct,” the Fae said. One of his hands was cradling you, resting right between your shoulder blades. You were distractingly aware of the point of contact. “The entourage did not go far after all.”

You could pick up some strain in his voice. He swayed as he came to a near stop, then leaned against a tree. His breathing was labored.

“Put me down,” you said urgently. The Fae all but dropped you onto the ground. You managed to land mostly upright and hastily got to your feet. “Are you okay?”

“Tired,” he panted. One of his hands moved to his side, where he had been wounded. There was red seeping through the bandages.

“Let me see,” you said. You moved toward him, but he shifted, trying to push you away.

“No. Leave.” The motion made him shudder with pain. You pushed toward him and touched his wound. He made a high, keening noise of pain.

“You opened up the wound again while running. I need to close it again.” You leaned close to his side, prodding at the wound. He groaned, but didn’t push you away again.

“You should go,” he said. “I… I must present myself to my king.”

“Let me clean the wound beforehand,” you said. The Fae swung your bag down from his shoulders and you pulled out a roll of bandages. He allowed you to prod and rebandage the wound. Under his fine fur, he looked terribly pale.

“It’s getting worse,” you said. “Whatever you did while running, you really ripped it back open. You’ll need to-”

The Fae went still under your hands. He took in a shuddering breath. You froze, eyes still fixed on his wound.

“You live.” The voice was harsh, roughly female, but with an edge to it like a blade running along metal. Slowly, you lifted your gaze. A woman with blades curving off her skin stood over you. Her eyes gleamed bright red.

“I live,” the Fae said. He struggled into a full standing position. “I returned.”

The woman smiled. Her teeth were all metallic, sharp as knives. “With a little mortal in tow, I see.”

The Fae shifted his position, trying to put himself between you and her. “The mortal is none of your business.” Under his breath, he hissed, “Run,” to you.

You stayed where you were. “Not until you’re bandaged. I need five minutes.”

“Run!” he snarled at you. The woman shook her head.

“Don’t send the little mortal away! Surely, our king will want to see who brought his loyal courtier back to him.” The woman’s hand curled around your upper arm. You froze. Blood seeped onto your fingers through the bandages.

The Fae gritted his teeth, but he nodded. “Stay close to me,” he murmured to you.

“Got it,” you said. You weren’t moving away from his side, at least not until the bleeding stopped.

Inside the clearing, the trees and undergrowth had shifted to form a sort of natural building. Fae of all shapes and sizes, dressed in wild and ornate fashion, stood all around. In the center of everything, seated on a throne, was who you assumed was the king.

He looked young, younger than you were expecting. He looked barely eighteen, possibly younger. His hair was straw-blond and he had a fair, fine face. The only sign that he was anything more than human were his eyes, which were pitch black, no sclera at all.

He smiled as you approached. “My old friend. How glad I am that you survived.”

The Fae dropped to his knees. “My king. I apologize for abandoning my position. I was poisoned with iron on the battlefield. I expected to die. I was only saved by the mortal here.”

The king tilted his head, observing you. You gave a slight bow. The wound was still bleeding, and you were desperate to get back to it. “The mortal saved your life?” the king said. He smiled. “How interesting.”

“As soon as I was able, I returned to the court,” the Fae said. “I throw myself at your mercy, my king. If you wish it, I will sacrifice myself for you. I expect nothing and will be grateful for-”

“Enough.” The king’s voice was mild, but the Fae fell silent immediately. “Mortal. Is what he says true?”

You took a deep breath. “Yes. I pulled him off the battlefield. I prevented him from dying or returning to you immediately, as he wanted to do. I had no other reason for doing this other than simply wanting to save his life. I expect no favors. I came along only out of concern for his health.”

The king looked at you strangely. “You are telling the truth,” he said. “You want nothing more than to see him well.”

“It is what I believe in,” you said. “If you accept him back into your court, I will leave. You don’t need to give me anything, and I won’t hold anything over your head.”

“And if I don’t?” the king asked. “I assume he told you what would happen if I turned him away?”

You took a deep breath. “Yes, he did. I… well. I doubt I could save him if you decided he should die.”

“You saved him and came here knowing that he may not survive? That you may be in danger as well?” It was hard to read the king’s expression. His tone was completely neutral.

“I followed what I believe to be right. If that leads to my death, then at least I will die nobly.” Your voice was steady, but you could feel your knees shaking. The king tilted his head at you.

“A mortal who does only what their conscience demands. Interesting,” he said. Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, a breeze picked up. The trees surrounding the clearing groaned. A shudder moved through the ground. The king lifted his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Hm. Interesting.”

The Fae gripped your calf with one hand. You glanced at him. “You okay?”

“The Queen.” His eyes were wide, frightened. “She is here.”

You looked around, despite not being entirely sure who you were looking for. “Where?”

He gestured widely around you. “Here. Everywhere. She so rarely leaves her kingdom. That’s why she sends the king…”

“What are you talking about?” you asked.

“The Queen is more than any other Fae. She is a part of the world around us. Beneath our feet, in the trees. The king is her consort. He rules only through her favor,” the Fae said hurriedly. His ears were twitching. The hand on your calf tensed and loosened alternately.

The king looked relaxed as he glanced around him. He seemed to be listening to something you couldn’t hear. “Truly? Hm. An interesting idea.” He tapped his fingers along the line of his jaw. “Mortal. The Queen has taken an interest in you.”

The Fae at your side sucked in a sharp breath. It was hard to tell whether it was due to being impressed or being concerned. Having a Fae take in an interest in you could mean anything from grand favors to being recreationally tortured, just to see how you’d react. The hand on your calf was tightening gradually until it started to hurt.

“Has she? I’m flattered,” you said in as neutral a tone as you could manage.

“Yes. She says that among both mortals and Fae, there are few who would stick to their principles so stridently.” The king tilted his head, again listening as the wind picked up. “Mm. Come here.”

He extended a hand toward you, palm up. You stared at it uncertainly. The Fae was still gripping your calf. His face was toward the ground, but what you could make out of his expression was terrified. Whatever the king wanted, it was dangerous.

The only thing more dangerous than accepting a Fae’s offer, though, was potentially offending the Fae. You were cornered. Slowly, you stepped forward, shaking the Fae’s grip off your calf, and took the king’s hand.

Everything faded. Noise became muffled and a faint, gray veil descended over the world around you. It was like you were looking at everything through a thick mist. The only vivid thing in the world was the pulsing form of light that had appeared next to you.

It was shaped vaguely like a woman, with streamers of light trailing off its vague head. The light pulsed in multiple colors, moving from red to yellow to green to blue. It wasn’t bright enough to be blinding, but looking at it head on hurt your eyes after only a few moments.

“You’re the Queen,” you guessed, lowering your head respectfully.

A voice, layered and vaguely feminine, echoed around the area. INDEED. The voice was vaguely amused. I AM GLAD TO SPEAK TO YOU. YOU INTEREST ME.

You licked your lips. “I’m surprised a mortal can hold the interest of one as impressive as you.”

The Queen laughed. NO NEED FOR FLATTERY. I SO RARELY MEET THOSE, MORTAL OR FAE, WHO HAVE PRINCIPLES THEY STICK TO SO RESOLUTELY. TELL ME. WHY DID YOU ACCOMPANY HIM HERE?

“He wanted to return,” you said.

THAT IS WHY HE CAME HERE, YES. BUT I ASKED WHY YOU CAME WITH HIM. SURELY YOU KNOW THAT A MORTAL APPROACHING A FAE COURT IS DANGEROUS? YOU COULD HAVE WASHED YOUR HANDS OF HIM AND NO ONE WOULD THINK YOU A POOR HEALER.

You hesitated. “His wounds. I couldn’t leave him. I needed to make sure he would make it back here.”

YES. I SURMISED YOU WERE FOLLOWING TO PROTECT HIM. BUT WHY?

You paused again. “Because I saved his life. He told me I should have left him to die. I saved him, so I needed to make sure he was going to be okay. A healer’s job isn’t just done when the physical wounds are healed. I needed to make sure he was going to be able to survive on his own. And if I didn’t help him, there was every chance he would have died.” You lifted your chin, looking in the vague location of the light’s face. “If I save his life, I am responsible for protecting it.”

INDEED. The Queen sounded pleased by your answer, though her echoing, pulsing voice made it hard to tell. THEN MY DECISION IS MADE.

“What deci-” The fog retreated and you were suddenly blinking into the king’s face. He smiled placidly and released your hand.

“The Queen has decreed it,” he said. “And I concur. Mortal. In saving his life, you have proven yourself worthy of ownership of it. I grant you his name, his land, and his titles.”

You blinked again. Very suddenly, with no idea how you knew, you knew the Fae’s name. You turned to look at him. He was staring back at you, looking bewildered.

“I thank you for the years in my service, old friend,” the king said. “When the mortal has passed on and your name is your own, you may return. I look forward to seeing you again.” He waved his hand. “Now, go. Leave.”

You were vaguely aware of being marched away by armed guards. Mostly, you were just looking at the Fae, who was staring back at you with a similarly lost expression.

The guards left when you were a sufficient distance from the king, melting back into the trees. Only then did you feel comfortable to turn to the Fae. “What just happened?”

“He gave you my name,” the Fae said, clearly still processing everything. “My life is yours. My land, my title… Should you wish for it, they are all yours.”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times. “I don’t want it,” you finally said. “Can I just… give it back to you?”

The Fae frowned. “No. The Queen herself decreed it. To give it away would be a terrible insult. I wouldn’t accept it, and even if you managed to return my name, you would be a disgrace to the Fae Court and hunted for the insult.”

You huffed. “Then what am I supposed to do with it?”

The Fae knelt, head facing toward the dirt. “My life is bound to yours now. I am your humble servant, as I was to the king. If you wish it, I will take you to my lands. You can live there pampered and sheltered. I will care for all aspects of ownership. You will merely live in peace, as the guardian of my name and the owner of my life.”

You pursed your lips. “Yeah, I don’t want that.” The Fae’s mouth twitched, a kind of amused smile, like he had known what you were going to say, but was pleased by the answer nonetheless.

“Then what is it that you want?” he asked.

“I want to keep helping people,” you said. “To continue my work. And I don’t want someone bound to me through servitude and an ownership over life. You’re not property. You’re a person.” You took a breath and looked up into his face, into his crystalline eyes. “What do you want?”

“I-” He paused, then pressed his lips together, as if uncertain himself. “I want,” he began again, haltingly. “I think I want… to learn. The Queen was right. You are fascinating. Even if I were not bound to you, I think there would be a part of me that would remain so. I would like to learn from you. See the world as you see it. Learn to value things as you do. If that would be amenable to you?”

Somehow, despite being taller, he gave them impression of looking up at you from under his lashes. It was a remarkably shy expression, and one that fluttered all throughout your chest before settling as a warm glow behind your heart. “All right then, Sarscillis. I think we can make that work.” You held your hand out toward him. Slowly, his rough palm met yours.

Sarscillis smiled at you. “I look forward to learning from you. And to being with you.” His smiled widened. “Even if you returned my name, I think I would have followed you. And I shall follow you still.”

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and a minor depiction of a fight. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: I am a nerd for a good Victorian novel and a sexy Alienist.I have always been charmed by Laszlo’s mind and inner conflicts. So I took the chance and tried to have a run into that rollercoaster.  The story is placed between season 1 and season 2.

Diary belonging to Dr. Laszlo Kreizler.  This is a professional book of annotations over medical treatments of an alienist toward his patients. Do not disclose and send it back to the address if found: Kreizler’s Institute, xxxxxx, New York City (NY) L.K.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Illustrated Natural History of the Animal Kingdom (c1859). Contributed for digitization by University Library, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

Schiller in his “Die Weltweisen” wrote: So long as philosophy keeps together the structure of the Universe so long does it maintain the world’s machinery by hunger and love. From the philosopher point of view sexual life takes a subordinate position in human’s life, from recent studies pushed by European philosophers, everything is about sexuality and its development. I like to think of the experience of being an alienist as the process of Queen Penelope that, while waiting for her husband Ulysses return, undoes her craftwork every night. I undo the fabulous constructs of people’s beliefs to go back to the rough sketch that stands at the beginning of their loss, their complex, their pain. Maybe that’s why working with children is so motivating and fascinating. They can be saved and yet, I am well aware, some of those sketches already traced in their young lives equal to scars that not even the most advanced theories could cure. But I can sooth them. I can prevent them the torment, the anguish, the recollection at night of those monsters. I feel like a poet would be a better alienist than a philosopher, but I have got no poetry nor philosophy in my veins, but the cold experience of the razor blade judgment of Life itself.

Today I observed a fight among the children at the Institute. Age range between 10 and 12. Boys. The fight was over the possession of a side of the playground, the territory of a pack  of youngsters formed under the name of Steven. Peculiar lad, coming from a military background finds comfort in replicating the schemes he lived in his family. He takes the role of the Father/Captain of the team and subjects children that come from a similar background story, but do not posses his same attitude to the command. All quiet on the front, until the space he declared is own spot got affected by the presence of others.  Intruders. I knowingly let the events unfold to see how Steven would react to his challenged authority. His reaction was, at first, worded, a sketch, a stage-play of an action he witnessed over and over, and he knew the part so well that some of the contending kids lowered their stance against him. Among considering to mildly intervene into this pyramid scheme of authority, another boy, Jan, calls himself on the role of the educator and hero of the masses and proceeds to unfold a wild and well assessed punch on the newly declared dictator face. Balance is established again. No need for me to arbitrate, once more the laws of nature seem to apply to children as in a state of nature.

Meet John Moore over lunch. His job at the newspaper is picking up, he is charmed by the spirits and the wits that he finds in his shared office with all the other writers. He mentions many, goes on and on over qualities and troubles, gossips and tendencies, and even little scandals here and there. To be aware of all those details gives me no interest, but to see a dear friend so invested clearly gives me something to pick up. To consider also the amount of details and the way he describes this or that member of the journal, I can do a small exercise of analysis. It is almost too easy because John is painfully genuine, even some of the kids at the institute would beat him hands down in a battle of lies. The more he likes somebody, the more he goes on about all the details and the characteristics, often letting aside the physical appearance. When he doesn’t like somebody he has a couple of adjectives for the wits and around four or five for the physical aspects that usually indulge on some repulsive idiosyncrasies.  John is a man that painfully fits in the storyline of The Picture of Dorian Gray: to him physical beauty is spiritual beauty and, of course, the other way around. This part of him surely intrigues me, makes me want to tease more from him. But, as a friend, it concerns me as John is way too prone to purposelessly decide that somebody with good eyes is also a good human being, which is a very romantic and admirably naive way of judging matters. I noticed some names that keep repeating in his narration. I dread that it is synonymous of a soon encounter from my side with the objects of his admiration. Fetiches, I dare to say, that I will have to annihilate before they sediment into his mind, perpetuating a narration that soon sees John being mislead by others.

Reserved: Tickets for the Eroica, Symphony n. 3 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Thursday evening.

Note on the show: the first movement lacked the pathos needed to begin with, I am not sure that the guest orchestra really managed to portray the wider emotional ground needed to withstand the whole representation. As the evening progressed there were some outstanding performances by the cellists. Still not approving the choice of reprising the early quick finale movement against the lengthy set of variations and fugue that we are used to in presence of the Eroica. Underwhelming the performance of the horn and oboe, vital in the comprehension of the genius of Beethoven. 

Niki is a new addition of the Institute, quite old for the standards. He is already 16, he will leave when summer ends to some expensive college his family meant him to stay. His parents expect me to make him “normal” in the time we are allowed together.  He is Austrian and I let him act it out like I don’t understand German for the first week of hist stay until today. I believe I hit his pride, which is good, in the moment I answered back to one of his sneaky comments. Now he knows. He is not safe from me, he doesn’t like it. The young man has a tendency to danger, risky tasks and edgy situations. In his mother’s own words “Niki is not afraid of anything”. The phrase didn’t raise any excitement in the father, rather some sort of painful acceptance that is role as the alpha male of the house is probably not only being challenged, but  already diminished, if not abolished. I have taken in consideration that Niki will break himself a bone or two in the process of the therapy, probably out of the spite of boredom or rebellion. It took him less than few days to turn himself into an outcast among the outcasts, which only drives me closer to analyse the complexity of his narcissistic wall of self defence. I gave him a physical challenge to lift a certain weight, he is a pretty skinny one, he didn’t like the challenge, but I am sure he will take it. He is a brainy guy, he hates to be questioned on unfamiliar ground. He won’t sleep at night thinking about it.  A challenge, in this first phase, can only bring me closer to the ease of his pains. To continue the observation.

It is a sad privilege of medicine, in particular the one I practice, to be able to witness the weaknesses of the human nature and the reverse side of life. Nevertheless, I oblige this same privilege of the study as life moves into shades of darkness. To be aware of it gives more solace to my soul than to be victim of patiently waiting for the inevitable unfolding of the events. To be able to understand more about psychology would bring more comfort and elevation to any human being, the times might not be there yet, but eventually something will move into the direction of a more wholesome approach.

Dinner meeting with Sara Howard, at the restaurant Jardin Des Cygnes, 7 pm sharp.  Do not expect to reach the dessert. Do not know if John will be participating due to undeniable tension among the two and the fatal despise of John over French cuisine.

The case that Sara unfolded tonight to my ears feels more and more like pulled out from some gothic book or from the mind of a Roman historian that needed to justify the godly origins of an Emperor. One killing, apparently random, a very constructed iconography over the body. Signs and insults, shapes and drawings. Is this a work of art? Does the killer wants his victim to be his Mona Lisa? His David? I am charmed and destabilised. If this was a murder like any other, then why to spend so much time into it? Based on the description the act of killing itself was quick: a sharp cut over the throat, almost like not wanting to ruin too much the surface to use as base for, what? I keep rerunning those symbols over and over as Sara described them to me, my mind is flooded with the designs of greek philosophers that needed to explain themselves why the sky is above our head and never collapses on us. Hilarious how, no matter the science advancement, in the mind of many the sky stands inevitably overt their shoulders, suffocates them, brings them to a death of the soul and not of the body. Is all this graphic charade indeed only a form to scream for attention?  To stress the eyes of an unaware viewer? It seems ridiculously elaborate, a scream for attention would be quick, it would be like guided by instinct, not reasoning, craftwork. Any man with a knife can paint in blood red the walls of a room and that’s asking for attention. That is the primal howl: look at me! I am here! But this one.  I don’t know yet.

Spent the early morning reading anew my copy of The Metamorphosis by Ovid. Didn’t touch it in a long time and I got bedazzled by the world of terrible sensuality, anger and selfishness of those gods and mortals. I think back at all the deviances and weaknesses of human kind and I try to relate it to all of those humanoid figures. Niki would be a minotaur, the lonesome son left in the labyrinth and his strive for success is his bull’s head. Or maybe a centaur, because of his wits and strategic thinking. I might keep up the process, maybe this is the way to understand my patients better, to understand the killer better. Must remember not to romanticise it. Greek gods were probably the first form of self indulging of a society that needed gods to be forgiving and allowing favours and punishments, but only in exchange of sacrifices. But the sacrifice never comes from the God’s will, but from the will of the man that perpetuates the act of killing. To sacrifice someone or something is the sadistic response to a lack of love deeply inherited in human mind that becomes neurotic. Is the killer giving the God of his own neurosis a body to feast upon? 

I talked with Jan this morning. The young boy is about 10, but he acts like a full grown adult. I could easily asses that’s the reason why he could challenge Steven in that fight. Two children mimicking adults situations they know too well. Jan is son of an industrial man, but he is also son of the dialectics of the industrial revolution. He sounds like he swallowed some of those books about working class rights and communism, probably pushed by a resentful surrounding (mother?uncle? the midwife?) over the social role of his father. As much as incredibly smart and lectured, Jan lost most of his early occasions in life by spending a considerable amount of time using his fists. The anger ever present in the young boy always surprises me, he seems to be holding a power, a strength of a full grown man in those tiny arms. Nevertheless, he is already the tallest of the group. He is surely an idealist, which makes him also tragically fragile. His strength mixed with his heart of gold can make him the best of the heroes or the worst of the villains. He apologised for the fight, he specified how he didn’t like the sound of Steven’s voice, more than the sound, the level of pitch.  I can’t stand somebody shouting orders, I just don’t listen anymore. He is so mature even about his own feelings, almost a gentleman in his chivalry toward the weaker children, honest with his open heart and resentful against any form of injustice.  I am not spared by his ways, he would come at me whenever he feels like I was being partial over some of the kids, his sense of justice blinds him and transform a perfectly balanced boy into a ranging animal.

Ordered book, to be delivered around tomorrow evening: Introduction à la méthode de Léonard de Vinci by Paul Valéry. Suddenly feeling myself as a gross ignorant in art themes. I always regarded myself aware of the artistic personalities and tendencies of present and past, but this new amount of perceptions over the human figure and the human body leads me to document myself more. I could ask John for advice, but he wouldn’t take things at matter that seriously. I can almost hear him say how I can make gruesome a pleasant topic such as art. I should probably wait to see the body to push any further aesthetic study, but I find myself not being able to stop. I reckon, I can allow myself a vice or two.

Today I saw the body of the killed man, courtesy of the Isaacson's. To be fair, I had underestimated it. In Sara’s descriptions, probably due to her more analytic mind, all the charm of the representation got lost in favour of a less cryptic and reasonable understanding of the act. Sara got what some alienists will call a masculine mind, which I don’t perfectly agree on. If I apply that same approach John would be a very feminine mind, all wrapped up in romanticising even the ugliest. I guess that dividing the world in “fragile and gentle” and “strong and powerful” is just easier to explain the fluctuation of something that doesn’t need a real name or a category like human inclinations on thoughts.  I got a feverish sense of patience by looking at the body. Each symbol traced with sapient slowness, dense of the time that the killer spent with the body. That is a work of hours, he had time and meaning. He had resources and was able to spend not less than the time he needed to reach, a vision? An ideal? A message? Is it the message meant to be understood? Am I supposed to unravel it or it is maybe just the way the killer communicates within himself? And if I do decifrate the code, will that bring me closer to him? Or to his next victim?

Reminder: ask John to replicate all the symbols on the bodies in the correct measure and order. It might be needed some hard convincing. Addition: scheduled meeting, his house, 3 pm.

It wasn’t a day like any other when I met you. Or maybe it was, and that’s why I got so struck by it and now I am here playing it over and over through what my memory clung on so desperately. In my own experience, life was often similar to swimming in a lake. Those rich, dense lakes in the north of (illegible cancelled word) were my father used to bring us during summer. I still feel the pull, the draw down toward the abyss. It ashamed me, in a way, the fear that such a simple feeling aroused in my young mind, unaware nevertheless, that such a feeling would follow me through all my existence. It was a prophecy and, like most of the prophecies, was a riddle. I cradle in my heart the charm of those days, the mindless happiness. The foolish feeling of freedom. Little I knew that freedom would be taken away from me that soon, that the body that used to navigate me over the dense waters, helping me to fight the haul toward the unknown, would become my own cage. That day. Today. The day where I met you, the day I was afloat.  The child gasping for air felt the wrench become a gentle push and now he is floating on his back over the scary waters of reality and malice. It gave me relief and it gave me terror, because since that very moment I knew that I would never be able to move on from the sight of you. From the feeling of your eyes lingering on me. From the smile you so easily shone upon me. From the whiff of imported perfume that hit me when you turned on side exploding that swan like neck. And nothing, not even my stern look, could dim that wave of hope that your sole presence washed over me. The abyss roars, calls me to a home of damnation and terror and curses my name and yet you repeated that hell-bound name of mine after me and I felt safe.

John told me so much about you, it feels like I have always known you.

The rope is gone from my neck, the guillotine won’t fall on me, I am spared, I am free.

I have read your latest article, I am thrilled to help with the case.

I am in disbelief.

Your voice.

Dr. Kreizler

How dare you? How dare you to come into my life, to appear, like a vision, mystical, in a way I despised at University when all those theology students talked about the divine. In this very moment I can’t recollect much of what you said, something about the case, about going with John at the obituary. It feels confusing, I feel overstimulated, my memory fails me, I am not sure anymore. I write these few lines and it is passed the hour of the witches and I wish, I demand, to never see you again, because life should never grant hope to a condemned man. 

[delldarling]

diving stars | hior

male bog mummy x male reader 3754 words citrus | mild description of death, minor mention of blood, mild description of mummy having stitches (though not getting them), kissing, implied future relationship test match-up: Waaaayyyy back when, I decided I should try my hand at some match-ups. I wanted a unique experience for those coming to me for commissions, and so went through several versions of a 'choose your own adventure' kind of personality questionnaire. Matt, or @severedreamerbeard, was one of the people lovely enough to let me test out my match-up process! Thank you a whole gosh darn bunch Matt, for letting me do so in the first place, and I'm going to heap on extra thanks because I've been such a snail about it! <3

————-　🌠　————-

Much of the bog is a terrible endless black, with nothing to reflect but the cloud covered nighttime sky. Scrubby, dried grass circles the edges of the water, the torchlight making their flickering shadows look like creeping, growing thorns across the opaque surface, ready to snag the unwary and drag them down into the depths. There’ll be no coming back out of that dark water, Hior knows, not once he’s been pushed in.

I’ll close my eyes before I go under, he silently promises, though either way he supposes it shouldn’t matter much. The last thing his body sees will only ever be darkness. He swallows, tucks auburn hair behind his ears, calloused fingers catching at his skin, and pastes on a grim smile, turning to face the gathered people. He can’t linger any longer, no matter how much he would like to, not if he wants the rest of the village to make it through this. Not many of them have gathered, either. Just enough to see the ritual through to the end. Honestly, it’s better this way. If his brother had been allowed to leave the defenses, then Hagan would have interrupted Mother Gree, ritual or not. He would have tried to stop her, tried to stop Hior, even if it meant the loss of the village.

Hagan will be angry.

Hior sweeps his eyes over the surrounding villagers, their frightened faces and trembling hands, their teary eyes reflecting the torches in the misty dark. Hagan will be angry, but the fact of the matter is that he will still be alive to hold onto that anger. Hior can’t find it within himself to regret that.

There’s no time for being maudlin, Hior tells himself, and his smile becomes a bit too wide, stretching painfully at the corners.

This will be the last he ever sees of the village if the Gods deem his offering worthy, but that’s alright. Really. As long as he knows the village will be protected, as long as he knows that his people will do their best to endure, he's willing to fight his way through the Beyond and stay there.

Mother Gree begins to speak in a rough, ragged voice, worn through by years of pipe smoke and leaning over heavily herbed fires. Her words—the spell, the prayer—drape themselves around Hior’s shoulders like a heavy blanket, sweeping away the tension of his worries and the fear of the crowded villagers. Hior’s smile softens.

Mother Gree’s only warning is the icy grasp of her fingers, twisting sharply into the hair at the nape of Hior’s neck. The blade pinches. Wet heat spills down his throat and over his chest, soaking his clothes as he begins to fall backward.

Overhead, the clouds part, and a fierce rumbling fills the air, punctuated by sharp screams. A star, smaller than a pebble, but more brilliant by far than any flickering fire, falls out of the sky. It dives after Hior’s falling body, following him down into the depths of the bog.

The last thing Hior sees is light.

————-　🌠　————-

It’s midday, or just after, and there are odd shapes in the clouds, like reaching hands backlit by the sunshine. The shifting shades of them make it look like they’re trying very hard to break through the atmosphere, a primordial being grabbing for mortals like marbles. The wind picks up, and the flicker of pale warmth and the cloud hands are blown swiftly away, hidden by a tumult of grey and violet. It shouldn’t rain for hours yet, it’s not supposed to, but you’re starting to doubt the truth of the weather forecast. The sky is very clearly telling all watchers that a storm is on the way.

And here you are: distractedly doing your best to carefully skirt the edges of dreary, muddied water, hunting for a folktale. There are weak spots throughout the area, and one wrong step will have the ground turning to mush underfoot. Which, while fitting with the tales, is the last thing you’d ever want. Risk of drowning aside, all the local stories claim that it's your soul you really need to worry about, or you'll be trapped for eternity as 'a ghost given solid form'.

In other words, from what you’ve pieced together, that might mean something like a zombie?

Water sloshes, lapping strangely at the grassy shore and pulling you clean away from your thoughts. You know you shouldn't linger with the storm on the way, but something about the water keeps you from getting more than a few paces past. The noise, rising steadily, almost bubbling, draws you closer even as tension weighs down your steps. Whatever might be down there, you doubt it's anything pleasant, and you’ve had stories of zombies running through your head all afternoon. You edge closer anyway.

The shore grows terribly soft underfoot the closer you get, and it looks like something is struggling just under the surface, wriggling, a bit like—the water fountains. It soaks your shoe and the hem of your pant leg, while icy droplets speckle over your shirt and face. For a moment, a breath, your eyes fall closed as you attempt to wipe the water away. Something smooth and cold grabs hold of your ankle, yanking your foot forward so you slam back into the ground, a quick burst of pain flares in the back of your skull. Fingernails dig into your skin. You can’t remember shouting, can’t remember a loud noise, but your ears are ringing, adrenaline rocketing through your veins as the hand—the literal hand—heaves with all it’s might, pulling you towards the water. You scrabble backwards, you kick, trying to get free, but the arm tenses, fingers curling tighter around your ankle, heavier than iron. You haven’t gotten loose, but you’re starting to pull whatever is in the water out as you struggle.

The water burbles and the haze of panic begins to clear. This isn’t a story. Someone has just grabbed hold of you. They’re not trying to pull you in, they just want you to pull them out. Because they’re trapped. You suck down air, scrabbling at the hand wrapped around your ankle, trying to get them to grab hold of your wrist instead. Their skin is strange under your touch, hard and smooth and fragile, like flowers dipped in paraffin.

A head finally crests the water, a choking, wheezing noise filling the air as liquid cascades off of his body. His breath sounds wrong though, and his cheeks are hollowed, hair and skin stained with peat. He releases the death grip he has on your ankle, bony, wet fingers smacking against your arm so you can grab hold and pull. His other hand twists into the scrubby grass, ripping handfuls of it free as he does his best to work with your desperate bid to get him out of the bog. And then a few startling things happen all at once.

Your eyes drop to his throat and the wide, old injury spanning the entirety of his throat, stitched shut with a pale cord. His eyes snap open. An eerie light gleams in his eye sockets and you do shout this time, words tripping over themselves as you give up on holding him to try and yank yourself out of his grasp. Lightning quick flashes of the zombie stories and a variety of undead flicker through your mind. He’s too strong for you, you can't push him off, even with the wasted-looking muscles of his arms. He holds on terribly tight, knees and calves and feet splashing in the water and sliding through the slick scrub grass. You continue to try to get his hands off of you, breath coming far too fast, but he lets go as soon as he’s clear of the water. His hands fall away, clutching at your thigh for balance before he finally removes his hands from you entirely. He drops to the grass, retching, and then grabs at his own throat. The tie keeping his hair back crumbles, falling away like drying clay, and though most of his hair is still slick and dark with peat, it looks like it’s normally a bright coppery red underneath the muck.

He wheezes again, hands hovering over the injury, fingers feather soft over the strangely clean stitches. After a moment, he lifts his chin, spotlight eyes roving over your face with awe.

"..you..you answered?" He asks, voice warped by withered musculature. His stained cheeks stretch, a painfully tight smile exposing teeth that don't look altogether human. They're even, and clean, but they gleam with a deep blue patina, as if they’re actually polished stones. “I—I must conf-fess,” he rasps, hands falling to his knees, nails digging into the tattered trousers barely clinging to his body, “I doubted. I..” He leans forward, gasping once more as he stares at the ground. “He answered,” he whispers, and his eyelashes flutter, the light of his eyes flickering. Despite his apparent frailness, despite his inattention, you can't bring yourself to run away now. You’re caught, the desire for knowledge outweighing the potential danger. “What would you ask of me?” He breathes, and your heart twists painfully in your chest. He sounds wretched, reverent and fearful, both, anxiously waiting for you to strike out.

"What would I ask?" You struggle to murmur, tongue thick and too-dry in your mouth. Slowly, you get up, rubbing awkwardly at your wrist and forearm. His grip had been a shade past 'uncomfortably tight', but you don’t think you’ll get anything more than faint bruising.

"In exchange," the man says, clutching tighter to his knees. He doesn't notice when you flinch, not with his head still bowed.

Your heartbeat nearly drowns out the distant thunder, adrenaline chasing the wariness out of your veins. "For what?" You demand, pleased when his head jerks up. He's acting like you're going to kick him back into the bog with a boot to his chest. "For saving you? Why would I want anything? I was just-" Your mouth snaps shut, brain desperately clamoring for you to acknowledge that there's a mummified man currently speaking to you. He’s talking, not groaning, not calling out for brains or blood or violence. He may as well be straight from the local legends and he’s… Fully conscious of his actions, nothing like the eerie embellishments all the tales carry.

"I was being decent. Helping. I didn't do it so you would owe me." Any further words slip your mind as soon as your eyes catch on the stitches in his neck again. The rest of him is withered and warped by the peat in the bog, permanently stained—but the stitches are still silvery pale. What on earth happened to make him this way?

Hesitant, he raises his head, the inhuman brightness of his eyes more than enough to make you wince. Your gaze darts to the soft glint of metal in his earlobes, trying to keep from squinting.

"For… For saving my village," he finally clarifies. "You accepted my sacrifice and allowed me the chance to speak, but surely I must complete some task to prove my faith? To win a boon and guarantee their survival?"

Thunder rattles your bones and the mummy tenses, looking past you to the sky. Nerves or not, you can’t stay out here in this, not if you want to escape the weather… Or the panic that will spread like wildfire if anyone happens to catch sight of him. You offer him your hand.

"You'll help me?" He asks, hand lifting from his knee, but not yet reaching for yours. Mist dots his cheeks, rain trying desperately to break free of the heavy cloud cover.

"Help? Yes. In the way you’re asking me to?” You can’t stop yourself from cringing, but that doesn’t seem to have deterred the bog mummy still kneeling in front of you. He’s still staring with rapt attention, caught on every word you speak. “I—I don't know if I have any answer you want, but I do know we shouldn’t stay out here in the rain." You take a single step closer, fingers splaying as you reach for him. He slips his hand into yours and the rain falls heavy upon your heads.

————-　🌠　————-

From what you’ve gathered from Hior on the trip back here, he has for all intents and purposes, traveled through time, via his death. You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, mind whirling as you attempt to puzzle out whether he can eat or drink anything. He hasn’t needed to, not while he’s been in his enchanted… sleep down in the bog. But he’s actually dead, isn’t he? You hadn’t felt a pulse when he’d taken your hand, but you hadn’t been searching for one either, keen as you were on getting him out of the torrential rain and out of sight. He hasn’t asked for any food or drink, but your brain has seized onto hospitality like a lifeline. No matter what age Hior is from, sharing what you have is always appreciated.

Decision made, you fetch the glass, ears straining for any noise, for any hint of where he is in the house. He’s done nothing but stare at modernized gadgetry since you brought him in, taking the towel you’d offered as if he were in a dream, but he’s bound to get curious eventually. You move a little faster, though when you find him back in the living room, sitting straight backed on the edge of the couch, dampened towel around his shoulders, you feel rather silly. He just crawled out of a bog, knowing that he’d given his life for his village. Maybe he’s frightened? This can’t be like any afterlife he’d expected. “Would you like some water?” You ask, still unsure as to whether he can actually drink it or not. He’d been gasping for air when he’d broken free of the bog, but that might only be reflex, seeing as he is very much mummified.

Hior clambers to his feet, lamplight eyes skittering over your face and then down to the floor before he kneels, towel flaring out like a cloak. You pause where you are, fingers tightening around the glass in your hand, but your brain doesn’t catch up to what he’s trying to do until he speaks. “I must thank you for your hospitality. Truly. To be welcomed into the home of a God-”

You nearly spill the water, breath caught fast in your throat as you hurriedly urge him to get back to his feet, fingers brushing over his shoulder. “Ah, no, not—how about some water first?” Hior rises, the fine hairs of his eyebrows catching the light as he furrows them. They’re the same coppery red as the hair on his head and arms, and even on his legs when you take the time to glance down. “Here,” you mutter, slipping the glass into his hand as soon as his fingers uncurl. “If you don’t want it, or, or you can’t, then it’s fine. But, uh, I’m not a deity. Not a God. Just a man.” Like you, weighs down the tip of your tongue, but you clamp your jaws shut. You can’t honestly claim similarity, seeing as you still have blood flowing through your veins and your neck doesn’t have eerily clean stitches from ear to ear.

"A man," he repeats, but he doesn't sound like he believes you, "of course." Hior sniffs at the water, but he must not need it. He cradles the glass against his chest, water untouched and risks another sly glance at your face, waiting, as if he expects you to change your mind and confess to a different identity. Your brain buzzes, skipping over the hint he’s attempting to fish for.

“Those… It looks like that was a bad injury,” you murmur, gesturing to the neat stitches, a permanent, unsettling necklace. It doesn’t really help change the subject.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, reaching up a single hand. For a moment, he marvels at the sight of his own skin, turning his wrist this way and that before he finally ghosts his touch over the stitches. Hior doesn’t shy away from them, or even appear concerned, fingertip dipping between each rib of cord. “I’ve little idea how I came to possess these,” he confesses. “It wasn’t you?” You grimace, and Hior croaks out a laugh when he notices. Warmth blossoms in your chest, the sound of a real, genuine laugh soothing away some of your nerves. “No. I can see that now. And it wasn’t Mother Gree either,” he says softly, eyes lowering. “No one would have taken me from the water. The… the star?”

“Star?” The God you think I am? You want to ask, but the stiffness is easing from his limbs, memory returning, and you don’t want to interrupt. Frankly, you might be a little shell shocked yourself, but something about his question makes your brows furrow.

“It followed me into the water,” Hior adds, and your heart skips a beat, your own memories a cacophony in the back of your head. You’ve read something about that before, you’re certain of it.

“The star followed you?” You ask, clarifying. “Dove after you?”

For the first time, Hior isn’t staring past you or searching your face for any hint of divinity. A wry smile twists his lips, exposing the polished stones serving as his teeth. “From what I recall, yes. Of course, I was dying at the time,” he says quietly, humor in the arch of his eyebrows. “Perhaps I could not comprehend the visage of our Gods? They often take other shapes, so as not to cause alarm. Such as that of a man,” he says. He’s hinting again, gaze heavy on your face, but all you can think about is the phrase: the star followed me into the water, on repeat.

You lick your lips, darting past Hior for the stacks of books you’d left out this morning. “The Diving Stars,” you explain, pushing two volumes to the side and letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. You seize the elderly green book, whirling so you can brandish it in Hior’s direction. The title glitters, faintly golden but worn away by the passing years. “It’s a folktale, a legend, about… About you, I think.”

————-　🌠　————-

Hior never does drink the water. He sets it aside, fingertips lingering along the rim before you settle down on the floor, book laid open across your knees. He joins you, and as respectful as Hior has been up to this point, he sits close against your side, pressed against you from shoulder to hip so he can better see the pages. It’s intimate, and strange, and he’s… He’s not cold, not exactly, but the lack of human warmth is enough to have the fine hairs along your neck prickling with awareness. It only takes a moment before his attention drifts from the book to your face, staring at your mouth as you read the short tale aloud.

The Diving Stars

For the greater good of a war torn village, a sacrifice was made. A favored son was chosen, one beloved by the village, and kind to all he knew. He was strong, and clever, and though he was leaving behind his family, he knew he must act for the well being of all. When it came time for his sacrifice, he smiled and walked willingly to his ending, hoping that the Gods would accept his service and defend the village from invaders.

A God took notice.

You do your best not to lift your eyes from the text, heat spreading over the back of your neck when you realize how hard Hior is staring at you. You might keep trying to ignore his assumptions, but Hior isn’t going to let you forget about them completely. He still fully believes that you’re the deity from his tale.

Moved by his plight and coveting the favored son’s courage for his own hall, the God left his domain. He dove from the sky as a star, following the favored son into the depths and setting the entire blog ablaze with his magic. When the light faded, when the villagers uncovered their eyes, two men stood by the side of the water, the light of the stars in their eyes. One was the favored son, strange and withered, having sacrificed his vitality to the Gods. The other was the God who had accepted his bargain, and behind them, marching up out of the water, was a brigade of the village ancestors, led back from the underworld to help defend the home of their children.

When the battle was won, and the ancestors had marched back into the water, the favored son wished his people farewell. Lit up from within, the favored son and the God slipped back into the depths, and then two brilliant lights fountained up out of the water, diving back into the sky as stars.

When you lift your gaze away from the book, Hior’s eyes are still on you. They’ve grown even brighter than before, the shine of them sharp enough to make you wince. His hands, resting gently on his knees, are steadily curling into fists, and he’s smiling. Small and sweet and absolutely enchanted. “I knew it,” he whispers, voice tight and low, and then Hior yanks you by the neck of your shirt halfway into his lap, knocking the book completely out of your hands. He kisses you, in want or in gratitude, you’re not sure, the taste of rainwater and the chill of stone heavy on his lips. It’s… It’s not unpleasant at all, the kiss. His lips are smooth, and cool, and tingling, like the sharpness of static in the air, seeping through your skin and racing through your veins. When Hior finally allows you to wrench yourself away, lungs heaving as you attempt to remember how to breathe, all you can think about is the way he’s smiling, arousal pooling heavily in every limb.

“No matter what you might believe,” you mutter, trying to keep your thoughts in order, “I’m not a God. Not of any sort, Hior. I swear I’m not lying.” You lick your lips, the taste of rainwater still lingering on your skin. “Though, even if I don’t know how to help you yet?” You take his hand off of your arm, lacing your fingers with his. “We’re bound to find out together.”

————-　🌠　————-

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

Mc gets stabbed and shows up to vincas house only having the strength to say hey before collapsing?! And vincas thoughts while she has to take care of her can you write this please?

Combined with: Can you do vinca POV of swm mc almost dying? Maybe she got stabbed or something and they had to rush her to the hospital? Written by @cute-ogre

Warning: Mention of blood.

...

Vinca's day was going well. She helped Yvette with a new trick for the show, beat the shit out of some demons that had started to behave a little bit unruly and saved the world from another potentially-apocalyptic situation, insulted a gross man that was being creepy towards Trudy and threatened him with endless torture. And now, she is having her sacred skin care routine time.

Overall, it was a great Thursday, calm and smooth, even.

For her standards anyway.

That is until someone decided to knock her door down with their bare fists.

“I'm coming!”

Vinca sighs, putting her moisturizer  down and making her way to the door, preparing herself for what could be behind it.

Nothing good ever comes from someone knocking at you door this late.

And she is right, of course she is, because what she found on the other side of it was beautiful, sweet, brown eyes looking at her with pain. And a pale face covered in blood that made the Pride assassin stop in her tracks, eyes widening with shock.

“What the hell happened to you?!”

“Hey...”

Nico whispers, attempting a smile, and starts so sway a little bit, almost collapsing just as Vinca rushes forward to hold her by the shoulders, scanning the girls face with laser focus.

“Nico! Come on! What happened to your head?”

The girl just mumbles something, taking deep breaths and trying to get her balance back.

“I... may need some help?”

“Oh, really?!”

The blonde holds her chin and tries to analyze the head injury as best as she can in the dim light of the corridor and is relived to see it was just a shallow cut, she tries to direct the girl into the apartment, until another thing catches her eye, a blood patch in her torso, hidden by her hoodie and a bloodied hand holding a knife there.

For a second  everything stops, the despair punching her in the chest with a oppressing force that makes her feel weak. She balances herself on the doorway, taking a deep breath, and try to lock eyes with the small woman. When she does, she is only able to say one stiff sentence.

“Stay calm, everything is gonna be okay.”

It's not exactly the most comforting thing to say to a person in a situation like this, but then she doesn't quite know if she is saying that for Nico's benefit or for hers.

She screams for Yvette, the woman appearing from inside her room with her cane in hand, taking a quick wide eyed look at the scene for a heartbeat before adopting a determined expression and rushing back inside, throwing one last look at Vinca over her shoulder.

“I'm driving.”

The whole ordeal to get the bike mechanic to the garage and inside her car was just a blur, they had to be careful with the injury since any wrong movement could make it worse. Vinca was on the back seat with her, trying to make pressure on the wound, and keep the Chinese woman awake.

“You are going to be alright, okay? Soon they will patch you up and you will be as good as new, you will see.”

Nico hesitates, then nods a little. Blood slowly dipping from the wound and falling on the car seat, her eyes unfocused as she gives a slow answer that is barely audible.

“...didn't have that big of a blood loss...The head wound probably looks way uglier than it is.”

She pauses for a little bit, shivering, pushing her bangs out of her eyes, and when Vinca rushes to clean the sweat from her forehead with her free hand, she smiles weakly.

She is toning it down,trying to comfort me.

Vinca realizes, throat suddenly dry.

She keeps her hand on the woman's cheek, caressing the cold skin softly.

I can't freak out now

She looks even paler now, the blonde notices, seeing the repressed, labored  breaths and how the shorter woman keeps her free hand wrapped firmly against something.

The locket.

Vinca realizes, with a gasp, feeling a numbness start to take possession of her body, her chest tightening with horror. Nico seems to take notice of her reaction, eyes darting from the locket to the shining blue eyes in front of her.

“The demon...thing.  Wanted it... and my blood...” She pauses for a second, blinking a little, as if she had forgotten what she was talking about “...they didn't ask nicely.”

It's my fault. I did this. I shouldn't have trusted demons to keep her safe, I should be there protecting her myself.

Taking a deep breath, Vinca adjusts the tick blanket on top of Nico's tights, and tries to keep the storm inside of her at bay. Grabbing the locket that was being offered to her and shoving it into her purse more aggressively than necessary.

“Shhh, that's not important right now, you are.”

“...who knew...you were such a good nurse, huh?”

Vinca's eyes dart to the woman's face at the barely understandable speech, noticing that her lips are now painted with a slight shade of blue.

Fucking hell, that's not good.

Yvette's eyes meet hers in the mirror, equally worried as she makes the last turn,the hospital coming into view. And, as if sensing it, Nico's body goes slack, not even Vinca's hysterical little shake drawing a reaction.

Oh, so this is what pure despair feels like. Great.

She presses her finger to her neck, finding a slow pulse.

“Oh no, don't you dare die on me, you brat.”

Getting the barely conscious woman into the hospital was fast with the help from the hospital staff, and Vinca almost rushed into the O.R with her before being stopped by a nurse that the blonde vaguely remembers having threatened before being pushed by Yvette into a  uncomfortable plastic seat.

The doctor - that she also may or may not have threatened - appears three or four hours later, but it could also be five or six, the pride assassin doesn't quite remember, or care. What she does know is that she talked with Yvvete, and that the blood in her hands is already dry and that there's a ugly mismatched change of clothes brought by Trudy siting in her lap in a plastic bag.

The woman in a white coat talks about things like  "blood loss", "shock" and "internal bleeding".

Which is just great. Nothing like a little blood where blood isn't supposed to be.

But what really catches her attention is the words "stable",  "should be able to make a full recovery" and "You be able to visit her in two hours or so"

The Pride assassin closes her eyes with a tiny relived sight, hearing Trudy's exited commemoration and the tsunami of inquisitive questions coming from Yvette's lips. She gets up slowly, nodding in the doctor's direction and ignoring the worried looks from her friends as she smiles at them and claps her hands.

“Well, now that I know that everything is fine, If you don't mind, I will just go wash the bloody gooe gooe from me.”

She turns around without waiting for a answer, and with a fast, firm pace she gets to the bathroom washing her hands slowly and staring at her own unbothered face on the mirror.

With a calming breath she enters one of the stalls, and just then, hidden from everyone, she gives herself permission to think about what happened, a building pressure behind her eyes.

If I cry now, I will still be able to smile when I see her.

[mrsgiovanna]

The Reunion (Don Giorno x Fem!Reader)

The cutest scenario requested by @squigglylungs, I hope you enjoy reading this my sweet. 🐞💖💕🥰

TW: None, just F L U F F

Word count : 1.2 k

“Gio? Gio? Gio!”

“I’m here! I’m awake cara… go on, you were telling me about what happened during your class,” the raspy edge to Giorno’s voice, and the fact that the last thing he could recall from your conversation was from 10 minutes ago told a different story.

“It’s alright my love, get some rest, we’ll talk in the morning,”

“I’m sorry cara, I just had a long day, but I’m awake now, please continue…”

“I was just talking about my boring day… how have you been though my love? You said you had a busy day?”

“Just long… overall I can’t complain though, I get to see you in just a few hours. Have you finished packing already?”

Staring at the mess of partially folded clothes and accessories you sat in the middle of, you answer a little too quickly, with a little too much fervor, immediately alerting your boyfriend to your little fib.

“(y/n) … If you oversleep, you’re going to miss your flight tomorrow, I haven’t seen you in almost a year…”

“And now? What’s this? If anyone had to hear the mighty don of Passione pining like this, what would they think?”

“I’d deny it entirely” he said, laughter echoing through his words matching your own. You were still confused by his uncanny ability to pick up even the tiniest change in your voice, even through the distortions of the long-distance call.

“I’ll be landing around midday though, I can’t wait to see you Gio, by the time I go home and get settled in it should be midafternoon and perhaps we can do something then?” you proposed, knowing how consumed Giorno gets with his work.

“Of course bella, I’ll send the driver to fetch you, let me know if there are any changes to your flight. I’ll leave you to carry on packing or it’s never going to get done… and stop pouting, you know you’re in this situation because you left everything for the last minute,”

Gasping in fake derision you retort, “If you’re going to be this awful to me, I might have to look for another cannoli-haired trickster with a dream to be my boyfriend… applications are open,”

“Good luck in your endeavor, cara, when you get your list of applicants, send it to me, I’ll even screen them for you,” you couldn’t contain your laughter at his remark. After a few more moments of witty bantering followed by sweet affirmations of your love for each other, you both said your reluctant goodbyes, and ended the call.

The excitement of knowing that you were only a few hours away from seeing the love of your life fueled you with the energy you required to complete what you needed to do before your flight. Slowly creeping into bed, you went over your mental checklist and eventually drifted into a dreamless sleep.

To an outsider looking in, you two probably sounded like overly dramatic kids, but your path was fraught with difficulties. You and Giorno had known each other since middle school, just pair of ragtag kids existing around each other, however, as the years went on, you had become unlikely friends, sharing a few common interests and a dessert here and there. It wasn’t until after he had disappeared in your second year of high school that your friendship bloomed into something more. When he finally sought you out a few weeks after his vanishing trick he poured out his heart to you, recounting a whimsical tale of loss and gain and dreams realized. He was incredibly busy with Passione’s reform, and you had thrown yourself into your studies, but had somehow still found time for each other, when it dawned on you both that perhaps the affections ran deeper than you initially thought.

With an emphatic confession and dozens of your favorite flowers strewn across your doorstep, the rest was, as they say, history. Your young love was put to the test when you had accepted an offer to study at your favored university… in an entirely different region. You had worked hard though, balancing everything, and your efforts were matched in no small part by Giorno who used his resources whenever and wherever he could to make your life just a little bit easier.

As you slept peacefully on the other end of the country, Giorno laid awake in bed thinking about how best to surprise you at the airport. He had lead you to believe that he was too busy to welcome you back into Naples. Your thinly veiled disappointment almost caused him to scrap his plans, but imagining how happy you would be to see him steeled his resolve. He would have loved to see you more frequently, but between your hectic class timetable and his erratic schedule, an opportune time could not be found until now. Turning to his side, knowing you were just a few hours away, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

“Oi Giorno… wow, that’s a blast from the past. How does that suit even fit you anymore?”

“It’s not the same suit Mista, I had this one made to look like the other one,” explained the young Don, expecting the young gunslingers surprise at his choice of outfit. The combination of an unexpected growth spurt, combined with his fitness routine resulted in him building a physique that towered over his former self.

“Are you ready for today? Between Fugo and myself we’ve taken over all your engagements for the next few days so you’re free,” Giorno was thankful for his underboss and consigliere, and nodded with a small smile as Mista countered his thanks with requests of his own.

Glancing at his watch, Giorno decided that it was time for him to leave. The drive to the airport was shorter than expected, leaving him with some time to just walk around and take in the sights and sounds of the bustling crowds of curious tourists, travelers returning to their loved ones, naïve foreigners… he smiled to himself, remembering a time a few years ago when he walked around in a similar magenta suit, looking for similar people to prey on… it felt altogether like another lifetime.

Snapped out of his reverie by the sight of you, he hastily walked up to you, your back still facing him.

“Do you need a taxi signorina? I can give you a very good rate…” he jested. Your head whipped around meeting the sight of a beaming Giorno. Being altogether too excited, you threw yourself into his open arms, a few happy tears escaping your lovely eyes. The pure display of unbridled love and affection attracted warm gazes from a few kind onlookers.

“Gio! I missed you so much, I thought I was only seeing you later today!”

“Surprise! I missed you so much too amore, your expression right now, makes it all worth it. Come here,” said Giorno, wrapping his arms around you once again, then drawing back to place soft kisses on your lips. “Come bella, let’s get you home, I can’t wait to start my break with you…”

“Of course my love, let’s go…” with a dreamy look in your eyes and a pure smile on his face, you walked hand in hand, falling perfectly into step with one another, as if you had never been separated at all…

[bigskydreaming]

Dick has said it out loud explicitly, to Damian, that the mantle of Robin was his to pass on. Why do people still feel entitled to talk over him?

IMO? For the exact same reasons that people harp on so much about it being a retcon that Robin was Dick’s mother’s nickname for him and that originally he based the name on Robin Hood. To be perfectly honest that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference in regards to the fact that either way the point is still that Dick created Robin and it wouldn’t exist without him.....but the constant attempts to minimize its emotional significance to Dick and any kind of special attachment to it that he has and that the others can’t claim to share....

IMO these are just attempts to distance Dick from the mantle and make him seem less relevant or important to its very existence....freeing up people to focus on the importance of Robin as a symbol and a mantle to everyone else but without having to attribute any special credit or significance or respect to Dick as the originator of the mantle and the character that the other Robins are literally the legacy characters of.

It’s pretty annoying and very shortsighted IMO as actually, emphasizing the connection Robin has to Dick’s first family just enhances the weight and poignancy of Dick ultimately giving each of the other Robins his blessing when he didn’t have to and thus literally choosing them as his new family even without having to rely solely on a connection to each other via Bruce.

Of course people don’t seem to really want to do that either....given how rarely Dick’s blessing even gets acknowledged amid all the angst about who replaced who and who was fired and who wasn’t. It’s kinda ironic...I know so many fans HATE the version where Bruce fires Dick and so whatever they can not to acknowledge it and dismiss it as a retcon....and the ironic thing is? I get it. I totally see why it’s not something they want to run with and to be quite honest I can take it or leave it myself. I like exploring versions of events where Dick was fired, I like exploring ones where he wasn’t. Both have room for digging and delving imo.

My only beef with people who are soooo loud and quick to always dismiss the firing as just a retcon that doesn’t count.....is that in the pre Crisis version of events where Dick voluntarily gave up Robin and decided it was time to move onto a new identity....he gave Robin to Jason himself. The significance of that version of events isn’t JUST that it was Dick’s own choice to move to a new identity and that there was no conflict between him and Bruce about it...it was equally of significance that the Robin mantle was still viewed as inherently his, made by him, and his and his alone to pass on to a successor.

There is no version where Dick gave it up voluntarily but had no role in choosing Jason. The very premise of that mix and match honestly makes no sense because why make such a fuss about Bruce not having overstepped and fired Dick when it was never his place to say what he could claim as his identity or mantle on his OWN (fire him as his partner, sure that was always Bruce’s right, but tell Dick he couldn’t be the hero persona he created for himself? Fuck off Bruce LOL).

But my point is that mix and match makes no real sense because why preserve Bruce’s character from stepping between Dick and the mantle he created to honor his first parents....only to then turn right around and have Bruce still treat it as a Wayne family hand me down that Dick had outgrown when it was only EVER a Grayson family hand me down whose only connection to the Wayne family was through Dick being a member of both families and a bridge connecting them?

Whether Bruce fires Dick as Robin and gives it to Jason or JUST gives it to Jason without Dick making that choice....the one isn’t any better than the other because in both cases the actual offense is still the same: it was never Bruce’s to do ANYTHING with other than what Dick wanted done with it. Take on a new partner? Sure. But give him the mantle made of Dick’s work, Dick’s past, Dick’s every action as Robin? Nope.

So really the mix and match only serves one real purpose, for anyone who is intent on dismissing the firing as just a retcon but sees no need to uphold Dick choosing to give Robin to Jason instead of Bruce doing that...when Bruce doing that is literally part of the exact same retcon they’re so intent on discarding!

The only real purpose that mix and match serves is to keep Bruce centered in the Robin succession with his choice to give it to Jason being the basis of Jason associating Robin with Bruce. It keeps Bruce as the person Jason thinks of and feels connected to every time he thinks of why he’s Robin at all....because Bruce is the one who gave him the symbol that was already well known and full of meaning when Jason stepped into those shoes.

And then of course at the same time the mix and match also ‘lessens’ Bruce’s offense to Dick in taking Robin against his wishes WHILE also suggesting that Dick has less basis of feeling resentful of Bruce passing it on to someone else without his say so because it’s not like he was using it anymore right? And that was his own choice right?

But so what if it was? That doesn’t make it any less his creation and his legacy. It doesn’t make it any less a Grayson family connection and somehow more a Bruce Wayne family connection.

And that’s my beef. That’s the big irony of how flat out counter intuitive the mix and match retcon thing is and always has been. It only accomplishes half its objective....keeps the later Robins more connected to Bruce via it than they are to Dick via it....because it ultimately still runs through Bruce. But it fails to accomplish its secondary objective simply because refusing to acknowledge that Robin is intrinsically tied to Dick Grayson and not Bruce Wayne like....doesn’t actually make it any less true.

And that’s why imo the question should never have been “does your fic go with the version where Dick gives up Robin or the retcon where Bruce fires Dick” ...no, the right question in my mind should have always been “does your fic go with the version where Dick gives Robin to Jason or the retcon where Bruce gives it to Jason.”

And here’s the sticking point:

People always point to Bruce and Dick’s initial connection as the basis of their entire Dynamic Duo partnership. They understood each otrher via their parallel experiences losing their parents to murder. Bruce saw himself in a young Dick Grayson and he wanted to help Dick figure out a way forward to life after his parents’ death by drawing upon his own experiences.

But at the same time, they aren’t the same. Even with Bruce guiding Dick forward through his trauma and grief by following a map made of his own prior experiences, the end result was not the same for both....but it still used some of the same road marks on their respective journeys.

And this is why the Dynamic Duo were always emphasized as partners, as complementing each other, balancing each other....things they could only do because they were not the same and even using similar coping mechanisms to deal with their PARALLEL tragedies....produced entirely different results.

Both used their tragedies, their traumas, their PAIN to fuel their pursuit of justice and desire to help protect people. Both built new personas for themselves to use in their shared missions here....personas which embodied what they wanted to accomplish in these guises while at the same time reminding them why they were doing this.

But the personas they created ended up looking very different despite being born of similar crucibles...because they prioritized different things....and because they were honoring different people.

No matter how much Bruce and Dick have in common due to circumstances they are very different people who are both products of the families and places they come from....and thus even when using similar PROCESSES to build something out of their parallel tragedies, what emerged from the fires once they were done creating from their traumas.....don’t look the same. Aren’t interchangeable.

And neither are their creators.

Bottom line, it in my opinion flat out does not work to attribute more connection to Robin and the succession of that mantle to Bruce than Dick.....because Bruce would never, COULD never create that specific mantle out of his grief and pain any more than Dick ever would or could have created Batman out of his. Because they are too different. They needed different things out of their journeys forward, they were commemorating having had different journeys behind them, they were walking a shared path side by side but you can’t switch the clothes they made to wear going forward anymore than you can switch their footprints beneath their feet....they don’t fit into what the other made because it wasn’t made BY them and it wasn’t made FOR them.

So riddle me this, Batfandom: how does it make sense to focus on their parallel tragedies and how they moved forward from those in similar ways and on a shared trajectory, emphasizing how this is the entire basis of the Batman and Robin partnership from its very inception.....

Only to then view the role Bruce’s grief, his loss, his pain played in birthing the Batman mantle as something sacrosanct, undeniable....these things go hand in hand, there’s no separating them even when others end up wearing the Batman mantle as well, even through multiple generations....

But at the EXACT SAME TIME....treating Dick’s grief, HIS loss, HIS pain and the role all THAT played in birthing the Robin mantle....as something that barely comes up as a footnote the second you put the costume on anyone other than Dick? Something the others never even feel inclined to THINK about when reflecting on the mantle they’re wearing and where it came from and why it exists?

Why is the one rated as so less significant than the other....if the entire point of Batman and Robin is that both heroes were born from the ashes of tragedies so similar they understood each other in ways most other mentors and sidekicks never came close to?

How’s that work exactly?

Look, you’ll never catch me arguing that Bruce isn’t and shouldn’t be central to the Batman mantle, mythos, succession, etc. And I loved Dick as Batman too. But it ultimately should always come back to Bruce no matter how many people add to it in their own ways. Because it’s not just about what Bruce made.....it’s why he made it that matters too. The act of creating Batman is as important to the story of Batman as the created Batman.

And those very same reasons are precisely why Bruce shouldn’t be regarded as central to the ROBIN mantle, succession, etc.

To dismiss the Graysons as not being definitive to the greater Robin mythos is to say Thomas and Martha Wayne bear no special significance to the Batman mythos.

I love that being Robin connects these siblings and ties them all together as part of the same family. I love it being a shared family tradition that encompasses all of them and marks this family of choice as having been specifically chosen by not just it’s patriarch but each other.

But it’s not Bruce’s family tradition and it’s not a Wayne or even a Batman hand me down.

Because it doesn’t even come from Bruce’s family.

It comes from Dick’s. He brought it with him. It’s what connects him to what came before life with Bruce because as everyone knows but so many people often forget to give MEANING....

Dick Grayson, for as much as he is Batman’s son and is undeniably Bruce’s family, had a life of his own before he ever met Bruce.

He didn’t begin with Bruce Wayne. He didn’t come from Bruce Wayne.

And neither did Robin.

[caffeinated-cryptid]

you got an ego so big (it'll eat you alive).

roman-centric hurt/comfort (w/ remus, patton and virgil). 

11.7k words | AO3 link | warnings: self-hatred, semi-intentional self-destruction, various injuries, arguing, remus-typical jokes and topics.

“At the best of times, Roman’s job was a tightrope act between maintaining a healthy amount of self-confidence and the ability to adapt and take criticism. Throughout his life he walks this line many times, always with the expectation that if he were to fall one way or the other, no one would be there to catch him.

But sometimes when you’re up miles high, it can become difficult to see the safety net on the ground below you.

(aka an expansion on the premise that a bruised ego causes literal injuries and the issues this could cause when you're an insecure prince with a need to please and the weight of the world on your shoulders).”

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

To be overly aware of your own self is often associated with negative traits, such as narcissism, self-consciousness or a sensitivity to mistakes. Although to some with a proclivity towards the spotlight, it can become an inadvertent consequence of over-analyzing yourself in order to achieve those flawless performances. Naturally, gaining any sort of notoriety and attempting to retain that positive image means becoming intimately aware of your faults and staying open to change, taking criticism to heart all the while keeping relatably humble. On the other hand, it may also mean letting that same criticism become your one sole focus, tearing you down instead of becoming a rung in the ladder that's supposed to take you to higher places.

Roman often found that navigating these gray areas was a momentous task. To be proud of his work, but not be too unbearably egotistical to the point that it blinded him. To accept criticism but not allow the pursuit of perfection to destroy him.

His role was truly a balance; a thin tightrope he constantly had to traverse.

And on occasion, he would end up slipping.

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

I - bonds that tie us.

Roman first learned of his job as the ego when Thomas was young. With Remus at the helm of most of the subconscious and instinctual stuff as his id, perhaps he should've assumed that he would have a similar mirrored purpose beyond simply confidence, however it hadn't ever really come into play until one afternoon when the two of them were busy playing in The Imagination.

They had just concluded a close duel against each other and were putting their weapons away (cardboard ones, since Feelings didn't want them running around with real weapons once he found out they were using them to fight, and because Fear and Lies often fretted about them doing something stupid and getting hurt). Usually neither of them held the lead for long during their matches since they were so well-matched, but today Remus had won easily, which Roman chalked up to him feeling off ("Yeah right. Don't be such a sore loser." "It's true!"). Either way, Remus would be bragging about the victory until the next time they got the opportunity to duel, and that meant he was already rubbing it in as they prepared to leave.

On their way to the exit, Remus had taken the lead at some point and was throwing out ideas about they should do later when Roman unexpectedly paused and doubled over, clutching his head. Remus didn't notice that he'd stopped until he heard a groan and turned around.

"What's wrong? Didn't hit you too hard, did I?" He asked with a grin as if he assumed that Roman was still playing- perhaps trying to make up an excuse for his terrible loss.

"I- Dunno. My head hurts…" Roman cringed, eyes screwed shut.

Remus' smile faltered when he realized it might not be a joke and he walked back, peeling Romans hands away from his forehead. Underneath was a large red patch of irritated skin which looked set to bruise. His frown deepened because he definitely didn't cause that, nor did he witness any incidents during the day which would be the cause. "How'd that happen?

"Dunno!" He repeated, eyes going blank for a moment while he caught up with what was happening outside. The two of them were usually much too distracted when they were in The Imagination to pay attention to everything that transpired in the real world, especially on weekdays like this when Thomas would be in school and Creativity wasn't exactly needed during most classes. "...Thomas was told off for slacking in front of the entire class and he got some bad grades on his report card… He's feeling embarrassed, I think.

Remus was confused by how this was relevant until he pieced together that the two events were linked to what was happening to his brother. His eyes widened in realization before they settled into determination. "Then I'll fight him until he stops feeling bad."

That startled a laugh out of Roman, until his head started pounding and he cut himself off with a grimace. "...’Can't do that."

He laughed too, in hopes that it would lift Roman's spirits again. "Can too! I'll figure it out, then he'll be too busy worrying about his broken bones to care about what some dumb teacher said. Maybe then he'll get to skip school for a while and do something funner like-"

"Remus." Roman hissed over him, overcome with a sudden dizzy spell. His hand found Remus’ shoulder for purchase, which stopped his twin in his rant.

Remus stared at him in alarm. This seemed serious, and he didn't do too well with handling serious things. "Do... Do you want me to get Feelings? Or Learning? Or Lies?"

"No. None of them. I just wanna go home." He whined, leaning more and more against Remus for support.

' Home' in their case was what they called their shared room. It was where they always returned to at the end of a long day, and no matter what had happened, they could always feel their troubles wash away as they sat in their own little world once more. Roman longed for that feeling, to escape the too-bright sun of The Imagination which now felt like it was blinding him and just lay down for a while.

Remus nodded hesitantly, the plans he had spun of pulling a prank on Fear and Lies forgotten. Normally the two Creativities preferred to find the door of The Imagination manually (they claimed it made the experience more immersive when they were out on an adventure), but instead he reached towards the exit and the world twisted around them, ejecting them out together. They came out the other side back in their room, next to their bunk bed. Instead of climbing up to his bed on the top, Roman just about threw himself onto Remus' sheets. Somehow he managed to ignore the weird smell of the fabric that he always complained about, which spoke greatly about his current well-being.

Remus hovered behind him, unsure of what to do, when Roman let out another pained noise and curled up tighter. "What now?!"

"Thomas...parents.

Since that didn't really explain anything, Remus decided to check up on what was happening outside himself. Thomas' parents had asked to see his report card and they were giving him the 'not mad but disappointed talk', while Thomas was shrunk into himself in shame. Yikes, Learning mustn't be feeling too hot about this either. But right now his focus was on his brother, who the sight of in such a sorry state filled him with rage.

"Now I want to fight them too." Remus muttered darkly. "Take the knife from the kitchen that dad uses to cut up turkeys and make them stop talking forever. Then we won't have to deal with this again and you won't-"

Oh right, Roman was still injured. Focus, Remus. Concern. Right, he was concerned for his brother, who was hurting like he had never seen, even after their fights. What could he do about this? He was always so much better at destroying things than fixing them, so having to deal with a situation like this without any sort of guidance made him nervous.

"You can't hurt them." Roman protested weakly.

"Maybe if I want to enough I could!"

Remus walked around the bunk bed and settled down on the side Roman was facing towards. From this angle he could see new bruises spattered along his brother's arms. In a grotesque way, the different shades came together like a watercolour painting. Except instead of a canvas, they were on a body- Remus shook his head. Focus! He could draw sickly yellow and purple-inspired pictures later, when Roman would be in the mood to be more good-humored about it.

"You shouldn't, then. It's bad."

"...Alright then. What should I do Ro-bro?"

Roman cracked open one eye and looked at him. "Stay? Until Thomas feels better?"

Considering he was just grounded for the weekend, Remus wasn't sure how long it would take for this hit to Thomas' self esteem to blow over, but despite knowing this he nodded anyway.

"Okay."

He laid down next to Roman, not commenting when he hid his face against the covers and started sniffling, or when he eventually fell asleep, curled against his side like how they would sleep when they were newly-split. When Learning knocked in their door to tell them that dinner was ready, he made a weak excuse that they were busy and would eat later.

Without even asking he knew Roman would want this to be kept between them, despite how the others would undoubtedly fuss and nurse him back to health. And perhaps that was the reason why. His brother always wanted to appear infallible to the others and did so replicating the heroes from the stories they read, which often meant refusing to admit when he needed help and trying to do everything himself. If you asked Remus, he was trying way too hard to be like the Creativity that came before them, which was silly because they were different now and as they were, they needed each other.

Remus closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep too. This seemed like a big deal, so Roman's pride would have to pass eventually for him to seek help. Right?

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

II - even without dying you're dead to me.

In retrospect, Remus had underestimated Roman’s ability to keep a secret (maybe because he was so quick these days to run over to Feelings, now Morality, whenever Remus did something to upset him. Tattle-tale).

Now that they were older and their roles were more defined, their once shared-room had separated into two to adjust to this change. Even though it had been long enough that he should be used to the feeling of being alone, there were still times where Remus had to try to not let it bother him when he looked up at night, expecting to see the familiar underside of a top bunk and instead only finding the ceiling he had painted an underwater-themed mural on.

On nights like this, far too sentimental to enter a peaceful rest, they would go sleep in each other's rooms, saying nothing as they tried to pretend they were as close as they once were. Remus groaned into his pillow, fighting that annoying urge to seek comfort. He was a teenager now, he didn't want to be so attached at the hip to a side who had started looking at him with disgust and fear instead of the fondness they used to share. Sometimes he couldn't help it though, clinging to the days when everything felt simple and the biggest thing they had to worry about was finding time to create the things they enjoyed. At the very least he was glad that Roman didn't mock him for his occasional bouts of uncharacteristic sentiment; that would solidify for him that there were no remnants of the relationship they once had left.

With that depressing thought, he rolled out of bed. He couldn't sleep tonight so he was going to make that Roman's problem; that always cheered him up. Perhaps if he hadn't made such a disturbed face when Remus had talked about the brazen bull he had made earlier that day, he would feel a bit more sympathy for waking his brother up in the middle of the night. Buuut he didn't and he was feeling petty, so without a second thought he sunk out and into Romans room.

"WAKEY WAKEY~!" Remus clashed two cymbals together like one of those nightmare-inducing wind-up monkeys, only to belatedly realize the bed he was facing was empty.

He blinked, both in confusion and to adjust his eyes to the unexpected light of the room. Both of them may be night owls, but Roman would usually be asleep by 2am at least, and it was way past that hour. Looking around the room, his eyes latched onto the vanity where his brother was sitting, looking incredibly startled from the deafening crash of metal against metal.

"Get out!" He yelled once his shock faded into indignation, glaring at Remus.

Remus didn’t respond, staring at the medical supplies spread across the surface. Roman was in the middle of wrapping a compression bandage around his thigh, which he abandoned as soon as Remus had entered.

"Did you get something stuck in your ear again? I'm not in the mood to deal with you tonight, Remus. Leave ."

"What happened?" He blurted out before he could even think about the question.

"Doesn't matter. In case you've forgotten, the door's right there. Feel free to use it at any point."

Instead of complying (because when had Remus ever done that for anyone? No no, it was always more exciting to do the opposite of what people ask and see what happens), he crossed the room, ignoring how Roman increasingly looked like he wanted to punch him the longer he lingered.

"Bitch, it obviously does matter, otherwise you wouldn't be looking like you got trampled by a cracked-out horse."

"Lovely imagery." Roman gritted out.

"Lovely avoidance." Remus retorted sarcastically. "Aren't you best friends with Morality and Logic now? Why aren't they here sucking your d-"

"If you don't go back to your own room I'll run you through with my sword." Roman warned with an air of finality.

Remus snorted.

It was hard to be intimidated by the same side who had once cried when he had accidentally smashed an imaginary caterpillar cocoon with his morning star. In his defense he had forgotten to make the handle weighted when he first made it, so he was still getting used to the uneven distribution of the weapon...not like that stopped Roman from getting upset with him. Supposedly he had spent the last week trying to raise butterflies and wanted to show them off to Logic after they had learned about chrysalis in class, but Remus found that somewhat laughable considering he could just create a fully-formed butterfly if he wanted to. So he did laugh, calling him dumb for getting upset over nothing, and through tears Roman pushed him to the ground and told him he hated him for the first time. (After that, he may have spent the next week killing any butterflies that crossed his path, but that was neither here nor there. The point of this tangent provided a lá Remus Sander's brain was was that Roman could be a big baby and therefore he couldn't take anything he said too seriously.)

"Sounds like a good time! Save that idea for later though, because if you don't tell me I'll summon them over here to ask them myself."

"Don't. They don't know about this, alright? For once in your life can you just let it go?"

Huh. Remus tilted his head. It had been years since they first found out about the fun little quirk Roman had, and he just...never told? He figured at the very least it would be a good way to milk even more attention from the others; something Creativity had been seeking more often after Fear turned into Anxiety during middle school and gained a much larger role in Thomas' life. "Why?"

Roman huffed in frustration. "They don't need to. I can handle it myself."

"...Wow! Careful not to summon Lies, because you're full of shit and you know it." Remus fired back. He didn't even know why he was getting so mad. Minutes ago he was cursing his brother's guts for how their relationship had soured, and now all of a sudden it was if all of that dislike had faded into the background for something else. Concern? He hadn't felt concern for anything in years. Roman always made it seem like he could take care of himself, so that's what Remus had believed at first too, though perhaps stumbling across this situation was evidence of the opposite. Reasonable self-care didn't exactly look like 'patching yourself up at 4 in the morning'. At least, that sounded like something Lies would say which probably meant it was accurate.

"Ugh- Shut up. I've been doing just fine so far, without you or them, so you can take your fake pity and shove it up your you-know-where."

Remus didn't rise to the opportunity to poke fun at that statement, his mind going blank (and what a strange and unusual feeling that was). The idea that anything could have been hidden from him seemed unthinkable given how they used to tell each other everything. He hadn't even considered that that habit had become one-sided, given how it had never stopped being true for him. "...Roman, what does that mean? Has this been happening a lot?"

"..."

"Why did you never tell me?! This isn't something you can just keep a secret! If you won't say anything I will-

Remus' mouth snapped shut as Roman ejected him from his room. He landed back on his own bed and when he scrambled onto his feet to tried to rise up again, he found that his efforts were blocked. Roman had kicked him out and locked the door behind him. He never did that, no matter how much they fought or annoyed each other. It was the one thing they did that showed they still cared.

Remus trembled with adrenaline and shock. Taking his pillow, he summoned a knife and stabbed it and stabbed it and stabbed it until all of his pent up feelings were gone and there all that was left was the fluff covering his floor.

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

III - interlude.

As it turns out, he'd never get the opportunity to tell, because shortly after that, the newly appointed 'dark sides' were pushed away into their own corner of the mindscape after an explosive argument between the sides (during which Remus tried to ignore how closely Roman stood at Morality's side, sword brandished towards him. He didn't want to think his twin had a hand in their separation, even though it made so much sense).

When he argued about going back with Lies, now Deceit after being appointed the new leader of the unwanted and unloved, he was told through clenched teeth and pained eyes that he shouldn't. Not until Thomas was ready for him. For all of them.

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

IV - to the death of me, i'm just fulfillin' my destiny.

After that, Roman adjusted, and did so alone. Teenage years came with many challenges, ones he didn’t always escape unscathed. Despite the occasional rejection here, an unfortunate setback there, he felt as if he had grown a thicker skin for the trials they faced. Into adulthood he wore his ego like a suit of armor; Thomas was outgoing and likable, so of course it became easier to brush aside random negative experiences as minor blips, things that didn’t represent their worth.

This was challenged somewhat as he began pursuing creative outlets more seriously. This meant more work for Roman in general (Woo! Suck it Logan), but it also came with more opportunities to feel ashamed of a messed-up performance, embarrassed by a note sung wrong, hurt by an ill-intentioned piece of feedback.

So he tried to compensate at times. Sue him. Between the nights he spent nursing his wounds and wondering how to do better next time, perhaps he deserved to be a little self-congratulatory about the shining achievements he won for them. There was a certain safety in placing himself up on that pedestal, so high above that it felt like nobody could ever reach him; that he was above it all. But the reality was that this pedestal, gold-plated as it may be, was founded on an interior of paper mache, one wrong move from away from collapsing and sending him tumbling back down to earth.

It was a good thing that pretending came naturally to Roman. So natural that the fear of falling sometimes didn’t register with him at all.

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

V - the calamitous corollary of being considered.

Except, it may have been too much to expect nobody to ever realize there was something up with him. The fact that the sides had to work closely together alone meant that the excuse of being busy after every troubling experience could only work for so long.

The first one to find out was Patton, because of course it was. Sometimes Roman felt as if Patton wasn’t given enough credit for his intelligence. Even though he could be a tad slow on the uptake on other things, his ability to detect the slightest change in mood and discern how people were feeling could be uncanny at times. Emotions just happened to be Patton's strong suit, and while that was very much appreciated when it came to sharing excitement or talking through a heated problem, it was not so grand when you were trying to get away with hiding something.

The first time he let something slip was a few days after Thomas had been flat-out rejected when asking someone out on a date. It wasn't that big of a blow, considering they had barely known the guy for more than a month, but Roman had been insistent that they throw caution into the wind and give it a shot, sure that he had been receiving signals that proved that this guy felt a similar interest. Turns out, he didn't, and was very-much straight. At least the rejection had been somewhat carried out gently and he didn't seem too put-off about staying friends afterwards. Nonetheless the wound was still fresh, and Thomas kept internally cringing whenever he thought about it, which didn't help matters. Whatever. Roman dealt with the bruises that arose from the incident and dabbed a little foundation on the ones he couldn't hide with clothing. They'd get over it in a matter of weeks.

It was after the awkward feelings had finally begun to settle when it happened. Roman and Patton had been in the kitchen preparing dinner when Thomas received a message on his phone, and when he went to check it, he face-planted on the couch in mortification.

'Hey man, I just remembered that my cousin is coming to town this weekend. He's gay too so I thought you two could go on a blind date if you're still looking. :) Lmk your thoughts.'

Patton frowned upon sensing the sudden wave of embarrassment, pausing to check what had happened. "Well...That's thoughtful of him!" He chuckled, tone trying and failing to be positive. Roman couldn't share the same sentiment.

"Thoughtless is more like it! He wants to set us up with the first gay person he knows? Who's not even in the city?  Does he think Thomas has no standards at all?! How dare-" Roman's indignant protests cut off as he felt the skin around his collar grow tender and swell slightly. He let out a slight whimper when he pressed his fingers into the bruise to double check its location. Why now and in such a visible place?! He's going to get Thomas to drop that guy if it's the last thing he does-

"Ro! Are you okay?"

Right. Patton was still here. Don't panic.

"Y-yeah! I just remembered an injury I sustained earlier. But not to worry, 'tis but a flesh wound!" He joked.

"A flesh wound?!" Patton cried, reference flying over his head. "Let me see."

Gently, Patton moved his head upwards to get a better look at the bruise. It mustn't look good, because Patton, squeamish as he was, grimaced on sight.

"How on earth did that happen? I don't remember that being there just now."

"Uh." Come on Creative skills, work your magic. "A stray whomping willow in The Imagination? You know how they can be. I suppose it merely took a while to develop, bruises can be funny like that."

Luckily it seemed to work, because Patton sighed. "I thought you got rid of them all after that time one almost threw Logan into a lake. Did Remus make more?"

Heh. Good times. That was a slight lie on his behalf when he had told the others he had gotten rid of the trees; he had kept a few of them around because they were once a gift from Remus to quote 'spice up his boring forests'. Not for any sentimental reasons, of course, but because he thought it was funny and it kept him on his toes. "I guess."

Patton made a small 'tsk' noise, mouth still drawn in a frown but he didn't comment further. "Come on, I'll help you treat that. Does it hurt?"

"Of course not." He smiled. "Do you really think I could be bested by a mere tree?"

"Never! I do wish you were more careful when you go on your little adventures, though. It makes me awfully sad to think about you in 'pine'."

Roman knew it had been a flimsy excuse and even though Patton seemed to accept it, there was a hesitation in his eye which spoke of hidden disbelief. After some first aid and many more tree-related puns later, they went back to cooking, finishing up 30 minutes later. When Logan came down to dinner, immediately questioning the bandages around Roman's neck, he repeated the fake story, distracting him with a request not to go into The Imagination with the whomping willow around and packaging the thinly-veiled jab at the way Logan had once freaked out when he was swung around by the semi-sentient tree as a warning. Logan's concern quickly faded and he shot back a sharp retaliation that Roman didn't care to remember. He just laughed, feeling as light as a kite with the crisis averted.

The next time didn't go over as gracefully.

Thomas had found a different partner eventually, one that wasn't some friend's cousin. They dated for months, and just when he had been thinking about inviting his boyfriend to move in so he could be closer to his workplace, he'd been broken up with. On Valentines Day of all days. There was no better way of putting it; they had planned to go out to dinner, managing to book a table at a fairly classy restaurant, exchanged gifts, and near the end of the night his boyfriend had leaned across the table with a sad smile, thanking him for the evening before admitting he didn't see them working out anymore. He said it quietly, as to not cause a scene among the other diners, but that didn't stop Thomas from immediately bursting into tears. The scene had caused his (now ex) boyfriend to leave early after paying his half of the bill. At least the waitress had taken pity on him and brought over more complimentary bread rolls (which he took because he was not a complete fool, heartbroken as he may be), though even that didn't stop the confusion and embarrassment of it all.

As expected, the whole incident caused nothing but chaos; the right-brain sides were devastated, Anxiety was in a state of panic, and Logic had been metaphorically thrown out the window. As Thomas made his way home, they were at a complete loss for what to do. They had started the day, hoping to take a step forward in their relationship, and ended up with nothing at all. What worse is that they didn't even have a clear idea why (admittedly, that could have been due to, as mentioned before, the inconsolable crying).

It seemed like the most sensible thing to do at the moment was to throw the Valentines gifts away and gorge on the ice-cream that had been sitting in the back of the freezer for who-knows how long while watching a comfort show and trying to forget the whole evening. So that's what they did. As Logan tried to sort through what happened and rationalize what to do next, Patton wallowed in his misery as he dealt with the giant mix of feelings Thomas was going through.

After a few hours working through the brunt of it, enough to where his mind began wandering elsewhere, Patton realized with a start that he hadn't seen Roman since the start of the evening. He must have been so devastated too! Patton recalled how excited he was about the day ahead of them, how he spun fantasies of Thomas' boyfriend accepting the proposal to move in and then the future proposals that could come after that-

Patton mournfully sobbed. He needed to stop thinking about this, or else Thomas could start spiraling again. The best thing to do right now was distract himself, and to do that he should go check on Roman. Perhaps they could talk and have a mutual catharsis over the whole thing. Or better yet, he could put his energy towards someone else and he won't have to fall back into the thoughts that had been clouding his mind ever since they had left that stupid restaurant.

Splashing some water on his face to clear up some of the blotchy-ness, he left his room and crossed the hallway towards Roman's. He couldn't hear any noise coming from inside, so he tentatively knocked. "Kiddo?"

For a few moments there was silence, and Patton almost turned away, assuming that Roman might be blowing off some steam in The Imagination, until a voice cleared inside the room and answered. "Pat? What do you want?"

Patton was taken aback for a second, not expecting such a straight-forward answer. It almost sounded like Roman wasn't upset at all, but Patton sincerely doubted that to be true. His tone was almost too normal, and for anybody else he wouldn't have questioned it, but the lack of dramatics or flowery language was always a clear red flag for the Creative side. "I wanted to check on you since um- You-Know-Who took 'dine and dash' a tad too seriously." He chuckled humorlessly. "...Can I come in?"

There was some shuffling and muffled curses. "Why? I'm fine. Worry about yourself."

"'Why?'" He repeated, eyeing the door warily. "I'm concerned! I haven't seen you in hours and I- I know you must be upset about this too. Can we please talk?"

"I'm not exactly my most princely presentable self right now. Anyway, it's late. Surely this can wait until tomorrow?"

Patton looked down at himself. Instead of his usual garb, he had thrown on some more comfortable clothes hours ago, and they were currently crumpled from laying in bed, sobbing his eyes out. "I'm hardly my best-self either right now, Kiddo-" Before he could go on a spiel about how it was best to not bottle up emotions when they're fresh (and ignoring the hypocrisy of that sentiment), he heard a thump on the other side of the door followed by a quiet hiss of pain. Patton began to panic, and his hand flew to the handle. "I'm coming in!"

Before the other side could even consider protesting, Patton flung the fortunately unlocked door open and stepped into the room, gasping at the sight he was met with. Roman was on the floor, wincing as he clutched his leg. Although he was still dressed in his usual outfit, there were enough injuries on his visible skin that Patton could only wonder how far they went. He covered his mouth and stared in horror as Roman turned to look at him nervously.

"What- How did this happen?!"

Roman licked his dry lips, eyes darting away as he searched for an excuse. "I- The Imagination- This is from earlier-"

"You told me this morning you were going to spend the day helping Thomas write a love letter." Patton said, voice strained with panic and disbelief. "Tell me the truth, please."

Shoot, he had announced his plans earlier that day, hadn't he? He internally cursed his inability to keep his mouth shut, before lowering his head in defeat. "Can you keep a secret, Pat?"

Said side shifted uncomfortably, but his tone was resolute when he nodded. "If it means you'll let me help with whatever this is."

"Okay..." Roman inhaled. "Okay."

And then he explained. Or rather, gave a shortened version of the truth which was less likely to give Patton a complete heart-attack: that bruised egos were something he experienced, but it was never this bad (true) or all that common (also true), and that they weren't something to worry about because he could usually take care of them himself (technically true). By the time he had finished, Patton still looked concerned, but had become less frantic with the information.

"You'll let me help in the future if you need it, right?" He asked, so close to shedding tears that Roman had trouble keeping eye-contact without becoming choked up with guilt.

"If I need it." He agreed.

Finally, Patton smiled, and went to fetch the first-aid kit hastily. As he helped patch him up for the second time that year, the look in Patton's eyes was so pained that Roman vowed to let him see this side of him as little as possible.

For a while, he kept true to this promise to himself, and on the occasions when Patton would drop by to check if everything was alright, if Roman had encountered any bruised egos since, he relished in the relief on his face whenever he would lie and said he hadn't. Distantly he wondered sometimes if this was how heroes were supposed to feel; protecting people by letting them live in blissful ignorance and bearing the burden of the ugly truth alone.

(It was thoughts like that that kept him going.)

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

VI - high highs and low lows.

And then came the videos. Youtube had been an excellent ego-boost for Roman. Similar to how life-changing Vine was, the instant gratification of likes and feedback and people liking what they made was enough to send him over the moon, and oftentimes it was able to ward away the downsides that came with it too; the stress of staying relevant, the occasional hate comment, the portion of dislikes that didn't explain what about the video was dislike-worthy-

Overall it seemed like a great idea, especially when the sides became involved. It gave them all the chance to gain their own spotlights, which most of them appreciated. Sometimes this wasn't always so good though. With the videos came more introspection than usual, which meant deeply examining each problem to try to find some kind of moral. And right now, Roman didn't want to do any sort of thinking exercise about how badly he messed up. At this point in their career, a simple audition should have been a cake walk, instead it was an ache walk...Okay, admittedly he wasn't on his best game right now. The point was, he had potentially thrown the whole audition by forgetting something so simple as the lyrics, and now the casting director would definitely only remember Thomas by the way he froze under pressure, which wasn't exactly an appealing trait in somebody looking to go up on stage where the pressure was set to 100.

After everything was said and done, Roman had no choice but to approach Patton for help. In his current state, he was much too dizzy on his feet to even contemplate showing up and trying to play it off cool, which would've been an laughable endeavor anyhow considering how outwardly embarrassed Thomas was. Betrayal from his own-- well. It was a bit too harsh to blame his current predicament on Thomas, after all the fact of the matter was that it was Roman’s fault for not being better prepared.

Anyway, that's how he ended up in his current position, being swaddled in a too-warm bed, injuries patched up and having soup spoon-fed into his mouth. The whole thing felt...strange. Usually during times like this he would be grinning and bearing it, the inner satisfaction he got from fooling everyone with his performance pushing him through the day, but he supposed this was unavoidable. It was better that only one side had to see part of the problem rather than exposing it to everyone, and out of all of them, at least it was Patton. It still didn't sit well that his secret was now out in the open, a throwaway joke to be used before moving along, but hopefully that would play to his favor and they'd view it as his usual dramatics. Not like he preferred to be seen as too incompetent to care for himself, even if it fit with his persona. He supposed it just went without saying that princes are supposed to have someone at their every beck and call, they're supposed to be indulgent and spoiled and ridiculous. But princes were also supposed to be leaders, someone who was caring and brave and ready to face any challenge.

Roman sighed, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. He didn't feel very princely at all right now.

“Kiddo, are you doing okay? Does something hurt? Is the soup too hot?” Patton asked, eyebrows drawing together in concern. He was such an open book when it came to the other sides, which meant that Roman knew exactly when he had worried or panicked the fatherly figure. Honestly, it only made him feel worse. Being doted over seemed like a good idea until it meant being the subject of pity and other people’s hurt.

“No no, I’m fine Padre. It’s fine. I was just taking a trip into thought city for a second there.” He cracked a smile, trying to ignore how the bruise at the corner of his mouth pulled at the motion. If only he could think of a more original nickname, perhaps that would be more convincing. He was simply drawing blanks today it seemed. “What do you think the others are up to right now? I’d bet 5 bucks Logan is losing his mind having to deal with Anxiety alone.”

Patton didn’t look entirely convinced, but the sudden change of subject encouraged him to stop any further questioning.

In the end they talked until the others had finished filming. Whatever happened during the discussion must have helped Thomas grow past his feelings, because one-by-one the injuries on Roman's body grew smaller until they had faded entirely. Seeing this, Patton noticeably livened up again, and he cheerily declared that he would take the empty bowl back to the kitchen and check in with the others.

As soon as he was gone, Roman’s face dropped, tired from all the smiling he had been doing, and he slid down further into the sheets. Perhaps he should consider himself fortunate that the others had helped out, but all he could think about was how they now knew about his biggest weakness and how embarrassing that was. Logan and Anxiety were the last two sides he wanted finding out about this, if not for their often-tumultuous relationships, but because they'd never fully understand. Neither of them were as dependent on validation as much as he was. Despite what others thought about them, they would just keep on going, meanwhile Roman couldn't truly thrive without some kind of feedback; he was too shackled to expectations and the need to please for that sort of self-indulgence, it was practically written in his existence. It simply wasn't enough for him to be great, he needed to be great and be appreciated. Without that, he felt as if he would burn out, like a candle who's supply of oxygen had been cut off, leaving only smoke and the charred wick behind as a reminder of the fire that was once there. And sometimes that made him feel pathetic, that so much of his esteem depended on what people thought of him. Other times it just made him envy the others who had no one to please but Thomas himself and what he deemed important.

...He was tired, but he needed to keep going. The least he could do was keep up the image of egotism so that those horrid thoughts of being lesser weren't picked up by the others. If they started thinking of him the way he thought about himself (if they didn't already), he wouldn't know what he'd do. He wouldn't stand to be pitied or mocked or anything that validated what he already knew about himself. He just wouldn't.

Rolling out of bed, he practiced his smile in the mirror, fixed his clothes, and sunk out to make his grand appearance.

He couldn’t let this happen again at all costs.

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

VII - an agreeable sort of self-destruction.

More and more often, Roman was glad that he and Remus didn't share a room anymore. From the nights he hunched over scraps of ideas and worked without distraction until the sun was on the horizon, to the days he woke up with tears clinging to his lashes and breath coming out in labored pants, until he realizes the dream about him messing up so badly that he's split apart a second time was merely a cruel trick of his mind.

Currently, there was no greater time to be grateful for their separation than the moment he hastily returned back to safety after Remus' debut to Thomas. If only his brother could see the way he paced back and forth and tugged at his hair, he was sure his other half would merely gloat and poke away at his wounds instead of doing anything to help. Or worse, use it as ammunition in front of the other sides as some sort of proof of his imperfection.

Speaking of, the video was disastrous. He had been out-cold the entire time so he had no idea what was said and had no way of directing the conversation at all, which was possibly the most aggravating part of the whole situation. Beyond that, there was so much that Remus could have told the others without his knowledge. Once upon a time, the two of them were two peas in a pod, and that meant they knew an unnameable amount of secrets about each other. (Like how Remus always used to sleep with this crudely-knitted octopus Roman had made for him when he discovered crochet. Remus claimed to have set fire to it when they were teenagers, but Roman had seen it tucked away on a shelf the last time he had been in his room, before the Great Divide). The room swam a little when Roman thought about it too much. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but it wasn't as if he'd done much to earn Remus' loyalty. Why would he take the higher road and keep all of that to himself now, when he had the prime opportunity right in front of him to make himself seem like the better twin?

Hold on... He was thinking about this all wrong. Remus didn't care about good and bad the same way he did. Sure he was adamant that his version of being creative was more interesting, but he never tried to convince any of the other sides that he was inherently better or more worthy of attention than Roman, at least not to the same extent he did. The realization hit Roman like a train on it's way to a damsel tied to railway tracks (for lack of a less Remus-y simile): had he been wrong to push his brother away when he was just trying to help? All this time he had expected nothing but the worst from him, all because he was loud and unapologetic and had gone about his concern in a way that frightened him. Though just because Roman had been scared, surely that didn't warrant the dark sides being pushed aside in such a manner, and clearly the repression wasn't any benefit to Thomas...And was that partially his fault? He had been the one who encouraged Patton to divide the sides up. He had come up with the name for them: light and dark.

When he really thought about it, there wasn't much 'light' about him, not when he had been the source of so many problems.

Making Virgil feel unwelcome and continuing to trample on his boundaries.

His insults toward Logan and attempts to diminish his importance.

Leading Thomas and Patton astray in his pursuits for romance.

Being too quick to side with Janus when he should’ve known that the deceitful side only stood for selfishness and not the fair-played ambition Thomas valued.

And now: his treatment of Remus for most of their lives. Pushing him away, pretending he didn't exist, trying to erase their memories together.

How could he have the gall to claim that he saw Remus as an awful reflection of everything he didn’t want to be, when the whole point of looking into a mirror means facing you and you alone?

Even his metaphors were hypocritical.

It was a shock that nobody saw through that statement or called him out on how he had wronged just about everybody. How truly unfortunate it was that he had been declared the hero when he had done very little to live up to that title. Heroes weren't mean. They didn't make people feel bad about themselves for merely existing. They're supposed to defeat the bad guys, yes, but every time he had thought he was accomplishing that, it turned out that he was always off the mark. At least this time he had it right with Deceit, but still, that didn't erase the history he had with misjudging what was acceptable. He couldn't help but wonder what sort of reflection that must have on Thomas' content. If his creativity, which was supposed to be a force of pure good, had made a countless number of errors, what did that say about the things they were proud of? How many things had they put into the world that were imperfect? That had a misleading message? That was problematic and hurt people?

The realization had his throat tightening in panic. How could he ever have confidence in his work when he had such a flawed system of right and wrong? How-

...Wait.

Roman's spiraling thoughts were fortunately put on pause as he passed by his vanity, being pulled back to reality in an instant and finally noticing the splash of colours that had made themselves welcome on his skin once more. He gaped at his own reflection. It wasn’t as if he was unused to the sight per say, but he hadn’t realized anything had happened today that would affect Thomas’ ego. Remus’ appearance perhaps? He had the feeling that if there was any discussion to be had in light of that it would be on the goodness of his character, which could be a worthy-enough explanation. But if anything wouldn’t that what the large gash on the back of his head (fittingly) represented? So where had the others come from? Unless…

Was it him?  

His own self-criticism had never left a dent on his pride before. Usually his injuries tended to be the result of outside sources; the kind of things that come out of nowhere and hit at you harder than you could ever expect. Did this mean that his own words were on par with Thomas’ harshest critics?

Roman shakily sat down. This... was a good thing, right? Perhaps he was finally gaining some self-awareness. He had been trying to make amends for where he had fallen short in the past, so this could be the sign he was making progress.

Yes. This was good. And if it wasn't, then perhaps this was just apart of his repentance. At this point he was sure everyone would agree.

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VIII - the art of learning to let go.

The thing about tightropes is quite interesting. Like most other skills, it is something that needs to be honed. At first you try on a smaller scale and fall off more times you can count, but it's alright because that's why you practice in a safe environment. And then you progress to something more risky, and this time you have other tools to help keep you steady. Before you know it, you're up doing the actual thing; a rope suspended tens of feet in the air and thousands of eyes watching your every move, each one wondering if you really will make it across, or if they're about to watch a great tragedy take place before them. When you misjudge your own abilities and are thrust upon that rope when you're unprepared, however, all of the practice you gained can feel as if it has slipped away. As soon as you take your first step, the rope wobbles and you know somewhere deep down that your fall will be inevitable. But with so many expectant eyes baring into you, what else are you to do but continue forward? Continue until you're halfway across and your balance is so shaky that all you can do is watch as the rope swings backwards and forwards beneath your feet until you give up on trying to steady yourself entirely and-

Roman let go of the rope he had been clinging onto.

There was no grace in the way that he fell. It wasn't even a matter of choosing a side; ego or change. At first he fell so gradually that he didn't feel it at all, placing all of his thoughts and opinions into a neat little box and shoving them aside. Trying so hard to adapt, trying to be feel comfortable clinging to reasoning that contradicted his role, his meaning, his existence- and before he knew it, he was plummeting towards the ground because even then, that little piece of purpose he was forcing himself to mold his worth around did nothing but feed into the self-righteousness that must've always been there, hiding away under the surface.

Roman could only describe the feeling as air-sickness when he sunk out, his very being thrown into weightless uncertainty. Once he appeared back at his safe place, the place he wanted to be most, he felt his body connect with the ground once more as he collapsed onto the floor, body shaking with sobs and wounds he already knew were appearing.

He had been so stupid. Every step he took was littered with mistakes. Just when he thought he had learned, to try to be more accepting, to know when to give up, to listen to others instead of forging his own path, another thing came along and knocked him back to where he started and he was thrown back into the cycle of trying to atone for his actions. A cycle that never seemed to end.

His arm fractured and started to swell.

For once he thought he finally had it figured out. If he just followed the person who should've known what was best for Thomas, even if it meant going back on his own desires, surely then he would be on the right side for once. But all of a sudden that was wrong and now it was all his fault that so many bad outcomes had come about as a consequence of his lack of assertion. He may not have loaded the gun, but he had pulled the trigger, and that made him more culpable than anyone else.

His nose ached as if hit by an unseen force and began dripping blood.

Even his attempts at keeping his ego in check were all for nothing because the moment he felt threatened he lashed out towards Janus, the side who now all of a sudden deserved a seat at the table because he had gained Patton's favor (nevermind that he had agreed with him first. Oh no, that was just Roman being naive and easy to sway if only you stroke his ego a little. What importance could his opinions possibly have?). But that was the thing, wasn’t it? In the end he just couldn’t win, no matter what he did. When he tried to silence his voice it was too obvious and attention-seeking, and when he chose to project his thoughts it was too loud and abrasive. When he spoke out he was punching down, but when others did the same they were punching up up up. It left him wondering how much more he had to fall before it was no longer deemed okay to kick him while he was down. Was it his fault for choosing to sit atop his golden pedestal, making himself seem forever untouchable and unable to be hurt? And would things be different if he was sensitive like Patton? Complicated like Virgil? Respectable like Logan? Had he been making a mistake all along by pretending to be stronger than he was? But how was he ever supposed to let go of the walls he had built, knowing that the second they crumbled, all the things he had been trying to protect himself from would pass through and destroy everything he had worked so hard for? Maybe it was time to accept that this was all he could be; that there was no way for him to change, no way to soften his edges or stick firm to his beliefs that wouldn’t end with him in a losing position.

His ribs ached, bending unnaturally until he felt a snap in his chest.

Perhaps Janus was right by calling him evil. He had proven it time and time again that he was no good for Thomas. In fact, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to say that he was worse than Remus. At least he couldn't help the way he was, didn't have control over the problems he caused unlike Roman. He was supposed to be the half with all the bad parts removed. The 2.0 version, new and improved. He had no excuse for being as flawed as he was, not really. All this time spent thinking he was the good twin, and it was nothing more than an act of self-delusion. The grandeur of a side with nothing to show for it beyond his words.

His eyelid puffed up and mottled with colour.

...He was bad. Unneeded. Evil.

The capillaries across his knuckles burst and stained them a violent red.

Everything would be so much better if he just-

"Broman?" Oh shit.

Romans eyes flew open. And he realized belatedly that he wasn't looking at his floor; his floor had intricate Persian rugs and a soft fluffy carpet. This one had various stains and burns and felt scratchy against his fingers.

"What the fuck. Princey? You good?"

1) He wasn't in his room. 2) Wherever he was, Remus and Virgil were here too.

"M-my mistake! I must have accidentally sunk out to the wrong place. If you'll excuse me-" He tried, but his voice was hoarse and clearly not okay. Of all times for his acting skills to have failed him.

"Oh no you don't."

Before he could sink out through the floor, two arms latched under his armpits and hoisted him upright. He choked back a gasp at the sudden movement, senses flashing white as his injuries were jostled. He barely heard the shocked exclamation in front of him before the two voices discussed something hastily and he was deposited onto a soft surface. The ringing in his ears faded, just in time to hear Virgil speak.

"What happened? " He asked, voice layered with anxiety and sounding on the verge of a panic attack. Roman would have tried to reassure him if he didn't feel like his entire body was on fire.

"It just happens sometimes, when Thomas’ ego gets bruised." Remus answered bitterly when it became clear his brother wasn't in a position to explain. He then muttered under his breath: "Though this time is different, huh?"

"What? I thought- I didn’t know it got this bad.” Virgil whispers, horrified.

"Sorry you have to see this, Finding Emo." Roman croaked once he began slowly coming back to his senses. He would regret not being more composed later, but right now he couldn't really bring himself to care about anything. “I’ll be as good as Gucci soon.”

"No. Shut the fuck up, you don't get to say that." Remus said angrily. Why did he sound so mad? Roman tried to crack open his eyes to check, but the world was still spinning too much for him to really recognize what was he was seeing. On top of that it seemed one of his eyes was swollen shut. Joy. That'll make it more difficult to patch himself up later.

"'Told you before, I can handle myself." He finally managed.

"Yeah? Was that you 'handling yourself' when you dropped in and started bleeding all over my floor? Or when you stopped talking to me and kicked us 'dark sides' to the curb because your sense of superiority was more important? Or when you started acting like a royal prick to everyone just so they wouldn't know you spend your nights licking your wounds?"

"Stop." Roman pleaded, shamefully curling into himself as much as his body allowed in its current state. Remus paused in his tirade before continuing, more quietly.

"If you're uncomfortable just from that, you should try watching your brother slowly self-destruct for years and not being able to do anything about it. That's fucking uncomfortable." Roman heard a sniffle, and his body went cold. He hadn't heard Remus get upset since they were kids. Sometimes he forgot that there was more to his brother than his disgusting unpredictable persona, and the thought that he could've been hurting Remus all this time was something that had never even crossed his mind.

"I'm..." Sorry? Was he sorry? Apologizing was practically second nature at this point, but he couldn't even tell if the words would be genuine if he said them. Was he sorry for his actions or for hurting Remus, or was it the fact that he had been caught at all? If he had it his way, none of this would be happening, so perhaps he wasn't as apologetic as he thought. He really was the worst, wasn't he?

Remus seemed to pick up on what he was thinking about saying, because he laughed; not in his usual cartoon-ish way, but resigned and hurt. The sound pulled at Roman's heart. "Save it. Here's what's going to happen you Walmart Prince Eric knockoff. You’re going to accept our help whether you like it or not, and if you try to pull any self-sacrificing BS at any point, I’m going to eat your entire makeup collection.”

“...You wouldn’t. You don’t like the way glitter sticks to your teeth.” Roman argued weakly, just for the sake of being contrary.

“Try me.”

Roman sighed. He really didn’t doubt that Remus would be petty enough to go through with his threats, especially since he knew it how much it would bother Roman to summon a new set. In any case, he wasn’t in a position to do much of anything at the moment, and now that it was too late to pretend like this never happened, he figured he might as well roll with it. Future him could deal with the consequences later.

“Okay.” He said after a moments pause, looking to the Virgil-shaped figure, as much as the crick in his neck would allow. “...Just don’t tell Patton about this. Not yet.”

The figure shuffled, out of what was probably awkwardness after having watching the twins argue. “No worries dude. We’re not exactly on- uh. Y’know what, nevermind, I’ll just go get the medical kit.”

During the moments that Virgil had shuffled off, there was an empty silence. Roman spent it trying to blink his uninjured eye back into focus, until he was finally able to spot Remus standing across from him, an uncharacteristically glum look on his face. "You look like you're going to a funeral."

"Don't even joke about that. I don't need more thoughts about-"

"Death? I thought that was pretty par for the course."

Remus smiled wryly at him, sarcastic and mocking. "You dying, dummy. D'you think I never imagined it? Something happening and you disappearing because you never let anyone help you- and me not even knowing it happened? Finding out much too late? Being alone?"

Roman didn't know what to say to that. "Sorry." He blurted out, and this time he felt like he meant it. "If it means anything in retrospect, I wouldn't have ever let it go that far. I think."

"'You think.'" Remus repeated. "God, you need some self-care. It's a shame you and Jan-jan weren't friends before. It's supposed to be his job to make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen, you know."

Roman felt himself flinch at the mention of Janus' name before he could control it. If Remus noticed, he didn't get the chance to comment on it, because at that moment Virgil came bustling back with a first aid kit.

"I didn't know what else you needed, so I got some water, balms, bandages, frozen peas, and creams. Just in case." He spoke, noticeably out of breath.

"Water?" Roman asked as a glass was held towards him. He pushed himself upright with some effort and accepted it.

"For painkillers." Virgil replied, handing him some pills once he had set the other items down. "Also your throat sounded kinda rough, and when you cry a lot you can get dehydrated, so..."

Surreptitiously, Roman wiped at his face and tried to not feel too embarrassed that the two of them had heard him wail like a toddler who'd had their favourite toy taken away. Before he knew it, he had taken the pills and downed half of the glass while the other two sides unpacked the medical supplies. Virgil really had thought of everything he might have needed.

Roman blinked as he watched them, stunned that he would go to so much effort. "This is very thoughtful of you, Medic Parade."

Virgil paused as he pieced together the nickname, and then scowled. "Mayday doesn't even sound anything like medic- and it's not. I just didn't want to- y'know- get the wrong things and make it worse."

Remus elbowed Virgil in the side, perhaps in an attempt to cheer him up. "Hey, you can't do any worse than what we did the first time Ro got a booboo."

"...And what was that?" Virgil's hesitant tone indicated he wasn't sure if he want to know.

"Nothing!" Remus grinned.

"I'm pretty sure that was just a concussion." Roman stated before Virgil got the wrong idea and thought they were totally stupid, looking upward as he tried to recall the incident Remus was talking about. It felt like forever ago now. "Not like anything could be done, to be fair."

"'Just'-" Virgil made a strange choked sound. "Is this what my life's gonna be now? Having a worry-induced heart attack every 5 minutes?"

"Welcome to the club!" Remus cheered, offering a fist bump which Virgil ignored in favour of burying his head in his hands.

"Goddammit. Alright- let's get this show on the road I guess. Roman, take your shirt off." When Remus' eyebrows started waggling, clearly about to make an inappropriate comment, Virgil waved his hands wildly to stop him. "So we can look at the damage! Shut your mouth Remus!"

"I didn't say anything." He intoned, looking overly smug before turning to Roman expectantly.

Said man frowned, placing the glass of water on the bedside table next to him. Before he made any move, he glanced at Virgil who was looking red either out of Remus-induced embarrassment or frustration. Mood. "You don't have to stick around for this part if you don't want to. It can be a bit much, so I wouldn't blame you."

"I'm not a baby, Roman." Virgil retorted, crossing his arms. "Making sure you don't die or something is way more important than my comfort. I can't promise you'll be safe from me calling you an idiot until you're better, though."

Roman looked away again. Was that condescending of him to ask? He opened his mouth to apologize, before closing it in resignation. No need to make this into an issue; he'll ask Virgil whether he felt belittled later. "...Okay. That's fair."

Instead of going through the pain of trying to remove a shirt with a possibly broken rib, he snapped and it disappeared. He heard a sharp inhale, but in response to what, he didn't know. Roman looked downwards to check. Among the remnants of previous attempts at self-healing (some messier than others), the area around his right rib was inflamed and a large portion of his stomach was splotched with purple. Noticeably, his left arm was also burning red, but luckily it seemed like the fracture there was non-displaced, which hopefully meant it would heal quicker. Other than that, there weren't any major injuries besides his black eye and bloody nose that needed attention. Could be worse, considering how god-awful he felt! 

Remus whistled. "You look like someone took a dalmatian and made it the colours of the bi-flag."

"Yeah. That's- weirdly accurate." Virgil winced. "What hurts most?"

"Uh- My arm and my ribs I suppose. They're a little... on the broken side."

"That's what I thought." Virgil muttered under his breath, grabbing the items to make a split. "I'll deal with those first, Remus you help with his nose and the bruising. And if you want to make yourself useful, hold these peas to your eye, dumbass."

"Your bedside manners are impeccable." Roman said sarcastically, taking the bag of peas and exhaling as he adjusted to the cold feeling pressed against his face. "...Here I thought there would be a grace period before you started calling me names."

"Just calling it like I see it." Virgil hummed. With deft fingers, he held the splint under Roman's forearm and began winding the bandages around it. "You should probably make an actual brace later when you're up to it, but hopefully this should keep it in place and remind you to not use it for now."

"But that sides my dominant arm-" Roman whined, about to complain about how he was supposed to get work done until Remus pinched the bridge of his nose none too gently, and he yelped. "Ow! Remus."

"Think of that as payback for the last 15 years." Remus replied lightly. "Tilt your head back."

Begrudgingly, Roman complied, resting his head against the headboard.  He stared at the ceiling as his brother and best friend silently worked their way around his injuries, applying topical ointment to his bruises and applying band-aids to small cuts. He didn't even realize they had finished until Remus bonked him on the head.

"All done! Shame it's not Halloween. You could go as a mummy again."

"Ha ha. What a comedian you are." Roman replied in a deadpan, but fought to keep a smile away anyway. The irony of how much he resembled that costume right now definitely wasn't lost on him.

"...I'm sorry for ruining that, by the way." Virgil spoke up suddenly from where he had been packing everything away, breaking the thoughtful silence he'd been in for the past few minutes. "Your costume during the Christmas video, I mean. And saying all of that harsh stuff to make a point."

Roman only stared, taken aback. "All of that happened half a year ago. I'm not upset about that."

"I know, I know. It's just... I've been thinking about it recently, all the times I haven't acted very...good." He bit his lip, averting his eyes. "Especially now, knowing that kind of thing literally hurts you."

"Virgil." Roman sighed softly, taking his hand. Virgil startled but didn't pull away. "You don't need to be 'good' all the time. Wasn't that the point you were trying to get across back then? All of us have made mistakes in our pasts, some more than others, but if you can forgive us for that, then you deserve the same acceptance for your less-than-stellar moments."

"Oh." He said, eyes glassy. His hand tightened around Roman's. "I'm still sorry, if I've ever made things worse for you or if I haven't been supportive enough."

"I- You have-"  Roman spluttered worriedly, sitting up.

"It's alright, I already know that we kinda work against each other at times. Part of the job." Roman's mouth closed with a grimace. "Still, it's unfair on you. You shouldn't be expected to perfect, especially not with an asshole like me there to tear into your work. So just...know that it's okay to tell us when you're struggling, okay?"

"Right..." Roman bit his cheek. Virgil seemed well-meaning, but showing that sort of weakness was a concept he still found difficult to accept, even if he had given in this time and allowed himself to be completely seen. Virgil noticed his lackluster agreement and patted him with his free hand.

"Hey. In almost any case we'd embrace you."

"...No one hates you."  Roman finished a beat later with a small smile. Virgil's face lit up and moved closer to his side. Upon seeing this, Remus unceremoniously squished himself between the two of them, careful not to bump against Roman too much (although Virgil definitely got the brunt of Remus crawling over him, to his dismay).

"Look at you two, my favourite dorks, bonding over feeling insecure!" He declared, throwing an arm around both of them. "Couldn't be me, but I still love you."

Roman poked Remus' side. "So that wasn't you admitting to being worried earlier?"

"Nope! New phone who dis?"

"You're insufferable." Virgil rolled his eyes fondly. "...I love you guys."

And Roman sighed contently, feeling safe and cared for. Things weren't perfect right now; he still needed time to heal and Remus and Virgil would undoubtedly want him to open up about what happened sooner or later, but for now he was was able to hear that he was loved and believe it to be true, and that was enough.

"I love you both too. Thank you."

[ashxketchum]

For the handholding prompts! Taiora + 37? :3 Have a lovely day

Hello! Sorry for such a long wait, at first I was really confused by what I should write for Taiora with this prompt, and by the time I got around to outlining the scene, life happened 😔

But finally today I was able to sit down and get this out of my brain! This is set right after the battle with Ordinemon in Tri Part 6 and is mostly canon compliant. I hope you enjoy it, thank you for requesting 🧡

37. not realizing they’re holding hands till someone points it out

Taichi’s gut kept telling him that he was missing something, but he brushed it away. What could he be possibly missing when he was sitting with a wall of comfort surrounding him? That’s why even as the thought continued to gnaw at him, he refused to open his eyes and acknowledge the problem, it could be dealt with later, when his nap would be over and he would wake up feeling well rested and refreshed. For now he wanted to bask in the feeling of floating in sunshine, with every aching muscle in his body being cured of it’s pain, every tired fibre in his body being refuelled with energy. He wouldn’t dare open his eyes right now, not when he could hide under this umbrella of comfort for a little while longer, because who knew if it would still be there to shelter him from the stinging raindrops of reality when he woke, or if it would leave him drenched and broken, as it had once before.

NEXT STATION-

The words rang in his ears like a blaring alarm and suddenly Taichi was very much aware of where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. His eyes jolted open and he made to get up, when a familiar weight on his shoulder made him halt as realisation dawned fully upon him, of course the warmth had belonged to Sora who still slept quietly with her whole body leaning on him and her head resting on his shoulder, just like two puzzle pieces perfectly aligned.

The announcement echoed again throughout the train compartment and Taichi broke out of his daze, deciding that now was not the time to marvel over these little things, he quickly stood up. When he did so, Sora woke with a start, her eyes fluttering open in slow motion, but as they didn’t really have time for her to be fully awake, Taichi grabbed her hand in his and pulled her onto her feet, dragging her behind him as he rushed to get out of the train just as the doors slid shut.

He turned to face Sora and ask her if she was feeling okay but saw that her eyes were still drooping low and she held on to his grasp on her hand tightly for support as her feet wobbled out of balance. Taichi couldn’t really blame her, in fact he was relieved that he wasn’t the only one who felt like they had been made to run a marathon for 1000 years without a break. The visits to Digital World, the adventure and the battles had always been exhausting, but today their strength had been put to test in a way that none of them had ever expected to encounter, and the price of overcoming it all was pure exhaustion, both mentally and physically.

So Taichi kept quiet and gently pulled Sora along with himself across the mostly empty platform, glad that he had been the one to volunteer to take her home as he was so familiar with the route that he could probably reach there even with his eyes closed. He also didn’t mind the silence that had settled between them as they walked slowly but steadily, as Taichi wasn’t sure if he had anything left to say to anyone after the lengthy interrogation him and his friends had been subjected to by the authorities right after Ordinemon had been defeated, without so much as a moment spared for them to deal with the loss of their Digimon friend.

Even though Taichi’s session had lasted the longest as he was the only one to witness Nishijima’s demise he still felt that Sora had been subjected to a more difficult task, which was consoling not just Meiko, but also Hikari and Mimi as they had sat in the room waiting to be called in for questioning. As always, she had given every bit of her energy into taking care of others rather than herself, so Taichi attempted to make things easier for her the only way he knew how to, by keeping quiet and giving her the space to deal with everything at her own pace.

It was when they reached her home and rang the bell that Sora finally looked like she was awake, right on time Taichi thought, as at least he’d be able to tell her to take care of herself and have her actually retain those words in her head. So he turned slightly, hoping to bid her goodbye before her mother opened the door, but as tired as he was, he missed his chance to make a quick escape. The door swung open before he could open his mouth and a bright light was cast upon them and the dimly lit hallway.

Mrs. Takenouchi stood behind the door, looking like she had rushed to the door in a hurry that was uncommon for her, her face an odd mixture of relief and concern as she studied her daughter. Then her eyes travelled down and she raised them in mild surprise, another thing which was unusual for the stern Mrs. Takenouchi, so both Taichi and Sora followed her astonished gaze and experienced a rude awakening themselves as they saw that their hands were still tightly clasped around each other’s. They quickly pulled their hands away and shifted a few steps away from each other to put some distance between them.

Taichi was amazed by how despite of being so tired, his body could still find the energy to turn his face into a heated mess, and smoke coming out of his ears now wouldn't come as a shock to anyone.

“Good evening, Mrs. Takenouchi.” He mumbled awkwardly to fill the silence and draw attention away from the fact that he had been unknowingly holding onto Sora’s hand for who knows how long now. He could only hope that Sora too knew that it had been unintentional, and that he hadn’t meant to overstep his boundaries.

“Good evening, Taichi. I am relieved to see that you’re both okay, though you do look like you need a few days worth of rest.” She smiled softly at the two teens, turning to face her daughter with an affectionate gaze, she added, “Sora, welcome back.”

“I’m home.” Sora replied almost automatically, and satisfied with the response Mrs. Takenouchi passed a peculiar look to her daughter before she headed back inside, leaving the two of them alone to say their goodbyes.

Sora took this chance to move inside her house, now taking Mrs. Takenouchi’s place in the doorway, finally facing Taichi with her eyes wide open, though they were still filled with reflections of what had transpired in the past few days.

Taichi remembered that he had been meaning to tell her to take care of herself before her mother had arrived at the door, but when he looked at Sora now, with her figure illuminated by the white light coming from inside her house, her vermillion eyes shining with tears that were being kept at bay with every bit of remaining energy in her body, he lost the words he had so carefully selected a few moments ago. He wished instead that telling her how much he cared for her and her wellbeing could be as easy as taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. He knew he had to say something however, because not only had the silence between them become suddenly deafening, but also because he couldn’t possibly leave without a word of appreciation or gratefulness for all that she had done for Hikari and the rest of them today.

“Don’t forget to eat dinner,” He joked, hoping to lighten the mood enough to easily slip the words he wanted to say out of his mouth, but his half-grin seemed to light something in Sora as one lonely tear slipped down her cheek slowly despite her strained efforts to keep it from happening.

“Don’t ever disappear like that again, Taichi.” Her voice trembled as she spoke and Taichi felt a pang in his chest at her tone, “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come back. You can’t leave me behind just like that!”

“I’m sorry.” Taichi muttered quietly, that was all that he could manage to say out loud.

In reality he wanted to remind her that there were other people in her life who would easily be able to fill the gap he would leave, that it was not fair for her to stand there and tell him this, knowing well enough who he had meant to save in that moment. But he held his tongue, it had been a long few days for both of them and now was not the time to turn regrets of the past into bitter remarks that he may never be able to go back from.

“Please. Promise me, you will never do that again.” Her pleading voice was just above a whisper and it was a miracle that it even reached his ears.

“I will, if you promise something in return too.” Taichi replied in a determined tone, his hands balling up into fists on their own as he fixed her with an intense gaze. Sora looked at him with doubt at first, but eventually nodded at his words tiredly, “You have to promise to start putting yourself first from now on, no matter what.”

“That’s a difficult promise to make.”

“So is what you’re asking of me.” Taichi refused to back down.

“I’m asking you to take care of yourself, that isn’t too hard.”

“Likewise.”

And silence settled between them once again as Sora glared up at him and Taichi returned the favour with equal vigour. He had no idea how either of them still had the energy to keep this up, but even if it meant sacrificing being closer to his bed for a little while longer, he would gladly do so to get Sora to treat herself better. If he had learned anything from what they had all been through in the past few days, it was that change should always be embraced, for better or for worse. He didn’t know just how much Sora could change her ways or how it would affect her presence in all of the Digidestined’s lives, but he knew that if she didn’t start now then she wouldn’t start ever and he was tired of seeing her be the victim of her own labours of love.

“Okay.” She sighed in defeat, as her glare turned into an exhausted and disgruntled stare, “Okay, I promise to put myself first from now on, no matter what.”

“And I promise to take care of myself and not jump headfirst into danger without a second thought.” Taichi chimed after her, a smile spreading across his face as he realised that he’d actually gotten Sora to bend to his demands.

There was a first time for everything, he thought to himself, and secretly hoped that this wouldn’t be the last of it either.

[mandakatt]

DMC Fic - Feeling of Familiarity - Dante Sparda & Nero Sparda

A/N: Here's the piece I did for the @jackpot-dantezine and since bundles are being shipped, I get the chance to share this one with you!

Characters: Dante Sparda, Nero Sparda, Trish, Credo, Vergil (Mention) Word Count: 2474 Warnings: Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant (I guess that's a warning? XD) Summary: Dante had come to Fortuna to 'check' into the collectors he'd heard about, and while he's taking care of that problem, he finds himself face to face with a young man that makes him think of Vergil.

Why though?

Why does this young cocky kid get his blood to sing with the feeling of familiarity?

And why does he want to protect him so badly?

“‘See you there’, she said. ‘This will be fun,’ she said...”

Dante grumbled softly to himself as he perched himself over one of the many stained glass windows of the opera house to look down at the congregation below, and he couldn’t help but huff out a little laugh.

"The Order of the Sword huh? Well...so much for hoping you were just a bunch of collectors.”

With a sigh he crouched himself down to listen for a moment, and he couldn’t help but cringe as he wiggled a finger into his ear. The Vicar, or whatever this demon wanted to call himself, was rambling on about a Savior, and it was totally getting on his nerves.

“Geeze, this guy can talk…”

He can feel the call of the Yamato nearby but it’s very distant and dulled, almost as if it was buried underground. It reminded him of how one felt when waking up from an all night bender, and he sort of huffed at the irony of the thought, considering the way the shop looked when he left.

With a sigh he stood up, and rolled his shoulders. “Well, no time like the present…” with a smirk he decided that a grand entrance; like always, is the way he should get things started.

Crashing into the opera house like a damned vigilante, he manages to shut up the Vicar himself with one very well-placed and up-close shot to the head. With that out of the way, Dante stands slowly, feeling his blood singing again as he turns his head to look around at what could be calling to him only to go wide-eyed as his gaze falls on a young man with stark white hair and the first thing that comes to mind is the word family.

But before he can figure out who or what he’s really looking at, he gets swarmed with demons, and with humans scrambling around and screaming to flee that makes this a bit more difficult. Immediately he considers how best to keep these things distracted long enough for the humans to escape, but then that familiar scent of fear fills his nostrils. His head snaps down to look at the woman at his feet, to tell her to not be afraid but the next thing he knows he’s got a pair of boots in his face. It takes all of his self control to not burst out laughing as he rights himself and draws his guns, giving off a soft huff he smirks as he stares this kid down, only to feel like he’s looking at a much younger version of his brother.

Well now...

It isn’t long before he finds himself clashing swords and once again he’s hit by a sudden rush of familiarity, as if there’s something about this cocky, loud, hot-tempered kid that makes his blood sing with the memory of Vergil, and he finds himself pushing this kid to the brink just to truly see what he’s capable of.

Suddenly the overwhelming need to protect this kid slaps him in the face.

He wants to help him redirect that anger into something more powerful. Guide him and teach him things that he was positive he didn’t know he could do already. Things that no one ever taught him when he was his age, and alone.

Yet those rambling thoughts are what distracts him enough that he’s suddenly taking several punches to the face. The devil in him grows angry at the situation and he feels the want to shift, and actually partly does so.

Alright Kid, you’ve made your point. Seems—

Suddenly, he’s weightless, and right after the wind gets knocked out of him, the Rebellion rips through his chest and he slams against the statue of Sparda. He stares down at it in disbelief for a moment before he lets his arms droop down to his sides with a soft sigh.

—Heh. Well that’s a case of some serious deja vu. And with my own sword no less!

Okay. So he might have just underestimated this kid just a little bit.

With a grunt he pushes himself free of the statue and lands on his feet to slowly pull the Rebellion free from his chest. He finds himself sort of encouraging this kid, explaining that he’s sure that he and this kid are the same, yet different from the demons that litter the floor around them, and when the kid turns to look he leaves the same way he got into the opera house, giving the kid a cheeky salute on his way out.

When he meets the kid again he can feel the anger radiating off him in waves, see it in the way this kid’s arm glows with power, and he knows that the Yamato is feeding from that anger. In the short time he’s followed this kid around, he’s never seen him be this sloppy, and it irritates him at how easily he knocks this kid off balance by preventing him from pulling his arm away.

They clash swords and Dante doesn’t feel the same adrenaline rush as when they met, he knows there’s too much anger running through this kid’s head.

“You cooled off yet kid?” he pants softly as he looms over him. “What’s the matter? Why the glare?”

“You look as if you’ve just been playing me from the beginning.”

And Dante swears that hurts almost as much as when this kid pinned him to the stature in the opera house. He immediately backs off, resting the Rebellion on his shoulder as he tells him about the Yamato.

How it needs to stay in the family.

And when this kid desperately says that he needs it...

Well shit, you’re not making this easy on me are ya Kid?

“Then keep it,” Dante tells him with a smirk. “Now that you’re calm and cool you can get goin’...”

The kid stands there for a moment before moving past him, but before he gets too far he calls out to him.

“Hey! What’s your name?”

“Nero…You’re Dante right?”

With a light nod of his head he knows this kid—Nero—doesn’t see he watches him stalk off before he’s met by Trish, and he can’t help but tease her on how she’s dressed.

“Are you sure you wanna let him go?”

“Yeah...I figure he can bear the burden.”

His father could handle that blade without a problem.

“Well, if the kid screws up, then I’ll just have to kick his ass.”

Though the next time they cross paths his heart leaps up into his throat when he hears Nero’s desperate anguished cry for Credo. It’s a familiar sound as he knows he made a similar sound when he lost Vergil, and he finds himself catching Credo out of the air as gently as he’s able.

The Vicar rambles on about how ‘Gloria’ didn’t anticipate a descendant of Sparda’s blood, and his own sings with anger, and now he’s going to distract the Vicar just enough to give Nero a fighting chance.

“Hey Kid! You giving up so soon?”

“My options...are limited…”

Dante scoffs. “So melodramatic.” C’mon, don’t give up Kid... “Besides, if you die without giving my sword back, I’m gonna be pissed!” You’re not beaten yet!

He finds himself taking several steps forward with the want to save him only to blink as Nero gives him the bird and tells him to come and get it. Blinking in disbelief, he stares at the Savior where Nero was, before a smirk pulls at his lips.

“Heh, what a punk…” and a moment later the statue rises into the sky and he finds himself huffing out a laugh at the size of the Savior. “Check it out, it’s got wings!”

The groan and cough behind him causes him to turn to look at Credo, and he knows sadly that there is no coming back from a wound like that, but first, he’s hoping to get some answers.

“Hey. Where’s that thing going? It’s not complete yet is it?” he crouches down near him.

“It is in his heart to save the world from chaos...He will begin by driving it out.”

I see this is another familiar song and dance…

“Now he has what he needs. Yamato.”

Dante sighs as he looks from Trish back to Credo as he tells him what they want to use the sword for. How the Vicar wants to use the Yamato to open the Hell Gate, the real Hell Gate that lies dormant beneath the city, and Dante finds himself looking up at Trish.

“I think you...the son of the Dark Knight Sparda...are the only one that can stop the Savior now…Dante...”

Sighing a little through his nose as Trish starts to tease him about his reputation, he looks up at the Savior with his hands on his hips and huffs.

“Looks that way…” and he turns to look as Credo struggles to get to his feet, pain and loss all over his face and Dante’s heart goes out to the guy. He understands that he never wanted his sibling involved in any of this. He understands what it feels like to lose your family.

“Please… honor one last request…” Credo pants softly, groanings between words. “Save them. Kyrie and…Nero…” he moves to step forward as if he means to chase them when his body gives out.

Dante gently reaches out to place his hand on his chest to stop him, only to sigh and slowly sink down to his knee as Credo’s body dissipates. Instead of it being an energy that he’s used to, that colorless sort of dark matter, this glows warm and floats up into the sky. He feels a sudden sense of loss, and a twist of anger in his gut as he stares at his hand.

“I’ll do it…” he growls as he takes a deep breath and his tone changes as he gets to his feet. “I wouldn’t want to deny anyone their dying request.”

“I’ll sweep the city and evacuate the people.”

“Hey! Is this your way of ditching and dumping this mess on—”

“You wanna switch?”

When Trish rounds on him he stands there, his mouth agape at the look she gives him and he lifts his hands in submission. He knows that she really can tell how angry he is at this whole thing. Because no one else, family or not, should have to go through what he and his brother had.

“It’s cool!” Dante finally relents as he turns to leave. “Let’s stick to the plan.”

He goes after Devil Arms, and hell gates, and when he uses the Yamato to split a hell gate in two he knows it won’t be long before the Savior is focused on him.

“You get it back?”

Dante lifts the Yamato up, showing Trish the blade.

“That’s one sword....” he sighs and sounds almost weary.

“And one to go.”

With the Savior now looming closer he scowls, he knows that Nero is still in there somewhere, he can feel him, but he can’t tell exactly where the kid is and despite wanting to use the Yamato to destroy it he knows if he does, he’ll lose Nero in the process.

He can’t lose him too.

He can’t.

He has Trish go after the others, asking her to make sure they are safe as he starts off after the Savior, and he loses himself in the fight. It isn’t long before he sinks the Yamato deep into its chest, then calls for Nero.

“Time to wake up Kid! You’re missing out on all the fun!” and when he can’t feel him for a brief moment, his heart stops.

“Nero!”

Ah! There you are. Shit. Don’t scare a guy like that.

“Do what you gotta do kid, cause I’m about to send this guy on a one way trip to Hell!”

A fight with something so large is more annoying than anything, and he can feel Nero growing stronger with each swing of the Rebellion, almost as if he is empowering each step that Kid is making. He finds himself smirking a moment later when he realizes that the fight is over as he watches Nero land on his feet, with Kyrie in his arms.

“Took your time.”

“What, you looking for an apology?”

With a smirk he turns to face him and gestures with a flourish. “Well, how long am I going to have to wait for it?”

Only to scowl when the Savior moves again.

Dante turns to finish it off when Nero prevents him from doing so by passing him the sword of Sparda. With a smirk he stands there, keeping a simple vigil over Kyrie as his blood sings again with familiarity as Nero’s devil side awakens further and he watches with amusement as this kid crushes the Savior’s skull.

“I guess I should thank you…”

When Nero walks up to him again with the Yamato in hand he feels the want to protect ebb a little as he turns to face him.

“But that would be out of character,” Dante smirks. “Maybe you should just throw an insult my way instead.”

“Yeah, that sounds better, but still, I owe ya.”

Dante finds himself wanting to tell him about his Father, his family, of how damned proud of him they all would be, but the words die in his throat, and with a bit of a smile, he tries to act nonchalant.

“Ah, don’t sweat it, I had my reasons for helping.” with a gentle pat on Nero’s shoulder he starts to leave. “Take care of yourself.”

“Wait, you forgot this.”

He pauses and turns to face him with a slight smile. “Keep it.”

“What? I thought this meant a lot to you..?”

“Well, that’s the only type of gift worth giving.” Dante’s voice grows soft and fond. “I want to entrust it to you, so I am.”

Your father would want you to have it.

Before he gets too emotional he becomes aloof and takes a step back from him with a grin.“What you do from here, is your call.” He turns to leave.

There’s still demons on the loose in Fortuna; he can’t just leave them to run amok after all.

“Hey Dante? Will we meet again…?”

With a gentle wave over his shoulder as he heads back toward the city to catch up with Trish, he knows that he won’t be letting Nero out of his sight for too long. Not just because he knows he has a thing or three to teach this kid about hunting devils, but because you stick with family, no matter what.

“Don’t worry, Kid,” he mumbles under his breath. “Your Uncle Dante will watch out for ya...”

[tsarisfanfiction]

Chocolate Thief

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Virgil, Scott, Gordon, Alan, John

Scott’s on the warpath.

It’s 5am, this is not proofread.  This is also thanks to a random comment from @gumnut-logic (again) regarding missing chocolate and siblings... I just turned it into some sort of TAG mess.  Oops :P  I’d call this a birthday fic for Scott, except I don’t think he wants this as a birthday present (and also it’s technically the 5th here now...)

The sudden sounds of outrage from the kitchen yanked Virgil out of his painting zone and rudely deposited him back in the den, where he clearly had one fuming brother the floor below him.  He eyed his painting for a moment, wondering if it was worth investigating or if he should just leave his brothers to their mayhem.

Then something went crash and the medic in him reluctantly gave a nudge.  Someone had to make sure no-one was injured, and summoning Grandma in the direction of the kitchen…  His stomach made a minor noise of fear.  Yeah, no. It was going to have to be him.

With another sigh, he gently set down the palette and brush and made his way to the warzone below.

The fuming brother was Scott.  That was only marginally surprising; his eldest brother did have a bit of a temper – more than a bit, if Virgil was honest – but he tended to keep it on a firm leash around family.  The defiant Terrible Two standing opposite him, arms crossed and faces a matching disgruntlement, seemed to be the targets of his ire.

A stool was overturned. Presumably that was the source of the crash.  None of his brothers looked injured, though, and Virgil surmised that it was probably just knocked over.

Whatever had upset Scott, big brother clearly wasn’t running out of steam any time soon.  Virgil considered interrupting to get some sort of explanation for the sudden rage, but decided it was probably best not to draw attention to himself.  There was a high chance that Scott would just turn on him, and as Virgil knew he was innocent of whatever crime had apparently been committed, he wasn’t interested in opening himself up for the firing line.

Besides, neither Gordon nor Alan looked like they particularly needed his help.  Scott on a rampage could be a terrifying sight, but in this instance, neither of Virgil’s little brothers looked particularly cowed by it.  Alan was pouting and Gordon’s mulish glare said that he was just waiting for Scott to pause for a breath.

Unfortunately for the squid, Scott seemed to have forgotten the need for something as simple as breathing as he continued to snarl about… chocolate?

Oh.  That explained things.

Scott was barking up entirely the wrong tree; Virgil wasn’t the guilty party and had not snaffled any of his brother’s chocolate stash when his back was turned, but he had a pretty good guess who it was.

There was a member of their family who was very conspicuously absent.

It was also a member of the family Virgil didn’t feel like getting on the wrong side of.  He certainly didn’t want to be between them and Scott, so with the mystery solved and enough faith in his little brothers to handle the false accusations of an upset big brother without his intervention, he made the decision to retreat back to his painting.

Maybe he’d relocate to the studio, away from the ruckus of Storm Scott.

He’d made it up all of two steps when there was the sound of a scuffle, and the medic resurfaced.  It wasn’t like his brothers would actively try to injure each other, but accidents happened…

With a groan, Virgil reversed course and trudged back into the kitchen.

Gordon and Alan had clearly decided they’d had enough of the accusations and had jumped Scott.

On the plus side, it had worked to silence him momentarily as he staggered under the weight of two little brothers in his arms.  There were some flailing limbs, and with some alarm, Virgil realised Scott was losing his balance.

Reflexes honed from rescues had him across the kitchen floor in moments, grabbing Scott from behind and steadying him before he toppled.

Gordon had a hand shoved over Scott’s mouth – or rather a fist stuffed in it, which was both gross and rather impressive.  His arms full of little brothers, Scott had no way of forcing him to retract it, either.

With a sigh, Virgil decided that maybe it was time to play family peacemaker.

“You really think those two stole your chocolate?” he asked Scott.

The muffled noise said yes, he did.

Virgil wasn’t about to endanger himself by pointing out the real culprit, but thankfully he didn’t have to, because the two blonds decided that was the perfect cue for them to start proclaiming their innocence.

Loudly.

Virgil left them to it, glancing up at the balcony attached to the den, where someone was stood watching them.  Green eyes met his, one eyebrow raised, and he shrugged them off.

No, he was not getting in the way of that.  He quite liked not having to look over his shoulder constantly inside his own home, thanks.

He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what Scott had done to have his chocolate stolen in retaliation. Then again, sometimes boredom or mischief was enough of a motivation.

Messing with Scott was like poking a hive of wasps with a stick, but not everyone was particularly worried about the retaliation.  Some people even found it amusing.  Gordon was also on that list, admittedly, but stealing chocolate wasn’t normally his style.

Deciding that Scott was well in hand – the blonds were small but mighty, and big brother didn’t stand a chance even if he liked to pretend he did – Virgil released him and once again headed up the stairs, away from the fallout.

“You know he’ll want revenge,” he pointed out as he reached the balcony and paused to observe the kerfuffle from a safe distance.  Gordon’s fist was no longer in Scott’s mouth, but he was still yelling over anything Scott might be trying to accuse him of, and Alan was like a terrier puppy as he clung on for dear life, his own protestations of innocence interjecting between Gordon’s declarations.

“I’d like to see him try.”

The tone it was said in informed him that boredom was the motivator.  Virgil would have winced, but at least it wasn’t aimed at him.  Then again, it never was.  The schemes only ever targeted Scott, or very rarely Gordon.  He and Alan tended to remain in the clear, or as occasional accomplices.

“Chocolate?”

A bar was offered, and Virgil eyed it for a moment, before glancing back at the trio of brothers in the kitchen – now leaving the kitchen and heading in the approximate direction of the pool.  One or more of them was going to get a dunking for sure.

“I’ll pass.”  Not that he didn’t want chocolate, but he knew that was the very same chocolate Scott was flailing about, and if he ate it he would become an accomplice, if not a full-blown scapegoat.

Neither of those particularly appealed.

“Suit yourself,” John shrugged, tearing the wrapper open and biting off the first few squares.  “Your loss.”

He let the wrapper drop, the sea breeze light enough that it carried straight down, landing in the pool at the same moment an almighty splash indicated that all three brothers had ended up toppling in together in a mess of limbs.

Virgil hurriedly retreated, out of sight, as Scott caught sight of the wrapper and let out a deafening roar.

“JOHN!”

Green eyes glimmered in amusement.

“I’d say that’s my cue to get back to the office,” Virgil’s trouble-making big brother commented as though there wasn’t a sopping wet eldest brother on the warpath for him.  “See you later.”

“Bye,” Virgil said automatically, watching as John strode over to Scott’s launch chute and slipped inside just before a dripping Scott Tracy thundered up the stairs and into the den.

“Where is he, Virgil?” Blue eyes sparked with fire and, knowing neutrality wasn’t going to work in his favour against Scott, Virgil pointed at the chute.

A second roar and Scott tore for the stairs to the hangar, even though Virgil knew full well it would be too late.  By the time he reached the hangars, the space elevator would be halfway back to Thunderbird Five, John and his stolen chocolate safely aboard and out of Scott’s reach for the foreseeable future.

Shaking his head at his brothers’ antics, and resolving to stay out of the way of whatever feud this was going to start between his big brothers – John seemed to enjoy provoking Scott when he was bored, and the youngest three had all learnt the hard way that it wasn’t worth getting caught in that crossfire – Virgil returned to his easel and paints.

One thing was for sure. Life with his brothers was never boring.

[secret-engima]

Here I am. The anon who enables. The enabler anon. Send forth your RWBY verses' rambles *opens arms wide to receive* (only if you want to of course)

ANON WHO ENABLES. ENABLER ANON. BLESS.

Wolfcury:

-Blake isn’t sure what to expect of her new teammates, but Ruby having a GIANT WOLFDOG is not one of them. It takes- a long time for Blake to not flinch and throw herself onto something high whenever Mercury shows up, even though he TRIES to not be a gremlin and bark or prank her.

-Weiss lasts maybe three days before she breaks out the baby talk. Because while Mercury is big he’s still a dog and we’ve seen how Weiss responds to Zwei. Mercury is annoyed by the baby talk and ignores her until Ruby convinces Weiss to “please just talk normally”. Then he will permit the scratching of ears.

-Weiss and Blake are both going to be SO SHOCKED (and upset) that Mercury is actually a person and they were never told.

-Ruby gets super into prosthetics and the building of them because of Mercury. She knows they can get him a prosthetic human leg, but it’s not going to transform into a wolf leg when he does. That technology just- doesn’t exist in that specific way yet. So Ruby decides at age ten or so that she’s gonna make one.

-Ruby: It’s transform when you do and it’ll be great and it’s also gonna be a *gun*.

-Mercury: Ruby I have teeth and claws, I don’t need a gun for a leg.

-Ruby, excitedly drawing prototype blueprints: GUNLEG.

-She does in fact build him a transforming gunnel with Velvet’s help. Mercury is a goodnatured Sigh.

-MercuryxEmerald is the eventual ship planned, and Yang teases him mercilessly for it once she’s sure Emerald is serious about defecting to the good guys. I’m also dabbling in Rosegarden (is that the ship name? OscarxRuby) because the idea of Ruby going from “ew crushes” to having one of her own amuses the heck out of me.

Always I Dreamed (Raven AU):

-Raven has a propensity for adopting things, as evidenced by Ozpin and later Emerald. But it doesn’t stop with them, and her habits are infectious. At various points in Yang’s childhood, she gets a gruff ex-assassin sibling from Mom (Mercury), two adorable cousins from Uncle Qrow (Ren and Nora), one angry older sister bandit (Vernal), a Cool Big Sister Figure with Fire Powers (Amber), and of also another Big Sister with Many Issues of The Anger that Raven carefully helps her work through. This particular big sister is a fav of Ruby’s because she can make cool toys from black glass.

-Yes Raven is fixit adopting Cinder

-No I didn’t see that coming either, neither did Raven. It just kinda- happened.

-Raven absolutely sings RWBY songs sometimes. Usually “Home” as a sibling lullaby for Qrow and later Team STORQ, then later All Our Days for her kids. But sometimes she can be heard humming other themes under her breath.

Azur verse:

-I’ve mentioned that Ozpin is a former Khara and proceeds to adopt Azur the feral Khara child, but I can’t resist touching on how Azur and Qrow meet.

-Azur is feral bby. He woke up in this world in the wilds and his Semblance (or magic, Oz is still not sure which it is) saved him from Grimm, and Azur tended to follow Grimm everywhere because they kept the other predators away. So this child is very feral when Oz finally coaxes him into his house. Azur is also protective and dedicated and knows that the only two people who come here are Ozdad and Housekeeper Lady.

-So when Qrow, very drunk and newly returned from a mission, decides to crash on Oz’s couch, Azur doesn’t have a clue that this is normal and fine. Cue Qrow being attacked and knocked out by a very persistent and angry 7-10 year old.

-Ozpin comes home to a trashed living room, a very proud Azur, and a Qrow who has been tied up using every bit of rope, string, or wire Azur could find and is nursing both a concussion and a hangover.

-Ozpin unties Qrow and explains he’s welcome here once he’s stopped laughing himself sick.

Dragon Yang:

-Yang really likes Ozpin. *Really* likes him. It’s not a crush or anything, but she went from a world soaked in magic to Remnant which has barely any left and it makes her feel off balance and numb. Then she goes to Beacon and the Headmaster HAS MAGIC. She can feel it. So she starts to heavily gravitate toward him when possible because he feels “normal”

-Ozpin, who has been the object of many school hood crushes, takes a bit to realize that Yang is not yet another student with a crush. And then he’s confused on why she keeps falling into his orbit when possible.

-He has no idea that in this magic-starved world, he is basically the living equivalent of dragon slayer catnip.

-Oznip.

-Ruby also thinks Yang has a crush and is thoroughly grossed out because *Yang he’s a TEACHER*. Yang just laughs at her baby sister’s discomfort.

Noctscar:

-Luna wakes up slowly, in fits and starts and dreams of rain and a knife in her side. She wakes up to the cold, to the loneliness, and then wakes up further because no child should have to deal with this.

-Luna wakes up when she is once again eleven years old and stares at herself in the mirror.

-Weiss Schnee, second daughter of Willow and Jaques Schnee, looks back. And looks *tired*.

-Her sister has already joined Altas academy and is on the fast track to the military, and though she loves her sister, it smacks greatly of Ravus from a lifetime ago and Luna cannot bear to look at Winter sometimes because of it.

-She dotes on her little brother, on poor Whitley who is neither stubborn like Winter or an old soul like Luna and yet is stuck in this abusive, neglectful household. She tries to shield him from mother’s blank stares and father’s sharp bursts of temper. She has lived with bruises like this before, better she take it than Whitley.

-When she is young, she hears on the news in school that there was a mining accident, that a great many Faunus died. While the rest of her classmates titter, one girl who Luna always avoided because she hung out with a crowd Luna didn’t trust, bursts into tears and turns bright blue. The other girls recoil. Luna sits down next to the girl and holds her hand, not hiding the tears falling from her own face at the thought of such massive loss of life.

-She never sees the Faunus girl again, but it is a wake up call. A reminder that something is very likely *wrong* with her father’s company. So she investigates.

-She is twelve the first time she sneaks out in a hoodie and a little painted theater mask. She makes it all the way down to Mantle, and there she reaches for blistered hands and weary souls. She is no longer an Oracle, but magic is of the soul and she remembers it well. When she calls, golden magic answers. She heals until she is exhausted, and somehow she manages to make it home without falling over or getting caught by Klein. She does it again, in between recitals and school and taking care of Whitley, she continues to sneak down to Mantle. Never speaking, never showing her face (they would hate her for her blood if they knew, she knows, reject her help if they saw her white hair and blue eyes), but always helping and healing where she can.

-The people of Mantle name her. Ghost, they call her.

-Moon Angel, the Faunus whisper. Helper, healer, lost soul.

-When she is thirteen, Luna signs up to a combat school despite her father’s disapproval. When Whitley clings to her in fear that she too will abandon him as Winter has (Winter visits to rarely, and always her attention rests solely on Weiss when she does and it makes Luna so *angry*), Luna tells him her plan. She will become a Huntress, and when she has her license, nothing will stop her from coming and taking him away from this place. She will be able to make money to provide for them, to free them from this cold palace of finery and recitals and empty wine bottles and bruises under their clothes in the shape of a man’s hands.

-When she is seventeen she applies to Beacon rather than Atlas, in defiance more than desire. She bids Whitley goodbye and promises once again to come back for him, he just needs to hold on a little longer.

-There is faith in his eyes as he waves her off. Luna died keeping her word, her duty, in another life. She will do no less here.

[willowbleedsonpaper]

Beside You

Theo Nott x Healer!Reader. 

W.C. : 5180

Requested by the lovely @herstory-study​:  Hi again! I have another request for Theodore Nott if possible (bc I always imagine him to be like an absolute babeeee)... anyway, I was wondering if you could do a post war one shot where Nott is just trying to overcome him being on Voldy’s side and the reader defending him against assholes who judge him and helping him move on pleaseeee

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of blood, torture and death. I think that’s it. 

The war was over, it was finally over. Years of fear and torment at the hands of Voldemort and his followers were just a bad memory you and all your friends could finally start healing from. You had been on the easy side of the war, or more like the least damaging. Staying at Hogwarts and studying under the rule of Snape and the Carrows, although traumatic was nothing compared to what Harry, Hermione and Ron had to go through, as well as his more closest friends like the entire Weasley family, Neville and Luna. They had taken upon themselves to go and find the way to defeat Voldemort and they had done it successfully, after enduring some not so enjoyable moments and the loss of many loved ones. 

You had been there when Harry revealed himself to Snape, Professor McGonagall stepping in his defense as the crowd of students from all houses cleared the way with gasps and heavy breathing, you had been there when Professor McGonagall sent the entire Slytherin house to the dungeons as the rest of the houses helped clear the younger student and prepared for battle. 

You saw students fight, using all the training provided by Hogwarts and Harry himself against Voldemort forces. You saw people cry, laugh, scream, die and run. You had seen things that were now burned into your mind, waking you up in the middle of the night with a choked scream as cold sweat rolled down your forehead. 

You didn't even want to think what Harry and his friends woke up to in the middle of the night. 

But more worrying, you didn't want to know what the Slytherins woke up to in the mornings. 

Two year had passed by since the battle of Hogwarts, you had your life more or less back to normal. Whatever normal meant this days. You were training as healer at St. Mungos, not the easiest job but it payed off for food and your apartment besides the fact that you actually enjoyed it. It was full of surprises. 

"Morning, Y/N." said one of the healers as he arrived to the desk, greeting you with a peck on the cheek as he sign in for the day. 

"Dr. Williams," you said back, pointing to one of the rooms with a file in your hand "You arrived just in time," you handed him the file with an innocent smile "Julie, eight years old. Fell of her broom and broke her right arm." 

He sighed, taking the file from you "The day we get more than broken bones I'll buy you dinner." he winked your way, turning away before you could answer. 

Your shifts usually started at noon and ended late at night. It was going to be a long day. 

And just as you thought the day stretched out like it was a boring class at Hogwarts, the day slow with only three patients, giving a lot of free time to Dr. Williams to shamelessly flirt with you. 

"I've told you before, it's Jason." he said with a smirk, leaning in the desk as the other Healers stared at you two "Dr. Williams sounds too serious." he shrugged, like his title was something he was ashamed of. 

"Well this is a serious environment Dr. Williams, you are technically my boss." you said, not looking up from the papers you had to fill before the end of the day, which was in 30 minutes. 

"Oh, c'mon Y/N!" he exclaimed, a smile always in his face as he took the quill from your hand. 

You lifted your face in annoyance, trying to reach for the quill when he lifted his hand above his head "Jason, I need that." you grumbled tiredly, opening your palm for him to return it. 

He grinned "See? Wasn't that hard to call me by my name." he placed the quill back in your hand, finally finishing the papers. 

You shook your head, gathering everything in your arms to take it back to its place. But the sound of the door bursting open caught yours and everyone's attention, a gasp leaving your lips as you saw the group of people entering the hospital. 

"We need a healer!" said the girl, two man carrying one that could barely stand. He had blood dripping from his forehead and nose, a bruise in his cheek. 

You analyzed the other two as the healers there took the man from them. Clothes blood stained, some parts ripped as if they had pulled harshly from them. They had certainly been on a fight. 

"This isn't the emergency room," muttered Jason as he neared the bed where they had laid the man. He was unconscious, but you were sure he would wake up to a lot of pain. 

"Just shut up and help him," you hissed, starting to prepare him for the healers. 

Jason stared at you in shock, taking a second to react as he draw his wand, muttering healing spells that started to make him regain some color. 

You cleaned his face, his features becoming more visible as you froze "Malfoy." you whispered, capturing Jason's attention. 

"What?" he growled, moving your hand that was brushing his dirty hair out of his face, leaving his pale face out in the open. "Bloody hell, a fucking Slytherin.“

You glared at him, fire burning inside of you as you pushed him with all your force "Get away from him." you growled, drawing your own wand as everyone stared at you, only one of the trained healers kept on working beside you. 

"What the hell, Y/N?!" shouted Jason, slamming the door to the room they had moved him close "You are not a trained healer, I am."

You made as kind with your throat, swallowing all the words you wanted to scream "At least I'll try, you're going to let him die because of his Hogwarts house." you muttered bitterly. 

You heard him grunt, pacing in the room as the door opened. Your actual boss, Healer Whitethorn examined the room with a glare "Williams, out." she ordered, a smile on your face before she set her eyes on you "You too, Y/L/N." she said, stepping in with wand in her hand. 

"But…" 

"Out!" you flinched at her loud voice, her eyes meeting yours "You are on Williams team, he's out and so are you. Check on the other that came with him." 

You huffed, reluctantly going outside as you threw away your lab coat on the chair. Your other coworker ran at your side, giving to a reassuring look before she settled on the three defeated persons at the waiting room. 

"I'll take two of them," she murmured in your ear "Take the bleeding one, I'll take the girl and Mr, Bruises over there." 

She didn't wait for your answer, calling to girl for inspection as you stared back at the bleeding one, according to her. 

"Come with me." you said standing in front of him, his head low and only lifting slightly to look at you when he noticed your there. 

"I'm fine," he mumbled, shaking his head at you. 

"Sir, you are dragging your words and your head is bleeding," you told him matter of factly "I can't let you go if you don't let me at least clean the wound." 

The man at his side nudged him, giving him a small smile "Go on mate, you took one blow for Draco, I just held Pansy back. We need you alive to go find them later."

He looked at him incredulous, his mouth slightly open with a thousand words he wanted to say at the tip of his tongue but decided against it. He sighed, slowly standing up when he stumbled slightly, eyes wide as he tried to focus on something, anything. The only thing he could found was you, both hands gripping tightly at his forearms making him regain his balance. 

"Thanks." he breathed out, returning the safe grip on your arms.

You nodded reassuringly, taking slow steps backwards and into one of the examination rooms. He made it with little problems, slumping on the bed. 

"Do you know your name?" you asked, putting on a new pair of gloves. 

"Theodore, uh- Theo. " he said lowly, not meeting your eyes. 

You hummed, starting your work on the gash in his head. "Last name?" you asked, ignoring the hissing sounds the alcohol pulled from him. He had his eyes closed, and you pulled a chair for you as you stared at him. "Theo?" you called again, fearing he wasn't listening to you. 

You breathed out in relief when one of his eyes popped open, looking at you before he sighed in defeat "Nott." he said, watching you carefully for any reaction. 

He hadn't seen when you pulled a file, writing down his answers "Theodore Nott," you repeated as you wrote it down "Head injury, possible concussion." you said out loud, closing it and looking back at him, clearly he wasn’t eager to answer the questions.

"You're going to have to stay the night just to be sure that the head injury is nothing more than that." you told him, handing him the a bag for his clothes and the hospital gown, closing the curtain so he could change.

Theo reluctantly changed, doing quick work in his clothes to not keep you and his friends waiting. Luckily for him you looked nice, kind. You hadn’t reacted to his name and your attitude towards him was completely professional, not a single hint of judgement in your eyes .

“Mr. Nott?” he heard you call, the door of the room opening with your voice following “Do you need help?”

He breathed out, opening the curtain with his bag tucked under his arm “Ready.” he said lowly. 

You took the bag from him, taking his arm again “Can you walk?” you asked him, standing in front of him he gave you a soft nod and you began walking slowly. The silence was peaceful, but you has thing to tell him, breaking the much needed peace. 

“Technically I should place you in this floor,” you told him lowly, avoiding the looks of any Healer you passed, keeping your chin up and up front “But since your friend is more injured and you are staying the night, the fourth floor is going to be where you stay. I've informed your friends you are staying the night and they said they will be here in the morning.” 

He gave you a questioning look, clearly they were close to each other to be involved in fights together. Or maybe fate wasn't that fair to them but from their interactions you saw before they seemed friends. You could only assume. 

"I sent them home," you explained "They might not be that injured but they will need the rest." 

He looked down at you, the height difference more notorious now that he stood next to you. He gave you a small smile, not one that you saw, your eyes staying in your path at all times.

“Here,” you whispered for him to turn, the room poorly lighted until you could get your wand out, a flick of your hand and the place was properly lighted. “Malfoy would be across the hall. As soon as he wakes up, you and your friends can go see him.” you informed him, helping him get under the covers.

You made sure he ha anything he might need, a glass of water and another blanket close by so he wouldn’t have to move. “Is there anything else you might need, Mr. Nott?” you asked him from the door.

He looked at you, his eyebrows knitted in his forehead “Theo,” he said “Call me Theo, Mr. Nott was my father.” he told you, a nod from you as you neared his bed again.

“Forgot to introduce myself,” you laughed nervously “Y/N Y/L/N, I’ll be taking care of you while you’re here.” you said, getting a positive response from him. 

You made your way out of the room without another word closing the door softly behind you, the last thing you saw being him letting his head fall softly in the pillow, almost in defeat.

“What the hell was that?!” 

You snapped out of your head, tuning in your place as you saw Jason practically run towards you with a glare that you mirrored, turning in your heel and away from him. But he was taller and faster, catching up with you fast as he grabbed your arm forcing you to face him “Answer me, Y/N.” he growled, his face inches from yours.

“Like you don’t know,” you spat, your eyes roaming angrily all over his face “We all know you’re the proudest Gryffindor here, you take the rivalry with Slytherin to a whole new level.” you took his hand with all the force you had, pulling it away from your arm. 

He stared at you, saying nothing and you laughed bitterly “What is it, Jason?” you said with a sardonic smile, saying his name with all the anger you had “You think I haven’t noticed how you change cases with Adams so you don’t have to treat Slytherins? I literally work for you and notice all, listen to everything that comes out of your mouth.”

“You better stop now.” he warned, his eyes hardening. 

“Or what?” you dared, taking a threatening step towards him “You’re going to tell Whitethorn? Let’s go now, maybe you can tell her too why Marie, a Slytherin, hasn’t worked with you and only with Adams.” 

He stared at you, his jaw clenched as he physically fought the shaking anger you produced on him. “Fucking hell.” he muttered, slamming his hand on the wall beside your head before he walked away, your lips letting out a shaky breath once he turned on the corner. 

You stayed there, back against the wall as you slide down to the floor with your eyes closed, trying hard to even your breathing but failing. 

“Y/N?” you heard Marie, her light steps sounding closer untils she was next to you “You okay? What happened?” she asked, taking your hands from your face and pulling you to your feet.

You shook your head, keeping it low as you cleaned the single tear that fell from your eyes “Williams is an asshole, that’s what happened.” you said, your voice cracking a little when you said his name.

She gave you a sad smile, knowing exactly what you meant “It’s late, do you wanna stay with me tonight?” she asked. 

It wasn’t unusual for you to stay at each others places, your shifts were practically the same and you lived relatively close. But then your eye catched on Healer Adams getting Draco Malfoy to his room, you thought that maybe staying back with your own patient wasn’t a bad idea.

“Actually, I think I’m gonna stay here for the night,” you told her, pointing to the door behind you.

“You sure?” she asked you with the raise of her eyebrow “I got your favorite waiting for you.” she sang, but you only shook your head and she nodded with a knowing look “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” she said giving you a quick hug before walking to the stairs and disappearing from your eyes.

You took a moment before walking back to Theo’s room, making sure you weren’t too loud. What you weren't’ expecting was for him to be awake, lazily staring at you as you walked inside. 

“Mr. uh- no, Theo.” you said finally, memories of Hogwarts when you had the answer at the tip of your tongue but your brain was going faster than your mouth could and you ended up blurting everything but the right answer came back to you. 

“Did I wake you?” you asked with a tight smile.

He shook his head, pointing at the sofa at the corner of the room “Please, sit.” he said, waiting for you to do so “There was a loud noise and I rarely can sleep this early.” he said.

You looked in confusion at the clock on the wall, returning your gaze at him “It’s one in the morning.” you told him.

He smiled softly, lowering his head again “Still, I can’t sleep.” he whispered, breathing deeply “I would much rather your company, if you don’t mind.”

You smiled more relaxed, making yourself more comfortable "Your on luck, I have to take care of you for the night." 

"The entire night?" he asked with a gasp, his eyes curiously roaming all over you. 

Of course, you had your head elsewhere, his file in your lap. "I'm a healer in training," you said softly looking back at him "We get to the the work no one wants to." 

 "I'm glad is you." he mumbled, catching your attention with immediately "That other man didn't seemed… Nice." he finished, a little doubtful if he did right in telling that to his coworker, but the knowing nod you have him put him at ease. 

You pointed at the wall "The loud noise was him." you said, voice shaky "He is a great healer, probably the best we've got," you paused, looking down at your hands as you bit your lip in thought "He cares very deeply for what happened at the war."

You saw his body stiffened, his arms coming at his sides as he subtly moved to the far side from you. You pursed your lips "I don't, really. I'm sure everyone played their part." you added more cheerfully "Now I need to film your file, do you mind if ask you some questions?" 

"Okay," he said. 

You nodded getting the paper and quill "Great, I have your name and why were you admitted." you said, tapping on the page before you lifted your face "Age?" 

"Twenty," he answered. 

You smiled writing it down "We're the same age. I don't remember you from Hogwarts."

"I-I wasn't that sociable. I mainly stuck to my house mates." he told you. 

"Slytherin?" you asked, watching his eyes widen "Not everyone was friends with Draco Malfoy." you added, and he nodded. 

"Yeah, Slytherin." he said bitterly. 

The night was spent with you two chatting about your lives and the your time at Hogwarts. He talk about his favorite subjects, he's hobbies and friends, how he wanted to travel and get to know  the world and maybe even move. He wanted a fresh start away from the war and what used to be his family. He wanted to go to a place where no one knew who Theodore Nott was. 

You told him about how simple your life was, consisting of basic needs and your training as a healer. Free time was a forgotten concept for you, the few friends you used to have now married or being successful, your only friend being Marie. 

You actually had made a day that night. 

When the sun rose on the sky, it didn't long for the visitors to start arriving. Theo was discharged an o my changed rooms when Blaise and Pansy got there, going to see the Slytherin prince himself. 

A few hours were spent with casual iochat and worried remarks when Healer Adam's told them they had to leave him to rest. Promises were made to return later that day or the next, and you watched from the desk of the fourth floor as they left, a sinking feeling in your heart as they descended the stairs. 

Only they didn't. 

"Y/N? “ your heard someone call softly, the voice that still was recorded on your mind from the previous night  filling the air once more. 

"Yeah?" you smiled, looking up from your food. 

He looked nervous, the tiny smile appearing in his face "I was wondering if I could stop by someday? Maybe go out?" he asked, scratching the back of his head with a nervous yet charming smile. 

You chuckled, covering the blush in your cheeks as you nodded "I would love that." 

*******************************

Accepting that date was the beginning of the best years of your life. 

You went on that one date and connected instantly, even more than the few hours you talked at St. Mungos. One coffee date turned into dinner and surprise visits when you were working, soft smiles and holding hands while you walked turned into passionate kisses and falling asleep in each other's arms. Talking about your days turned into deep conversations about life and your future. Understatement turned into love. 

Three years has gone by since that first date and you knew you never wanted to leave Theo's side. You knew who he was and were proud of him, even in the days that he wasn't. 

"Theo?" you said loudly, his big mansion requiring the elevated voice for him to hear you from the entrance "I'm home, dear." you said again, paying more attention to the sounds in the house. Or more like the lack of them. 

Your footsteps echoed the halls as the only sign of someone being there. You walked to the study where he usually was, empty with no book open or parchment over the desk. The kitchen was your second guess, his only house elf there welcoming you but saying nothing of the whereabouts of your boyfriend. You started to feel fidgety as you made your way to the stairs to go to his room when your eye caught the fire burning in the living room, the back of his head popping over the single couch there, the place he hated the most in the house. 

"Theo?" you called again, walking slowly behind him. The glass in his hand making little flickers shine on the walls with the light of the fire.

He didn't answer you, barely gave you a side glance to acknowledge your presence before he took a slow sip of his glass. 

You took a shaky breath, going to sit on the floor in front of him. You rested your arms in his lap, looking for his eyes with a small smile "What is it?" you asked him and he shook his head "Is something, you're in the living room. You hate it in here." you said softly. 

He couldn't help but look at you, your voice sounding what he imagined an angel's voice was like. He wanted to smile, to reach his hand to your cheek and tell you he loved you. But the voice in his head was right, he wasn't worthy of it. Of you. 

"It's nothing," he murmured, voice hoarse as he spoke "Just a bad day." 

You nodded, taking his free hand in yours and intertwining your fingers with his "You want to tell me about it?" you asked. 

He rose his eyebrows, talking about what was going on inside his head something still so foreign to him. He didn't want to burden you with his problems, even if you knew, knowing and actively being part of them was different. He had noticed how you have him his space, never forcing him to talk and instead taking his mind away from what was bothering him. 

"I can tell you about my day," you offered when he stayed quiet, his eyes softening at your bright smile "You don't have to say anything, just listen." you said, crawling a little closer to him. 

You looked like a little child, moving your arms and making voices and faces as you narrated your day at work. It wasn't even that amazing as you made it sound, but he still found it amusing how you made a harmless spell backfiring on someone sound like one of the trial Hercules went through. 

You saw him smiling down at you, but never point it out and instead carrying on with the story until the end. 

"That's amazing, love." he said, leaning to kiss your forehead softly, lingering there for a little more than usual. 

You stated sadly at him, looking over his fallen features. It hurt you to watch him so defeated, to not be able to do anything for him. You wanted nothing more than to be able to take his pain away for at least a moment, to make him see what you saw. Not a bad man but a changed one. 

"You know I love you, right?" you told him, caressing his cheek with your thumb. His eyes snapped at you both in shock and fear, but he nodded nonetheless and you smiled "And that there is no one I would rather have by my side?" 

He took your hand, stopping your movement in his face "I'm bad Y/N," he said coldly "The things I did, what I became…" 

"You did because you had no other choice." you said strongly, taking a kneeling position as you held his face in your hands "You did it to survive and you did."

"It was awful." he whispered, the images flashing in his head. The students and people that opposed to Voldemort, their bodies laying on the floor of the very same house he lived in, some still whimpering silently as they stated at the lifeless ones next to them. All the cries of pain and screaming begs for him to stop, the fearful eyes staring at his wand as he muttered the words. Those three words that should have him locked away in Azkaban to never see the light of day again, to never see his friend again, so he could have never met you. 

He didn't deserve the happiness you have him when he had cause so much pain, so much suffering, so much death. 

"I don't deserve this." he said, pushing your hands away from him as he stood. 

"Theo," you whispered going after him and taking his arm in your hand "You do deserve it." 

He looked back at you, eyes tormented as he tilted his head "You're just saying it because you love me, and that is exactly my point." he said loudly "Why do you love me? You know what I've done, what has happened in this house." 

You bit the inside of your cheek to not yell, trying to keep clam for the both of you "I love you because you make me happy," you started to say calmly "Because you love me too and care for me as much as I care for you. Because even if you've done things you regret you aren't those things. You have been there for me in my lowest days and you never loved me less for that so I'll be damned if I let you feel like you don't deserve my love or the love of your friends." you ended up yelling, your chest moving fast with your breathing before it  was crushed. 

Theo had launched himself to your arms, silently weeping in your neck as you reacted with the same emotion, wrapping your arms around his chest. He lifted you slightly from the ground but you couldn't care less, he could damped your shirt with his tears and you wouldn't even blink an eye. 

You brought one hand to the back of his head, slowly running your fingers through his hair. "You're a wonderful person, Theodore Nott. And I will make sure you now that every single day." you whispered in his ear, his embrace tightening. 

You pulled from him after a moment, looking lovingly into his eyes, pointing to the glass he had abandoned over the table " Finish that up, darling." you told him. 

He frowned but didn't fight you, downing the glass in one go "Why, where are we going?" he asked following you to the entrance as you grabbed your coat, handing him his. 

"Comfort food." you said with a smile, opening your hand for him to take an apparating in Diagon Alley. 

He had always compared you to a child, a very clever child in the body of a beautiful woman, he said. And you could see why, not fifteen minutes had passed and you were already holding two coffees and a lot of his favorite pastries. 

You sat down on a bench, eating away without a care in the world as the people walked by. 

"You are good with comfort food.' he said to you, a tiny smile playing in his lips. 

"Only the best for you, my love." you told him stretching your neck as much as you could to kiss him. In the end he ended up leaning down and you smiled in the kiss. 

Of course, the world hated you. The characteristic clear of a throat you had come to hate and despise making you pull with a glare. 

"Y/N, is good to see you here."

"It's healer Y/L/N to you, Williams," you said, glancing at Theo when his eyes followed him. 

"I see your still with the Slytherin coward." he said smugly, a grin as he eyes Theo "Did you enjoyed running from the battle, you snake? "

“I don't know Jason, did you enjoy hiding in the Great Hall while everybody fought?" he answered, not even looking amused his face looked void of any emotion a she stood up, standing face to face."You see, I was at the battle and I saw you. Never thought it was worth mentioning but you seem very eager to talk about it now." he told him. 

Jason clenched his jaw, turning to you "You can do better than this." he grunted, with his hand pointing at Theo. 

"Not possible," you said, staring straight into his eyes "Now get out of our sight before I hex you permanently to the fourth floor." you hissed, stepping between him and Theo. 

He had turned furiously, storming away before you call "And Jason? Don't you ever dare say anything to him again. He might be a Slytherin but I am a pissed Y/H/H." 

You left the threat hanging in the air, watching him go as you turned back to Theo. Your face changed so fast he didn't know if it had been real, your shaking face replaced by a sweet smile as you sat back down, handing him his cup of coffee. 

"Theo, you can sit now." you told him, his eyes shining as he did. It took you a moment to realize he was staring at you, a chuckle leaving your mouth as you playfully slapped his arm "Stop looking at me like that." 

But he did even listen to you, taking your hand as you looked at him in surprise "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me." he told you, bringing your hand to his lips. 

You smiled shyly, blushing slightly that it could be mistaken by the cold air in your face "I love you, Y/N." he said, bringing you to his arms. 

"I love you too." you whispered, nuzzling your head in his shoulder as he held you close to him, and you decided then and there,

You never wanted to leave his arms. 

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