#no beta no editing we die like viktor

[staroflupin]

happy birthday @calamitoustide ! i was going to write something sad but but i think this crossover will make up for it. No, I didn't edit it, I just had inspiration at 1 am and wrote this. I wanted to write something like this for you because of how much you like both ships, but didn't know how to execute it for a long time. But here it is.

apologies for formatting, i'm still trying to figure out how this app works lol.

taking things steady

jegulus x jayvik

A low, mechanical drone rang like white noise through the laboratory. The setting sun casted a hue of orange through the only window of the room, lighting it up with a natural glow.

Two men sat at opposite ends of the room; one tinkering with metal plates for the machine adjacent to himself, and the other scribbling notes and equations into a leather-bound notebook.

There was distant chatter in the hallway outside the laboratory door and scraping of feet along tiled floors as students shuffled through, but both men were too engrossed in their work to notice.

The laboratory lights were dim, and there was one fixture that seemed to flicker constantly towards the back right corner of the room. It would be annoying for someone who could pay attention to the world around them, but neither of the men held much focus outside of metalwork and notetaking.

The machine’s drone halted as it was abruptly turned off, and the man writing in the journal paused to look up towards the opposite side of the room.

“James?” He called softly towards the other man, who just stood there with his eyes closed, and fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. His other hand, the one holding onto his crutch, was turning white with how tight he was gripping into it.

James let out a frustrated groan.

“Regulus, we’ve gotten nothing done all day,” James says, now looking towards the latter, “In fact, we’ve gotten nothing done all week. Dumbledore is getting impatient with us, and he went through so many loopholes to convince the council to let us continue our research into the Hexcore, but we have found absolutely nothing for months now, and it’s driving me fucking crazy—”

“James…” Regulus tries to cut in, but James continued on with a slight panic to his voice.

“The guys have been on my ass too, and I don't know how many more excuses I can give them every time I miss out or forget about something we planned, and I feel like a failure—”

“James—” Regulus tries again, a little louder this time.

“I feel like a bad friend, a terrible student, a horrible partner. I keep feeling like I’m dragging you down with me, and that one day you’ll see that all this time, and energy, and cost was never worth it in the end and—”

“James,” Regulus had now crossed over the room, and his sharp tone snapped the other out of his rant.

James looked down towards Regulus, and Regulus’ heart broke at the redness in the other’s eyes, and the silent tears running down his cheeks.

Regulus slowly reached out, hesitant hands cupping the other man’s cheeks. His thumb brushed under the thick lenses of James’ glasses to wipe away his tears with a fond gentleness.

James’ eyes were wide as he stared at the other, lips slightly parted. So many emotions crossed his face, but the self-loathing evident in his expression made something twist in Regulus’ stomach.

Over the past year and a half of working together on Hextech and studying the Hexcore, the two scientists had grown quite close with one another. The closeness that they formed had slowly grown into affection.

The two never disclosed their relationship with anyone else, as it was hard to describe in words how they felt. Labels were nonexistent in their bond with one another. Though if needed, they referred to themselves as ‘partners’. Whatever that meant to anyone else didn't matter, because what it meant to them was the connection.

There were nights where silence was the only sound between them, and other nights where they talked about anything and everything. Sometimes, they divulged into the deepest, darkest parts of themselves in some twisted self-preservation in order to scare the other off. It never worked; they had only gotten closer at the end of it all.

Regulus knew all about how James could get into his own head, about how much he truly hated himself. James had grown up in Zaun, and later moved to Piltover as a child with his parents when they got enough money to do so. Regulus knew how much James felt like an outsider, and knew his roots made him doubt himself.

When James was 7, he had fallen ill. Despite his family’s best efforts in Zaun, the city was not equipped with the resources to treat his illness. Even if they could get the best doctor in Zaun, they had no access to the type of medicine that was readily available in Piltover.

Over time, his sickness got bad to the point where he had to use a crutch to walk. By the time the family had moved to Piltover and could see a doctor in the city, it was already too late to do much about his illness other than treatment to slow it down.

James sometimes felt embarrassed about it, as the unwanted attention from it made him feel more like an outsider than before. Despite how his best friends tried to not treat him any differently, they were all Piltovan and were quite ignorant to how much James struggled to fit in as both a Zaunite and as someone who was disabled.

When Regulus had first met James, he had his own inherent biases about the Undercity and ignorances about those with disabilities. Although he knew his ignorance about growing up in Zaun and being disabled would never truly go away, he felt his previously held stigmas fade away the more time he spent with the other man. He still had more to learn and more stigmas and previously held contentions to work on, but he was willing to do it for James.

So, holding James’s face in his hands like he was holding the entire world, Regulus stepped impossibly closer, his thumbs rubbing away the remainder of his tears.

“Jamie,” Regulus breathed, and James exhaled at the nickname, “You are not a terrible person. You aren't a bad friend, and you are quite an exceptional student if your straight A’s have anything to say about it.”

James let out a small chuckle at that. It was a start.

“And most of all, you aren't a horrible partner. Jamie, I work with you because I want to. Because I see potential in your work. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here spending god knows how long in this lab each day,”

“But you—”

“But nothing, Jamie… Two years ago, I made a promise to you. I promised I would do anything to help achieve your dream. Our dream. Hextech is our gift to the world, to help them. You told the council that it was your dream to help those in need, that magic saved your life, and that it could potentially save hundreds, if not thousands of others,” Regulus gently leaned forward, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against James’. He heard the other let out a shaky breath.

“I believed in that dream,” Regulus whispered, hands lowering slightly to cradle James’ jaw. “I still believe in that dream. Because it’s our dream.”

Regulus pulled his forehead back and opened his eyes. He watched as James processed his words, his eyes flicking towards the ground before hesitantly meeting Regulus’ again.

“I still feel like I’m letting everyone else down…” James confessed, his voice cracking. “Sirius and the others—”

“Sirius and the others believe in us too. They know that we get lost in our work. They know it’s stressful. If anyone knows, it's my stupid brother,” Regulus said, and James let out a short laugh.

“Dumbledore—” James tried again, but Regulus simply rolled his eyes.

“—gave us a decade for this project. He already knows it is going to be a long time before a major breakthrough. For now, let's take things steady, yeah?” Regulus asked, moving to wrap his arms around James’s neck. James instinctively grabbed onto his waist with his free hand.

James seemed to be fighting for words to say, his eyebrows furrowing in the way they did when he was thinking hard (honestly, Regulus found it rather adorable). His unfocused eyes lifted to meet Regulus’ gaze. Regulus almost let out a sigh of relief to see most of the tension gone on James’ face.

“I… Yeah, okay. Let’s take things steady,”

Regulus grinned.

“Good. Now let’s get out of here, yeah? We can get that takeout you like,”

“Bribing me with food, Reg? You know me too well.”

“Give it another eight years, I’ll practically know you more than you know yourself by then.”

James laughed fully at that, squeezing at Regulus’ hip fondly. Regulus’ heart pooled with affection at the sound of James’ joy. He wouldn't be able to bite down his smile even if he wanted to.

By the time the sun fully set, the lab was locked and empty, and two scientists were coddled back in an apartment bedroom eating takeout and talking the night away.

[cheeriecherrymain]

papa!Viktor blurb, anyone?

A/N: slowly, slowly, recovering from the creative drought ive been in

it's nowhere near a waterfall again, more like a frustrating dribble, BUT. It's something. But anyways, here is a Papa Viktor Thought Blurb (listen, my sister is almost three months old now, and I am so besotted with her, she's my favourite tiny person, and i am full of Caretaker Feelings)

Content Warning: 18+ MDNI (not explicit, but very very suggestive), afab!Reader, pregnancy, labour and birth (again, not explicit, but still with some depth), papa!Viktor, no beta no editing we simply die

Imagine Viktor, and him believing he'll be alone for his entire life - working so hard to make some kind of legacy for himself, putting everything he has into his creations and his machines. Every calculation, every experiment a labour of love.

This is how the world will remember his name.

At least, he hopes.

But then he meets you.

You're charming, he has to admit. You make friends wherever you go, and you have a weird habit of bringing people out of their shells. There's just...something about you that makes others want to bare their souls to you. Something that draws people in.

Like you have a tangible sort of gravity, and wherever you go, someone ends up in your orbit.

He won't mean much to you, he thinks, after conversing with you a couple times. You're creative, like he is, and you're enjoyable to talk to. But nothing more. Sooner or later, you'll continue on somewhere else, making waves and drawing attention. And in your wake, he will be left to sink. It's what expects.

Except...

You don't leave.

Your chats start out small. Short and sweet, a How are you today? wondered whenever you pass each other in the halls a couple times a month, curious about the goings-on of his life.

He never has anything interesting to tell you about. No adventures or tales to tell, nothing beyond the walls of a cramped and cluttered office.

You must be bored, he thinks.

But then you start seeking him out. Instead of just catching up for a couple minutes whenever you happen to walk past each other, you hunt him down in his office - and god, he wasn't lying when he'd told you it was cramped.

You're amazed he even has the space to think in there, with how tight it is. Yet you still shimmy yourself into the tiny room, careful not to disturb any piles of papers, and find a careful seat on a spot of open floor beside his desk. There's no room for a second chair, and you've always made it clear that you dislike standing when you're having a long conversation.

It's nice to sit down and rest somewhere together, you'd told him one time.

You grow closer after that. From seeing him a couple times a month, to a couple times a week, to literally every day. You don't seem to care that he never has anything 'exciting' to share with you, even going so far as to chastise him for calling himself uninteresting.

Your experiments are cool, you'd insisted, while leafing through one of his old journals. It's incredible to get to see how your mind works, and how creative and inventive you are. You have so many ideas, Viktor, and I really believe that they could help people.

Something changes in him, after that. He'd always been quieter around you, listening to your stories, and dutifully answering your questions: never quite letting you in.

Now he looks forward to seeing you.

His heart skips a beat every time he hears you knocking on his office door, a chipper little pattern reserved only for him. You know that he doesn't always like dealing with students after hours, so you'd come up with a way to let him know that it was you who was greeting him.

Things progress...surprisingly natural.

He's not subtle by any means, even if he thinks he is. The moment he realizes that he has feelings for you, all bets are off. His cheeks dust pink whenever you're around, his palms get sweaty and he fidgets, and the staring.

Looking at you with ill-contained admiration and affection.

You can't not kiss him.

You spend the next couple years having the time of your lives. Moving from classes and overbearing internships, to actively working on experiments. Collaborating with each other, drawing up ideas and debating functionality and form. The two of you get so heated when you're creating things together.

Neither of you are surprised when it devolves. Wide gestures and hasty chalkboard sketches, impassioned explanations and wild eyes - you bite your lip as you let your gaze trail over him, in all his dishevelled beauty. Hair a mess, tie crooked and loose, shirt partially unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Many nights are spent like that, cooped up in his little laboratory, surrounded by sketches and blueprints and scribbles and stray notes. His fingertips digging into the soft of your skin as he kisses the breath out of you. The rhythmic clunking of his crooked desk most telling, as he draws forth your little squeaks and sighs of delight.

Absolutely ruining you, filling you, stretching you open. Feeling the way you tremble in his hands, held tight to his slender body as he reaches so deep into you that you'll feel him for days.

Sinking his teeth into the side of your neck when he finds his own release - to stay quiet, he tells you. But you both know it's his way of marking you.

Claiming you.

You're his. You're his person, his love, his partner. Your eyes only ever shine the way they do when you look at him.

Your body, splayed out and spread before him, quivering and gasping and covered in a thin sheen of sweat - his.

Your taste, sweet on his tongue - your mouth, your skin, your arousal that drips out of you whenever he so much as looks at you.

His.

And he knows, without a single atom of doubt, that he's also yours. So entirely entangled with each other, neither of you knowing how you'd managed to exist separately before now.

How had you possibly found beauty in every day, when you'd never heard his voice? Never caught a whiff of his sweet shampoo as he ambled past you? Never felt the warmth of his touch, or the puff of his sighs on your cheek? Never known the tickle of his hair on your bare skin as you slowly woke every morning to find him curled around you, his face smashed into your back and soft snores emanating from him?

No matter, you think. You have him now, and that's what's important.

...until everything changes.

You miss a period.

You tell him about it.

You're both on edge, but he tries to remain optimistic. Cycles can be upset sometimes, he tells you, as if you don't already know. (You're certain he's really just trying to reassure himself.)

But deep down, you know.

You can feel it in the all-encompassing tiredness you wake with every morning. In the random bouts of nausea, and the sudden food aversions. The back aches, and all the sudden new smells you can detect.

You know something is amiss.

And he knows, too, when he finds you one time in the middle of the night. Standing in your shared little kitchen, in the dark, illuminated only by the light of the open refrigerator.

Pulling pickles straight out of the jar, dipping them in mayonnaise, and sinking your teeth into them. Like they were to most delectable thing you'd ever ingested.

You're both terrified, of course.

You're not really surprised that you've managed to fall pregnant - not with the way you two lust after each other practically every night, and sometimes in the morning. Maybe even once or twice in between meetings, when you're both squished together in his compact office.

Neither of you ever thought you'd become parents.

And certainly not right now.

But...you want this, you realize. You want this with him. You want a family with him, you want the evidence of your love - you want a future with him, and you want to see what beautiful little person you'll make together.

Would they have his eyes? Yours? He hopes they have your smile, he tells you, eventually.

It takes you by surprise, his words, what with how quiet he'd been since you'd both figured everything out. You'd been worrying that he wasn't really on board with keeping the baby - with being a father. And you hadn't blamed him, really.

You'd been beyond stressed at the idea of raising a child alone. The thought of him leaving you, leaving behind something so intrinsically tied to him, had been slowly breaking your heart. You hadn't wanted him to stay simply out of obligation - you know you wouldn't be able to cope with the eventual resentment that such an action would breed.

But to know for certain now that he'd only been anxious?

That he wanted this with you, and was excited?

You're so happy that you immediately burst into tears, squeaking and sniffling and snotting uncontrollably while Viktor bites back a laugh and herds you into his embrace. Stroking your back and murmuring the sweetest things to you while you try to catch your breath, leaving gentle kisses all over your face.

Telling you all about what kind of person he hoped your little one would be.

Your smile, most certainly, he said, resolute. You have the most beautiful smile. You light up the room wherever you go. Maybe your sense of humour, too. And certainly your compassion.

Your tears slowly began to lessen, as you let yourself be lulled by the comfort of his arms around you.

Your hair, though, you insist, smushing your face into his shirt. You look so pretty in the mornings, all fluffed up and in disarray. It's the cutest shit I've ever seen.

That garners a laugh from him.

I want them to have your eyes, as well, you admit, albeit somewhat shyly. I've never seen a colour like yours, so intense and complex. Way back when we first met, and you looked at me for the very first time? I almost lost the ability to breathe. It was...it was like I knew, right then. That you were the person I wanted to spend my life with.

He squeezes you a little bit tighter, stooping down to tenderly slot your lips together. Slow, lazy, intimate. Sharing breath and warmth and love and-

He takes you again.

Right there, in the dim quiet of his office, not seeming to care if anyone passing by in the hallway might hear you. Spoiling you absolutely rotten, speaking praises against your skin as he brings you over the edge again and again and again.

Pupils blown wide as he sinks his fingers into you, crooking them perfectly as to reach the spots he knows will drive you mad. The papers strewn around the room don't matter - they don't even cross his mind, as you wriggle and squirm and quiver and cry out for him.

How could they, when all he can focus on is the way you look when your body tenses up, another wave of ecstasy coursing through your veins, culminating in your lovely little noises, and the addicting feeling of your pleasure dripping down his fingers and over his palm, soaking him thoroughly.

He would be happy to have you like this, as frequently as you would let him.

He knows how sensitive you must be by now, not only from his ministrations, but also from the way your body is changing. He's done his fair amount of reading since discovering your pregnancy - he's aware of all the ways you might be feeling.

The hunger, the exhaustion, the aches and pains.

The all-encompassing, single-minded lust you might go through.

He's ready to please you, however you might want - his fingers, his mouth. And whenever you might want. You could wake him up in the middle of the night, for all he cares. You could nudge him from the sleep that he so desperately needs, and he'd ask not a single question besides What do you need, darling? How would you like me?

What he doesn't expect is his own desire.

You're beautiful. You always have been beautiful. Even as things change, he was absolutely certain that you would never stop being beautiful.

It's you, so of course he's going to want you.

But seeing you now, whining and looking at him like he's hung the moon in the sky, specifically for you? Your tummy already growing round with the life that you've made together, visible proof of your love? Desperate whimpers falling past your lips, begging him for more, for him to fill you up again and again and again?

He can't resist you.

Even when he starts to ache, and his arms start shaking, and his throat is raw and dry from breathing hard and calling out for you.

He can't resist you.

You're insatiable.

So is he.

He's a little more careful as the months progress. Manhandling you less, digging his fingers into the soft fat of your hips a little gentler. He's cognizant of how you're most comfortable, watching in awe as you tremble on top of him, grinding down on him and taking his entire length into you like you were made specifically for him.

Nearly every day, you beg for him.

He loves you.

And when the time eventually comes for you to waddle carefully into the labour centre, meeting your midwife along the way, Viktor tries to keep his worrying quiet. Tries to stay by your side as a supportive pillar, regardless of how well or not he might actually be able to hold you up.

Holding your hand, kissing your knuckles. Trading his fingers for a stress ball when you squeeze a little too hard (and then another stress ball, stronger this time, when the first one explodes in your fist after a couple minutes. It shocks both of you, but to his surprise, you start laughing).

He tenderly dabs the sweat off your forehead as the hours go by, keeping your hairs from pasting themselves to your face and neck. Staying nearby as a source of comfort, but not so close that you feel smothered by him - allowing you the space you need to wiggle around as you see fit.

Telling you stories to distract you, listening to your complaints and observations as his words become unable to mask the pain of your contractions. Doing his absolute best to bite back a fond grin as you breathlessly curse him for doing this to you.

I didn't mean it, you tell him, as soon as the words leave your mouth, your eyes wide and tearful with sorrow.

I know, he promises, leaning forward to press his lips to your dewy skin.

You sigh happily.

It's not for another couple hours that your baby finally decides to enter the world.

You're beyond exhausted, and Viktor is starting to get fidgety with his worry. Is it supposed to be taking this long? he wonders internally, keeping his questions to himself so as not to stress you out even more.

The midwives, to their credit, are incredibly skilled. Staying by your side throughout the whole process, carefully monitoring everything they need to in order to make sure you're healthy. That the baby is healthy. He knows that they would say something, if anything was truly wrong.

And when the little one finally arrives, she does so kicking and screaming, making an absolute ruckus in the quiet room. The door is shut tight, keeping the sounds of the busy establishment at bay, and the curtain is drawn for your privacy so no one can see in when the staff come and go.

But when your girl begins shouting her absolute displeasure into the air, Viktor swears he can hear some quiet clapping and cheering from the hallway. He doesn't know if it's for your success, or for something and someone else entirely - but for a moment, he likes to believe that there are some strangers out there who are happy for him.

They don't know his story, and they don't know yours - but they've heard a great cry from somewhere hidden and full of struggle. An all-encompassing wail that confirms the presence of life, shouting to the world I am here, I am alive, and I have absolutely no idea what's going on!

He doesn't know when the tears start trailing down his cheeks.

Perhaps it's when he first lays eyes on your girl, pink and cranky and a little bit squished. Putting up a fuss on your base chest, scrunching her little face up as you speak softly and tenderly to her.

Perhaps it's when one of the midwives hands him a very soft towel, instructing him on how to carefully pat away the blood and fluid still clinging to your child. His eyes growing wide when he oh so gently cleans her off to reveal more of her tiny features.

She's still new, and needs time to decompress (so to speak), but he stares at her with such rapture. Taking in every inch of her, burning her face into his mind so that he might never forget her. Ever.

She's still new, and yet he can already tell that she has your nose. And your lips. Your smile, he realizes, with a palpable joy spreading through his chest.

His tears eventually dry, if only so he's able to better see you and the newest member of your family. Laying kiss after kiss to whatever part of your skin he can reach. Stroking the tips of his fingers over your girl's hair - her tiny arms and shoulders, her chubby cheeks, the bridge of her nose and over her brows.

But some two hours later, when you're finally allowed to rest in your comfortable hospital bed: when your baby is now dry and fed and swaddled up happily in Viktor's arms?

The tears begin again.

Privately, in the dim of the room, while you snooze a couple feet away from him, he weeps. Silently, and without so much as a sniffle. He cannot stop the wetness that rolls down his face, even if he wanted to.

Your girl is finally relaxed, after her grand, dramatic entrance. On the edge of sleep, warm and with a full tummy, making funny little expression while she dozes.

Much to Viktor's delight, she has a head of fuzzy brown hair - dishevelled and sticking in every direction, not matter how the midwives had tried to tame it. It'll settle down in a few days, they'd promised. But he didn't care.

The wild mop on top of her head rivalled the chaos of his own. The same shade of chestnut, though perhaps less coarse in texture. Maybe it will grow to the same thickness eventually, he thinks, a fond smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he imagines how much he's going to have to help her with it as she grows.

Brushing the inevitable tangles out with a soft brush. Pulling the strands back into braids so she can run around and play easier - or maybe little buns on the top of her head, he realizes, the image conjuring up in his mind.

All at once, pictures pop through his head, so vivid and bright that he can almost see them appearing in front of him.

Watching your daughter grow. Sleepless nights of taking care of her, catering to her every whim. Making sure she's fed, and comfortable - entertaining her with silly little toys that make silly little noises, bright colours painted across them. Reading her books with bright, enticing visuals for her to stare at, despite the fact that she doesn't know what words are.

Making trinkets for her as she gets a little older. Things that help her learn, but that also keep her excited and enticed, encouraging her exploration of the world around her. Teaching her to walk, by helping her strengthen her little legs. Sitting on a footstool, a wide smile on his face, as you hold her by her arms and support her as she figures out how to use her legs while upright. Leading her right over into his waiting arms.

Until she's able to balance on her own, after a number of weeks of practising together. Pushing herself up into a wobbly stance, doing her absolute best to try and balance. Maybe she stumbles a couple of times, but she's persistent -stubborn, like he is- and continuously rises back up until she's able to make it over to him on her own. Giggling and wiggling when he scoops her up and praises her and showers he in affection.

Teaching her about anything and everything, the bigger she gets. Answering every question she has, no matter how confusing or senseless - encouraging with his own suggestions, and prompting her to discover some answers for herself. Putting together little experiments for her, so they can learn together and so he can watch her eyes widen with the joy of new information.

Fixing her toys for her whenever they break, as she brings them to him with misty eyes and a wobbly bottom lip. Papa, it fell apart, she says sadly. To which he pulls her onto his lap, regardless of what work he was doing, and helps her repair the damage. Letting her watch and observe when she's still too small to hold a screwdriver, and carefully explaining things to her when her motor skills start to develop more.

And then helping her figure out in what way her toy broke, when she's a little bigger. Asking specific questions, so she can work to connect all the dots herself. Helping her gather the materials that she needs in order to fix things herself, and praising her to the high heavens when she presents the finished product to him.

The little thing is slightly lopsided, but he fully believes that it adds to its charm - tells her as such, when she sighs about it not being the same as before.

It's a little uneven, just like me, he says, with a laugh.

And, much to his complete shock, she wraps her little arms around him, and gives him her strongest possible squeeze.

It adds to your charm, she parrots back to him with complete honesty. I like you, Papa.

And once again, for the umpteenth time throughout his daughter's life, his eyes well with tears and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

She could go anywhere she wanted, once she grew up. Learn anything, do anything, be anything. Perhaps she'd enjoy the sciences, like he does - machinery, and building, and designing, and inventing. Maybe she'd get into art, and spend her days painting or sketching, or writing, or making music - inspiring other people with the things she makes.

It doesn't matter, though. Because no matter what she ends up enjoying, or where she goes in her life, Viktor will support her with his entirety. Even when she grows all the way up, and inevitably leaves home to begin her own life, whatever that may be.

He knows he's going to cry then, too. So many years together, and yet it will still never be enough.

But for now, he sighs, staring adoringly down at the tiny infant in his arms. For now, they have time. He vows silently to never waste a single moment with her, and never pass up the opportunity to spend time with her. No matter how busy or frustrated or tired he gets, he won't let her grow up feeling unwanted or unloved or unimportant.

He'll give her a better life than he grew up with, and that is both a promise and a threat.

After all, he would do anything, for her.

His greatest creation.

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

compared to that i'm doing well

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/A9Rm4IG by distortiddies The larger man wore some sort of elaborate suit, though a large amount of it appeared to be armoured or at least laid with scratched metal, and the other man appeared to be wearing nothing but a long robe, which upon further inspection seemed to be a blanket. Not exactly something you find every day in a field in rural Scotland. Martin knelt down next to them, and Jon followed, albeit far more carefully. “New in town, perhaps?” Jon asked. The question was searching, suspicious almost. -- or: Jayce and Viktor end up in Jon and Martin's Somewhere Else, and they all learn that apparently nothing is an original experience   Title from 2012 by Will Wood Words: 4255, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jayce (League of Legends), Viktor (League of Legends) Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jayce/Viktor (League of Legends) Additional Tags: Location: Somewhere Else (The Magnus Archives), Post-Arcane: League of Legends Season 02 Act 03, Crossover, Fluff, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, jayvik and jmart parallels make me insane, Title from a Will Wood Song, First Kiss, no beta we die like isha, as in i didn't edit this read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/A9Rm4IG

[the-mediaeval-monk]

New story on AO3!

When a trader from the East has an extremely expensive pigment for sale, Abbot Gunter and his monks scramble to find the funds.

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Fandoms:

Original Work

Viktor Athelstan's Tales From The Monastery Universe

Characters:

Abbot Gunter

Bennett of Romanwood

Brother Wulfric

Brother Æthelwine

Additional Tags:

Monks

manuscript

Historical Fantasy

Comedy

Sitcom

10th Century

Werewolves

Elves

Canon Autistic Character

Canon Queer Character

Alternate Universe - Medieval

Middle Ages

pigments

No Beta We Die Like Christ

In the sense that we're dying now but I'm going to come back and edit it later

Catholic Monks

Roman Catholicism

Language: English

[the-mediaeval-monk]

The Tragedy of Theobald: Chapter 2

Rating:Teen And Up Audiences

Fandoms: Original Work Viktor Athelstan's Tales From The Monastery Universe

Additional Tags: Medieval Historical Fantasy Period Typical Attitudes Angst Catholicism Catholic Guilt Demons Elves Canon Gay Character Dark Comedy Vikings Abuse Chronic Illness Headaches & Migraines kennings Religion Queer History Catholic Character Christianity Family Drama LGBTQ Themes No Beta We Die Like Christ In the sense that now we're dying but I'm going to come back and edit it later

Language: English

Words:18303 (as of 8/6/2022)

Chapters:15/? (as of 8/6/2022)

Chapter Summary: In which Theobald makes a fool of himself in front of his peers, insults his father’s friends, and fights with his father regarding the fact he does not want to be a cloth merchant.

Chapter 2: Thursday, December 25, 872 AD

I bite down on my cup. Dad looks at me. He approaches. Dear God in Heaven above, please let him say we are going home.

“Theobald!” Dad throws his arms out, “Come meet my friends!”

Lord give me strength.

Dad’s arm lands heavily on my shoulders. He kisses my cheek and hugs me. The youths laugh. While I don’t mind Dad kissing me, his breath reeks of alcohol. The smell is just one more irritating thing the Lord thrusts upon me tonight.

“Come, come Theobald. It’s time for you to have fun. There’s so many people you need to meet!”

“I know them all.”

“By name perhaps. Not by personality!”

Dad guides me against my will to the crowd of men drunker than he is, and he is completely inebriated. Seeing him lose control and destroy his dignity for free wine that is clearly pouring endlessly not because of kindhearted generosity but due to greed and the hopes of a future profit, grows my irritation. Furthermore, if Mum finds out he spent the night drinking–and she will–the next few days will include her endless guilt trips about how Dad gets to go to feasts, she has to stay home alone with the children, making sure they are properly fed, dressed, don’t die of misadventure, aren’t seduced by demons, or worse: undesirable men. The children she will refer to are my sisters. Agnes, my youngest sister, is thirteen. If we were nobles, Agnes would have been married off by now and possibly running a household of her own. We are not nobles. We are not saints either, but that doesn’t stop Mum from playing the martyr whenever she can.

God forbid Dad throws up when we return home. Mum will never let us hear the end of it.

Dad thrusts me into the circle of asses. “My son! Theobald!”

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[the-mediaeval-monk]

The Tragedy of Theobald

Rating:Teen And Up Audiences

Fandoms: Original Work Viktor Athelstan's Tales From The Monastery Universe

Additional Tags: Medieval Historical Fantasy Period Typical Attitudes Angst Catholicism Catholic Guilt Demons Elves Canon Gay Character Dark Comedy Vikings Abuse Chronic Illness Headaches & Migraines kennings Religion Queer History Catholic Character Christianity Family Drama LGBTQ Themes No Beta We Die Like Christ In the sense that now we're dying but I'm going to come back and edit it later

Language: English

Words:18303 (as of 8/6/2022)

Chapters:15/? (as of 8/6/2022)

All 15 year old Theobald of Pocklington wants to do is pray and hope no one finds out his biggest secret: he’s gay. (Well, it’s 872AD. Theobald calls himself something else, but the sentiment is still the same.)

Unfortunately for Theobald, living in the secular world means he’s expected to marry and take over the family business. After a disastrous Christmas feast, Theobald can’t even be expected to become a cloth merchant and his father won’t let him become a monk.

Now Theobald must try to find a new career despite his strong desire for the monastic life. It’s such a shame things rarely work out well for him….

The Tragedy of Theobald is a about an angsty melodramatic 9th century gay teenager trying to be straight and failing horribly. Sometimes there are demons. Lots of bible quotes and kennings. Despite it being called "The Tragedy of Theobald" Theobald doesn't die. He'll get his happy ending...eventually.

Read on AO3 here!

[the-mediaeval-monk]

The Tragedy of Theobald: Chapter 1

Rating:Teen And Up Audiences

Fandoms: Original Work Viktor Athelstan's Tales From The Monastery Universe

Additional Tags: Medieval Historical Fantasy Period Typical Attitudes Angst Catholicism Catholic Guilt Demons Elves Canon Gay Character Dark Comedy Vikings Abuse Chronic Illness Headaches & Migraines kennings Religion Queer History Catholic Character Christianity Family Drama LGBTQ Themes No Beta We Die Like Christ In the sense that now we're dying but I'm going to come back and edit it later

Language: English

Words:18303 (as of 8/6/2022)

Chapters:15/? (as of 8/6/2022)

Chapter Summary: We meet our hero, Theobald of Pocklington at a Christmas feast.

Chapter 1: Thursday, December 25, 872 AD.

There’s always been some kind of disconnect between me and the rest of the world. The rest of Pocklington. A thin linen veil behind which I can just see the shapes of people, yet every time I reach out in an attempt to touch–to join–the others, the fabric prevents me. I’ve never felt it so prominently then I do now, as I grip my wooden cup of sweet spiced mead, lean against the wattle and daub wall and watch everyone else at Edward the Wine Merchant’s house have fun.

Tonight, I watch as half of Pocklington celebrates the miraculous birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. They do so by eating to the extreme, drinking until there won’t be a drop of alcohol left in the town, and lusting after the opposite sex like David salaciously preyed upon Bathsheba in a way inappropriate in a man.

I sip my mead. At least I can enjoy the smooth honeyed taste if I cannot enjoy myself otherwise…Edward the Wine Merchant rarely gives product away for free. His generosity must have an ulterior motive. I take another sip.

I didn’t want to come to the feast. I wanted to stay at church and pray for the lecherous town until Christmas passed and Saint Stephen’s Day broke with the dawn. Pray for the poor drunken souls that demons, elves, and other sinister beings will surely harm once they stumble out into the night. Demons are common enough in Northumbria. About as common as Danes. There are too many Danes in Britain.

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[the-mediaeval-monk]

The Tragedy of Theobald: Chapter 3

Rating:Teen And Up Audiences

Fandoms: Original Work Viktor Athelstan's Tales From The Monastery Universe

Additional Tags: Medieval Historical Fantasy Period Typical Attitudes Angst Catholicism Catholic Guilt Demons Elves Canon Gay Character Dark Comedy Vikings Abuse Chronic Illness Headaches & Migraines kennings Religion Queer History Catholic Character Christianity Family Drama LGBTQ Themes No Beta We Die Like Christ In the sense that now we're dying but I'm going to come back and edit it later

Language: English

Words:18303 (as of 8/6/2022)

Chapters:15/? (as of 8/6/2022)

Chapter Summary: In which Theobald meets Aldus of Jorvik.

Chapter 3: Friday, December 26, 872 AD

Drunkenness may be encouraged at feasts and among men, however, those who indulge in the destroyer of dignity miss out on the best part of God’s creation: waking up to the early morning sun pleasantly caressing your face. After allowing myself a few moments to enjoy the warmth, I perform my morning ablutions with the frigid water in my jug and basin. The water bites my fingertips as I dip my cloth into it.

“O Lord,” I murmur, “Give me strength to honour my father as he deserves. Please convince him I’m not the right person to inherit his cloth business. Give me guidance as I search for my own vocation and cope with my sinful affliction. Amen.”

Taking a few more minutes to adorn my slender body with sacrilegiously luxurious clothing and my wooden cross necklace, I swallow my pride. Last night I broke the Fourth Commandment: Honour thy father and thy mother. If I break any more Commandments I will surely go straight to Hell when my immortal soul leaves my earthly body. In the meantime, I will almost certainly be vulnerable to demonic intervention.

I walk downstairs to the common room. Dad sits on the bench near the blazing fireplace. He’s not alone. Sitting beside him is a youth, listening and nodding. Dad speaks merrily about cloth and trade routes. He’s never been that excited about anything with me. Gripping my cross, I pray for strength so as to not break the Tenth Commandment too. The wood jabs painfully into my skin.

I did not expect God to answer my prayers so quickly. Nor did I expect this…annoyance and anger at said answers being answered. I want to think that the Lord is punishing me for disrespecting Dad, but my irritation is not unfamiliar…why must I always be irritated? Can’t I have one day where I’m happy? Everyone else is able to be happy at least sometimes. What is wrong with me?

These thoughts further my irritation.

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[ao3feed-yurionice]

first birthdays

by Creme13rulee

I have my thesis draft due and I lose my 5 hours of work on lesson planning for my job, BUT YUURI KATSUKI

Drabbles about Yuuri’s first birthday alone in the US, first birthday with Viktor in Hasetsu, and first birthday with his fiance in St. Petersburg

No beta, sorry. No editing we die like men

Words: 1877, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri, Original Dog Character(s)

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Additional Tags: Drabble, Happy Birthday Katsuki Yuuri

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/27793828