#no.. i will push through... i hate being scared

[luvdalkxdlk]

Reminded me of these fics. We have so few of them. Using this blog to remind me how I want to write the time traveling scheming chessmaster NHS vs time travelling scheming chessmaster JGY. It may or may not involve death threats, realizations TM, lots of torture, obsessions, the fact that they are violent enemies and yet they can only understand each other the most and they are their destined enemies, bound by insanity doing the same thing over and over again time loop or just reliving things and trying to change things. And if it's especially a time loop that they kill each other and get sent to another point of time together, the mystery why where they will be forced to work together just in case but wanting to betray each other because they will absolutely distrust each other. I want this so bad. I'm so scared to write it because I only watched the amination and had realizations thru fanfics and understood canon, the novel part, intimately through wiki.

Imagine, when they figure out who each other is, they don't hesitate to run a sword against each other.

Imagine, if they time travelled to Sunshot where even with JGY back then MY as a spy doing WR's dirty work, he could use this position as an 'enemy' to capture, torture and kill NHS but it will never come back to him if he comes out as a war hero killing WR.

Imagine, if they knew who eeach other are but they can't empathically kill each other especially post Sunshot because that makes no sense in peace time and they have to figure out how to get the other dead without dirtying their hands and protecting everything they stood for.

Imagine, if they just both go insane and want the other gone, even if there might be a chance of redemption but they are both hateful bitter bitches who decide they won't take the chance with each other because for so long they had their chances and they cannot underestimate each other and decide the risk is not worth it. Whether they love each other before, with whatever time they spent, just makes it even more damn bitter and even though they know each other so much especially now that the masks are gone, they are so different from what they usually act towards each other before everything was revealed that it's precisely why they cannot trust each other and want the other dead.

Like, bitches. I need more fanfics like this because those sworn enemies with no chances of friendship that only holds nostalgia echoes and they are insane for each other (hatefully) and being 'the bad guy' which doesn't really matter much in their jianghu because 'bad guys' like WWX according to them when the Yiling Laozu had done good things. JGY is messed up and has blood on his hands for a a lot of people he killed for politics, families and self-validation (unsure) but a point about the watchtowers that he pushed thru as Chief Cultivation for the common folk hold merit. NHS doesn't classify as bad guy here only because while we readers know as well as the protags, it's iffy at best and stated to have no proof. But back to point, those villainous bitches out of power and revenge (oversimplified) just doing whatever they can for their own interests, and somehow saving the world by fixing everything because that's what their loved ones would want, like NHS' brother NMJ and maybe friends with WWX and JC (f- canon. In my hc, they are my sworn bros T_T) while JGY could do anything for LXC. Overall, so much blood will be shed, there is no reconcillation btwn JGY and NHS as the pettiest bitches with twisted poetic vengeances and honestly, PLEASE RECOMMEND <33

so i've seen time travel aus where nie huaisang and jin guangyao get thrown back in time with their current memories intact and decide to work together and it Fixes Everything so Everyone Lives and like that's fine that's cool i get the appeal... but what i really want is an au where they go back and decide "perfect i'm gonna grind that bastard to paste before he can hurt da-ge" and "ok fine i guess i have to kill both nie brothers before one of them gets me" and —and this last part is crucial— their attempts to violently burn each other to the ground accidentally Fix Everything.

[soulsforsales]

“MOONLIGHT”

warnings: heavy angst, violence, accident, death

a/n: I’ve been wanting to write this for months so don’t hate me pls🥲wrote this one at 5 am too btw

“Down!” Jason’s scream is the only thing that cuts through the symphony of gunshots around you.

He wraps his palm over the back of your head and pushes you down, as gently as he can right now. His other hand stays on the steering wheel.

And his eyes flicker between the mirrors, already filled with rage and something worse—panic.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jason thought he wasn’t being followed. He thought it was okay. He thought that he would just pick you up from work, maybe get burgers from that old restaurant you love so much and go home.

You had texted him and said you could go on your own. That you could take a taxi. Or walk. That he didn’t have to.

But Jason didn’t listen. He wanted to keep you safe. He’s always wanted to keep you safe.

You aren’t safe right now.

Not even close.

Apparently, Jason was being followed. And now they know—now they know him, now they know you.

“Fuck—just—just breathe. Okay? I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” Jason rambles, taking a sharp turn into a tiny road that supports a park in hopes of misleading the black jeep following him.

He keeps a hand over your ducked form, like he can still protect you from this. Like he still has a way out.

Jason can’t stop the car and fight them, although that’s exactly what he would’ve done if he was alone. But he can’t take that risk when you’re with him.

Not when those people are armed, and all he has is a gun strapped to his belt.

“Jay—“ Your voice cuts through the chaos in his head, and he looks at you. Your hair is messed up, eyes wide and scared. Already glassy.

It’s all his fucking fault.

You were never supposed to get caught up in his Red Hood shit. He swore he’d keep you out of that part of his life.

The vigilantism. The ugliness. The loss.

And now you’re right in the middle of it.

His eyes are frantic, looking everywhere. At the car following you, at the dark webs of roads and pathways around him, hoping for something—anything that will help him right now.

But all he sees is the road before him. All he hears is missed gunshots and a whimper that comes from you.

And something inside him cracks. God, what would he give to go back in time and listen to you for once?

“No. No. Baby. Look at me. Look at me.” He pleads, and you do because deep down you know Jason will keep you safe, you know he won’t let anything touch you.

“We’re gonna be okay— I—“

His words are interrupted by the breaking of glass and another gunshot.

This one, even making him flinch and tearing a scream out of your throat.

He looks in the rear view mirror only to see two man, sliding half out of the jeep’s windows to shoot at you.

Jason’s jaw clenches, eyes bloodshot in a familiar way. You’ve seen his rage before, you know what it’s like.

“Going to fucking kill all of them.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “I’m going to—“

Another gunshot.

“Fuck!”

Jason’s panting now, purely out of adrenaline and unshakeable fear.

He cannot let you get hurt. But he also can’t get you out of this situation without risking it.

You watch it happen in real time. Jason’s eyes focusing on the mirror, something like resolve setting in the sea of blue-green.

Then he takes out his gun with the hand that was holding you down. You straighten a little, teary eyes widening.

Jason slows the car, then looks at you. And he looks wrecked. Shaken and so, so scared.

“You trust me, right?” He rasps.

You look at the gun, then at him. You notice the way sweat is making his hair cling to his forehead, the way his chest rises and falls with every rapid breath.

You’ve never seen him this terrified before. Not when he faces death every night and comes home soaked in blood. Not when he has a gun to his head.

And you realise something: his own death doesn’t scare him. Jason’s already died once, what can’t he face?

But yours does.

You’ve always known it, but seeing that kind of fear on the face of a man who’s never afraid is different. It breaks your heart.

“You have to listen to me. You gotta do what I say. Okay?” He asks again and you blink. Then nod.

Jason nods along with you, “okay. Okay. Good. Stay down.” He orders, suddenly.

And that’s when you realise he’s turning around. He’s turning the car around to face them.

Your already pounding heart speeds up.

“Jason—“

“Stay down, baby. No matter what. Don’t look up. Don’t straighten. Don’t do anything.” Jason’s looking at you again, eyes wide, and expression panic-stricken at best.

You don’t look much different. You nod, anyway.

“Okay. Okay.”

Jason turns around in one swift turn, not caring about the lamppost he hit.

He’s already called for backup but there’s no way anyone would make it here in time.

So, Jason does what makes sense.

He leans out the window, still steering the car with one hand, while the other operates the gun.

Three bullets and one of the shooters is down. His limp body falls out of the vehicle.

You’re hunched down, head resting against the dashboard, hands covering your ears as tears finally slide down your cheeks.

You’re terrified. For him as much as yourself.

Jason spares you a glance and somehow feels worse.

You look so small. So scared and you’re shaking.

God, he’ll make it up to you. He promises to never ever get you in a situation like this again.

He’ll make it up to you.

He’ll keep you safe.

That is the only thought Jason focuses on when he aims his last shot on the second shooter. And it hits.

Something like relief floods Jason’s chest.

It’s over. You’re safe.

In his quiet victory, Jason doesn’t notice the shooter’s last move. Maybe it was too dark, maybe he just wanted so desperately for it to be over.

But Jason didn’t notice his finger gliding over the trigger one last time before he fell to his death.

He didn’t notice that the bullet hit the front tire of his car.

Jason doesn’t notice anything until he sits back, with almost a smile on his face.

He doesn’t notice until he’s seconds away from reaching for you and the car explodes into air.

The car rolls. Once. Twice. And Jason’s world with it.

You don’t even get time to scream. He’s still reaching for you.

Like he still can protect you somehow. Like this is a nightmare and if he reaches out for you—as he always does when the nightmares feel too real—maybe he’ll wake up in bed, tangled with you.

You’ll touch his face softly, smile at him and tell him to go to sleep. You’ll tell him that it’s okay. And he’ll believe it.

But you don’t say anything. And he can’t reach out for you. And the spell doesn’t break.

Jason Todd isn’t dreaming. He’s living his worst nightmare.

The car crashes upside down with a loud metallic thud.

Jason opens his eyes, neck immediately whipping to look for you.

He doesn’t care that he’s hanging upside down in his seat, that his seatbelt digs into his shoulder, and the skin where the broken glass has made contact stings.

All he looks for is you.

But you’re not moving. You aren’t even looking at him.

Your body is limp, barely held back from falling by the seatbelt, hair brushing the ceiling of the car.

The air is thick with smoke and a copper tang of blood.

Jason isn’t bleeding. Fuck.

“No. Nonononono—“

Jason struggles out of his seatbelt as fast as he can, he calls your name once, then louder, a second time.

Like maybe if he can just get you to hear him. If he can just get you to look at him—

A whimper leaves his lips. No. he can’t lose you.

Not you.

Jason rolls out of his seat, breaking down the already hanging car door.

Help must be here soon. Someone must be here soon. He sent the signal, didn’t he?

Jason rushes to your side. Ignoring the pain that shoots through his right knee, something definitely cracked there.

But he doesn’t care.

He almost did it. He killed them. He saved you.

He almost won.

Jason breaks your door, unbuckles your seatbelt and catches you before you can hit anything else.

He carries you out so gently, like he can’t bear hurting you even more.

He lays you down on the soft grass and his hands come back drenched in blood.

Now, Jason has seen a lot of blood in his life. But only this sight makes him feel like the world cracked open.

Tears are rolling down his eyes before he even registers them.

“No—fuck. Nonono. Wake up.” He checks your injuries.

You hit your head. Your hair’s matted in blood. There’s glass sticking to your skin.

And the sob that tears through Jason’s chest is the most pathetic sound he’s ever heard.

But he doesn’t sit with his pain. He runs through it. He checks your pulse.

It’s not there.

He doesn’t seem to care. He presses the signal again.

And then he presses both his palms at the centre of your chest.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

Nothing. You aren’t breathing.

You aren’t breathing.

Jason inhales sharply. The breath pierces the unbearable pain in his chest and twists within the guilt.

He was supposed to protect you. He was supposed to keep you safe.

And now you’re dead hurt.

You’re hurt. You’re just hurt. He can still do something.

There’s still hope.

Jason is giving you CPR. Again.

He’s on his knees beside you.

Hoping. Praying. Even if God’s never heard him before, he desperately wishes it’s the one time he does.

Jason is too lost to register the soft thud of boots not far away.

Dick Grayson—clad in his Nightwing armour—takes the mask off the second he registers the scene before him.

He falls to his knees beside Jason, beside your limp body on the ground.

“Oh god.”

Dick doesn’t ask what happened. He already knows what it caused.

Jason sits back, looks at his brother and Dick flinches.

There are tear tracks on Jason’s cheeks, and this crazed look in his glowing eyes—like a man on the edge of falling.

He’s barely holding it together and Dick can tell.

“Jay—“

“Dick. God, you’re here. You’re here. You’ve to help me. You’ve to—“ Jason’s voice breaks, and so does Dick’s heart.

Because he knows what you are to Jason. He knows what you’ve done for him. He knows how much he you.

And—if anything could—this is what will break Jason Todd.

“Jason. Breathe.” Dick mutters, but he isn’t looking at Jason. He’s looking at you.

At your body in the soft grass. Your matted hair. Your face half covered in blood. The glass splinters in your skin.

If Dick knows his brother at all, he can only imagine what Jason will do to the people who did this.

Dick’s fingers tremble when he catches your wrist. His heart almost stops.

Then he checks your pulse. Twice. Checks your breathing.

He freezes.

Jason looks at him with eyes full of hope and fear tangled so deeply in one another that he can’t distinguish the two.

Dick turns to him slowly, preparing himself for whatever comes.

“Jason…”

Jason flinches, already shaking his head.

“No. No. We can take her to the cave—“

“Jason—“

“Bruce can do something! There’s Alfred! We can get her to the hospital—“

“She’s dead.”

Jason stills and Dick watches it happen.

The moment Jason just… breaks. The moment his denial seeps into acceptance.

And that’s the part that breaks him.

Because Dick can tell you’d been dead when he walked in. You must’ve been dead ever since the accident.

And he isn’t sure how long Jason sat here, trying to bring you back to life like they brought him back.

Jason’s grief isn’t loud. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t curse.

He just cries. Fully. Terribly.

Dick is there to catch him, but there’s nothing he can do to ease the pain.

Because Jason Todd has lost too many things in life, but you were never supposed to be one of them.

Even now, Jason can’t grasp the idea. Can’t believe that you’re dead. You can’t be dead.

No, how can you leave him like this? He saved you, didn’t he? You were alive. He saw it. You were—

Jason can’t breathe. He can’t do anything but cry into his brother’s shoulder. The grief that is spreading through him isn’t something he’s felt before—and he’s felt a lot of grief.

It seems to seep into his very bones. It makes his heart pain like it’s being squeezed by the memories alone.

You looked at him. One last time.

You said his name. One last time.

He touched you. One last—

God, he can’t do this.

Jason blinks away the tears to look at you.

Your eyes are closed, lashes resting against your cheeks like you’re about to wake up any second and hold him. Smile at him. Kiss his forehead. Get him out of this horrible nightmare.

But you’re covered in blood, and that ruins the possibility.

The moonlight creeps over your form like it’s any other night. Like it’s unaware of how Jason’s world just cracked open and bled through.

The moonlight hits your face like it doesn’t care about how Jason has to watch the best thing he’s ever dared to keep slip right through his fingers.

Tagging: @velli-writes @violetswritingg

Thankyou for reading! Love y’all <3

[iloveslasher]

The Ones Who Watch and Do Nothing

POV: Gaz | Poly!141 x Reader | angst, Part 4 of Shatterpoint.

Johnny's POV, John's POV, Kyle's POV, Simon's POV, Finale.

Day 0.

Kyle stood behind Ghost and Soap as they pulled you from your bunk. Didn’t say a word.

You were barefoot. Confused. Asking questions no one answered.

“Guys? What’s going on?”

Your voice was sharp with panic. And Kyle’s fists clenched. Because you didn’t sound guilty.

You sounded scared.

But he didn’t speak. Not when they slammed you against the wall. Not when they zip-tied your hands. Not even when you caught his eyes and whispered:

“Kyle?”

Like he could make it stop.

He looked away.

Because if he said something, he’d be questioning Price.

And that wasn’t allowed.

Day 1.

You screamed. Cried. Pleaded.

Kyle stood in the observation room, watching through the one-way mirror.

Price questioned you. Ghost hit you. Soap shouted.

Kyle said nothing.

The others thought he was being strong. Controlled.

But really?

He was afraid.

Afraid that you were innocent. Afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d be the next one in the chair.

So he watched.

That was his sin.

He didn’t swing a fist or deliver an order.

He just watched.

Day 3.

Your voice was gone.

Your body limp.

But your eyes still searched the room every time the door opened.

Kyle hated himself most when he realized—

You were still hoping one of them would save you.

That he would save you.

But every time he saw your bloodied lip, your shaking fingers, the bruises darkening your ribs—

He swallowed it.

Pushed it down.

Protect the team. Trust the chain of command.

Even when it killed something inside him.

Day 6.

When the real intel came in, Price cursed so hard he knocked over his chair.

Ghost left the room.

Soap went pale.

Kyle sat there, frozen.

You’d been innocent the whole time.

The whole time.

He ran to the medbay. Got there first. Stood in the doorway like a coward while you lay hooked up to machines.

Your face was bruised. Lips cracked. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

He stepped inside. Slowly.

“Hey,” he said. Gently.

You didn’t look at him.

“…I should’ve said something,” he whispered. “From the beginning.”

Still nothing.

“I—I didn’t know what to believe, but I knew something wasn’t right. I felt it. You didn’t look guilty. You looked terrified.”

Your eyes flicked toward him then.

So empty it knocked the breath out of him.

“I watched,” he said. “I watched them hurt you. And I didn’t stop it.”

Your voice was barely audible. Flat. Monotone.

“Why not?”

He had no answer.

So he dropped to his knees at your bedside and whispered the truth:

“Because I was scared.”

You closed your eyes.

And turned your head away.

Later that night…

Kyle sat alone on the training field. Rain soaked his clothes. He didn’t move.

Didn’t go back to the barracks. Couldn’t face the others.

He kept seeing your eyes.

Not the way they used to shine when you joked with him. Not the way they softened when you curled into his chest at night.

No. Now he only saw the eyes that begged him for help.

And he saw the man who did nothing.

END (Gaz POV)

[littlejoyss]

destiny part8

“All along, there was some invisible string tying you to me.”

Stray Kids - Chan x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count: 21k

previous part <- current part -> next part

The next few weeks went by in a flash.

Somewhere between late studio nights and quiet mornings with lyric sheets, you and Chan found your rhythm again. Not the one dictated by press releases or performance schedules. But your own rhythm.

The live had been a success. Too much of a success, if you were being honest.

Hashtags trended for days. “ChansGirl” TikToks hit millions of views. Edits of you and Chan flooded your feed, slowed down with romantic music and subtitles like relationships don’t need words, just timing. And your label?

Your label ate it up.

Iseul scheduled more appearances, approved a new shoot for a magazine spread titled “Written in the Stars”, and pushed forward the next teaser drop. Your redemption arc was no longer just working. It was snowballing.

But no one knew what was happening in the quiet hours behind closed doors.

Like the night after the live when Chan had walked you home again and you’d stood in the stairwell for almost an hour talking about everything except music. You found out he hated peanut butter and always forgot to charge his phone. He found out you liked thunderstorms and once auditioned for a kids' toothpaste commercial and cried on set.

Some nights, when the thread pulsed between you softly, you almost forgot why you’d been scared to feel it in the first place. And yet, there were still days you couldn’t hold hands in public. Still contracts to dance around. Still meetings to attend where your smiles had to be perfectly measured, your chemistry no more than a “natural working dynamic.”

But you knew better now. You both did.

You had finished writing the song together. It was titled “Destiny”. Originally, Chan was supposed to only be the producer of the song, but you convinced your labels to let him feature on the track too.

He had tried to say no once. He cited deadlines, the press, and the balance of roles. But when you played the demo with both of your vocals layered at the bridge, something shifted in his expression. 

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly, eyes still fixed on the screen. “But only if we don’t change the second verse.”

“You mean the one I showed you that day in the park?”

Chan’s lips had twitched into a smile. “Exactly that one.”

Recording the final vocals took longer than it should’ve. Not because you weren’t prepared, but because both of you kept getting caught in the silences between takes. The thread was glowing stronger and steadier with every harmony you sang together. 

On your last day in the studio, after the mix was finalized and the file was sent off to mastering, Chan lingered by the door. “We did it,” he said, half in awe, half in disbelief.

You nodded, eyes on him instead of the control panel. “We really did.”

He reached for your hand then, not in secret. Not hidden under the desk. Just your hand in his. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The label made the announcement a week later.

@k-entupdates: 🚨Breaking: ‘Destiny’ by (Y/N) featuring Bang Chan, out next Friday at midnight.✨

They paired it with a teaser clip, which included a candlelit stage, soft piano, and a glimpse of your eyes meeting his through a curtain of light. 

💬 @kpopcurious:

They’re not even hiding the relationship anymore. It’s canon.

💬 @stargirlbinnie:

“Destiny” is dropping and I’m not emotionally ready. Someone hold me.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Two days before the release, you and Chan were summoned to a closed meeting at JYPE headquarters.

You already had a bad feeling from the moment Iseul texted you: Come dressed clean, no hats. 2PM. Conference Room C. Non-negotiable. Chan will be there too.

It was the “non-negotiable” that really sent the alarm bells ringing.

Chan had walked beside you the whole way there, jaw tight, thumb absently brushing his phone screen but not really reading anything. His thread flickered pale gold between your hands once when your fingers grazed, but neither of you reached out to hold it.

Conference Room C was already half full when you arrived. Iseul stood at the window with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Across the table sat JYPE’s senior PR manager, a man named Hyun-seok who’d once told you not to wear red lipstick because it “distracted from your vulnerability.” Great start.

Chan pulled out a chair for you before taking his seat beside you. His hand brushed your back briefly, but not enough for it to look intentional. You took a breath.

Iseul didn’t waste time. “The response to the teasers has exceeded projections. You’ve both seen the metrics. Highest engagement numbers we’ve had all year.” 

“Which brings us to the next phase,” Hyun-seok said, folding his hands on the table. “We want to lean in. Boldly. No more subtext. No more winks to the camera. We’re thinking-” he paused, smiling like this was a brilliant idea, “-a kiss.”

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy.

You blinked. “I’m sorry…what?!”

Iseul cleared her throat, “We know this is sensitive. But this is your moment. Your redemption arc and his untouchable reputation, meeting in one perfect kiss, would really be the ribbon on top.”

You swallowed. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to kiss Chan. God, you wanted to kiss Chan. But not like this. Not for them. Not for a group of paparazzi with executives nodding.

Hyun-seok steepled his fingers. “There’s a rooftop stage. Soft lights. You’ll perform Destiny once. This performance was in your contract anyway, we’ll just make it more personal. Exclusive guest list, industry names, trusted media, no livestream. Just one camera team. It’s clean. It’s elegant. It’s intimate.”

The word made your skin crawl.

Chan leaned forward slowly, his expression unreadable except for the tight clench in his jaw. “Let me get this straight,” he said, voice calm but clipped. “You want us to kiss. In front of the industry. On a rooftop. For a photo op.”

Hyun-seok smiled, like he thought he was offering you a dream. “Think of it as poetic. The song is called Destiny, after all.”

You felt Chan tense beside you, just slightly, and you pressed your knee against his beneath the table. The thread stirred faintly, hidden under your sleeve, curling like smoke around your wrist.

They didn’t know. That was the only thing keeping you from cracking. Hyun-seok and Iseul, for all their strategy and scheduling, had no idea.

You sighed. “This wasn’t in the contract we signed.”

Iseul didn’t flinch. “No, it wasn’t. But the contract gave us creative discretion over image development. And this isn’t an order. It’s a suggestion. A very strategic, very timely suggestion.”

You looked over at Chan. His jaw was clenched, but not in that simmering kind of rage they all assumed meant frustration with business. It was restraint. Restraint, because if he opened his mouth now, he might say too much. Might give too much away.

Iseul jumped in, voice softer now, “Look, we get it. You’re artists. You care about authenticity. But the numbers don’t lie. If you want this release to be more than a single success, if you want a career reset, you have to let people believe in something. And right now? They believe in this.”

This. They had no idea what this actually meant.

They didn’t know about the day your thread first acted up, as you sat across from Chan in the dim studio. They didn’t know it had pulsed bright under your wrist the first time he made you laugh so hard you forgot what you were afraid of. They didn’t know the thread had wrapped around your pinky the night you’d nearly broken down in the stairwell, and that Chan had just held it, until you could breathe again.

Chan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, eyes unreadable. “What if we don’t?”

Hyun-seok raised a brow. “Then don’t. But I’d be shocked if you didn’t. This seems like a great strategy.”

Iseul closed her tablet and stood. “We’ll prep the space. Rooftop call time is 5PM. Wardrobe and glam at 3:30. Think about the moment. Do it your way, if that helps. But give the world something they can’t look away from.”

She paused by the door. “One kiss. That’s all it takes.”

When the meeting ended, you and Chan rode the elevator down in silence. He didn’t speak until you hit the lobby, and even then, it was barely a whisper. “They really don’t know.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing the elevator button for the garage. “No. And if we ever tell them… it won’t be in a conference room.”

Chan looked over at you, eyes searching. “Do you want to kiss me tomorrow?”

You were startled at the bluntness. You reached for his hand, finally letting your fingers curl between his. The thread glowed stronger, slipping across your knuckles like gold lace. “I wanted to kiss you three weeks ago,” you murmured. “But I don’t want it to be their idea.”

A pause. His thumb brushed yours gently. “Then we wait.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The next day, you sat beneath the warm lights of the dressing room, soft music playing faintly from someone’s Bluetooth speaker. A stylist tugged a comb gently through your hair, while another added subtle shimmer to your cheekbones. Across the room, Chan was in a chair of his own, laughing lightly at something his makeup artist said, his reflection hazy in the vanity mirror between you.

You should’ve been focused on the rooftop performance. On the song. On the camera cues and the final note you had to hold without your voice cracking. But all you could think about was him. You shifted slightly, smoothing the fabric of your blouse with a restless hand.

“Don’t move,” your stylist warned gently, dabbing more gloss onto your lips. “You’ve got a camera crew waiting on you, don’t ruin the magic now.”

You gave a half-smile. “Sorry.”

At that exact moment, the room’s energy shifted, and one of the junior assistants burst in, clutching a tablet with wide eyes. She whispered something to Iseul, who was seated in the corner typing furiously on her phone.

Iseul froze. Then she stood. And that was never a good sign. “Pause hair and makeup,” she ordered, her voice low and firm.

The stylists exchanged wary glances but obeyed.

Chan turned toward her, too, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s going on?”

Wordlessly, Iseul crossed the room and handed him the tablet. He took it. As he read it, his entire expression changed. “…Shit.”

You stood. “What is it?”

He turned the screen toward you.

@k-entupdates: 🚨Breaking: Dispatch Exclusive: Secret Couple Spotted in Late-Night Park Date?

The headline was bad enough, but the photo made your stomach drop. Grainy, zoomed in, but clearly you and Chan, sitting on the bench, sharing dumplings, your hands linked loosely on the seat between you.

The silence in the dressing room was louder than anything you’d ever heard. Your stylist had taken a careful step back. The assistant who brought the news had practically evaporated. And across the room, Iseul’s expression was morphing from disbelief into something far more dangerous.

She didn’t speak for several seconds. Just stared at the photo like it might change if she glared hard enough. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” she said finally, voice low and sharp enough to draw blood.

Chan didn’t flinch. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

You opened your mouth, trying to form something softer, an explanation, a justification, anything, but your voice caught in your throat. There was no clever spin here. “We went out,” you said, quiet but clear. “No staff. No managers. Just us.”

Iseul’s mouth flattened into a tight, colorless line. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

“We went for dumplings, not a war crime,” Chan shot back. His voice was calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“You broke the contract,” she snapped. “There are clauses. Pages of them. You know that. No unchaperoned interactions. No unsanctioned outings. No personal entanglements outside of pre-cleared work sessions.”

Iseul’s voice cracked like a whip in the room. “Do you understand what’s at stake here?”

You met her eyes, your hands clenched at your sides. “Do you?”

Her brow arched, cold and calculating. “Don’t try to turn this on me.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying, we’ve done everything you asked. Every scripted glance. Every Live. Every edited line. We’ve given the public what they want,” you said, voice shaking but steady, “if anything, I feel like this picture added fuel to the fire of what you wanted. Attention.”

“You’re not wrong,” she said finally, tone clipped. “But there’s a difference between calculated chemistry and proof. That photo crossed a line.”

“We’re in the middle of a press cycle titled ‘Written in the Stars,’” Chan said, stepping in now, his voice deceptively calm. “You told us to give them magic. That’s what this is. This sells.”

She scoffed, folding her arms. “Control sells. Image. Narrative. I can shape those. But if you go off-script, if you let them see something I haven’t vetted, it stops being a campaign and starts being a scandal.”

Chan took a slow breath. “So what do you want us to do? Cancel the rooftop performance? Lie in an official statement? Act like none of this matters?”

“No.” Iseul stepped closer, her voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “You’ll go out there and perform like nothing happened. You’ll deliver the song the way we rehearsed. No hands. No lingering looks. You’ll sing, and then you’ll leave. Alone.” Her eyes settled on you. “Can you handle that?”

It wasn’t really a question. You nodded slowly. “I can handle it.”

Iseul held your gaze for a beat longer, then looked down at her phone. “Good. You’re on in twenty minutes. Fix your gloss. Your face is tense.” She turned and left without another word.

The moment the door clicked shut, the room exhaled. Stylists resumed their quiet work, the Bluetooth speaker still humming low. But the air was different now.

You met Chan’s eyes across the mirror again. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the arm of his chair.

You stood slowly, brushing the shimmer from your collarbone. “Are you okay?”

He let out a breath. “I will be.”

You hesitated, then walked toward him. The mirror caught the way your reflection blurred into his. Two separate outlines. One golden thread.

You leaned in just enough that only he could hear you. “We don’t kiss. We don’t hold hands. We don’t say anything.”

Chan turned his head slightly, so close you could see the faint line of tension in his jaw. “But they’ll feel it.”

You nodded. “They always do.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, the way he always did right before a verse, the way he did when it wasn’t acting.  “I’ll follow your lead,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened. “Then let’s burn it down.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The rooftop stage was already bathed in golden light when you stepped out.

The sun had just begun to set, casting the city skyline in warm amber. String lights flickered around the edge of the audience. Cameras circled like vultures around the stage. Industry figures filled the small, curated audience, faces you knew, all watching, all waiting.

Chan was already on stage. He looked different out here. Or maybe he just looked real. No shield of rehearsal. No PR grin. Just him, under soft light, waiting for the cue to begin.

Your heels clicked softly as you crossed to your mic stand. He turned to you, and that one look held the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

You didn’t reach for him. But the thread, still invisible to everyone else, glowed gently beneath your skin.

The first chords of the piano echoed across the rooftop. The cameras zoomed in slowly, catching the golden dusk behind you and Chan, standing at opposite ends of the stage.

Then your voice slipped into the space between. “In quiet rooms, you look my way, But then you turn and walk away. There's something real in how it feels, Like something soft we’re scared to seal.”

You didn’t glance at him yet. Didn’t need to. Your voice wavered slightly on soft we’re scared to seal, because you were scared. But not of the feeling. Of losing it.

Chan’s harmony joined you by the end of the verse, gentle, steady. Familiar. “Every heartbeat knows your name, It plays that tune I can't explain.”

Your gaze lifted now, meeting his just as your voices met too, threading together over the quiet chords. “It’s destiny, the way we move, Every road just leads to you. It’s not just chance, it’s something real, A kind of love you always feel.”

There was a hush across the rooftop. The audience was there, press, executives, stylists, fans from behind tinted glass, but the world had shrunk down to the two of you. 

“No need to run, no need to chase, We’re moving slow, but still in place. The world can spin, but we won’t break, We’ve got a light that time can’t shake.”

Chan took the verse, and his voice had something in it you hadn’t heard in rehearsals. A weight. A tenderness that clung to every syllable. He walked toward you, just two steps, but it changed everything. The thread between you pulsed, unseen by the audience, but it lit up beneath your collarbone.

“Every heartbeat knows your name, It hits me new but feels the same.”

By the end of the line, he was beside you. Still no touch. But your shoulders brushed as you sang, and that was enough. Too much, maybe.

“It’s destiny, the way we move, Every road just leads to you. It’s not just chance, it’s something real, A kind of love you always feel.”

A few camera flashes sparked from the back row. You barely noticed. All you could focus on was the way Chan sang every road just leads to you, like he was singing it for the first time. Like he meant it more now than he ever had.

“Maybe we missed our perfect time, Right stars, wrong life, wrong rhythm, right rhyme. Still, you’re the thought I can’t let go, In dreams, you're mine, like no one knows.”

Your voices moved around each other, him taking one line, you the next. During Still, you’re the thought I can’t let go, you both turned slightly inward.

 “It’s destiny, the way we move, Every road just leads to you. It’s not just chance, it’s something real, A kind of love you always feel.”

Your voice cracked, just slightly, on feel. But Chan caught it in the harmony. Covered you, as always. And somehow, that moment was more intimate than any kiss.

“Wherever this road takes me, My heart keeps chasing destiny.”

You held the final note together. He didn’t look away from you once.

The music faded. The rooftop went still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. No kiss. No fireworks. No staged ending. Just the two of you.

The applause came late. Not because the performance lacked power, but because it felt too sacred to break right away, like clapping would shatter something delicate still hanging in the air.

When it finally came, it was hesitant at first, then swelled across the rooftop, layered with murmurs and disbelief, awe, maybe even suspicion. Some people stood. A few exchanged knowing glances. Others blinked like they were trying to process what they’d just witnessed.

But none of it touched you. You didn’t move. Neither did Chan. You stayed where you were, two silhouettes against a dimming sky, feet apart, hearts exposed, still stitched together by something no contract could dictate.

A gentle voice crackled through the stage monitor. “And… cut. We’ve got it.”

The spell broke. Camera lenses lowered. Lights softened. Staff began to stir.

Chan stepped back first. Just enough to sever the closeness. He nodded once, small and careful, like a silent question, You okay?

You nodded back, just as small, Yeah. You?

He didn’t answer. But the thread between you glowed.

Iseul approached from the shadows, flanked by a coordinator and a headset tech. Her expression gave nothing away, neither pride nor rage, just calculation. She looked at Chan, then at you. “That,” she said evenly, “was unforgettable.”

“We’ll be in touch with edits and post-release strategy,” she continued, already turning to walk away. “For now, exit separately. No cameras. No statements. And whatever you do, don’t speak to Dispatch.”

Chan didn’t move until she disappeared behind the heavy rooftop door. Then, finally, he exhaled. “You were perfect,” he murmured.

You turned your head toward him, soft and tired and overwhelmed. “We were.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m walking out that door in five seconds.”

You blinked. “Five seconds?”

He took one step closer, eyes holding yours. “If you want to leave first, now’s your chance.”

You didn’t move. Instead, you whispered, “Three seconds left.”

Chan's expression shifted, something between a smile and a plea. His voice dropped lower. “Two.”

Your hand found his, fingers slotting gently into his palm. 

“One,” he breathed.

But you didn’t let go. Not this time. You two walked off the rooftop together, hand in hand, the thread trailing between your joined fingers.

(A/N: The next drop is the finale of this story 😭😭)

General Taglist: @moonlitcelestial @akindaflora @beppybeesnuggets @rylea08 @yxna-bliss @felixsonlyrealwife @wolfs-howling @velvetmoonlght @rougegenshin

Soulmate Series Taglist: @eridanuswave @dlizzzy @allenajade-ite @crazy4books1

[kuronarnze]

a/n: I'm sick rn and im supposed to be asleep BUT I just suddenly had the urge to write something 💔 enjoy reading !!

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

How the Itoshi brothers love you in different ways

In which... Sae and Rin love so, so differently—but both in a way that hurts and heals you all at once.

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

Itoshi Sae — the quiet, steady storm.

Sae loves you like a memory he’s terrified of losing.

His love is measured, mature, and achingly slow—like he’s always been a few steps ahead in life, but now he’s slowing down just to match your pace. He notices everything. The way your hands fidget when you're nervous, the way you hum songs under your breath when you're trying not to cry. He doesn’t always say the right words, but he shows it—through late-night drives, forehead kisses, his coat draped over your shoulders with no comment.

He won’t say “I love you” every day.

But he’ll look at you like you’re the only reason he’s still choosing to stay in a world that feels too cold.

He’s terrified that he’s not enough. That his world, built on fame and pressure, will break you too.

So he loves carefully. Like he’s holding a snowflake in his palm.

“If I ever mess this up... tell me. Scream at me. Just don’t leave.”

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

Itoshi Rin — the bruised, breathless wildfire.

Rin loves you like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.

His love is intense, unfiltered, and sometimes destructive—because he never really learned how to love gently. He feels too much and never knows what to do with it. He’ll push you away the moment you get too close, then show up at your doorstep in the rain because he can’t stand being apart.

He’s the type to remember the exact day you met, but forget to eat when he’s worried about you.

He says “I hate you” when he means “Please stay.”

But his hands tremble when they touch yours. His voice breaks when he whispers your name.

He fights the world, but with you? He wants to surrender.

“I don’t know how to do this. But I want it. I want you.”

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

→ Sae loves like a slow burn that never dies out.

→ Rin loves like a wildfire that doesn’t know how to stop burning.

But both would shatter the world for you.

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

THANK YOU FOR READINGGGG 🫶 TYSM for 600 follows too!! Okay now I'm gonna go sleep 💔💔 have a nice day 💗

so sorry if they're ooc 💔

[lllumoria]

How they react to seeing Reader breaking down {Wyll, Astarion, Gale, Lae’zel}

This is a request from my main blog (@a-bit-of-writing ) featuring a reader who’s breaking down from their usual sunny/optimistic self and how the companions react to it.

Wyll

He notices but doesn’t push (at first)

Wyll is perceptive, especially when it comes to people he cares about. He’ll notice the subtle changes first: the forced smiles, the distant gaze, the silence where laughter used to be.

He won’t confront you immediately. He’ll observe — give you space.

“You’ve been quieter lately. Not like you. …Not that I mind a little peace and quiet, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss your laugh.”

He’s gentle about it, not invasive. He’s been taught to lead with kindness, not pressure.

Once he knows it’s serious, he shifts into steady support

When he realizes it’s not just a bad day – that you’re really struggling – his tone becomes steady, his warmth unwavering. He’ll sit with you in it, no grand speeches, no magic fixes. Just presence.

He stops trying to cheer you up and focuses on being there.

“You don’t have to smile for me. You don’t have to say a word. Just… stay. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hero complex makes him want to fix it, but he reins that in. He understands that this isn’t a battle he can fight for you but he can fight with you.

He shares his own pain — to show you you’re not alone

Wyll doesn’t often speak about his own regrets or loneliness. But your breakdown would open that door. Quietly, hesitantly, he’ll begin to offer pieces of himself—not to shift focus, but to remind you he understands.

He speaks plainly, without dramatics.

“There were days I didn’t believe I deserved anything better. Days I looked in the mirror and only saw what I’d lost… or what I’d become. You ever feel that way?”

He doesn’t pity you. He relates to you. And that matters.

His affection grows deeper, not distant

Some would shy away from the intensity of someone unraveling. Wyll doesn’t. If anything, he draws closer. More careful. More devoted. Not because he sees you as fragile but because he sees your strength even when you can’t.

He flirts less during this time — not because he’s lost interest, but because his love becomes more protective. More reverent.

“You don’t have to be the light all the time, you know. Even the sun rests. I’ll keep the fire burning till you’re ready to rise again.”

Long-term: he’s patient, loyal, and will wait as long as it takes

Wyll isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re struggling. Not when you’re quiet. Not when it’s hard. He will wait. Fight for you. Sit beside you through every storm. Because once he loves — he chooses.

He’ll keep offering small joys — stories, warmth, reminders of who you are.

“You once told me I was a hero. But you — you’re the one who kept hope alive when everything went dark. I haven't forgotten. And I never will.”

Astarion 

His first response is deflection — sharp, defensive, and a bit cruel

Astarion senses the shift. He absolutely notices your sudden quiet, your lack of spark and it scares him. So his first instinct is to mock it, to distance himself emotionally.

He’ll say something sarcastic to cover his panic.

“Well, this is new. Have we given up the role of radiant optimist for something more… dreary?”

There’s venom, but it’s hollow. He’s not being cruel — he’s terrified. This is how he protects himself.

When he realizes it’s not a mood — it’s a descent — his mask slips

Once Astarion really understands what’s happening — that this isn’t passing sadness but something deeper — his tone shifts. Not immediately into comfort, but into a rare, raw honesty.

He’ll sit near you without knowing what to say, awkward and unsure. But he stays. That’s the tell.

“I’m not… good at this. The comforting. The caring. But I notice. You’ve gone quiet. And I hate it.”

He doesn’t ask you to be happy again. He asks you to talk to him. Because he feels helpless otherwise.

He’s afraid you’ll leave — or worse, disappear from the inside out

Astarion has abandonment trauma. Seeing someone he cares about emotionally shut down triggers that fear. He’ll begin clinging in his own way — more teasing, more barbed jokes, more hovering.

He won’t say “I’m scared.” He’ll say things like:

“You don’t get to break now, darling. I’ve only just gotten used to you.”

But there’s a plea underneath. “Please stay. Please don’t fade.”

Small gestures, deep meaning

Once he realizes words won’t fix this, Astarion begins to act in smaller, unexpected ways. He’ll bring you food without fanfare. Offer to clean your gear. Sit closer at night. It’s clumsy affection, but it’s real.

He shows up even when he doesn’t understand what you need.

“I don’t know how to fix you. But I’m here. And I’m… trying, gods help me.”

That’s the greatest intimacy he can offer: effort. Not performance. Real effort.

 If you let him in—even just a little—he breaks first

If you open up to him, if you trust him with your darkness, it breaks something in Astarion. Because someone as good, bright, and lovely as you just let him see what you hide. And to him, that’s sacred.

He’ll try to laugh it off, then go quiet. Too quiet.

“You shouldn’t have told me that. Not because I don’t care but because I do. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

And when he really means it:

“I’ve clawed my way out of darkness. I know what it feels like when it whispers to you. If you’re going to fall, fall toward me. I’ll catch you — clumsily, but… I’ll try.”

Gale

He sees it immediately and treats it like a sacred secret

Gale is perceptive in the way of scholars and poets — he sees subtleties. He’ll recognize the cracks in your smile, the fatigue in your voice, the way you pause too long before answering. But he won’t rush in with questions. He’ll wait, watching with quiet concern until the right moment to speak.

He might approach it gently, over tea, over books, over starlight.

“I notice things. Not just in the stars or in spellwork—but in people. You… aren’t quite yourself lately. Would you like to talk about it?”

He gives you the space to not be okay. No judgment. Just a safe harbor.

His reaction is compassionate, never condescending

Gale would never suggest you “cheer up.” Instead, he’d normalize your pain, offering philosophical reflections that are both grounding and comforting.

He speaks in metaphors — light and shadow, storms and silence — but always with sincerity.

“Even the sun rests, my dear. Even the Weave frays. There is no shame in being… still. In being soft for a while.”

He reassures you that your value does not fade with your smile.

“You, in sorrow, are no less radiant. Only quieter. And I will sit with you in that quiet as long as you need.”

He tries to bring you back gently with joy, not pressure

He doesn’t want to pull you out — he wants to walk with you through it. He might read to you, share arcane stories or magical curiosities just to make you smile. He offers warmth through shared wonder.

His flirting slows, becomes sweeter, less performative.

“I’ve missed your laughter. I don’t expect it but I look forward to its return. Like waiting for the first bloom of spring.”

If you cry in front of him? He won’t rush to fix it. He’ll witness it. That’s love to him.

 He opens up, too — so you know you’re not alone

Gale has his own darkness. And when you begin to break, he shares more of it, not to compare, but to let you know you’re not the only one walking through shadows.

His confessions are quiet, offered like gifts.

“There were days I feared the world would forget me. That all I was, all I am, would disappear. And still, I carried on. And now I see you. And I want to carry with you, if you’ll let me.”

He doesn't see your sadness as fragile. He sees it as real, and real things are worth staying for.

When he says he’s staying, he means it

Gale’s love is intentional, lasting, and utterly faithful. If you break down, he doesn’t waver. He simply settles beside you, hands gentle, voice soft, waiting for you to find your breath again.

He will stay up with you at night. He will keep the silence warm.

“You don’t need to shine to be loved. Sometimes, existing is enough. You are enough.”

And when you’re ready to stand again, even shakily — he’s right there.

“Let’s take one step. Just one. Together.”

Lae’zel 

Initial confusion, followed by frustration

Lae’zel is used to strength. She respects it. When you — someone she likely viewed as emotionally resilient — begin to fade into silence, she notices. And she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Her first response might be sharp. Defensive. Confused.

“You are not yourself. Why? What weakness has taken root in you?”

It’s not cruelty — it’s fear in disguise. You were a constant. Your unraveling threatens her idea of control.

“You do not cry. You fight. What has changed?”

She tries to snap you out of it because that’s what she would want

Lae’zel believes that pain is meant to be crushed, not carried. She doesn’t coddle. Her instinct is to provoke a reaction, to push you back into action.

She gives tough love before she even understands what gentle love looks like.

“Sitting in your sorrow will not serve you. You must move. You must act. That is how we survive.”

It’s not graceful but it’s her version of showing concern.

When you don’t react — that’s when she begins to understand

If you don’t fight back — if your silence lingers — Lae’zel’s armor begins to crack. She realizes this isn’t laziness or weakness. It’s something deeper. And she begins to see you.

That’s when she quiets down. Her tone shifts.

“You are not broken. Just… tired. Worn.”

She sits closer. Doesn’t touch but stays close, ready. Watchful. Protective.

Loyalty becomes her language of comfort

Lae’zel doesn’t know how to say “I love you” or “I’m here.” But she knows how to guard you, how to stand between you and the world while you regain your footing. And that’s what she offers.

She’ll position herself at your back in combat without being asked. Sharpen your blade while you sleep. Watch you out of the corner of her eye.

“Rest, if you must. I will not let anything touch you.”

And if someone else comments on your changed demeanor? She’ll shut them down instantly.

“Her strength has not left her. It is only… hidden. And it will return. You will not question it again.”

If you let her in — even a little — she becomes fiercely protective

If you choose to open up to her — say just a few words about what’s weighing you down — Lae’zel won’t say the perfect thing. But she’ll offer you something far rarer from her: trust.

She might look away while saying it, but it will land like an oath:

“You are strong. Even now. Especially now. You need not prove it to me.”

And in her own hard-edged way:

“You are not alone. Not while I breathe.”

[rosekeu]

BAD REVIEWS [PART SIX] : shigaraki tomura x reader [taglist OPEN!]

"been alone for so long, ive got something to prove.”

[MDNI] tw: angst. throwing up. a bit of smut.

<< previous — next >>

The date starts off…bad. 

To say the least. 

You’re still holding pinkies as you walk, his hand barely brushing yours with every step.

It’s ridiculous, really. 

Tomura led the way to what seemed to be a greasy little diner in the middle of nowhere. 

You barely get one foot in before your stomach betrays you. The smell of cooking meat hits you like a punch to the gut— fat, grease and sizzling grills— suddenly it's just too much. 

You gag. Hard. 

Your hand flies to your mouth, eyes watering. You spin and back out the door with a choked gasp, you don't get to make it to the sidewalk. Heat rushes to your face, your throat burns and you hurl. 

Right there. Right on Tomura’s red sneakers.

The shame is instant.

You drop to your knees, one arm wrapped around your middle. The other wiping furiously at the fountain of tears leaving your eyes. You sob loud, cracked and ugly. And it all comes spilling out. 

“I’m so sorry–” you gasp between uneven breaths. “Oh my god– Tomura, I didn’t mean to– fuck– your shoes–”

And suddenly it’s not just about the shoes.

Your chest hurts. Your body aches. Everything feels heavy and wrong. 

You can’t stop crying and just the thought of taking a deep breath sounds like a challenge. 

“I hate this,” you sob. “I hate being pregnant. I hate that I’m such a crybaby. I hate that I can’t eat anything without wanting to puke, I hate that I want sushi more than anything in the fucking world—”

You hiccup and sniff into the fabric of your long sleeve. Voice cracking with every word.

A wave of anger hits you.

What are you apologizing?

Why are you always apologizing?

Your hands clenched into fists against your thighs.

You look up at him—at him, standing there quietly, unmoving. Unbothered. Calm.

NOT GIVING A DAMN!

“…Why am I even saying sorry to you?” you snap, breath catching.

He blinks.

You push yourself up on shaky legs, rage suddenly burning beneath your skin. “Seriously. You? You, who broke into my house. Who attacked my coworker. Who left me alone for weeks and then showed up again like you had every right—”

Your voice wavers, thick and hoarse. “You weren’t there. When I found out. When I was scared. You weren’t there when I needed you.”

Your throat tightens, a sob rattling out.

“I’m the one who’s pregnant with your child! I’m the one who was left alone with no one else to turn to. And somehow I’m the one feeling guilty?!”

You were left breathless. Falling down to your knees once again. Sobbing into your sweaty hands– 

And through all of it, he doesn’t speak.

The vomit cools on his sneakers.

He's watching you. Analyzing every word you threw at him.

Then slowly, he crouches. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours. Close enough you can hear the rasp of his breath, a subtle shift of clothes as he moves like he’s trying not to startle you. 

You sneak a peek through your tear soaked fingers.

Without a single word–

He lifts a hand. 

You flinch, just barely.

But he doesn’t grab you.

He just… places his hand over the crown of your head. You feel four fingertips threading gently through the locks of your hair. 

His touch is certainly awkward– as if he’s not sure he’s doing it right, but you can tell he’s trying. For you.

He swallows, jaw flexing as his thumb brushes behind your ear, tucking a strand of hair away.

“I don’t care about the shoes.” He says. “So, don’t cry like that.”

You look up at him, eyes swollen, lips trembling.

“I should’ve been there,” he adds, barely above a whisper. “You’re right.”

And the thing is—

You believe him. Not because he’s forgiven. But because for once, he’s not lying. Not even to himself.

And for some reason, that makes everything worse.

Because now he’s being gentle. Now he’s touching you like you mean everything to him. 

Your heart shouldn’t beat faster when he touches you like this. Your fingers shouldn’t ache to hold him tighter.

And your stupid, aching heart shouldn't feel safest here, with a man who seems to embody every quality a man shouldn't have. 

“I feel like I ruined everything…”

“No.” He says. “You didn’t”

He shrugs, barely. “We’re outside. You’re here. I’m here.” His hand shifts, just barely tracing the curve of your temple like he’s committing it to memory. “Still counts, woman.”

The tears threaten again—frustrated, exhausted, touched. All of it. “You really think this counts as a date?” 

He mutters something incoherent under his breath, then starts wiping the vomit off his shoes with his coat. You watch, half-grossed out and half-comforted by the care he’s giving to your puke. “One we’ll never forget, that's for sure.”

When he’s done, he looks up at you briefly– blood-red eyes unreadable as he raises his hand and grips the coat with all of his five fingers. The previous coat now turned into gray ash blowing through the wind between the both of you. 

“That’s done.” Standing up, he runs his palms against his jeans. Now looking down at you, quiet. Patient. Waiting. “There’s a ramen shop just down the street.”

He pauses, looking away from you. His hand scratches his neck nervously. The comes a twitch of his fingers. “Do you want that? I’m not gonna make you eat here, it’s gross anyway.”

You laugh. 

And then—carefully, like it costs him something—he holds out his hand.

Not his whole hand.

Just his pinky.

That dumb, little offer of peace between two broken people who yearn for one another. 

You look at it through blurry eyes.

And you take it.

The ramen shop is tiny– barely fits five tables, and quiet except for the low hum of broth boiling behind the counter. The warm yellow lights flicker above you. It smells like soy and earth and nothing that will send your stomach into a frenzy. Thank God!

You sit in the corner booth, red-eyed and sniffling, with a tissue in one hand and chopsticks in the other.

Tomura watches you from across the table like you’re some wild creature in a zoo.

You slurp your first bite of noodles.

And cry harder.

Not like the big gasping sobs from before—but wet, sniffly, exhausted tears that just won’t stop.

“How the hell are you still crying?” He mutters, baffled. Sliding more napkins across the table towards you.

“I don’t know!” you wail, your tears mixing in with the bowl in front of you. “I feel awful, Tomu!”

You wave your chopsticks at him threateningly. 

“I’m tired all the time,” you go on. “Everything smells bad. I cry when a cat video plays and I can't go to bed without eating a tub of ice cream! AND YOU!”

Your eyes narrow. A fresh storm brewing behind them.

“You dropkicked my coworker, Tomura!”

He shrugs, deadpan. “This again? He was clearly hitting on you. And he touched you.”

‘He touched what’s mine.’ Is what he really wanted to say but stopped himself.

“I wasn't interested!”

“You work for the heroes.”

“I work for Eraserhead,” you correct, stabbing at your noodles. “Didn’t you say you liked him? I’m sure I can get a picture with him—”

Tomura freezes mid-slurp.

You swear you hear him choke for a second, but masks it with a cough and a sip of iced-tea.

He fidgets with the collar of his t-shirt before saying. “...I didn’t say I liked him.”

“Tomura.” You stare.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I said he was efficient. Not the worst hero I've seen– he’s smart and quiet. Doesn’t waste time with bullshit. Uses that binding cloth, which is underrated, by the way. Everyone goes for flashy quirks—

Why am I still talking? He thinks.

he just erases yours and breaks your face.” 

He shoves another bite of food down, chewing like it’ll shut him up. 

You’re looking at him now—like really looking—and he feels it. He feels that awful warmth creeping up his neck again, right beneath the itch. Like he’s a twelve year old boy again and just got caught geeking out, more embarrassingly, about his favorite pro-hero.

He hates it.

He hates how much he doesn’t hate it. 

You grin, a devilish look in your eyes. “Is this your way of saying you want me to get something signed?”

His eye twitches. “Absolutely not. That’s lame.”

You raise an eyebrow, smug. “No autograph or picture. Got it.”

A beat.

“…Maybe if it’s, like, on a napkin or something.”

You burst into laughter. It’s too bright for a world like his. Too loud, too soft, too much.

He frowns, trying to act indifferent, but his ears are pink and his fingers are twitching. 

“How did I end up falling in love with you?”

Silence.

The world stops right then and there. 

He’s still. He’s shaking. Fuck. He doesn’t know anymore.

You said it so earnestly, so sweet like candy on his tongue. 

The need inside him spikes—violent, desperate, terrified. It's not butterflies in his stomach. It’s moths chewing through every soft thing in his body. It’s panic.

What if you change your mind? What if you take it back?

His eyes bore into you. Not blinking. Red and raw and hungry.

He wants to grab your face. To press your palm against his chest and scream ‘feel this, feel what you’ve done to me, woman.’

He wants to kiss you until your lips bruise. Until there’s no one in the world but the two of you. Until you forget anyone else ever existed.

He wants to bury himself inside the space you engraved into his heart and rot there, happily.

He wants to live under your skin.

In every sense of the words– gently, lovingly peel back each layer of your skin. Tangle himself in your veins, wrap around your bones and press his ear to the muscle of your heart to hear how it beats when you think of him. How it beats when his name spills from your glossy lips.

Because it has to be him. It has to be. 

He wants to sit behind your soft gaze, watch the world with your eyes. Wants to be the only reason your stomach flutters, the only reason your breath catches, the only reason your chest aches. He wants to know what it’s like to be loved by you from the inside out.

He wants to claw his way into your dreams, the bad, the good ones, the wet filthy ones, until your subconscious is full of him. Tastes like him. 

Oh, god. To relive that moment, when he fucked you again and again and again.

It replays inside his head daily. If not more. 

He wants to make you cum on his tongue, taste your sweet nectar and drink it all up like it's something holy. Wants to hear you beg for mercy when he thrust inside your tight, wet cunt. Paint your walls white like he did once before. 

He won’t stop until every beat of your heart, every perfect atom that constructs your body matches his destruction.

He wants to bleed into you. Deeply, irrevocably poisoning everything else that has ever made you feel safe. 

Because no one else gets to have you.

Not after him.

Not ever. 

You chose him.

Why?

Why would you ever choose him?

He doesn’t deserve it.

But fuck if he’ll let you go now. 

Because inside the broken, rotted space of his mind, you are salvation.

You are his sanctuary.

His sacred altar. Where nothing else matters, but you.

And he’s on his knees, broken– shaking— pleading— praying with hands soaked in another man’s blood and for the thing taking control over him— that thing he doesn’t fully understand.

One thing he is certain of is that you're the only god he believes in now.

And he will worship you with the kind of love that kills.

That devours.

He leans forward, slow. Voice low and rough.

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“Say it again. Say you’re in love with me.”

He’s not asking. He’s starving.

Because if this is real—then maybe he’s not completely lost.

And you think. Fuck it.

You launch yourself across the table.

You kiss him.

It’s wet with the salt of your previous tears and the remnants of dinner breath and your nose bumps his too hard and he thinks your elbow just knocked over a cup—

But still. 

You kiss him.

And Tomura can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t move.

He thinks his ribs are going to explode. He thinks he might die if you stop touching him.

Hands trembling in the air, afraid he’ll ruin it. What if when he touches you… you vanish? 

Afraid he’ll wake up from this dream and end up alone in the dark solitude of his room, and this will just be a sick trick born of hunger and obsession. 

So he lets himself feel it. How your plush lips seem to perfectly fit against his own. 

So when your lips part, just slightly, and your forehead rests against each other, your nose still smushed against the bridge of his—

“I’m in love with you,” you whisper again.

And he’s ruined. 

Absolutely. Utterly ruined.

Because now he knows what it feels like. To be so intimately touched by you. 

To be kissed by you.

To be truly, unconditionally wanted.

Now, maybe just maybe, the child inside him, the one left to rot in the dark, finally found something worth holding onto.

Even if he has to destroy the world to keep you. The two of you.

“HEY!!”

 A rough voice cuts through the ramen shop. You both freeze.

The waiter stands behind the counter, a half-wiped bowl in hand, glaring. The whole shop had gone dead ass quiet. Except for the comedic slurp of someone in the back pretending he didn’t witness the whole ordeal. 

“This is a restaurant, not a porno,” he barks. “Get off the table!”

Tomura turns his head. Rigidly.

Dead red eyes meet the man in a stare so sharp it could skin the guy alive.

With zero shame and full offense, he barks. “Don’t you see we’re having a moment here, asshole?!”

You slap a hand on your face, trying to keep yourself from bursting out in laughter(and failing). “Oh. My. God.” Sliding back into your seat, dabbing the napkins on the spilled drink across the table. Cheeks flaming.

“She’s pregnant, y’know. Outta have some more respect!”

“Tomura! Stop!”

“S-sir, I apologize–the meal will be on the house—”

“Good.”

“Geez, Tomu. That was not necessary.”

a/n: this was such a pleasure to write- i love obsessive tomu hes my favvvvvvvv :) share your thoughts <3

taglist: @rax-writes , @radlightfire , @pastelygrape @enyaaa2222 , @moonchild323232 , @ykyouluvme , @choubidoutriso , @ale-t13 , @stardollwrites , @tomurasnextwife , @tamishadawn , @memo-the-fishy , @saltypuffin1040 , @atspiss , @ilovefictionalmensomuch , @babzzwrld , @babzz6 , @hadesorion , @thatoneawkwardfeeling , @nina-from-317 , @poppyflower-22 , @touyaslapdog

[phantombegruvia]

SFTH MURDER MYSTERY - PART 14 [JOHN JACOB AND RUMPLED POV]

MASTERPOST

*no CW needed

[WAYNE MANOR STUDY - 21:45]

“Uh, this is the clock,” John Jacob gestured towards the grandfather clock - apparently it might be a door, according to Margaery.

Margaery analysed it, really closely. She was practically laying her eyeball on the wooden object. It acted as though it didn't notice her, tic tic-ing away. She dropped to her knees, feeling around on the polished wooden floor, humming.

“The floor is scruffed, look,” she pointed to the floor, and, lo and behold, the flooring was marked slightly. The markings itself was in a curve.

“So,” Derek squeaked, “it is a secret door?”

“Yep, I was right,” Margaery brushed her knees as she stood up, “now, how on earth do we open it?”

John racked his brain, attempting to find any answers, when it felt like a candle was lit inside his mind, “what if it's the code that Rumpled found?” John suggested, “what if the code isn't a code? What if it's a time?” He walked towards the clock, pushing the hands, “eighteen minutes past five.”

The clock made a clicking noise as John moved the hands, and finally, as he moved it for the last time, the clock made a louder click. John had to move backwards slightly when the clock moved like a door would.

“Ha, you clocked it,” Margaery said, before, “oh, I hate myself for that.”

John just looked at her, confused, before shaking his head. Derek stepped forward, not going into the secret room, but just peeking his head through.

“It's just.. stairs?” He said, looking back at the two, “just stairs.. leading to, er.. darkness.”

“Sounds exciting,” Margaery shrugged, before grabbing a candlestick. She pulled a lighter from her pockets and lit it, before starting her descent, “come on, lads!”

Derek and John shared a somewhat-anxious look, before hesitantly following her down the uneven stone stairs.

[WAYNE MANOR FIRST FLOOR - 21:45]

Rumpled was getting gradually more and more annoyed at the guests, namely Ethel and Tracey. Ethel was just being.. Ethel, she was being over the top and was not understanding anything. While Tracey just.. wasn't pulling her weight. She was distant, and not joining any discussions.

It didn't feel like neither Esmeralda or Amanda were helping much, either. Esmeralda was understandable, in a way, she was recovering from being poisoned - but her vampirism ensured a fast recovery, and she was already back to full health. Or, well, whatever was full health for a vampire. Amanda, on the other hand, was fine, she was healthy, but she seemed to be more.. enthralled by Esmeralda that she didn't seem too focused on anything else. She was also quite negative when it came to discussions.

So, as Rumpled watched the two entwine their figures, he had to hold back a groan, “alright, we shouldn't wait around for them, we should continue our search.”

“Two hands are better than one!” Ethel almost sang, “that's what I've said - oh! But three hands! Does anyone want to lend me a hand?”

“I.. would,” Helter had to inch backwards, as Ethel's nose was practically touching his, “but, I don't think you mean it in the metaphorical sense.”

“What's a meta for?” She smiled, like a wolf would to its prey.

“I'm not going to engage with you anymore,” he sighed, before shuffling away next to Tracey, “what are you thinking about?”

Tracey made a startled noise, before recovering in record time, “oh, nothing. Well, actually, I'm thinking about this guy I met in Marbella, he was a bartender and wow was he fit.”

Rumpled watched Helter as his face fell, obviously giving up asking anyone anything.

Esmeralda whispered something into Amanda's ear, who was now more relaxed when she was previously scared.

And, at that moment, the lights turned off without warning. Rumpled sighed, knowing what that meant.

part 13 << part 14 >> part 15 MASTERPOST

[thatonegirlonhere]

Han x GN!Reader

What happens when Han calls you in the middle of the night because he’s having an anxiety attack?

Content warning: angst, fluff, anxiety attack

Word count: ~750

Master list

The call came just before 1AM.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand—soft but persistent—and when your sleepy eyes focused enough to read the screen, you blinked in surprise.

Quokka 🫰🐿️ calling…

Your stomach tightened. He never called this late unless something was wrong.

You answered immediately.

“Ji?” Your voice was hoarse with sleep.

There was silence on the other end. Then a shaky inhale.

“I– I’m sorry,” he whispered, and you could already hear it. The strain in his voice. The shallow breaths. The way he was trying to hold it together and failing. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

You were already sitting up, blanket falling from your shoulders.

“No. It’s okay. I’m here,” you said, heart pounding. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I– I don’t know.” He let out a panicked exhale, like the act of speaking hurt. “I was writing and it just hit me. My brain wouldn’t shut up and now my chest is tight and my hands—my hands won’t stop shaking.”

You could picture it. Him sitting on the floor in his studio, hoodie pulled over his head, surrounded by papers, music still playing low in the background while his mind spiraled faster than he could catch it.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” he choked, voice breaking. “God, I’m so sorry. This is so stupid.”

“Han Jisung,” you said gently but firmly. “You’re not stupid. You’re having an anxiety attack. You called me, and that’s the strongest thing you could’ve done. I’m really proud of you, okay?”

He was quiet for a second. You heard a sniffle, then the soft rustle of him moving.

“I feel like I’m drowning and nothing even happened,” he whispered. “It’s just… pressure. The album. The deadlines. The expectations. I feel like I’m never enough. Like I’m letting everyone down.”

Your heart cracked.

“Oh, Ji… no. You’re not letting anyone down,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “You are so loved. You’re doing your best, and your best is more than enough.”

“But it doesn’t feel like it,” he breathed. “It never feels like enough.”

You hated that he felt this way.

“Okay,” you said softly. “You don’t have to fix anything right now. You don’t have to do anything. Just listen to me, alright?”

You could hear the quiet desperation in his silence, the way he clung to the sound of your voice like a life raft.

“Let’s breathe together. Can you try that with me?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ll try.”

“Alright. In through your nose. One… two… three. Hold it. And out through your mouth. One… two… three.”

You guided him through it, again and again, until the jagged edges of his breaths smoothed out a little. Until you heard less panic and more exhaustion.

“Your voice,” he mumbled. “It makes it easier to breathe.”

Tears prickled behind your eyes.

“I’ll stay on the phone as long as you need,” you promised. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. We can just be quiet together.”

“I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted, voice barely audible now. “Of how easily my mind turns on me. Of not being strong enough.”

“You are strong,” you said. “Not because you push everything down, but because you let yourself feel. Because you still keep going even when it hurts. That’s real strength.”

There was a pause. Then, softly:

“I love you.”

You swallowed, your heart full.

“I love you too, Ji. So much. I’ve got you, okay? You’re not alone.”

He sighed—slow, shaky, but calmer than before. “Will you stay on the line until I fall asleep?”

“Always.”

⸻

You talked to him about your day. About the stray cat you saw curled up on someone’s scooter. About the terrible snack combination you tried earlier. Anything to help him focus on something lighter.

Eventually, his breathing evened out. You could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breath on the other end, the faint scratch of his sleeve as he shifted in bed.

“Ji?” you whispered.

No answer.

He’d finally fallen asleep.

You didn’t hang up. You just lay back, phone still against your ear, listening to the soft sound of his breathing.

And you stayed.

Because when someone you love is drowning, you don’t let go.

You hold on.

You anchor them.

You whisper love until they float again.

[ranchwamen]

Niklas furry (scalie) version concepts. He's a common European adder! I'm really vibing with the legless version and I think it fits with the rest of my furries (while the fish have arms and legs with digits, ordinary fish already have fins which are homologous with tetrapod limbs, snakes don’t). In any case there's also a limbed version.... because who am I to stop a man from achieving his dream of flipping the bird

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[connormoving]

i think itis funny in the past when i would list my interests as if i post abt them i donot post abt the shit im into rly Mainly bc im not rly Into Into anything anymore i occasionally watch or read or play something but i dont do fandom stuff rly much.... just sometimes i get brainworms

[midnightwind]

I love Dragon Age companion quests, but sometimes I wish we had more that didn't culminate in fighting a Big Personal Bad, you know

[invinciblerodent]

so where exactly do we draw the line between "yes yes this is a good and emotionally intelligent way of handling sensitive things that's befitting of a high-charisma character who is insightful and wise" and "that's way too modern and cohesive of an understanding of mental health for someone living in fantasy-times who's not had a healthy coping mechanism in her life"

preferably without dipping into "and now she's beginning to sound like she's talking to a scared horse, and not only is that not great, he'd also uh. fucking hate that"

(so the Astarion romance is fun)

[craptainkirk]

Taking a moment to say how pissed and stressed out i am that my dad has taken the day off

[lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom]

Nightmare

KANG DAE-HO X READER

Summary- Dae-ho wakes up from a nightmare, with you being the only one by his side to calm him down.

Warnings- Mentions of PTSD, Nightmare, ECT.

A/N- Thank you, @tomgregtruther101 @errruvande @momoko-world @thethreeeyed-raven for encouraging me to write this!

Word Count- 1,223

A low mumble awoke you from your slumber. Typically you were a heavy sleeper, but when it came to Dae-ho it was different. You could have slept through a firework show. Though, the second your beloved got up to use the bathroom- you're up with him.

It bothered the sweet man at first, he hated waking you up. After some reassurance that you didn't mind, he warmed up to the idea. This night, however, was not like many.

It was not uncommon for Dae-Ho to wake up frazzled. He would get something warm to drink from the kitchen, and lay back down. (Praying he didn't wake you). On the much more common occurrence, you would awake with him. In turn, you'd be the one making him something warm to drink, possibly something sweet to snack on. Then the two of you would cuddle until he was fast asleep.

It was honestly comforting for you as well, being able to be his anchor was flattering. He trusted you like no other.

Dae-ho was not Frazzled though, and he didn't wake up to get a beverage.

He was thrashing, hard. His legs slightly kicking, arms jumping up every few seconds. With an impossibly scrunched face, he mumbled again.

"Dae?" You whispered out. The only response you received was a hit to the side, a stray flaring hand had got you.

The mumbling quickly turned louder, now sounding like a cry or groan. It worried you beyond recognition.

"Dae-ho." You pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder. His body jerked away from it. Very uncharacteristic.

A disfigured 'no' left his lips, a struggled sob escaped. He had managed to kick the comforter off of himself, and the bed.

You were now sat on your knees, looming over him. "Dae-ho!" You firmly grabbed both of his shoulders, shaking him.

A loud gasp erupted from both of you as his eyes shot open, you had no time to make a comment. His legs pushed and kicked, separating himself from you. At that singular moment, in his fear struck mind, he didn't seem to recognize you.

He had already found himself against the headboard of the bed, his hands pressing tight against his ears. You had barely blinked in all his movement.

With gaping eyes, a pounding chest, and heavy breathing he looked at you. Almost as if you were the one who hurt him.

"It just me, Dae-ho, its just me..." You spoke as soft and low as you could. You didn't approach any closer, but put your hands up to appear less intimidating.

His eyes just darted across the room in response, body curling further. His lip quivered, face and body drenched in sweat.

"You're okay, you're safe. Dae, you're safe. It's just me... It was just a nightmare, everything is okay..."

He swallowed thick, slowly nodding his head. His gaze now stuck on yours. His scared and nerve wrecked appearance crushed you. It was opposite of the man he appears to show to everyone, only you knew of his nightmares.

"I'm going to come closer, I promise I'm here, I'm real, you're at home. Safe in bed..." You shuffled over on your knees, hands starting at his forearm.

He slightly flinched at your touch, but made no attempt to move away. Your hand caressed across his arm, going to his own hand. You tenderly unravel his tight grip on his head, tangling your fingers in his.

A large sigh left him, his head falling back in frustration. He was now back to reality, though still beat and weary. Water glossed over his eyes. He bit his lip hard, trying to fight away any tears. He thought it would make him seem less of a man to cry in front of you. You couldn't disagree more.

"I'm so sor-" His voice cracked as he tried to speak, a couple tears has managed to escape. You didn't let him finish, his face was pressed deeply into your chest within seconds. He truly didn't know what he was apologizing for, for waking you? For having a nightmare? For his frequent PTSD attacks?

You had quickly taken his frame into your arms. He would have admitted that your knees pressing into his thighs was uncomfortable, but he didn't care right now. You were with him, holding him, and loving him. That's all he cared about.

"Don't you dare apologize, you've done nothing wrong." You cradled his head tight, pressing kisses to the top of his crown.

You managed to twist the two of you around, your back now against the headboard with him in your lap. He was quiet for awhile, you simply rocked him back and forth for a little bit.

His arms found themselves wrapped around your waist. He held onto you for dear life... Almost as if you'd fade away if he let go. You heard his breathing shake every few breaths, but he was calming down.

Continuing to rock, you reached your hands up to his hair. It was half up, half down. The hair tie pulled out of his hair easily enough. You were able to considerably comb through his hair with your fingers. A simple action you knew he loved.

While one hand worked at his soft black hair, another rubbed circles on his back. "Feeling better?"

He sniffled, leaning up to look at you. He couldn't meet your eyes, almost embarrassed. His meek, "Thank you." was accompanied by a nod.

You brushed through his hair, even with him sat up. "Want to talk about it?" You never wanted to pressure him into anything he wasn't comfortable with.

"Just the typical... but you were there, you were who I was shooting... It was like you were the enemy... I just- I can't describe it.. It made no sense-." His voice shook again, so you interrupted him.

"Exactly, baby. It was a nightmare that will never happen... Because I know you would never hurt me, that you would do anything to protect me?" Your tone implied a question.

He nodded furiously, now making direct eye contact. There wasn't a phrase he agreed more with. He looked at you like a loyal puppy.

"See? It was your sweet little mind playing mean tricks on you..." You rested a flat palm to his cheek. Taking in how handsome he looked in the moonlight.

He puffed, now more light hearted, and fell back onto your chest.

"I promise I will keep you safe from all the nightmares and mind games." He was frustrated at your words.

"But that's supposed to be my job..." He said, face conveniently still upon your breast.

You smiled warmly, "Yes, it is. And you fulfill it perfectly. I couldn't be happier. But, you must let me take care of you as well..."

He didn't respond, his internal monologue had a million points to argue back. But he didn't. He embasked in the moment, squeezing you tight again.

You took the silent request, resuming your back rubbing and head scratching.

From experience, you knew he would not fall asleep any time soon. That you'd probably fall asleep before him, no matter how hard you tried to stay up. All you could do for now was whisper how much you love him, play with his hair, and hum silly melodies.

And he was content with that.

A/N- Okay, so erm. I feel like it was rushed (it was), but I also feel that way about all my works. So... Please let me know how I can improve. Also this is my first time writing something like this, so I hope it wasn't terrible. XOXOXOX LOVE YALL