#seems I've fallen off the path

[ask-codeearasure]

We need them sugars and corn syrups and artificial flavorings man you don't understand the joy of reliving our childhoods by stealing from the candy isle of a Dollar Tree and comparing these grown ass fruity men to the great motherfucking matte blue Scooby Doo gummy

All haIL. GumMY.

-- Sarco

Transcript: I wanna eat Color

[macfrog]

fucking diabolical | one shot

i don't have a semblance of an explanation for this one. i've fallen off the ledge and i'm never coming back. if you know, you fucking know.

pairing: billy butcher x f!reader summary: you move in across the street. butcher notices. warnings: unspecified age gap, infidelity, unprotected car sex, creampie, daddy kink, breeding kink (one mention of pregnancy), softdom! & soft!billy...? weird. word count: 3.6k

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Six days. He made it six days.

He’s not this weak a man, is he? Is he really? To stand by the living room window, whiskey in hand, white-knuckle grip threatening to shatter the glass. Five minutes. Only five more minutes.

To watch your figure float between rooms, flicking lamps on and flitting blinds closed. A patchwork façade, now become an almost nightly routine. Polite little home on a polite little street, on this polite little evening.

You’ll leave the radio on in the hallway. Your neighbors will never know.

He’s not so weak to feel himself harden at the mere thought: your body bending backwards under his, his every move stealing the sweetest of sighs. Leaden weight in his pants, painful and premature and at the same time – a fucking relief, honestly.

Relief that he’s still alive, somewhere inside himself. Relief that he can feel something other than burning rage, simmering resentment. Relief that he can still spot a right fucking sort when he sees one.

Billy’s not a weak man.

You just might be testing his willpower, is all.

It’s been a month since you moved in. Since you first crossed paths across the street. He was walking Terror, cooling off after another spat with the missus. Never fucking listens, does she, old boy? Never. I ain’t tryna cause a fight, but she makes it so bloody –

Hang about. Who’s this?

You looked too good to be true. Boosting yourself up into the back of the moving truck, dipping into the shadows for the one, two, three steps it took him to reach the curb. He could feel the ricochet of his pulse through every vein in his body.

You resurfaced in the light, nudging a brown box towards the ledge with the heel of your shoe. Skimpy little shorts, Billy noted, your skin glistening with sweat and sun.

When you hopped back down, your breasts – Jesus fuck, your breasts – they bounced so perfectly into place. Full and round and fucking delicious beneath that tank top.

Billy loves a challenge, doesn’t he? Fly little bugger. Didn’t matter to him when your little twat of a husband came scurrying out, scooped up the box and, following your direction, staggered like some pathetic drunkard back inside.

Didn’t matter to him, and didn’t seem like it mattered to you. At least, not when you caught sight of your new neighbor and took one looping glance – from raveled boots to rugged beard, lingering on the Hawaiian shirt in the middle – and then smiled.

Smiled like you knew you were about to ruin his fucking life.

Hi.

Hello, love. Moving day, is it?

You gestured to your feet, then to the Tetris block boxes in the back of the truck. Bit of a shitshow so far.

Looks like it. Need a hand?

He could’ve sworn you were considering it, the way you paused. The way your hands crossed to cover the ring on your third finger.

You rolled your tongue from one cheek to the other. Thanks, you decided, I think we’re good.

And then, just as Billy made to cross the street, you cast another line.

Nice neighborhood?

His mouth twisted into that sick smirk of his. Muscle memory. He had you ensnared already. He glanced over his shoulder. Hm?

I’m not from around here. Is it a nice neighborhood?

He staggered back over, stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘s alright, yeah. Few wronguns, couple curtain-twitchers.

Terror sniffed a trail between the boxes at your feet. His leash wrapped around your bare legs.

You knelt to cup his blocky head, scratch the folds of fur between his ears. Curtain-twitchers, huh? you echoed to the pup. And which category does your daddy fall into?

Billy’s fist locked around the leash. He could already feel it: the rush of blood heading somewhere he knew it fucking shouldn’t.

Neither, he replied. Yet.

You looked up at him. All doe-eyed and innocent. Younger than him by a decent amount, so it looked. A light in your eyes and a fullness in your cheeks that gave you away instantly.

You looked brand new. Lovely little thing; a baby crease between your brows as you ruffled the dog’s snowy fur and stood up, mirroring Billy’s suspicious smirk.

So fucking sweet. So sweet, in fact, that Billy wanted to chew you up and spit you back out. Wanted to see how much of a mess he could make of such a pretty girl.

He’s always known just how to ruin a good thing, hasn’t he?

Well, you cleared your throat, it was nice to meet you, uh…

Butcher, he said, holding a paw of a hand out. Billy Butcher.

Billy Butcher, you echoed. I look forward to seeing where we both turn out.

Forty-five seconds still on the clock, he gives in.

Gives in to the need thrumming through his bones, so electric he can’t stand still. Gives in to his fluttering heart and the way it falters with each sighting of your silhouette.

Gives in to the fucking brick in his pants, the painful ache and the feeling like bruising each time it ruts against his jeans.

Can’t help himself, can he? He’s already bursting at the seams. He hasn’t touched you in – Christ, Billy, it’s only been eighteen hours – but fuck it.

You’re the only good thing about his day. The only relief he gets, the only time he feels like himself.

The only thing Billy has to look forward to these days, is pushing his cock inside someone else’s wife.

Ain’t that a fucking thing? Fuuuckin’ hell.

He thinks, swaggering down his front steps, that he should feel bad about it. He almost wishes he could.

He thinks, watching you mirror him across the street – collar up, head down, the way he’d taught you the first night – that he should call it quits. Tonight, last night, last week. This affair should never have started in the first place.

He thinks, as he sighs into his car and you strut off in the opposite direction, that he should let you go. Tell you to turn around, head back home. Back to your husband, back to your life – unblemished by Billy’s messy, poisoned hands.

He should let you go back to that girl he met on the side of the road. Ring on her finger, dimple in her cheek. A twinkle of innocence as bright as sunlight in her eye.

But you pause at the end of the street. Billy catches it in his rearview. You pause, twirl on your heel, and stare back at the Cadillac. Your arms come up – something of a signal, a prompt. He should have the engine running by now. He should be on his way to the meeting spot.

Billy thinks, if he’s half the man he’s spent his entire life trying to be, that he owes it to himself not to turn the key. To get back out of the car, and never watch for the shadow of you ever again.

He knows he’s not half the man he should be. And why the fuck would he be, anyway? He ain’t exactly got a decent lineup of role models to choose from. A seed planted in shit can grow into as tall a tree as it wants – the roots will always be steeped in shit.

Sod it.

The engine rumbles to life, and so does he.

Billy pulls the Cadillac in to the usual spot. A couple blocks from your street, the place is perpetually deserted – save for a couple stumbling teenagers last week and a meddling raccoon the week before.

You’re loitering beneath the cover of some trees, avoiding the splotches of amber streetlight. Hands in your pockets; shoulders bunched. Almost a month of sneaking around and still, each time, he almost mistakes you for some other ghost on the street.

The door whips open. You sink into the passenger seat.

“Don’t tell me you almost got cold feet.”

His eyebrows quirk. “That sound like me?”

You bite down on a cheeky grin. That dimple of yours makes itself at home. “Thought you were about to bail on me. Car trouble? Couldn’t get it to start?”

“Hm,” Billy pinches your chin, “That don’t sound like me either.”

He could swear he feels you nuzzle into his grasp; could swear your gaze softens just a little. But it’s dark outside, even darker in here, and he’d do well to remember exactly who you are, and exactly who he is.

Selfish, careless, irresponsible. A right cunt. Broken from the inside out, a black chasm which splits the four chambers of his heart. It’s in his bones, in his blood.

The kind of man who flirts with the neighbor, who meets her in a backstreet and fucks her in his car. The kind of man who goes home afterwards and showers her perfume from his skin; who plays with himself until he’s hard all over again just from the memory.

The kind of man whose wife reckons the new couple look happy. Honeymoon phase, she’ll say, and then drift off into some other corner of the house.

Billy lets his hand drop. “Come on, then,” he says, putting the car into park. “Ain’t got all night.”

He’s never bored of it.

Never bored of the smutty smirk on your face, or the way you skip around to the backseat. Never bored of that first touch, the heat on his skin that meets your frozen fingertips. Never bored of the way you melt into him, the need pouring from your body as soon as Billy pulls you into his lap.

There’s a thrill to it. A kind of ecstasy he hasn’t felt in years. For the sliver of night that you share together, he can be exactly who he wants to be.

It just so happens to be who you want, too.

He lifts the tee from your shoulders, teeth dragging between your collarbones. Across red lace and strap, pausing only to suck a delicate mark into the plush of your chest.

You giggle, throwing your head back. “No proof,” you pull his jaw away, “He’ll see that, you know he will.”

Billy nips at your bottom lip. “Tell ‘im he left it.”

“Ha,” you roll your eyes, “Good one.”

He toys with the lace on your hips, slipping a hand between your legs. “Poor baby,” he pouts, “Ain’t got no one to touch her at home.”

Your spine curls when he cups your mound. Tongue pokes at the corner of your mouth, eyes flood black; a wild animal eyeing her next meal.

He swirls his middle finger, teasing your clit over your underwear. “Make a mess in ‘em, sweetheart, just for me.”

“They’re already a mess for you,” you grit, nails digging into his shoulders. You grind into his palm, hips stuttering. “They’re – always – a mess – for you.”

He can feel it – the damp material at his fingertips, the warm wet on the inside of your thighs. You need this as much as he does. And that’s all this is, right? Helping each other out, being neighborly. A favor asked and answered inside of an hour.

Lend me some milk, water my houseplants. Fuck me until I can’t fucking think straight.

His cock strains against his jeans. Any longer and he’ll be making a mess in his own fucking underwear.

He kisses along the ridge of your jaw, sliding a hand up your spine to unhook your bra.

You shake the lingerie from your body, fucking perfect tits jiggling between your arms. Bare on top of him now – nothing but a scrap of lace over your hips and a sinful smile on your lips.

You fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, writhing still with the pressure he’s quickly building between your hips. Grinding into him, hungrier and hungrier.

“Stupid fucking shirt,” you groan, ripping the floral pattern from his shoulders. Your hands find the plain of his chest; solid, dappled with dark hair, chain catching the streetlight and reflecting it in your eyes.

Billy laughs to himself. He pulls his hand from between your legs, sucks the tease of slick from his fingers, and guides your lips down to his. “Come here.”

No, he’s not a weak man. He’s been a fighter his entire life. Fists that have broken bone, words that have crumbled foes to dust. If you ain’t already a cunt, the world will make a cunt of you, yeah?

But here, now, you – undoing his belt, tossing it to the footwell; pushing the denim from his hips. You, giggling when he bucks you up to rid himself of his underwear, and your head hits the roof of the car.

You, taking his stiff cock in both hands, biting down on a moan when you feel the weight of him –

You might just be the thing that breaks him.

He thrusts up into your grip. “Drivin’ me off my head, you are,” he groans, burying his face in your chest when you squeeze.

“Good,” you reply, spitting into your palm. “’s what you do to me, anyway.”

You drag warm saliva over his length, slipping lower to massage his balls. So big and heavy in your hand, though Billy knows you’re being gentle.

Everything about you is gentle. Even while breaking your most solemn vow – the bullshit promises you made to that cunt at the altar – you’re so sweet with it. A favor, sure – but you want to make him feel good. You still want to pretend it’s real.

Only – there’s not enough time. Your husband will be home any minute, Billy’s wife has probably already noticed he’s gone. There are only so many excuses that an hour can allow, and the longer he spends admiring the way you caress his ball sack, the more of those excuses are written off.

For now, the back of his Cadillac behind a dilapidated Burger King will have to do.

“Alright,” Billy croaks, pausing your movements with a light hand on your wrist. “Gotta let me fuck you now, sweetheart. Been waiting all day for it, haven’t I?”

You chew on your lip, guiding his cock to your entrance.

His tip notches at your hole, so warm and snug just for him. He can feel how tight you still are, even after a month of him. Still not used to the size, the way he punches the air straight out of your lungs with that first thrust.

He wonders if you’re still having sex with your husband. Stupid question, maybe, but he does. He wonders whether, when the bloke slips inside, you feel yourself aching around him. Feel your cunt needing more, needing him.

The thought drains his head of any blood and sends it straight to his dick. He leans back against the headrest and pulls your cunt down over him.

The sound you make is almost enough to send him over already. A tiny squeak, a yelp which shatters into the most beautiful sound he’s heard all day. Need. Need and want, laced up and tied into the form of a pretty girl on his cock.

Need and want, which happens to push the word over her tongue just as he goes to ask for it.

“Daddy,” you whine, head rolling across Billy’s shoulder. Your hips are still, split open on top of him as your cunt adjusts to the intrusion.

“There she is,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, smirking. “’s my girl, let Daddy open her up a little.”

So fucking tight, it almost hurts. He can’t remember the last time he was inside someone who gripped him this much. Like you don’t want him to move at all, just stay put between your walls and let you call the shots.

“That feel okay, darlin’?” Billy asks, helping you straighten.

You look down to where your bodies connect – the dark trail of hair on his groin meeting yours. The twist of lace, underwear warped to make room for the width of his cock.

You brace yourself with two hands on his stomach, and push up. Only an inch, barely enough for any relief, but when you drop down on him again, you wince.

“She’ll get there,” he says, slipping a hand around the small of your back. He cradles you in the crook of his arm, kisses the hinge of your jaw. “Just gotta give her a little bit a’ time, don’t we?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you reply, in a bottled voice. You link your own arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him.

He lifts his hips, gently bucking until your whimpers quieten. Until the crease between your brow smooths, replaced with creases at the corners of your lips. A smile, a satisfied thing – her daddy always makes her feel better, doesn’t he?

Always blurs the edges of her pain. The relief after a long, shitty day; the escape from a long, shitty marriage. The need met; the want fulfilled. The hunger satiated, until eight p.m. the following night when you pull your hood up and go for another one of your walks.

You chant it to him, like with each syllable you’re turning the pain into pleasure. Daddy Daddy Daddy. Each one higher than the last, each one more desperate.

Your walls squeeze around him. You grind down against the thick hair at his base; clit swollen and soaked with your wet and his.

Billy’s eyes roll closed. He slips his fingers through yours, feels the cold brush of your wedding ring on his skin.

A good man would snap out of it. A good man would glance down at the strip of gold around his own finger, and call the whole thing off. Stuff himself back into his pants, drive the both of you home. Never look the road you’re on again, never look at another woman who isn’t his wife.

But his wife’s not here. Hasn’t been here, for longer than Billy would like to admit.

You’re here. Dove of a girl, soft coos from her lips and little fluttering movements. Good girl, right in his lap, begging him to tear her apart.

And thank fuck he’s not a good man.

He grits his teeth, jaw clenching around a pathetic moan. “Daddy’s gonna come, darlin’, gonna fill her right up.”

“Daddy,” you pant, “Daddy, I’m – I’m ovulating, please –”

“Good,” he grunts, slamming in again, “Means you’ll take it all then, won’tcha?”

You slur something of a laugh into his chest. Your thighs clench around his waist, rutting begins to falter. You dig your nails into his shoulders and, with a sobbing moan, you come hard around his cock.

“Oh, my God – Billy,” you gasp, hands grabbing the hair at the base of his skull. You give it a sharp tug and tilt his head skyward.

Billy comes with a guttural moan, a sound that tears from the base of his throat and echoes into your mouth. His cock pulses inside you, emptying into your little cunt.

Nothing has ever felt so fucking right, he realizes, than this cramped backseat. A tight squeeze, all of it – the sweet pinch of your pussy around his cock, the sweat and sex coating the windows in a hazy film.

The stars in his vision spatter, fading into the dull car. He settles back with a sigh.

You giggle, swaying to and fro in his lap. When you slip off, his cock settles heavy and soaked on his groin.

“Hold it,” Billy says, snapping your underwear back into place. “You hold it all in there.”

“Okay,” you smile, wrapping your arms around one of his, “Okay, Daddy.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, he allows himself to fade out of this stifling backseat and to somewhere fresher, cleaner. Unbroken and untainted. No vows or golden rings suffocating either of you.

For a moment, he could almost believe it.

At his side, he hears the ruffling of denim. The flick of a lighter, once, twice, and then the soft crackling of a cigarette burning. The thick stench of tobacco fills the car.

“You wanna know something?”

You ask it quietly, timidly.

Billy snaps back to the Cadillac. His eyes flutter open. “What?”

You twirl the cig between your fingers, watching the snaking smoke bend and twist. “This is all I have. The only time I feel like I’m above the waves. Everything else is just…fucking…”

“…drowning,” he says.

You hum an agreement and lift the cigarette to his lips. “Isn’t that awful? I mean, we’re fucking awful people, aren’t we?”

Billy takes a long drag. The question fills his lungs, sour as smoke. “Not you,” he says, lifting his chin to exhale over your head. “Not you.”

“Hey,” you tug on his arm, “How come you get to be the cunt, and I don’t?”

He answers with an empty shrug, another cloud of smoke obscuring you from his vision.

“What would we do if you got me pregnant?” you ask, wafting the air.

He scoffs. “You’re askin’ if we’d pretend it was his?”

You shrug. “Sure. Would we?”

He rests his chin on your head. “S’pose we’d have to,” he utters, watching the blur of headlights soar by the parking lot. “You want to admit this is what you’re up to every fuckin’ night?”

“No.”

“No,” he repeats.

“It would be a shitstorm, though,” you snicker. The cherry glows again as you suck on the end.

“Fuckin’ diabolical,” Billy agrees.

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Runaan's Last Secret

*smokes bubble pipe* I suppose you're wondering why I've gathered you all here today. It is simple, mes amis. We've waited six years to find out what really happened inside King Harrow's chamber the night the assassins attacked. And with the release of S7, all these long years later, I finally have the last pieces of information I need to find the full truth.

We all thought there was a murder to solve in the king's chamber. But I'm here to tell you now, that is not the case.

Let us begin at the beginning and assemble our evidence:

The night Harrow died, Runaan tried to convince Rayla to give up the egg, tried to scare her off from returning it.

He couldn't sway her from her journey of redemption, though. They came to blows.

But he chose his mission over killing her. He wasn't even out of breath when they stopped fighting - if he'd truly wanted her dead, she'd be dead.

He left her behind and led four assassins up the front steps of the tower. There, he executed a frontal assault on the king's chamber, when they're built and trained for stealth.

The fight dragged on loudly. It drew extra soldiers from around the entire castle, who left their posts unguarded. But it had a purpose.

Delaying his own victory would cost lives on both sides, but clearing a path for Rayla to escape with two soft human princes in tow would ensure her survival. Runaan had already committed himself to this course when he refused to force her to complete the mission. He couldn't back out now.

Alright, that's the catch-up. For years, we had no idea what actually happened inside Harrow's chamber. But in S7, we finally got a peek. And I'm afraid it's told me everything I need to know. *more bubble pipe noises*

Let's consider these newer clues from S7:

When Runaan finally breached Harrow's door, two other assassins rushed in with him: Andromeda and Skor. Only Callisto, it seems, had fallen alongside Ram out in the hall.

Runaan drew his bow and killed Harrow - or so his binding ribbon believed -

- but the next we see -only moments later as the reinforcements have not yet arrived from below - only one assassin staggered out of that chamber and onto the balcony.

The other four members of the squad died in this battle, and their bodies were recovered by Viren, along with their weapons.

Which means, no one else survived that room. Only Runaan.

The assassins weren't attacked by human troops, either. Runaan had time to stagger out to the balcony at his hobbled pace. No guards caught up to him until he'd already shot the shadowhawk arrow.

When he burst into Harrow's chamber, this is what he was wearing.

When he left it, this was all he had.

Moonshadow assassins are some of the deadliest fighters in all of greater Xadia. No one survives them. No one.

No one... except Runaan of the Silvergrove.

Remember when I said we were not here to solve a murder in the king's chamber? That is because we are here to solve several murders in the king's chamber.

He turned on them.

Runaan turned on what remained of his own squad - Skor and Andromeda. He killed them. For Rayla.

They wanted Rayla dead. In the show, they believed she should die alongside them. In the novelization Book One: Moon, they specifically wanted Runaan to kill her for failing to do her duty. Either way, if any one of Runaan's squad survived and returned to the Silvergrove to report what Runaan had done - and had not done - when his mission went pear-shaped, he would've had to kill Rayla then and there. Right in front of Ethari.

And that, mes amis, he could not abide. He could not bear to be the monster he feared he had always been, right where his husband could see him.

And so, his only remaining option was for his surviving assassins to perish in battle, with their own honor intact and his in tatters. But they went down hard.

They broke Runaan's horn. They stripped off his tunic. They nearly cut his throat. They messed up his hair. Oui, the most unforgivable.

They wanted to live. Runaan did not allow them to.

He trained them all. He loved them.

And he killed them, to save Rayla's life.

For love of Rayla, his precious daughter, Runaan of the Silvergrove killed his own assassins.

It is no wonder he could not look Keeper Lyrennus in the eye when the man asked Runaan about his son.

He's drowning in guilt. He knows what he did. Even though Ram died from another's strike, Runaan knows he would have killed him himself if he'd had to.

This image of Runaan's fear at the sight of the red spirit Lyrennus cast, it lands differently now, no?

He hasn't told them. Perhaps he never will. But he has committed this sin nonetheless, and he must carry it with him for the rest of his life.

Runaan's last and darkest secret. No wonder he accepted Callum the moment he turned against Ezran and fought his own soldiers for Rayla's sake. He knows exactly what that feels like.

[trevorsgodmother]

𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼… (C.S ☁️)

Warnings: Just tooth rotting fluff, kissing, literally that's it. POV: First person (reader) Summary: Chris and you are having a quiet night in...

Chris is laying down on his back, yapping about his day. I'm half-listening, reading my book at the same time while leaning against his headboard. I put my novel down and crawl over, laying on my stomach so now my face is hovering over his, upside down. A bit like Spiderman and Gwen in that one alleyway scene.

His words get cut off by a grin, slightly flustered by my sudden attention. "What're you doin'?" He asks innocently. I shrug, giggling quietly for no reason. He brought me out of my shell, helping me to become much more affectionate over the course of our relationship (maybe a backstory..?).

"Nothing" I shrug. His hands reach out to play with my hair which has formed a curtain around us (sorry to all my short hair baddies 😭), twirling the strands between his fingers subconsciously. It may seem weird to others, but we loved staring at each other. It never felt awkward or weird, just... comforting. We could go on for ages, with no words being spoken, just looking at each other like we were studying pieces of art. Our highest record was an hour straight.

Chris smiles softly. "I love ya so much..." He leans in to press a gentle kiss against my lips. The corners of my lips curl upwards. "I love you too..."

He lets his eyes travel all over my face, from the soft shape of my nose, to my pink lips, and eventually ending up at my eyes. I reach down and absentmindedly start tracing over his familiar features, his eyes fluttering a bit in contentment. My finger runs over his sharp jawline, gaunt cheeks, high cheekbones, smile lines, full lips and the crinkles around his eyes. I travel along a path i've ran my hand over a countless amount of times, like i'm mapping him out to stay in my memory forever.

Both of us adored the feeling, of being loved, not judged, and just existing silently with someone we share so much of ourselves with. He is pretty loud on a regular basis, and I had fallen for his golden retriever personality and extroverted soul, but quiet moments like this made me realise how calm he could be. And how much we enjoyed the silence and lingering touches.

Light rain pitter-patters on the window, adding to the relaxed vibe of the dark room. Chris closes his eyes, my feathery touches and the soft sounds of the weather plus our breathing making him tired. I chuckle, tapping the tip of his nose. "You sleepy?" "Yea..." he mumbles. We shift around a little until we're both laying down, his head on my chest and him half on top of me. I scratch his scalp tenderly, loving the feeling of his hair in my fingers.

He hums, breathing already slowing down. Our hearts beat in unison, a steady rhythm that lulls us to sleep. The night is spent cuddled up in each other's arms, mumbling half-coherent words in our sleep, just so comfortable with each other.

So content.

A/N: Literally almost threw up writing this!! (I ate a lot of candy today). Also a lil break from the angst. New AU possibly..? (Chris x quiet!reader) TL: @hearts4werka @stvrnzcherries @m00nl1ghts1vt @spaghetti835928383 @pvssychicken @moonlightsturns @snowysosturn DONUT STEAL 🥶 Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws <3 -Ropitipop 👁👅👁

☞ Masterlist

[meanbossart]

Because I love the idea of DU drow as a companion... how would you recruit him? Where do you find him, and what's his intro cutscene?

Hi, I've been thinking about this since I got this message :V

There's this nautiloid pod somewhere nearby the Owlbear cave right? So those things were just crashing all over the place, not just near the beach where the actual ship fell. I believe his pod could have had a similar fate and fallen somewhere off the beaten path.

Mind you that, In this scenario, waking up from the pod and onto the forest map would have been DU Drow's first-ever conscious minutes ever since having his mind wiped, so he truly has no fucking idea of what just happened - he just knows his head is in shambles and that he needs to survive for long enough for his memories to return, assuming they ever will. So, his immediate instinct would be to retreat away from where the people are.

I think underneath the bridge, where there's running water and some fauna/flora would be a good spot to find him. Players might take a day or two until they stumble across this weirdo companion and so they are more in the loop than he would be. You'd find a little blood-trail leading you down there, and eventually spot a fist's corpse with no shoes near the river - DU drow would be crouched down by the water washing blood off himself:

While the rest of the party may have been picked off random places as they went about their days, this guy was busy being dissected and put back together over and over again - and there's no way Kressa bothered to dress him back up fully before he was taken away from her (me allowing the man to have pants on at all is a mercy onto you all) so he begins with no armor, but to make up for that fact he's the only companion who begins with a great-sword, which he would have stolen from the fist.

When you approach he is perfectly calm, In fact, he doesn't seem all that there. He stands up and appears half-ready for a fight, but lets you speak first. You can either ask what he's doing here, or about the corpse. You get more or less the same answer to both:

If you successfully persuade him, he tells you with no particular tone of shame or remorse that you got him, he did kill him, however he claims he was attacked first. Whether you pry into his mind with the worm, or have a scroll of read-thoughts, you get the same narration:

"Behind the aloof facade, you find the drow's mind to be in a concerning state of disarray: dozens of thoughts racing, jumbled, all at once, each trailing into the next before you can catch a hint of substance. You don't find the answers you were looking for, just red goo."

You CAN however use speak to the dead on the corpse. If you do that, it's revealed that he is actually telling the truth; The fist found him and assumed him to be with the drow who raided Wakeen's rest. Otherwise, you have to either take his word for it, attack him, or leave him.

He will refuse your offers to join you/go to your camp until you reveal to him that you have been tadpoled - either through using the Illithid-worm option, or telling him upfront through normal dialogue. If you didn't peer into his head earlier, you will now, confirming to yourself and him that he's also been infected. Then, you can tell him you're looking for a cure, and he will agree to travel along. This gets you approval from Shadowheart, Karlach, and Astarion, and disapproval from Lae'zel, Wyll, and Gale.

If you attack, he's as easy a fight as any companion would be at that point. If you choose to leave him be/not tell him about your worm so he refuses to join, he will appear at your camp after two long rests, basically forcing himself to into your party unless you kill him. You find him hanging out around Withers and he tells you he's decided to travel with you from now on, and that he will make himself comfortable.

If you ask for his name, he tells you to just call him whatever you want to (cue like 5 joke dialogue answers - he responds to all of them with a snort and you get approval if you pick any flattering ones). Whatever you ask about him gets you a very blunt, vague response. If you have Shadowheart in your party/are playing as her, she implies he may be suffering from memory loss, finally prompting him to admit to it. Otherwise he only reveals this after a couple more long-rests.

[hivemuthur]

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 9.

viktorxfemale!reader explict! (we got there)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 7,2K!

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: spoiler: In the timeline of my writing, this is the first sex scene I've ever written on my own. So, what can I say? This is an imperfect story about imperfect people, but I can assure you it has an eventual happy ending.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

The absolute chaos of Christmas looming spread across the campus like an infectious frenzy. The corridors were decked with the most absurd ornaments the students could scavenge—Santa Claus figurines strung up and dangling upside down from the ceiling of the canteen, Christmas trees adorned with laboratory glassware and angel hair, and a mockery of carols blaring on repeat from the school radio. It was a bizarre fusion of science and art, a perfect encapsulation of the university’s peculiar spirit.

Every student seemed to be racing against time, scrambling to finish their projects and papers before the holidays, determined to return prepared for the looming finals. The labs and library remained open around the clock for anyone desperate enough to study or practise at odd hours.

You and Sue spent every spare moment in the lab classroom, tinkering with projects that needed to be submitted by the semester’s end. Meanwhile, Jayce and Viktor made themselves available to assist and guide anyone who might need their expertise, and the group crossed paths periodically, exchanging polite gestures and jokes to keep up the holiday spirit. Viktor had made a few attempts to talk to you after his mortifying text message, but you did your best to ignore him.

Which made your current situation, to say the least, far from ideal. Sue was rushing you to jot down all the points before she had to dash off and tend to a project for another class. The two of you huffed at each other, frustration starting to take its toll, until you sighed and said, “Sue, how about I finish this, and you go do your thing? I really don’t mind.” You offered your friend a reassuring smile.

Sue hesitated, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sick of me or something?”

“I’m never sick of you,” you said, placing your hand on Sue’s knee and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “I just think this needs a bit more work, and I can see you’re in a hurry. Honestly, I really don’t mind if you don’t.”

“Okay, I admit my mind is elsewhere. Fine,” Sue sighed in mock defeat. “I’ll do something for you in return, I promise.” She started packing up her things and leaned over to place a hand on your shoulder.

“Just get me a cookie or something,” you replied with a tired smile, gently brushing Sue’s hand away. You figured you’d probably finish the work faster on your own, and you were running out of time anyway. The lab was already emptying, darkness had fallen outside, your eyes burned from staring at the chemicals for so long, and you’d had more than enough for one day.

After Sue left, you resumed your work, determined to finish everything in one evening. The promise of rest and the satisfaction of completion fuelled you. You were so focused on jotting down your thoughts that you didn’t notice when Viktor sat beside you and leaned over your notes.

“Do you... need help?” His voice was unsure, as if he were asking about something else as well.

You hesitated. Help would certainly be welcome, but Viktor’s presence would also make it harder for you to focus. The final equation seemed to balance out the odds. You looked at him—he looked tired yet sharp. He wore the same green jumper he’d had on that night, with a crisp white shirt collar peeking out from underneath it. His scent was fresh and comforting, and his eyes, full of quiet anticipation, were fixed on you as you calculated your decision. You sighed. Yes, you needed help.

“Alright. Shoot me.”

For a split second, Viktor’s face lit up before he leaned in closer. “You’re pretty far along,” he said, his expression thoughtful, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You can dictate, and I’ll translate it into Heimerdinger’s language?”

“That would honestly be perfect,” you admitted, letting out a huff of relief as you turned your attention back to the chaotic scrawl of notes Sue had left behind. Terrible handwriting.

The two of you worked together in near silence, the hum of the lab equipment and the faint scratching of Viktor’s pen the only sounds between you. You found yourself occasionally distracted by the way Viktor’s long fingers moved as he pointed to your results, his low voice guiding you through adjustments. You tried to stay focused, but every now and then, you’d catch yourself glancing at him, his concentration a tether pulling your attention away from your notes.

Viktor, for his part, couldn’t help but steal glances at you. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the sterile air of the lab, and it made something in his chest feel warm, almost achingly so. He bit his lip nervously whenever he realised he’d been staring too long, forcing his attention back to writing.

It took the two of you longer than either of you had expected, but when you finally wrapped up, the lab was completely empty. You stretched your arms over your head, letting out a soft groan of relief.

“That’s it, then,” you said, your voice tired but satisfied. “Thank you, Viktor. Honestly, I’d still be drowning in that mess if you hadn’t—”

“It’s nothing,” he cut you off gently, placing the pen down and leaning back slightly. He watched as you began gathering your things, clearly ready to leave. But before you could stand, he cleared his throat, his voice softer now. “Hey.”

You paused, looking at him.

“Did you…” He hesitated, the words suddenly harder to push out. He fidgeted with the edge of his notebook. “Did you get my text message?”

Of course, you did. You’d seen his stupid, childish message. The ‘I like you,’ had screamed at you from your phone screen for two weeks now, and you’d both loved it and hated it. Who writes ‘I like you’ like a five-year-old? And not only that, who needs to down an entire bottle of whisky to muster the courage to write ‘I like you’?

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. You hadn’t expected this. You shifted awkwardly in your chair, avoiding his gaze. “I did,” you said finally, your voice measured, careful.

Viktor’s expression remained unreadable, but his hands tightened around the notebook in front of him. “And?”

You let out a breath, your lips pressing into a thin line. “And… if I’m to rely on you saying or doing something from the heart only when you get yourself blind drunk, that wouldn’t be the best choice for your health, Viktor,” your voice was quiet, your eyes fixed on the workbench in front of you. “And I don’t want to be bad for your health.” You offered him a faint smile and looked down again. “If it was from the heart, in the first place.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded, his gaze dropping to the table. “It was.” It was. And it shamed him deeply that, indeed, he’d needed liquid courage to admit it. Only now did it strike him how awful it must have made you feel. “But I have a… rabbit heart.”

“Am I so terrifying?” you felt mockery twisting itself inside you with anger. Why were you so angry, though? You also had a rabbit heart. You often caught yourself knowing exactly what Viktor was going to say because you used the same words in your history of backing out. Was this the universe having a go at you?

“Yes, you scare the living shit out of me,” he huffed out a shaky laugh, lowering his voice. It was probably the biggest truth he’d told you in all this time.

“Well, this can’t be good for your health either, then, no?” Deflect, deflect, deflect, hide yourself behind that joke. Very well done, you.

“I—” Viktor paused, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Look, I lied. I’m not good with any setup—casual or not. I—” He stopped himself, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before looking away again. He was torn, visibly at war with his own feelings.

You didn’t want to hear him stumble over words again. “Viktor, I get it. It’s fine. We can still be friends?” You tried to search your mind for what you’d want to hear all those times when you told someone politely the relationship wasn’t working for you.

You thought this was it—an offer of friendship. Most people got hurt or annoyed with you, and it made you feel guilty. So, you tried to say something that wouldn’t make him feel guilty. As soon as you said it, you realised that what you actually wanted was for someone not to let you retreat—but it was too late for that.

Viktor took in a shaky breath, his gaze returning to yours, but he still looked uncertain. “I can’t do that,” he said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. “I can’t be just your friend.” His hands clenched into fists on the table. “I... I’ve tried to be fine with it, but I’m not. I can’t pretend.”

“But I don’t know how to be anything else,” he added after a beat, his mind flicking back to all the times he’d snuck out of someone’s bedroom or when he found himself alone in the morning, in his own cold, sweaty bed. After some time, it became a habit, a quiet indulgence that carried no consequences, and it aligned very well with his main goal: to make his life more than it was meant to be. No distractions, only his goal. Some distractions, but not too many. Only friendships, and here as well, only the stimulating ones. To keep his brain fed, so his soul could starve.

“I have worked… so hard,” he brushed his hand through his hair. “To get where I am. I was meant to fail, and I haven’t failed once. I haven’t failed a single time, aside from some tiny, insignificant stumbles that eventually lead me to answers anyway. So many times I haven’t failed that I don’t think I know how to,” his voice was quiet, as if admitting something shameful. He said it as though any slip-up could cost him everything he’s worked for.

“I… understand,” you said slowly, piecing together the crumbs of information. Viktor didn’t come from a place of love, like you did. He didn’t come from a place of opportunity. He probably had to claw his way through pompous academics who didn’t take him seriously. You understood that part. But what was your part in turning it all to dust—that eluded you. So you didn’t understand, not entirely.

“Do you?” he looked at you longingly, expectantly, and it made your heart ache. What was it that you were supposed to give him now? A promise you would never hurt him? That you would never distract him or drag his mind away from what’s important?

“Viktor, this shouldn’t be so hard, I’m not some mythical creature,” you said, trying to inject a touch of humour into your voice, but it came out thin, brittle.

Viktor’s gaze softened, but the intensity in his eyes remained. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and steady. “No, you’re not,” he murmured, as if trying to reconcile something inside himself. “But you’re not like anyone else either.”

Your chest tightened at the words, but you quickly pushed it aside, unwilling to let yourself feel vulnerable. You folded your arms across your chest, as if protecting yourself from something you couldn’t name. “I don’t want to be a puzzle for you to solve, Viktor. I don’t want to be some challenge you feel like you need to conquer. That’s not what I’m here for.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he processed your words. He wanted to argue, to convince you that it wasn’t about conquest, that it was about something deeper, but he could tell it wasn’t the right time. Not yet. “I don’t… I don’t think of you like that,” he said, his voice almost too soft, as if afraid to break the fragile moment between you. “I think of you as someone I want to understand, someone who...” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence, the words feeling too heavy in the air.

You shifted in your seat, your eyes narrowing slightly as you considered his words. There was a vulnerability in his voice, a quiet sincerity that you weren’t used to hearing. You almost wanted to reach out, to ease the tension that hung between you, but you held yourself back.

There was a long, aching pause between you before Viktor cleared his throat and leaned back, trying to break the silence. “So,” he said, the words coming out in a lighter tone, “how many do-overs do you think we can have?”

You rolled your eyes at him, a small, rueful smile tugging at your lips. “I find myself hoping that each one is the last one,” you replied dryly, though your heart wasn’t fully in the jest. “Thank you for all the help.”

Viktor smiled, a faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “Oh, no worries. I’ll see you at the Christmas party?” he asked, his voice a little uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure how you’d respond.

You nodded, your expression softening just slightly. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” you said, your tone neutral, but not dismissive. “Take care, Viktor.”

With that, you parted ways, the lingering tension still hanging between you, neither fully satisfied with the conversation, but both with the understanding that you were somehow still connected—however uncertain that connection was.

You found an unbearable thought gnawing at you—that in this state, the only ‘do-over’ you could count on was friendship, and Viktor couldn’t afford that. Inevitably, it would end with nothing.

***

It wasn’t exactly a party, but the pub was completely packed with people—students, assistants, and random individuals who wandered around campus, their roles in it a complete mystery. Everything was bathed in the warm glow of Christmas decorations, making the space feel even more cramped.

You sat at a small round table with Sue, some familiar faces scattered around, including Jayce and Viktor, who had joined after their TA duties. Sue was mid-sentence when you leaned back in your chair, your eyes wandering. You weren’t in the mood for all the noise tonight. The words blurred around you as you half-listened, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of your glass—a quiet distraction. Viktor was talking to Jayce, his sharp voice cutting through the noise every now and then. His dry wit was always on full display, the kind that kept people around him in that odd mix of awe and wariness.

“You okay?” Sue’s voice brought you back. You blinked, nodding slowly.

“Yeah, just... tired, I guess,” you said, forcing a polite smile as you took a sip of your drink.

The room was hazy with cigarette smoke, the heat becoming unbearable. The whole scene was so unbearably sweet and cozy that it made you flinch. Your eyes kept glancing over to Viktor, who would immediately look away as soon as your gazes met. You kept thinking about what another do-over could look like and felt yourself growing more and more frustrated with the space between you, even though you were sitting so close to each other. You could feel Sue's eyes on you but couldn’t quite explain why you felt this way.

Sue raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Well, if you need to bail early, I totally get it.”

You hesitated, then gave a half shrug. “I think I’ll head out. Just... not feeling it, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Sue replied, offering a quick nod. “See you later?”

“Yeah.” You stood, grabbing your coat from the back of your chair. As you made your way through the maze of tables, you could hear Viktor's voice in the background—just enough to make you pause. You could feel his gaze on you, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the exit.

Viktor watched as you stood and walked away, a wave of frustration rising within him, forming itself into a long sigh. He had tried, hadn’t he? He had said things—things he never said to anyone—but now you were leaving, retreating like always. His jaw tightened, and he felt his fingers curl into fists on the table. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not after everything. He should’ve known better, but still, your departure stung.

He couldn’t place why, but it felt like you were slipping away just as he was beginning to reach out. You were both so fucking terrible at talking, at letting yourselves feel anything real. Why did it have to be so difficult?

The cold air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, and for a moment, it felt like a relief. The street was quiet, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath your boots. You slid your headphones on and started walking toward the dorms, matching your steps to the rhythm of the song.

You awaited rest and home and being far away from here with utter impatience. Just one more evening of this. Just one more evening of thinking and biting at your own lips, glancing at your phone, and then it would only be your parents, and Hale, and the quiet evenings at Sheffield, for a week.

Against reason, Viktor followed you, his footsteps soft but steady as he stepped out of the pub moments later. His eyes caught sight of your retreating figure, and a small, amused smile played at the corner of his lips. He’d almost not been surprised—almost expected it.

He called out your name, his voice lost to the wind and muffled by the sounds of the night. But you didn’t hear him. Quickening his pace, his breath misted in the cold air. He called again, louder this time, but still, you didn’t turn.

A small part of him considered letting you go, letting you stew in your thoughts, just leaving it for after the break. But the rest of him felt pulled, like a dog on a leash in front of a vet’s door.

You were nearing the entrance to the dorms when you finally paused, taking a deep breath, and tugging your headphones off with a slight wince. The moment you heard your name, you froze, your heart skipping in your chest.

“Hey you!” Viktor’s voice was closer now, cutting through the night. When you turned, you saw him standing at the edge of the walkway, just outside the dorm. His breath came in visible puffs, his chest heaving as if he’d run after you.

“You walk... so fucking fast,” he said, still catching his breath. “I never figured you for the type to run off so bluntly. But I suppose that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” Yes, just laugh it out. Viktor took a few steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Are you fucking drunk again?” you blinked, your mind racing. You had to admit to yourself that Viktor drunkenly following you from the bar was a coin toss you wouldn’t have bet on. Especially after your last talk. Funny.

“Are you not?” he countered, his words smoother than you expected.

“No. Go back to your pub, Viktor.” Your voice was flat now, each word carefully measured. You exhaled sharply, your shoulders sinking as if the weight of the evening had finally caught up with you. You were so tired of this.

Viktor tilted his head, his smile barely visible in the shadows as he took a step closer. “Eh, make me,” he said softly, though it wasn’t a challenge—not really.

Another step.

“I am so not in the mood for you now,” you muttered, your hands dropping limply by your sides as you turned away, dragging yourself down the corridor toward the elevators. Your voice lacked its usual bite, tinged instead with exhaustion.

“Alright, alright, I’m not drunk, just had one pint. Oh, come on,” Viktor mock-pleaded, his cane tapping lightly against the floor as he quickened his pace to catch up with you. “You won’t see me the entire holiday break.”

“And I will savour every single day of this glorious relief from your constant nagging, poking, your sweet side and your dick side, and having fun at my expense,” you snapped, jabbing the elevator button with increasing impatience, your words punctuated by each press.

You were expecting another joke, but Viktor’s hands gripped your waist firmly, twisting you around. Your breath caught as he pulled you flush against him, the heat of his body sharp against the cold you’d carried in from outside.

“Shut up,” he breathed, his voice raw and ragged as his lips found yours. The kiss was unsteady, heated, and messy, tasting faintly of sweet beer and a frustration that mirrored your own. He panted into your mouth, his lips parting just enough to nip at yours.

“Just… shut up, for once,” he murmured, crowding you against the elevator door. It slid open behind you with a soft chime, and you stumbled inside, Viktor’s cane clattering to the floor as he steadied you against the wall. He pulled your turtleneck down to lick your neck greedily over the bite mark he had left there. His hands quickly found their way under your sweater, and he gasped, bemused by your lack of underwear. “No bra?” Again. A low chuckle rumbled against your skin. “Is that your idea of a Christmas present?”

“Fuck off,” you scoffed, your voice still sharp with lingering anger. Your hands pressed against his chest in an attempt to push him away, but the lack of real force and your hands still gripping his coat tightly betrayed you.

“Are you sure?” Viktor smirked, his grip firm as he tilted your chin up, pressing a lingering, deceptively sweet kiss to your lips. “This is your floor,” he said, his voice agonizingly calm as he stepped back, gesturing toward the elevator doors sliding open.

“Or…” His tone shifted, almost teasing, as he pressed the button to close the doors and send them up to his floor instead. “You could come with me. For real, this time.”

You pulled him wordlessly toward you, offering no resistance—nothing more, nothing less. Words had failed you, but your actions were clear. It was enough. Viktor wanted to say, That’s what I thought, the words teasing the edge of his tongue, but he held them back. Instead, he captured your lips again, kissing frantically. He explored your mouth, swallowing the small sounds you made, the elevator a blur as it carried you upward.

By the time you reached his room, Viktor managed to open the door without breaking the kiss, his cane hanging hooked over his arm. You stumbled inside together, the heat between you growing unbearable, and he pressed you firmly against the door, his hands bracing your hips as his lips moved over yours with unrelenting zeal. You pulled him closer, your breath catching as you managed to rasp, “Bed?”

Viktor chuckled softly against your lips; his tone laced with teasing. “Impatient, are we?” But there was no mistaking the heat in his gaze, the way his hands tightened on your hips as he broke the kiss just long enough to guide you further into the room.

“Fuck you,” you muttered, your voice raw as your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him with you.

“Yes. Please, fuck me,” Viktor murmured, sweeping you into another fervent kiss as you stumbled toward the bed. “I’m so tired of you not fucking me.”

You scoffed into his mouth. And who is to blame for that? You sunk into the mattress, pulling Viktor with you by his belt, the cane poking your leg.

“Why are you wearing so many clothes?” he whined, his voice laced with frustration as his clumsy hands fumbled with your coat. His hasty movements betrayed him, and in the rush, his knee accidentally pressed against your arm.

“Ow!” you winced, your sharp tone softening as you glanced at his face. The irritation melted away when you saw the unabashed eagerness in his expression, the way his brow furrowed in determination despite his lack of grace. “Is this going to be painful?” you asked, your lips quirking in a faint, teasing smile, though your voice still held a trace of genuine concern.

Viktor froze, blinking down at you like a scolded child. “Only if you want it to be,” he muttered, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back to regroup. His fingers moved more carefully now, peeling the coat off from underneath you with exaggerated precision. “Better?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Viktor granted you a low chuckle, his lips quirking in that familiar, lopsided smirk. “Ridiculous, perhaps, but effective,” he murmured as he continued with his careful work, peeling away the layers of your clothing like unwrapping a particularly stubborn present.

His own clothes, however, didn’t receive the same treatment. He shed them with reckless abandon, tossing each piece into an ever-growing messy pile near the bed, his leg brace a crown on top of it. His cane clattered softly to the floor as he leaned back for balance, the faintest flush spreading across his cheeks.

Once you were both were bare, he ran his palms gently along your sides and pressed his face to your hip, your belly, your neck, inhaling your skin. “God, you are so infuriating,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your body.

He glued himself to you, his hands roaming wherever they could reach, as if this were the moment he’d been waiting to happen for the longest time. And it was, of course. The decision to toss everything aside and just jump in might have been reckless, but he had no capacity to decide otherwise.

“Infuriating?” you laughed, feigning offense. “Is that the way you treat all of your conquests? Make them follow you around by the nose for months, until your resolve finally breaks after one pint?”

“No, only you,” he replied smoothly, his lips brushing against your collarbone. He added with a sly smirk, “It’s my love language with you.”

“Love?” you repeated, voice laced with teasing incredulity, but the hesitation in your tone betrayed how the word caught you off guard.

“Shut up,” Viktor muttered, his hand gliding up your side as he kissed you, silencing your laughter before you could push further. “Attraction,” he murmured against your neck, his lips pressing a lingering kiss there. “Want,” he added, his teeth grazing your breast, earning a sharp gasp from your mouth. “Admiration,” he said, coming back up to meet your eyes and give you a slow, steady kiss. He took your fingers into his mouth and watched your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting.

His voice dipped lower, teasing, and dangerous. “Anyway, is that not what we have been doing?” His hands explored the meat of your ass with a firm grip, his touch both intoxicating and commanding as he pressed himself flush against your core. He shifted against you with a kind of intimacy that had your breath hitching.

“Have you not been loving me all this time?” His words, soft and taunting, carried a heat that matched the tension thrumming between you. His hand moved down between your thighs to scoop your wetness and lick it off his fingers, as he made sure you were watching. “Ah, it seems,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, “you’ve been loving me back all along.”

You trembled under him, your breath catching as your hands gripped his shoulders. A quiet plea escaped your lips, barely audible but filled with vulnerability. “Don’t be mean, Viktor.”

For a moment, he stilled, his expression softening as he pulled back to look at you. His golden eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, held a flicker of something warmer, deeper. “Mean?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “No. Not with you.”

The teasing edge in his voice melted away as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, slow and deliberate, as though trying to convey what words couldn’t. He was so bad at talking if you thought he was being mean. His hands cradled your face, and his next words came as a low promise against your skin. “I could never be mean to you.”

You huffed softly, a half-laugh escaping you as memories of all the times he’d actually been mean flitted through your mind. “Liar,” you muttered against his lips, though there was no venom in your tone. Instead, you kissed him back longingly, your fingers threading into his hair as your thighs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer.

Viktor exhaled a shaky breath, his control fraying under your touch. “Perhaps,” he admitted with a faint, self-deprecating smile, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. “But you give as good as you get, don’t you?” he said playfully, reaching over to pull a condom out of his bedside drawer and put it on swiftly. Then, he grabbed a spare pillow to prop his leg. His belly was tied into a knot, teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure, as he placed one hand between where your bodies were going to meet to align himself at the entrance.

He studied your face, as if to check if there was any resistance left. But you only looked at him with wide eyes, your hands fisting the bed sheet. He swept through his body in a final calculation of what could go wrong—he wasn’t drunk, that was a good start. His leg, eh, not perfect, but he should be able to pull this off. Did he want to love you or tease you? He had forgotten which one it was. A shuddery breath escaped him when your bodies finally connected—he entered you slowly, holding back to lay on top of you.

The first thrust was so deliberate, so slow, so overwhelming that you both moaned into each other's mouths. Your brows tied themselves together, your palms stiff in hesitation over his shoulders, as the feeling of relief surged through you. A relief of finally not being empty.

The only movement Viktor allowed himself was the roll of his hips as he sunk inside you, beat after beat. His arms caged you in, one of his hands gripping your shoulder, the other cradling the base of your skull, as he kept your faces close so he could study you, watch you. He stared at you obscenely, taking in your expressions, disbelief wrenching breath out of his lungs. You really wanted him. You were holding him in a vacuous trap, making it hard to pull out and push back in.

And this wasn’t new. People wanted him, he knew that. They wanted him for this—for a fun fuck—and when they continued to want him afterward, it felt like a fluke. So he shut it down. And it made him feel powerful. No, it made him feel weak. It made his weakness powerful. It gave him the power to disappear from it, from himself, to not be present.

The fact that he was present now, attentive, was rather new for him. Not entirely—he’d had a glimpse of what it could be that night when you were high together, but he hadn’t dared breach the boundary of clothing then. This, though, was entirely different. He watched you so carefully, studying every reaction to his touch. He pushed where you gasped and retreated where you winced. Your kisses were as hungry as his, and it made him feel so full. The fuck was more than fun. It made him feel powerful in a way that didn’t make him feel weak.

He tightened his grip, his forehead resting on yours as he buried himself deep inside, thrust after thrust. His mouth open against you, breathing in every gasp, every whimper you were willing to give him. His pace was even, unwavering, as he murmured against your lips, “You’ve been giving me so much grief.”

He locked eyes with you, a hint of vulnerability in his gaze as he added, “But it really feels like you’ve been loving me back. Haven’t you?” His voice was soft, as though waiting for you to answer not just with words, but with the quiet truth in your eyes.

You slid your fingers into his hair, pulling him in for another desperate kiss, and Viktor caught a faint, barely audible ‘yes,’ offered to drown deep in his throat, traveling straight to his heart, as if you were offering him a secret you hadn’t meant to give away. The sound stirred something deep within him, and as you arched against him, your breath catching, he deepened the kiss and quickened his pace. He buried his nose in the crook of your neck, murmuring quiet praises, each word filled with reverence as you moved together toward completion.

He slid one hand to the nape of your neck, another snaked itself between your bodies, his fingers parting you as he whispered softly, “Oh, my girl.” Your eyes fluttered shut, arms wrapping around his shoulders and you muffled your own moan against his mouth, lips and noses brushing against each other. He rubbed lazy circles on your clit, a smile blooming on his face when he felt your back arching beneath him, hips pressing upward to meet his, your cunt clenching around his cock in a tight, needy hug.

He felt your thighs squeezing his hips, your walls fluttering, pulling him deeper inside you, with you. You dug your nails into his shoulders, lips parted pressed against his, foreheads pressed together mingling droplets of sweat into one.

You felt a sudden urge to say, “Thank you,” distorted by a loud moan as you came on his cock, on his fingers, your body tensing up and bending to the sound of his name falling from her lips. It took a long time, and you thought it would never stop, your climax blinding, contorting your body around him with a force to bend and crush.

Viktor’s mind got invaded by a thought of how great it felt to make a girl such as yourself lose control over her own muscles. How it had made him grow taller and bigger, his heart swollen with your grace, his lips bruised from your teeth. Slowly, he worked you through each spasm, and when you were ready, he retreated his hand to wrap both arms around you and buried his face in your neck. His breathing jagged, teeth sinking into your shoulder to not say too much at the sudden tightness around his cock.

His rhythm began to stutter, movements growing urgent by the minute as he buried himself within you up to the hilt. His breath was uneven, his muscles flexing and twisting. He felt your core hugging his cock so tight, he couldn’t hold back his own panting, as if he were a teenager all over again. He moved his face to brush against yours, whispered your name again, voice trembling, and he came with one thick, everlasting pang, whimpering weakly into your mouth.

His body melted into yours with a long, contented sigh, his arms wrapped tightly around you, stomachs and chests pressed, rising and falling together. You stayed like that in silence for a few moments, not moving, just touching, just breathing, just being.

Finally, Viktor rolled you both to the side, his leg hooked over your hip, fingers threading through your hair, and gave you an almost solemn look.

“What is this face?” you asked softly, cupping his cheek and brushing your thumb across his lip.

He sucked on it slowly, not breaking eye contact. “I never thought you would be so…” His voice trailed off for a moment, and just as you braced yourself for another joke, he finished, “wonderful.”

You managed only to whisper a quiet “Viktor—,” your grip tightening around him as the weight of this little praise crushed you. As his eyes crushed you, his warmth crushed you, as you crushed yourself with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.

Viktor pulled back just a few inches, his gaze searching yours. “Are you going away for Christmas tomorrow?” he asked, his voice soft, almost tentative. Normal.

You nodded slowly, your fingers still tangled in his hair as you answered, “Yeah.”

“Will you stay?” Please, stay. Please don’t have me wake up alone tomorrow. A weakness crept back in.

You nodded against his neck. A quiet breath escaped Viktor’s lips as he leaned in to kiss your forehead, pulling you back against him. He sighed softly, the sound almost like a weight lifting. He didn’t speak for a few moments, just holding you as if afraid you might disappear if he let go.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice quieter now. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain my absence to Sue though.”

Viktor’s lips curled into a playful smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, his voice teasing. “I’ll just tell her you got really into the holiday spirit and had to spend the night with your favourite TA.”

You chuckled softly, the tension between you easing just a little. “I’m sure she’ll believe that,” you replied, though the words felt lighter now, softer.

Viktor’s expression shifted to one of mock seriousness as he pulled you a little closer. “But tomorrow, when the morning comes,” he said, his voice lowering slightly, “I’ll have to call it in. You caught me drunk, used me for your advantage,” he paused, his eyes glinting with mischief, “and I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”

You let out a small laugh, your face flushing slightly at the absurdity of the situation. “Selling me out already, I see how this will go,” you said, teasing him back. “I’m sure you won’t mind telling them how you practically begged me to stay the night and cuddle you.”

Viktor smiled, but his eyes softened. “I won’t,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple again, holding you in the quiet aftermath. The moment felt almost unreal—so intimate, so fragile—and yet, there you were. He wouldn’t dare break it by asking for more. And even though Viktor’s chest was still swollen with fear, his mind drifted to sleep in your arms.

Your own mind, however, was restless. As the high of your connection faded, you woke up early, your thoughts gnawing at you. Viktor was fast asleep, his expression so peaceful that you couldn’t believe he had a bad bone in his body. Yet, you had been stabbed so many times. It wasn’t real, was it? It couldn’t be over, just like that. What if he was right, and you weren’t meant to share the awkwardness of the morning? What if he tried to shrug it off once he woke up? Would you survive if he did?

No. You wouldn’t.

Cursing yourself, you slid out of bed, put your clothes back on, and gave Viktor, who was sleeping soundly, one last glance that tore through your soul. And left.

***

The morning light crept through the gaps in the blinds, painting pale stripes across the sheets. Viktor stirred, his body heavy and warm, though there was an odd hollowness in the bed. He reached out instinctively, the fog of sleep not yet cleared, his fingers brushing against nothing but the cold fabric of the mattress. His eyes blinked open.

The room was silent.

He sat up slowly, scanning the space, the sense of emptiness clawing at him as the realisation began to take shape. You were gone.

The sheets beside him were rumpled, but the space was cold, long abandoned. For a moment, he stared at the spot you’d occupied, trying to convince himself you might still be here. Perhaps you were in the bathroom, or in his tiny kitchen searching for tea—but no sound of movement met his ears.

A chill crept through his chest, spreading outwards, a tight knot forming in his stomach. You left.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements clumsy, hurried, his leg straining without the brace. There had to be something—a note, a message, anything that might explain. The bedside table was empty. The dresser? Nothing. Viktor opened a drawer, then another, rifling through with increasing desperation, though he knew even as he searched how ridiculous it was. You wouldn’t leave a note in a drawer.

His gaze snapped to his phone. He lunged for it, unlocking the screen with trembling fingers. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts.

He stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the empty screen. His chest tightened, his breaths coming faster, each one shallower than the last. Of course.

What had he been thinking? That after all his fumbling, after all his glaring flaws, you would stay? That someone like you, bright and untamed, would want someone like him—a man who could barely navigate his own feelings without tripping over them?

Right. His fingers clenched around the phone, the pressure digging into his palm. How stupid. How painfully, pathetically stupid. How weak.

He sank back onto the bed, his head in his hands. The weight of the silence pressed down on him. Every echo in the room seemed to mock him. The bed felt too big now, the walls closing in too fast. His mind replayed your smile, your laugh, the warmth in your eyes last night, and it made his chest ache. How could you think you’d earned something like this?

And yet, beneath the sinking despair, anger simmered. At himself. At you. At the cruel absurdity of it all. You’d kissed him, held him, and for a brief moment, he’d thought you were standing on equal ground. But the truth was stark now, laid bare in her absence: you’d left. Or maybe that was an equal ground, after all. Now, you were truly even.

A sharp knock at the door jolted him from his spiralling thoughts. He didn’t answer immediately, hoping whoever it was would go away, but the knock came again, louder this time.

“Viktor?” Jayce’s familiar voice called from the other side. “You ready? We’ve got to leave in half an hour, mate.”

Viktor swallowed hard; his throat dry. His hands slowly dropped from his face as he stared at the door. Jayce’s voice was too cheerful, too ordinary, too far removed from the storm brewing inside him. He wanted to shout at him, to tell him to go away, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I’ll be ready,” he croaked after a pause, his voice hoarse and thin.

There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, then the sound of Jayce’s footsteps retreating down the hall. Viktor exhaled shakily, his gaze drifting back to the rumpled sheets beside him. Forcing himself to move, he stood and began to gather his things. Each motion felt mechanical, hollow. The knot in his chest didn’t loosen, but he pushed it down, swallowing it whole. It was almost Christmas. He had to pretend. At least for a little while longer.

[fanon-elio]

-*'Good Night, My Dear'*-

Von Lycaon x Gn!reader

Tag: Green Letter (Sfw)

A one shot inspired by Lycaon's trust events.

Warnings: None

Night has fallen over New Eridu, the suns departure having plunged the City into a familiar darkness. Even if no longer illuminated by the sun's rays, the city glows regardless, just as colorfull as during the day.

Similar, and yet completely different.

The colorfull lights of the buildings glittering like stars, while effectively drowning out the shine of the real ones. The only exception was the moon as it hung peacefully in the sky, its cold light basking whatever it touched in a melancholic light. It was Ironic that something so tranquil found its place right above a city that never once quieted down, always awake and thriving with life. Be it animals who also called the City their home, or people who were still out and about, either partying, or having just gotten off work.

A place where you had found yourself currently as you walked through the pedestrian area, your gaze being drawn to the skyline of the City time and time again. Work had exhausted, but never the less satisfied you, knowing that you had been very productive today.

And sometimes it's the small things that count.

You noticed a cat sitting just by the Kiosk, carefully observing you. Slowly you approached the small animal, kneeling down just a few steps away as not to frighten it, gently reaching out your index finger as if questioning it for its company. It sniffed your finger curiously before it approached you, rubbing its head against your hand. Slowly you scratched the cats chin, its puring being a welcome contrast to the sound of traffic or the chattering of other people. Soon a second cat joined much to your delight, as it approached to where you've been sitting. It reminded you of a good friend who always seemed to attract the attention of all the animals around him, as they approached in happy curiousity.

Something that happened quite often as Lycaon had told you, even though you always thought that the Wolf thiren himself was just as huggable. You and him had been friends for a long while now, having first met by chance on the street when you had helped him when a little girl had been awfully curious about his fluffy tail. You didn't know why you had felt obligated to step in, but he had definitely appreciated it.

After that both of you two had went your own ways until your paths would ultimately cross once again, only this time he was the one who had helped you out instead, when a scetchy vendor wanted to sell you fake jade pendants. As thanks you had invited him to a coffee, and later exchanged numbers when you realized how much you two had in common. After that you had met up with him regularely, finding great joy in eachothers company as you talked about whatever came to mind.

The cat in your lab flinched, seeming to have been spooked by a loud noise as it got up and ran away. You stood up and looked after it, suprised when the Wolf thiren you had thought about just now seemed to materialize right in front of you, his white fur almost gleeming like a ghost in the cold light of the moon as his gaze was cast into the sky.

You wondered what he was doing up so late, thinking that the issue could be his insomnia he struggled with from time to time as he had told you. His ear flicked, seeming to have noticed the sound of your shoes coming his way, and he turned to look at you. "It's an honor to meet you here so late" he responded, a tinge of surprise in his voice "hey Lycaon, what are you doing up so late?" You asked him, coming to a halt next to him "I had trouble sleeping, so I decieded to go on a little stroll" he responded "what about you? Are you out for a stroll at this hour of the night as well?" you scratched your neck sheepishly "actually I just got off work, I've done some overtime" you told him, and he pursed his lips "even though working hard is commendable, you also shouldn't overwork yourself" he gently scolded you, as you pondered of telling him the exact same thing. "I was just on my way home, but found myself captivated by the moon" you told him "so you're here for the moon, too" he asked you, and you nodded.

You two once again gazed into the sky above, a comfortable silence setteling between you two as you basked in eachothers company like you had done time and time again. It was only broken by Lycaon posing a question "Say, do you believe in fate?" a question that caught you off guard a little. "I do" you responded noting his lips as they formed a small smile "I do as well, just a moment earlier I had thought about you, and then suddenly you appeared" he said, an expression of suprise found its way onto your features "same here, I had thought about you as well" you responded, an answer he seemed to like.

He let out a small sigh "the moon does look beautiful tonight" his eye found the glowing sphere in the sky "You can get a spectacular view of the moon in New Eridu from this angle" he tells you "but everyone knows that the moon is actually battered and beaten... The moon is dead. What we see is its corpse" he spoke wistfully "someone I used to know told me once." His words sure surprised you, surely you hadn't taken him for the poetic type. But as your eyes followed his, noting the subtle otherwordly shimmer of the hollow that covered a part of the moon's surface, you couldn't help but agree. "It sounds kind of beautiful" you replied, and he chuckled a bit "your responses never fail to surprise... and amuse me" he fully turned to you, a question glittering behind his crimson iris "If I may be so bold to ask, would you accompany me somewhere? The view is beautiful at night, but it takes a little effort to get there" he asked offering you his hand, and you obliged "of course" you responded "thank you. If you'll please pardon my breach in etiquette." For a moment you fail to realize what is happening to you. "hold on tight" he spoke, low and gentle before a feeling of wheightlessness suddenly rushed up and you automatically screwed your eyes shut as you clung to Lycaon's shoulders, the gentle call of the night breeze rushing in your face.

When your eyes opened, you found yourself standing on solid ground again. "we are here" his voice sounded out before you finally saw where he had brought you.

"A rooftop?" You questioned. "I come here whenever I can't sleep, just to feel the breeze" he explained taking a few steps towards the edge "there is no scientific way to corrobarate this, but this place that makes me feel at ease. I always find it easier to sleep after coming here" you took a few steps towards him as you took in the view "you can walk around and take in the view... if you're not afraid of heights." Up here New Eridu stretched as far as the eye could see, the lights of the buildings glittering as they were reflected in the water. Just below you the night life was still buzzing with people enjoying their evening, while you enjoyed yours up here.

You looked at Lycaon, noticing that something seemed to be on his mind as he chewed on his bottom lip absentmindedly. "Are you alright? You seem bothered by something?" You ask him and he clears his throat, seemingly in embarassment "not necessarily bothered, however..." he trailed off seeming to internally brawl with himself "It is just-" if you didn't know any better you'd think that he was flustered by something "- Y/n, if I may be so bold to ask" he started "would you give me the honor of going out with me sometime" he asked, clearly surprising you. He stepped closer to you and put a hand on your shoulder, his touch soft and caring "You are incredibly important to me, and that's something that will never change" his voice held so much honesty and emotion, it made your heart swell with a strong new feeling.

"I absolutely want to go out with you" you beamed at him, and his tail started to wag "you are very important to me as well Lycaon, I greatly enjoy spending time with you" you said, a small blush creeping its way onto your face "with you more so than with any other" you confessed, his tail picking up speed. For some time you two just looked at eachother, once again just enjoying the moment beneath the moon. The faint rustling of Lycaon's tail filled the silence between you before you spoke up mirthfully "Oh look your tail is wagging" you exclaimed "and your ears were moving too" his gaze found yours before he once again cleared his throat "...you must be mistaken" he says, discreetly grabbing the traitorous appendage with the hand behind his back. You give him an amused smile, but chose not to further tease him about it. You two continued your conversation, setting the plans for your future date in stone as the hours melted away.

After enjoying the breeze on the rooftop for a bit with Lycaon, you miraculously start to feel tired. You yawned and rubbed your eye, which gained his attention "It's already very late. Let me take you home" he said, offering you his hand again, which you once again took. He gently picked you up again and held you close while you burried your face in the crook of his neck as the feeling of weightlessness once again washed over you. Lycaon jumped over the roofs, the metallic sound of his prosthetics filling your ears, and the closeness to him erasing your fear of the immense height. His grip on you was firm but gentle, and you knew that he'd never drop you.

As soon as the familiar sense of weightlessness wore off again, you were greeted by the entrance of your apartment. Your feet met solid ground again as Lycaon carefully put you down "have a pleasant night. I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight" he spoke "may you have a good night's rest. You deserve it after having worked so hard today" he finished, placing his right hand to his chest before leaning down to bow gracefully. You smile and took a step towards him, placing a small kiss on his cheek " I wish you a good night as well, and text me once you're home" you spoke and his gaze found yours, his tail picking up speed again. "I will, thank you y/n" you stepped into your apartment and gave him one last look, smiling at him before closing the door.

Now a smile found its way on Lycaon's features as well, tracing his cheek with his fingers before he turned on his heel and made his way back home.

He knew tonight, he would sleep very well.

-*'♡'*-

[angelbiteshurt]

Quiet, the winter harbor

synopsis: you wake up in the hospital after a tough mission you can’t quite recall. The room next to yours has the TV on, which unfortunately has the news channel broadcasting. You can barely process what the reporter is saying, but the next thing you know you have managed to unhook every single thing attached to you without a single care and have escaped into the dark, cold night. You walk aimlessly in the forest, confused. But you aren't alone. You will never be until he takes care of you. warnings: caretaker! zayne, gn! reader, somewhat dark themes, overworked! reader, mentions of depression and psychosis, angst angst so much angst

a/n: didn’t proofread, eng isnt my first language, might make this a series (but it won’t end well, I’m not sorry), short chapter as introduction

The freezing air doesn't really get to me, despite only wearing a hospital gown. It's the snow, soft and delicate, yet so hurtful. I lay down on my back, my whole body burning.

I can barely feel my heart. Maybe it's because my ears are ringing, or because I'm in shock.

"Linkon City is taking extreme precautions now more than ever after a mission involving almost thirty hunters ended brutally, with only one survivor, who will remain anonymous. The hunter's association is trying their best as of now, but with so many losses-"

There it is again. I can feel my heart, it aches in my chest as I recall what I heard. When I woke up I wasn't particularly concerned, but then I noticed no one was by my side. Sure, at night maybe not many nurses or doctors can check up on me, but... it felt off. Things are truly getting out of hand, it seems.

I thought I could actually make a difference in the hunter's association. And to be fair- maybe I really did, but...

"Damn it..." tears I hadn't felt building up in my eyes start gradually rolling down my cheeks. It hurts. It hurts so much.

I angrily get up, kicking some snow as I walk furiously in a random direction. Dead? They can't be all dead. All those faces. All those people.

That's right... they were people. Not just hunters. Their families, their friends... they won't see them. Ever again. They're gone. All gone. Forever.

As I approach a tree, my tears start making my vision blurry. "I'm so stupid... so useless" My throat stings. I want to bury myself under this very tree, in the snow, for as long as it takes for this to pass. I slide down, sitting by the tree, staring at the moon. The moon knows everything, doesn't she? Every mistake I've made. It's like I can see her, weeping for me, too.

"Can you see... how good I was? I was good, wasn't I? I was really good" I stare at the moon, as if she could possibly answer.

"You know... maybe this is good. You can't judge me, right? Haha..." and once again, waiting for an answer, I stare at the moon.

"I was hopeful as a child, as far as I can recall, at least. I wanted to protect the people I loved- which I couldn't... and now, the people who fought with me are gone, too. I know I can't carry the burden of the whole world with me but it's so pointless. I should have...".

I let out a shaky exhale.

"How am I going to go back this time? I know Jenna is understanding but I can't face everyone when I got out of a terrifying situation with..." I blink a few times and look at my arms.

I see a few bandages I hadn't noticed before. On my legs, as well. As I lift my gown, I can see a moderately big one on my chest.

My heart feels heavy again. I notice some of my wounds, although bandaged, have a bit of blood over them, going all the way back to the snowy path I walked on. I was in so much emotional pain that I didn't even notice my wounds whatsoever. They probably opened when I ran away from the hospital.

"The quiet night is so comforting..." my body slowly gives up. I can barely breathe, and I can't stop shivering. My eyelids are so heavy, and my ears start ringing once again. "Have you ever met a fallen star?" my voice is shaky, barely there. "It was warm, its light a source of unexpected joy at times, despite not being the brightest. It tried so hard but nonetheless it fell... and it was cold. So cold. And alone" I gasp in between coughs and shivers. Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!

...

"Assisted ventilation seems to be helping. The fluids have helped to raise the body's temperature, but it does not mean they aren't at risk anymore. Heart rate seems somewhat stable, although we do have to consider this patient's already existing problems" After a while, Zayne had a moment alone with you. His expression, usually stoic, faltered a bit. His gaze, analyzing you as a whole. Looking at the parts of your body that had been frostbitten made him feel uneasy.

He wasn’t quite sure on what to do.

As usual, he was doing his best. It was his duty as a doctor. But as your friend, as someone who personally knows and cares about you, he was quite frankly scared.

Just like any other person, you had your ups and downs. He knew that hunters didn’t break easily, but he was always concerned for when it would happen to you. The person who was always so strong and had such a strong will to live now laid hooked to a machine because of a tragedy.

Zayne, a fairly calm person, had some uneasy thoughts in his head. As a doctor, he knows he can’t possibly keep tabs on every patient and be omnipresent but as a friend, as your friend… he felt a pang of guilt.

He tried staying by your side all night since you got admitted to the hospital with severe lacerations, but with emergency protocols circulating because of what had happened prior to your arrival in the hospital, he couldn’t exactly do as he wanted.

Coming back to your room to not find you was scary. No one had ever seen doctor Zayne run as fast as he did, looking for you while a team of some nurses who were brave enough helped to look for you.

Given your wounds, he knew a few things. You couldn’t have gone far. You also, unfortunately, could have easily bled by running.

He had found you thanks to a trail of blood, barely visible, in the snow. That is when he began to panic. He forgot to take into account the cold night, and the hospital gown you were wearing. He knew it was a matter of time until you got hypothermia one way or another, so he only hoped it wasn’t severe.

The past days since he had found you were a blur. Typical, as he was always fairly busy, but he was always worried. Too worried for his own good.

He didn’t know what to do.

This rarely ever happened. So what changed?

“Doctor Zayne, a certain psychologist says he wants to speak to you per your request” this wasn’t just simple grief you were about to go through as soon as you regained consciousness and he knew that.

He knew that despite how strong you could be at times, knowing that after all your squad had died you somehow managed to eliminate the anomaly that had appeared all by yourself… he was sure it would destroy you.

“Let him in. He will be assigned to this patient, so I’d like to brief him on the case”

The past few days, when he wasn’t drowning in his own quiet sorrow, hoping you’d wake up, he was trying to come up with ways to comfort you. It was rather difficult.

He didn’t have the privilege to have wishful thinking filling his mind. No amount of love he could try to pour onto you would fix this. So he had done research and found a good- no, a great psychologist. Truly la crème de la crème.

According to how your treatment was proceeding and the results, he was confident you would wake up soon, with a myriad questions to ask. Questions he did not have the heart to answer whilst watching you break down.

“I am sorry it has come to this. Fragile, almost weak. Too stubborn for your own good. Concerning affinity with dangerous situations… so careless. So… true to yourself no matter what” Zayne shook his head and got up, leaving an empty chair by your side.

“You should have looked after her better. You should have protected her. You should have kept her safe. You should have known. You should have done something” the doctor shook his head, stealing glances at you while waiting for the psychologist to arrive.

He despised not being in control of things. He didn’t know what would happen from this point forward.

But as your terrified gaze met his, making his heart skip a beat, he knew that no matter what the outcome was, he would always find a way to be by your side. It wasn’t your love he desired like a madman.

He desired your well-being. As long as you were alive and somewhat healthy under his care, he would sleep better at night, knowing that you were still with him. You were his Angel and he’d be damned before he let you lose your wings.

An everlasting promise to keep you safe.

Time passed painfully slow.

You had woken up, which wasn’t optimal given your condition but within a few days you had made remarkable progress. You were still far away from a full recovery, and the doctors weren’t sure about your mental state.

Most of your time was spent staring at a clock. At least, that’s all you remember from the past few days anyway. You hadn’t said a word. At all.

Zayne was moderately worried, you’d say. But you didn’t care. Time was passing. The clock was moving. Slowly, but surely. Doctors came and went but the clock was always there.

You had many thoughts, but none of them truly registered. You were content with just thinking about the clock.

Which of course had worried Zayne. So much so he didn’t even have anything to say to you. Or maybe he did. You couldn’t quite recall. But it’s okay. It would all be okay. Time was passing. It surely was.

The already white walls were becoming even brighter with time. And you could hear them: their faint echoes.

Your face, so emotionless, stared at the clock. Intently, with such intensity that it concerned everyone who checked up on you. But you weren’t quite sure who they were. Their faces were round, but not clock shaped. No one could ever compare.

And as more time passed, you could hear them. “They’re singing for me today” you muttered to a nurse, who got goosebumps and went to find doctor Zayne to let him know you had finally said something.

He knew from the moment you opened your eyes this was going to be a bumpy road. What he didn’t know was that it would hurt. A lot.

As he headed to your room, he felt his usual inner calm falter. And as he looked at you- hair disheveled, concerning eye bags and a newfound obsession with a clock, the voice in his head came back again. This time, for more than he wanted it to be there.

He shook his head and this time tried a different approach. A subtle smile hiding his inner turmoil.

“I can still fix this”

[wordsarelife]

—𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

pairing: theo nott x fem!reader

summary: theo and you used to be friends. that was a long time ago. now you pretty much hate each other and theo uses his feelings about you to write a song!

warnings: i don’t think there are any! let me know if that’s not true :)

note: here it is!! finally the prologue is here! don’t worry the actual chapters will be much longer. we just needed a starting point! hope you enjoy!!!

word count: 0.9k

masterlist | next part

there was a single path connecting the backyard of the two houses, making it almost hard not to run into each other. despite that, you had sworn yourself to never set a foot on said path ever again, always straying away before your feet could touch the concrete. 

you hadn't been watching him, but it seemed that theo was doing the same. you had never once spotted him wandering across the yard. 

because your eyes were still fixated on the path, you didn't notice the movement in the window across from you, only looking up, when you heard the knocking through your opened window. theo was standing there, watching you with a smirk, before he reached for his pen and wrote something. 

he grabbed his bag, winking at you, before he slapped the paper against the window, turning around and walking out of his room before you were able to react. 

'bye, pixie'  he had written, making you sigh. he had called you that ever since one fateful day in your childhood. because, believe it or not, theo and you had been friends once.

you had been seven when you tried to cut your own hair, much to your mother's dismay, who had dragged you to a hairstylist the same day, eager to fix the mess you had created. there wasn't much to save or fix so you ended up with a rather horrible pixie cut for the next few months.

your hair had eventually grown out to it's normal length, the pixie fading away before you could even start to be ashamed of it, but theo wasn't one to let go of things quickly, so he had been calling you that to this day.

and since your friendship had ended, making room for the hatred towards each other, he seemed to just get a rise of the way it bothered you so much. 

you rolled your eyes, pushing back the feeling of annoyance as you dragged your curtain close so you wouldn't have to look at his window anymore. 

✦•〰〰〰〰〰★🎸☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

theo arrived at the garage sooner than he would've predicted, lazily leaning his bike against the wall, before he walked inside. 

"you're early" mattheo noted, while taking a look at his phone. 

"don't flatter yourself" theo smiled, before he ruffled mattheo's hair, sitting down on the couch beside his best friend. "what about the others?" 

"enzo forget his guitar, blaise and draco went with him to get it" 

"he forgot it again?" theo sighed, leaning back into the cushion. 

"he's been acting up quite a lot" mattheo shrugged "maybe it's the stress"

theo shrugged, before he grabbed his bag, taking out the red leather book. "i have something to finish" 

"another song?" mattheo furrowed his brows, before he stood up and walked across the room. 

"maybe" theo shrugged "i've been working on something" his mind wandered off. 

"might not be the worst idea to put out another single right after the album. we'll stay relevant that way" mattheo pointed out and theo nodded absentmindedly. "i'll leave you to it" mattheo walked in the direction of the door, a towel in his hand. he was probably going swimming in the lake that was right next to the garage. 

the garage was more of a loft than an actual garage. but it had always been called that and every member of cursed legacy was rather keen on sticking to things. 

"we are relevant" theo argued, right before mattheo snuck out the door. he could not hear his answer, if mattheo had even answered anything. 

theo sighed as his eyes fell back on the unfinished song in his book. the words had fallen right out of his mind and on the page it seemed. somehow this song had been easier to write than any other he had written. and that had been almost every song on cursed legacy's first album: neon nights.

sometimes mattheo or blaise had helped him. enzo and draco often had ideas for a few lines, but ultimately most of their songs were written by theo. 

he jotted down more and more lines, adding the chorus, the bridge. occasionally he stopped writing to play a few notes on draco's keyboard, making sure the lines were fitting the melody. in just less than thirty minutes he had a finished song. 

loud noises in front of the door made theo look up from the book. the door was opened by blaise and he entered the garage closely followed by draco and enzo and also mattheo, who had probably run into them right outside. 

"hey" enzo greeted "sorry that we're late, honestly my fault, but—“

theo shook his head, interrupting the boy "it's fine, enzo. i want you guys to listen to something" 

"sure" draco pushed enzo forward, so he had enough room to sit down on the couch. the rest of their group took their respective seats as well, ready to listen to whatever theo was wanting to show them. 

they all listened attentively as theo played the notes on the keyboard, eventually adding the lyrics he had written down, until they were presented with the whole song. they looked at each other, smiling in silent agreement. 

"what do you think?" theo asked, but his friends did not answer. they all got up, taking their instruments and resuming to their positions next to him. 

"what are you waiting for?" draco asked when theo had not moved to stand in front of the microphone.

"let's record it right now" enzo added when he noticed theo's confused look. 

theo smiled upon his friends enthusiam. "sure" he nodded, grabbing his mic and stepping into the middle of their little circle.

thank you so much for reading!!

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[lisalamona]

𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 - IV

Chapter IV: Open Arms

. Summary: Despite your brother's insistence, you stubbornly decided to join him and his men in the war. Now, are you prepared to face the consequences of your actions? . Pairing: Various x Fem! Reader (platonic) . Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, death, trauma, and other sensitive content. . Notes: I'm starting to upload this story here on tumblr, I am really sorry for clogging the tags.

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Masterlist

The forest around you felt almost enchanted, the air rich with the scent of damp earth and something faintly sweet from the glowing fruits hanging from the trees. The dim rays of the setting sun filtered through the canopy, casting soft, golden light that danced with the faint bioluminescence of the undergrowth. Your torch, lit not long ago, flickered gently, its warm light blending with the natural glow of the forest. It was a scene that should have felt peaceful—almost dreamlike. But the tension in Odysseus's posture told an entirely different story.

The three of you walked in a comfortable silence, though even in the quiet, you could feel the weight pressing on him. He wasn't just tense because you were on an unknown island; his mind seemed to churn with burdens that had been piling up for years. The war—which he thanked the gods was won. What happened on that balcony back in Troy. The dwindling rations. The growing difficulty of managing his weary crew. And, though he never said it aloud, the constant, gnawing worry for your safety and wellbeing that hasn't left him since you'd all left Ithaca ten years ago.

The silence finally broke when Polites nudged a fallen branch out of the path with his foot. "Try to relax, my friend," he said, his tone light but deliberate.

Odysseus blinked, pulled abruptly from his thoughts. "Huh?"

Polites chuckled and shook his head. "I said, try to relax. I can tell you're getting nervous. Do yourself a favor and unclench before you scare the life out of the next poor animal that crosses our path."

Odysseus shot him an unamused glare. "I'm fine, Polites."

"Fine?" Polites raised an eyebrow. "If this is your version of fine, I'd hate to see you tense."

You couldn't help but smirk as you added, "Polites is right. You look like you're gearing up to fight a bear—or at least glare it into submission."

Though you couldn't exactly claim to be carefree yourself, walking alongside people you trusted with your life kept the worst of your worries at bay. The serene beauty of the forest helped, too. The shimmering plants and softly glowing fruits were a sight you'd never seen before, and you allowed yourself a moment to admire them.

Polites, however, was not letting Odysseus off the hook. "Aw, come on, Ody!" He slipped into a mock-serious tone, squaring his shoulders and furrowing his brow in exaggerated imitation. "'Hey, look at me! I'm the captain. Alright, listen up!'"

Odysseus stopped in his tracks and turned to glare at Polites. "What?"

Polites grinned. "That's what you sound like!"

Odysseus shook his head, muttering, "I don't sound like that."

You laughed, unable to resist joining in. "Oh, you absolutely do."

"I don't!" Odysseus insisted, looking genuinely offended now.

"You do," you said, smirking. "I've known you my whole life, brother. I believe I know what you sound like."

For a moment, Odysseus looked between the two of you, clearly debating whether to argue further. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he shook his head. "I'm starting to regret bringing you rwo along"

Polites clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "You'll thank us when we make it home in one piece. And anyway, we should be celebrating! We're close, Ody. After everything we've been through, don't you think we deserve a moment to breathe?"

Odysseus glanced ahead, where the forest path seemed to open up into a clearing, the light growing brighter. For a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched upward—barely—but it was enough to hint at a smile. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Polites groaned, throwing his hands in the air.

You couldn't help but laugh as the three of you pressed on.

Polites clapped Odysseus on the shoulder as they walked. "Come on, Ody, think about it—look at everything we've been through. We've survived worse than this, haven't we? We'll survive whatever comes next too."

Odysseus didn't answer immediately, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as his eyes scanned the forest around them.

Polites sighed, his tone softening. "I get it. You're tired of the war and the bloodshed. We all are. But is this really how we're supposed to live? Always on edge, bracing for the next fight?" He gestured to Odysseus's hand. "The way you're gripping that sword... it's like you expect the trees to attack you." Odysseus's gaze flicked to his sword as if noticing it for the first time.

He gave him a sharp look, but Polites didn't back down. "What if, instead of taking, we focused on giving for a change? You know, showing people we trust them instead of expecting the worst all the time? Sometimes, lowering your guard is the strongest thing you can do."

You chimed in, catching onto Polites's attempt to lighten the mood. "He's right, you know. We've been given a chance to adjust, to breathe. Maybe we should take it."

Polites grinned, spreading his arms dramatically. "See? Even your sister agrees. Come on, Ody, give it a try—it's not that hard."

Odysseus huffed, shaking his head, but there was the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You two are impossible."

"And you're insufferable," you shot back with a grin.

Polites laughed. "Ah, but at least we're keeping you grounded. Admit it, Captain—you'd be lost without us."

"Sure," Odysseus muttered, but his tone had lightened just enough to make the forest feel a little less heavy.

The three of you fell into another comfortable silence, the rhythmic crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot the only sound accompanying your steps. But as the glowing forest around you shifted and swayed in the dimming light, memories stirred in your mind. You glanced around, the bioluminescent flora and the gentle rustle of the trees tugging at threads of your past.

"Do you know what this reminds me of?" you said suddenly, breaking the quiet. You gestured around with a sweep of your arm, inviting them to take in the forest as you did.

Both Polites and Odysseus turned their heads toward you, their curiosity piqued. That was your signal to continue.

"Do you remember, back home, when we'd run through the forest, looking for the biggest threat we could find? Well..." You smirked, tilting your head toward Odysseus. "You would run, and we'd follow."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow, already bracing himself for the jab he could sense coming.

You rolled your eyes, the memory vivid enough to draw a chuckle. "And by 'follow,' I mean you'd never let us get anywhere close to the action. You'd be charging ahead, all brave and daring, while we were stuck five paces behind, trying to keep up."

Your smile widened at the thought, but there was no denying the exasperation that lingered even after all these years. "You've always been like that—overprotective to a fault. Back then, it was all, 'Stay here, it's too dangerous.' And now? Well... not much has changed, has it?"

You cast him a teasing glance, but there was a warmth in your tone that softened the jab. As frustrating as it had been, you couldn't ignore the fact that his protectiveness had kept you safe more times than you could count. Not that you'd ever admit it to his face.

Odysseus let out a huff, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "Someone had to make sure you didn't get into trouble."

Polites snorted, chiming in with a grin. "Trouble? You mean like the time you nearly fell off a cliff while we were the ones actually following orders?"

"That was one time," Odysseus shot back, his tone defensive but his lips twitching with a reluctant smile.

"Or that time you almost got obliterated by that giant boar?" You added on.

Odysseus gave a half-hearted glare, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if fighting a smile. "I wasn't about to let you two get hurt. Someone had to make sure you didn't get yourselves killed."

"Uh-ha"

Odysseus sighed, shaking his head as if resigning himself to your teasing. "Somebody has to keep you alive. Clearly, it's still me."

Polites grinned, chiming in. "Oh! don't forget the stories we'd make up to explain why we came back covered in mud and scratches. 'Oh, it was a mighty beast! Twice as tall as a man!'" He mimed a dramatic stance, making you laugh harder.

Odysseus finally cracked a smile, albeit a small one. "And mother didn't believe a word of it."

"She never did," you said, shaking your head fondly. "But she still let us tell our tales anyway. I think she liked hearing them, even if she pretended to be angry."

For a moment, the three of you walked on in silence, but this time, the quiet was filled with the warmth of shared memories rather than the weight of present worries. The forest seemed less ominous, its glow a little more welcoming, as if it, too, remembered simpler times.

After what felt like hours of weaving through the dense, glowing forest, you finally stepped into a clearing. The open space was a relief after the close, tangled pathways, but your purpose remained sharp in your mind. You had been searching for signs of life, for the people who were said to inhabit this mysterious island.

Cautiously, the three of you approached the edge of the clearing, each step deliberate, your eyes scanning every shadow and flicker of light. But as you drew closer, your hope began to waver. The space was eerily quiet—too quiet. There were no signs of movement, no voices carried on the breeze, no footprints in the soft soil.

Once you were fully in the clearing, the absence of life became undeniable. Nothing. Not a single soul, nor even the faintest hint that anyone had ever set foot here.

The three of you ventured toward the center, driven by a stubborn determination to uncover something—anything. You looked around, searching for a clue, a trace, a whisper of proof that this wasn't just another dead end. But no matter how hard you looked, your efforts were fruitless.

You broke the silence first, his voice low. "Well, this is... disappointing."

"Welcome."

The word echoed through the forest, but it wasn't one voice—it was a chorus, like a hundred tiny voices speaking in perfect unison. It sent a chill down your spine. The three of you whipped around in unison toward the source of the sound, your hearts pounding.

Odysseus was the first to react. Without a word, he stepped in front of you and Polites, his protective instincts kicking in like second nature. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and in one smooth motion, it was free form his side, the steel glinting faintly in the glow of the forest. He held the blade steady, pointing it toward the shadows from which the voices had come.

Out of the shadows emerged tiny creatures. At first, their shapes were hard to make out, but as they stepped into the faint glow of your torch, their features became clear. They looked remarkably like cats—except they walked upright on two legs and were slightly shorter than an average feline.

Their fur was a soft, brownish-gray, blending effortlessly with the forest's earthy tones. But what stood out the most—what truly caught and held your attention—were their eyes. Vibrant violet orbs gleamed in stark contrast to their muted coats, glowing faintly as if lit from within.

The creatures gazed up at the three of you, their faces seemingly locked in curious, almost playful smiles. They appeared utterly unfazed by the sword Odysseus was still pointing in their direction, either not understanding the gesture or not caring enough to react.

Polites broke the silence first, lowering his dagger slightly and tilting his head. "Uh...what are they?"

You stared, torn between disbelief and amusement. "I... have no idea."

Odysseus, however, wasn't lowering his guard. His grip on the sword remained firm, his sharp gaze darting between the strange creatures. "They certainly don't look like a threat," you ventured, though your voice carried more curiosity than certainty.

One of the creatures took a step forward, its tiny paw-like hand raised as if in greeting. It tilted its head and smiled wider, the violet of its eyes seeming to shimmer as it chirped, "Welcome."

"Stay back." The grip on Odysseus's sword tightened, if that was even possible. The small creatures echoed his demand.

You couldn't help but crack a small smile, though you kept your distance. "They don't seem dangerous," you said, casting a quick glance at Odysseus.

His stance remained defensive. "They don't seem like anything yet," he replied. "But that doesn't mean we should trust them. We're only here for food."

"Food."

At the word, the small creatures froze, their wide, glowing eyes shimmering with a mix of wonder and recognition. Their tiny faces lit up.

You weren't sure if they fully understood what he meant, but there was no mistaking the reaction. They recognized the word, perhaps even its significance, though their excitement made it hard to discern if it was joy, curiosity, or something else entirely.

"Six hundred friends are waiting for us to show our faces," Odysseus said, his voice low and wary.

"Food," the creatures chanted in unison, their voices eerie, almost melodic. The sound echoed through the trees, sending a chill down your spine.

A few of them tried to inch closer, but they froze the moment your brother raised his sword in a clear warning. His stance was unyielding, the blade gleaming in the faint light. Odysseus's eyes darted between the creatures, his body a shield between them and you.

"Stay back," he barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "I'm warning you."

You weren't sure if Odysseus didn't understand that these creatures probably didn't comprehend a word he was saying, or if his nerves had gotten the better of him. Either way, he seemed determined to make himself clear, even if the threats fell on deaf ears.

"Food," they repeated, the word somehow more insistent this time, as though they were trying to communicate something. One of them—a smaller, fluffier one—tilted its head, its wide, glowing eyes fixed on Odysseus. Then it opened its mouth and made exaggerated chomping motions, adding a series of "num num num" sounds for emphasis.

You couldn't tell if it was mimicking some human habit or simply giving in to its own hunger at the mention of food. Either way, it was adorable.

"If we don't get back safely," Odysseus said, his voice cold and deliberate, "my men will turn this place into blazes."

"Friend, we just talked about this. Greet the words with open arms," Polites said with a smirk, nudging Odysseus, whose sword still hung tensely in his grip.

Before you could comment, you felt a soft tap against your leg. You jumped back instinctively, your heart skipping a beat, but the momentary panic gave way to relief when you looked down.

It was the fuzzy critters—small, wide-eyed, and undeniably strange, yet somehow endearing. They were holding as many fruits as their tiny paws could manage, the glowing produce piled precariously in their little arms.

One of them tilted its head up at you, its bright eyes sparkling as it chirped, "Here you go!" It extended its bundle of fruit toward you, wobbling slightly under the weight.

You crouched down, hesitating for a moment, then carefully took the fruit from its tiny paws. Its warmth and slight glow reminded you of fireflies on summer nights back in Ithaca. "Uh... thank you," you said, unsure if it understood you but hoping the gratitude came through.

"Welcome" It responded and smiled as if it was proud of itself.

Another critter shuffled forward, offering its own collection of fruit. Soon, they were all crowding around, chirping softly and depositing glowing fruit into your hands like an offering.

Polites crouched down beside you, his grin wide. "Well, would you look at that? Guess they're not so bad after all, huh?" He plucked a fruit from the pile, turning it over in his hands.

Odysseus remained tense, his sword still raised slightly. "Or they're trying to fatten us up for something worse," he muttered, though the edge in his voice was softer now.

You gave him a pointed look. "Ody, not everything in this world is out to kill us. Sometimes, a gift is just a gift."

One of the critters tugged lightly on Odysseus's tunic, holding up a single glowing fruit with tiny, insistent paws. It chirped, "Friend!"

For a moment, Odysseus stared at it, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that bordered on exasperation, he lowered his sword and took the fruit gingerly from its hands. "Fine. Friend," he said, the word sounding both amused and resigned.

You smiled, holding one of the fruits up to examine it more closely. Despite everything you'd faced so far, this moment felt oddly comforting—a small, unexpected kindness in a world that had offered little of it lately.

"See? Life isn't so bad when you give it a chance," Polites said, gesturing to the glowing fruit in his hand. "Whatever comes our way, we'll get through it—just like always. It's not about where we are; it's about what we do with it. And maybe... just maybe... it starts with letting our guard down once in a while."

Odysseus didn't respond immediately. Instead, he studied the fruit in his hand, turning it over before tearing it in half. The glow from the inside was brighter now, revealing seeds that shimmered faintly, like tiny embers.

His jaw tightened. He knew this fruit.

It hit him like a blow to the chest: lotus.

His stomach sank as the weight of the realization settled over him. He glanced toward the critters, now scurrying about happily, their strange behavior suddenly making sense. If this fruit was their primary source of sustenance...

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with both understanding and unease.

You noticed the change in his expression immediately. "Ody? What is it?"

"This isn't just any fruit," he said, holding up the glowing half. "It's lotus."

Polites furrowed his brow. "Lotus?"

Odysseus nodded grimly, casting another glance at the creatures, who were still blissfully unaware of the danger they posed. "The lotus will make you forget everything—your purpose, your will. You'll fall into a haze, one that never really ends. And it'll trap you here, in their world. That's what we'd get with open arms"

You looked down at the fruit now heavy in your hands. "What do we do then?"

Polites' voice cut through the silence, calm but firm. "Lotus-eaters, I'd like to show my friend that true kindness is in courage, not in surrender." He stepped forward, kneeling down once more to meet their gaze with steady eyes. "Could you show us where we might find other food? We cannot eat these. Still, we appreciate your generosity."

The Lotus-eaters' eyes flickered, unsure whether to press further or let go. You could feel the weight of their gaze, a mix of pity and curiosity. Polites' calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the wild beating of your heart.

"Cave," They said again, in perfect unison, their voices filled with a strange, almost childlike eagerness. It was as though your refusal had no weight at all to them.

But one of them, the same one that gave you the first fruit, small and trembling, clung to your leg once more. The creature looked up at you with wide, violet eyes—eyes that seemed to shimmer with a mix of fear and curiosity.

"Scary cave," It whispered, its voice barely a squeak, though the words were clear.

Polites smiled, grateful that he could show his friend that kindness still yielded results. "A cave! You're telling me there's a cave where we can feast? And where exactly do we sail to find this food-filled paradise?"

"East!" The lotus eaters pointed enthusiastically, their arms outstretched toward what you assumed was east. But one of them, still clinging to your leg, pointed in the opposite direction with surprising conviction.

"That way!" it declared, its voice a soft, almost sing-song quality. You opened your mouth, ready to correct it, but something made you pause. It was so earnest, so sure of itself, and a small part of you didn't want to burst its bubble.

For a moment, the little creature simply stared at you, its wide eyes filled with pleading innocence. Then, as if sensing your hesitation, it began to make grabby hands at you, reaching up with adorable urgency. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

How could you possibly resist? You reached down, scooping it up despite your better judgment. Its giggle was almost musical, and for a fleeting moment, you forgot about the confusion of their directions.

"Thank you"

"Welcome!"

Polites placed a hand on Odysseus's shoulder, his grin speaking volumes. It was a playful 'see?' that he couldn't ignore. He looked amused but also exasperated, clearly not prepared for the teasing that had taken place within a few hours with the two of you.

"'Greet the world with open arms...'" he muttered, echoing Polites' earlier words. Maybe the philosophy wasn't so far off after all.

His musings were abruptly interrupted by the familiar sensation of his mind being pulled away from his body—a sensation he had grown far too accustomed to, thanks to a certain goddess.

Polites raised an eyebrow, watching Odysseus expectantly, waiting for him to respond, but all he got in return was silence. Odysseus was staring off into the distance, his gaze blank and distant.

"He's doing it again," Polites muttered, giving your arm a friendly pat. His gesture was meant to break your attention from the little critters that were now surrounding you, their tiny hands offering little flowers.

You waved him off, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It'll pass."

Polites glanced over at the creatures with a playful look in his eyes. "Should we take one of them to help us find the cave?"

You held up the lotus-eater in your hands, its soft, dewy eyes gazing up at Polites with a shy, almost innocent smile. "I say we take this one," you said, offering it to him as though it were some kind of precious trinket.

"What are we taking?" Odysseus's voice broke the stillness, and he seemed to have snapped back to the present.

"This little guy will guide us to the cave," you replied, now showing the lotus-eater to your brother. The creature smiled up at him, completely unaware of the skepticism in Odysseus's eyes.

"...That one?" Odysseus raised an eyebrow, looking around at the other lotus-eaters nearby. Many seemed just as eager, if not more so. The one you were holding, however, didn't exactly strike him as the sharpest tool in the shed.

"We're taking this one." you said firmly, not bothering to look at Odysseus as you cradled the little creature in your arms.

[zerobaselove]

ever seen | zhang hao

pairing: zhang hao x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 711

warnings: nothing that i can think of?? lowercase intended, not proofread

notes: this is so rough and thrown together i just rlly wanted to write smth kinda inspired by a song on beabadoobees new album and im on the verge of biasing hao so here we are

"y/n, shouldn't you be asleep?"

you sighed in relief as you heard your best friend's voice over the phone, although more gravelly than you're used to, but you suppose that's because its almost two in the morning.

"i didn't think you'd be awake still," you mumbled, your eyes scanning your dark room, faintly lit by the moonlight through your window. his voice sounded back over your phone, "everything okay?"

you shook your head, though he didn't know that. "can't sleep, and i miss you." your voice trailed off, hoping the last part of your confession and your shaking voice had fallen victim to the static, but it hadn't.

you could hear the smile on his face as he responded, "do you need me to come over?" you only hummed in response before he said a quick farewell and headed out.

this had become a sort of routine as of late. much to your heart's dismay, you both knew you slept better when you weren't alone, and your best friend, and crush zhang hao, had no problem helping you get a few more hours of rest on nights like this.

despite his ability to make your heart skip a beat, he also was the only one who was able to calm you down enough to fall asleep. and that's how you ended up here, waiting in your bedroom as you quietly hummed a song to yourself.

you heard the front door unlock, having given him his own keys months ago, soon followed by a faint knock at your bedroom door and the door silently opening, revealing your safe haven and ticket to dreamland, hao.

he slid himself in your bed next to you, wrapping an arm around you tightly, "i'm here now," he said reassuringly, rubbing circles on your arm with his thumb. "do you want to talk about it or do you want a distraction until you get tired?"

"just wanna lay here with you for a bit," your voice had finally stopped shaking as you took in a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne.

the two of you settled into a comfortable position; both laying facing one another, letting the moonlight illuminate a part of hao's face. his eyes seemed to sparkle in this lighting, like shining stars.

you were mesmerized.

your eyes trailed over his features; his slightly messy hair, clearly he hadn't had time to brush it between your phone call and him leaving his house. your gaze stopped for a moment on his lips, slightly parted as he focused in on your hands that had found their way to his own. and then there were his eyes. his eyes that seemed to hold all the love in the world, at least that's what it felt like when he looked at you; especially now.

"hao, you have the prettiest eyes i've ever seen." you blurted out, too tired to consider the weight of your words or the effect it would have on the boy who now flushed pink in front of you.

he stuttered out a denial that you couldn't quite understand, and before you could give it a second thought you broke your hands free of his grasp, bringing your hands to cup his cheeks. the warmth radiating from his face left you with your own warm and fuzzy feeling as you watched the emotions flash on his face. confusion and anticipation.

even you weren't anticipating your next move as you brought your face closer to his, feeling his breathing match up to your own at the new proximity.

before your brain could catch up to your body and tell you to back out, you pressed your lips to his, savouring the feeling for a moment before pulling away.

you both took a moment to compose yourself. taking the time to process what just happened. what were you thinking? you wondered to yourself. but before you could spiral down that path, his lips found their way to yours, this time taking you by surprise.

time had seemed to slow, and by the time you pulled away from each other, you both were nearly panting to catch your breath.

"well y/n, i think you might actually have the prettiest eyes i've ever seen."

[im-just-a-simp-le-whore]

The Beginning Of The End - an Arcane fix it??

so. I just busted this out. its not edited at all. have no idea if I'll even continue it after i post this first chapter. had this idea floating around for while, since season 2 ended tbh. if Jayce and Viktor are ooc yall, pls bare with me I'm still very new to writing characters that aren't mine. (that's all I wrote previously)

for context, reader is an empath and whatever they feel is reflected on their hair via colors. the color/emotion used this chapter is anxiety=orange based on this image. if I continue this, the color wheel below will always be referred back to

also, i am open to constructive criticism!! if I've misspelled something pls pls pls tell me!! or if i could've worder something better or used a different word!!

SPOILERS FOR ARCANE SEASONS 1 AND 2 RIGHT OFF THE BAT YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

ALSO TW: ANXIETY, SPIRALLING AND SKIN PICKING, MEDICATION AND ALCOHOL

An explosion

A white light 

Bright

Blinding

crashing

falling 

A decent that feels like eternity 

A buzzing

Ringing

Echoes of voices 

It's everywhere 

All around me

All at once 

A whirlwind of emotions

Blurs of colors 

Dizzying sights of people

And suddenly, I am awake

“(name), Dear? (name)?”

I feel a gloved hand shake my shoulder. I gasp as my eyes come back into focus onto Cassandra Kiramman. 

It feels as though I’ve fallen into my own body

“Mrs.Kiramman..? Wha-what? Where am… I? How did I..?” I whisper, confused, as i rub my temples with my right hand, my left swinging back to grab my pole staff only to realize 

Its not fucking there

Cassandra scoffs, and shakes her head, eyeing my left hand placement, She takes a sip of champagne and tutts

“My my dear, it seems you've had too much wine, hmm?” she asks, her tone almost playful. 

Looking around I see that I'm at hextech’s first celebration. 

This…. This isn't right! Mere minutes ago i was watching viktor and jayce get sucked into.. A vortex..? A portal? How am I back? 

Letting out a nervous giggle, and nod

“Ye-yeah! Must've been too much wine… on that note I'm gonna step outside, take a walk in the garden and sober up.” 

If Mrs.Kiramman notices my anxiety, she makes no comment and nods, walking away towards Shoola. 

Without waiting a second more, I made a swift move towards the garden. Blurting quick “Pardon me!’s” and “excuse me’s” along the way, narrowly avoiding people and their gaze. After what feels like forever, I make it to the garden doors, quickly shoving them open and running outside into the cold winter air of the night. 

A blanket of snow covers most of the garden, except for the stone path that weaves through it. Proof of the first snowfall in piltover, the cement is still too warm from autumn for the snow to remain. 

I briefly turn around to make sure no one has followed me, and from what i can tell, they haven't. With that, I turn back towards the garden and begin to quickly walk the path, following it deeper in, where I'll be obscured by trees and bushes that have yet to die.

Traversing further in, I come across a stone bench and sit down. Holding my face in my hands i sigh loudly into my palms

How the fuck did I end up almost an entire decade back in time! Why here of all places?? Did everything that happened before… Was it a strange dream??? A warning of what's to come?? 

Standing up, I begin pacing back in force in front of the bench, softly muttering “one, two, three, four… one, two, three, four” in repetition, a vain attempt to calm myself down. As I begin to pick at my left arm, glancing down I realize that the anomaly is gone, no longer is there a scar with a kaleidoscope of colored webs that make up parts of my skin. But instead in its place is the tattoo of words that were there before the anomaly. 

I sigh again, and look away from my arm, looking ahead at the trees infront of as i continue to pace 

No.. not a warning, nor a dream. But memories, my memories. They're too real, too… tangible. With far too many emotions attached to them for them to be oddly elaborate dreams. and If I think about them hard enough, I can still smell and taste them. Still physically feel the emotions tied to them.  

In my anxiety induced pacing I fail to hear two sets of footsteps. One quick, with heavy steps, another with softer, slower steps with the soft, in sync tap! tap! tap! Of a cane. 

Pacing faster, my breath comes out in short, ragged puffs. As the Anxiety consumed me whole. 

as the tips of my (h/c) hair begin to turn orange. Anxiety is starting to consume me. I begin roughly tugging at my hair, another failed attempt at self soothing. As my thoughts begin to spiral

How how how!? How the hell did I end up back here? Does that mean I have to lose them again? That I have to watch as they turn into people they would have never dreamt of becoming? I cant lose them again, i cant deal with the isolation again. The pain, the chasing, the begging, the crying. I cant. I cant i cant icant icant icant-

“(name)? Are you alright? We saw you fly out of the party like a bat out of hell after talking to Mrs.Kiramman. Did something happen?”

And for a split second, a flash. I see them as their future selves. Viktor in a purple robe with Long brown hair with blonde at the ends, a body made almost entirely of metal and magic. Swirls of black and purple, almost like the magic itself is breathing. 

Jayce, a mess of black hair that's gotten long enough to be in his eyes, a smaller, no, a skinnier body. Covered in dirt, grime, and maybe blood? A brace on his left leg, still dressed in his counselor attire. 

Blinking away those images, as I shake my head and let go of my hair. “Yeah, I'm.. I'm fine, just had a little too much to drink tonight. Or maybe, an interaction with my new meds. Anyones best guest at this point." I say with an awkward chuckle, trying to feign indifference as if I wasn't just seconds away from pulling my hair out in panic. 

Jayce and Viktor share a brief, confused glance.

They're not buying it. At all. 

Viktor nods with a small tilt of his head, and hums. 

“Fine is not tugging at our hair and pacing back and forth, both of which only happen when you are spiraling or about to spiral. So, let's try this again. What's wrong, little lasko?” 

Looking back and forth between the two men, I sigh for what feels like the upteenth time tonight, and opt to give a half truth. “I.. it's just.. These weird dreams I've been having. They just feel… a little too real. More so than usual, and it's just been a lot.. Been overwhelmed with having to present my research soon and starting a new medication on top of it all. Sorry for the worry.” 

I barely finish speaking, and Jayce wraps me up in a tight hug. I let out a breath of relief and relax into the hug, as Jayce says

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner? You know we’re here-” Viktor cuts in, 

“And you know better than to isolate and spiral. We’ve talked about this little lasko, you know it hurts you more in the long run to handle things this way. You should have said something when this started.” 

Jayce gently pulling back from the hug cuts back in,  “speaking of which, how long ago did this start?”

Like a deer caught in headlights, I stare blankly for a moment, swallowing the small lump in my throat, I softly say “A few weeks ago.. I think..?” out of the corner of my eye, I can see the tips become more orange, my anxiety showing itself more than it did previously 

As Viktor and Jayce begin to lecture me, we hear a twig snap a bit behind them. As they turn to locate the sound, I see it. A figure in a black cloak surrounded by mist. I feel a mixed bag of emotions, few of my own, mostly the strangers’ . Rage, resentment, fear, murderous, and ... excitement? 

I squint my eyes to getter look at him in the dark, as they begin to walk closer, I suddenly realize who it is, and come to terms with the fact that despite being almost a decade in the past, I've still yet to outrun him, and this is truly in fact, The Beginning Of The End,

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

Mutual Aid

Pairing: Roy Phillips x Female Vault Dweller Reader

Word Count: 6,475

Warnings: smut (18+), infidelity, slight dubcon if you squint, strip "tease", oral sex (male receiving), rough sex, hair pulling, creampie

Notes: After finally completing the Tenpenny Tower quest for myself, I can say that my number one takeaway was "most of y'all don't hate Roy, you hate the choices the writers gave you" and my number two takeaway was "I need this man to reconfigure my innards like I need my next breath of air". I've really been loving Fallout 3 so far!

My personal submission into the sacred "ghoul creampie as protection from ferals" trope. Credit to @it-is-i-zim for the idea. Another rare "short" piece. Please enjoy!

Warrington Station had such a distinct, fetid odor. Every time you squeezed your way past the chain-length fence that attempted to block off the old subway depot from the rest of the world, it enveloped you, curling around you like an unwanted embrace and clinging to your clothes, your hair. The Wasteland was a place of much unpleasantness, but your first steps into the underground home of the band of ghouls you'd recently befriended never ceased to make you gag.

The place felt equally like a series of claustrophobic prison cells and an infinite labyrinth, littered with nothing but abandoned junk and the lingering husks of unfortunate souls whose bodies refused to give up the fight long after their minds had lost the war. It was dark, it was dirty, and it was depressing.

There was no mystery to you as to why Roy was so desperate to escape the place.

Former scientist and current sentry Michael Masters sat up tall in his usual spot, watching with caution over the portion of the tunnels that led to the Warrington train yard.

"Where is he?" you asked the pensive man.

"Back that way, past the beds, before you hit the exit door out the back." Michael replied, the sickly violet hue of his skin fluctuating under the dim fluorescence as he jerked his head over his shoulder.

"Thanks." you replied before winding your way down the stairs and onto the tracks for a handful of paces. Making your way along the dim, narrow path, you weaved your way around piles of debris, fallen ceiling tiles and crumbled pieces of concrete decorated with jagged limbs of rebar. Somewhere out in the dusty haze, there was the shuffling of uncoordinated footsteps, the rattle of dry breathing. You picked up your pace, eager to be among friendly company.

Unsurprisingly, you found Bessie Lynn hanging around, looking over a magazine of some sort in the center of the makeshift living quarters the ghouls had constructed.

"Hi there!" the soft-spoken woman smiled from her seat.

"Hey." you waved pleasantly as you passed by, rounding the corner again into the room Michael had described.

The little pump closet had been changed since you'd first visited the place. Before, it had been strewn with random junk. Now, it was still cluttered, but all the original stuff had been shoved into the corner, an old metal desk pushed up against the wall. An old lantern had been balanced carefully atop some silent machinery, casting the whole room in a harsh glow. Wrapped in the same armor as usual, long gun slung across his back, the man you'd come to visit sat tall in a dented metal chair.

Roy Phillips was brusque, often rude, even. Within minutes of meeting the man, he'd been overly comfortable ordering you around. In fact, the way he spoke to you often made you wonder if he respected you at all.

You found him unnecessarily intriguing, no matter how much said infatuation annoyed you.

"What?" he asked, tone already impatient as he evaluated you with those pale blue eyes. "It's not good news, is it?"

"Well, I talked to the people Tenpenny told me about." you confessed to his seeming indifference. "Most of them are amenable...but there are definitely a few actual bigots. Very entitled ones. I might have to consider other options."

That earned a more animated reaction from the burly ghoul, his nearly invisible eyebrows rising high enough to touch the wisps of red hair that clung to his forehead. The corners of his patchy, discolored mouth twitched up, revealing a starkly contrasting row of straight teeth.

He has kind of a nice smile.

"So, you got the key to the basement door."

"No...not yet." you replied, eyes dropping to the floor.

You withheld a flinch as his tone turned rather nasty.

"Why the fuck are you here wasting my time, then, kid?" he demanded, his head lolling back like he was staving off a headache.

"I'm sorry! I just need some time to think about it. I talked to a lot of folks in there, and some of them are really nice people. Regular people. Maybe even good people. I'd hate for them to get wrapped up in--"

"You ever heard that saying about a bunch of 'good people' willingly sitting down at a table with a Nazi?" he interrupted.

"What's a Nazi?"

Roy flat-out rolled his eyes.

"What I'm asking is, how good can those people really be if they're willing to sit back and let the bigots call all the shots? And for what? Politeness? Just to not rock the boat?"

You shifted uncomfortably in place in the hard silence after he finished.

"It's a big decision to make is all I'm saying." you pleaded. "There might be something else I can do. Just give me a few days to think about it. I've gotta go to Underworld for some stuff and then I'll come back. If I can't come up with anything by then, we'll do things your way."

Again, the man rolled his eyes, which made your own mouth twitch in disapproval. His voice had lost much of its venom when he spoke again, though, his whole body relaxing back into the chair by one or two degrees.

"What's a few more days in the dark, I guess." he replied, "I'm warning you though, kid, I'm not known for my patience."

"I'd never guess." you snarked with a tone of faux-innocence.

Roy's mouth quirked up into what looked like a genuine smile for a single second before falling back into its usual mask of hardness.

"Well, if you're serious about helping us out, you'll need this." he said, opening the top desk drawer and tugged a meticulously folded wad of linen from within.

He leaned back, one elbow propped against the desktop as you rather discreetly undid the layers of fabric. The thing inside was completely macabre, a crude mask sewn together from mismatched patches of what you truly hoped was not real skin. Based on the stale smell that wafted up to your nostrils, however, you figured you had your answer, and you decided to not dwell too much on it. Swallowing thickly, you cast your glance back up towards his expectant face.

"It's for the ferals?" you asked.

Closing the drawer once more, he nodded.

"One more thing. It's good enough to fool them from a distance, but it'll be a problem if you get too close for too long. You won't smell right and it'll get them worked up."

"Smell? What do I do about my smell?"

"Well, I suppose you could treat 'em like deer and try slathering yourself in some of their piss." he said, in a tone that made it clear he was mocking your naivete.

It was your turn to roll your eyes harshly, refolding the papery-feeling abomination into the linen and jamming the whole thing down into your bag as carefully as you cared to.

"Thanks, Roy. I'll talk to you in a few days." you said, keeping your tone even through great effort as you turned your back to him.

You swallowed thickly, embarrassed goosebumps raising all along your arms as you made to exit out into the hall.

"Or I guess you could do what people always say to do and get a ghoul to fuck you raw."

You stopped dead in your tracks at this addition, wheeling back around to see him staring you down, a smug facsimile of a grin nearly splitting his typically grim-set face in two.

"You're so rude." you said, a bit of fire sparking up in your gut and your cheeks. "I'm helping you. You don't have to be so mean."

"What? I'm only telling you what I know!" he called after you mockingly as you began to retreat once again, continuing on with something you couldn't quite make out as you made your way back through the old train tunnels. His teasing left your nerves raw, painfully exposed to even the slightest breeze. You felt foolish as you burst out of the subway station gate, a feeling that didn't recede for several miles as you set your course towards the Museum of History.

Underworld had come to be one of your favorite places in the Capital, a refuge for ghouls who felt ostracized from the other parts of Wasteland society. It was a more welcoming-feeling place as a result, at least on average, full of people who understood what it felt like to be judged or rejected for things you couldn't control. However, this particular visit was tainted by the recurring thoughts you had about Roy and his words. Sure, he was a prick, but he wasn't really the type to just say things like that purely to get a rise out of you.

Slowly, you grew more and more curious until you found yourself in the office of Doctor Barrows, the chosen leader of the place and someone you'd struck up a decent friendship with.

Something about the way the he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention told you that he'd be willing to help you out if what Roy had said was true. Hell, being as intelligent as he was, he might even know off the top of his head if there was any substance to the claim to begin with. But you weren't sure you were willing to jeopardize your companionship with the ghoulish physician purely to test a theory...or scratch an itch.

"I have a question for you, Doc." you said after you'd exchanged pleasant greetings, fiddling awkwardly with a pencil on his desk, which was covered in piles of notes and a number of coffee mugs.

"What's that?" he asked, returning to what appeared to be some charting work.

You trusted the man, and you didn't typically feel any sort of discomfort in his presence, but something choked you up as you tried to find your words.

"Ah...have you seen Carol today?"

It was tough to get through all the business you'd come to conduct while simultaneously kicking yourself without cease, but you managed to make it happen somehow.

Later, you rested a while before making your way back west, spending some time at the Ninth Circle, crammed into the corner to hide away from Ahzrukhal's greasy-feeling gaze as you sipped your Nuka Cola. Typically, you didn't bother with the place, finding the act of placing even a single cap in the slimeball owner's pocket distasteful, but you also liked to keep tabs on the bouncer. Though he acted like he barely knew you existed, you felt a great deal of sympathy for his situation, and you were formulating a plan to come up with enough savings to free him.

You felt something else, as well, as you let your eyes trace over his tall, densely-muscled form.

It was a long trek back to Warrington, your head clouded with thoughts about Roy and Charon and Gustavo. By the time you'd finally begun to pass through the Tower's long shadow, the sun was dipping down out of the sky, leaving you checking over your shoulder extra often until you'd made it back into the guts of the old train station.

Michael wordlessly pointed you in the same direction as he had before as you passed him by. Curiously, you didn't see anyone else until you found the former cop in exact same spot you'd left him in days before, slung casually into the same chair. The desk was covered in what looked like maps, notes, diagrams of some kind. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, a fat red cherry hanging haphazardly off the tip.

"Well, look who it is." he quipped as you took in the state of the little makeshift office. "How was your outing?"

"Hi. It was fine." you said, tone more curt than you'd have liked, but just as curt as you felt he deserved.

"Still mad at me?" he asked before taking a sip from a nondescript beer, the label water-damaged and rubbed nearly blank.

He blinked at you innocently in a way that radiated sarcasm, but the playful sort. It felt strange, for some reason, seeing him drinking, smoking.

You narrowed your eyes at him, lightly disarmed. You'd felt so confident in your frustration towards him the entire trek here, but the hot core of it had seemingly gone from your chest the moment you crossed the doorway, the burning of it replaced with a cold, nervous tremble.

"We'll see, I guess. Where's Betsy?"

"She went out scavenging." he replied with no elaboration, wiping away a clump of ash that had fallen onto his shirt.

"Ah." was all you could think to say, shuffling from foot to foot.

Betsy goes out?

"So, have you given it anymore thought? Those assholes have it coming and I'm sick of roughing it down here with the rats."

You clenched your hands tight so they wouldn't fidget.

"Yes. I'll help you get the door open."

"Great." he said, a teasing hint of that heart-racing smile appearing. "D'you have the key?"

"Oh...no." you stuttered, squirming.

The tall ghoul rolled his eyes, jiggling his head back and forth silently in confused annoyance.

"I know where to get it." you insisted, your tone steadying as you went on. "Gustavo's got one, but, turns out, so does Herbert Dashwood. It won't be hard to get it from him without him even noticing, I don't think. He's about a million years old. I'll try Gustavo if I have to, but I don't want him catching me with my hand in his pocket."

Another unreadable smirk played at the corners of the technically redheaded man's mouth as he seemed to relax once more.

"Well, if you get caught, I suppose you could always try blowing your way out of the situation."

"Ah, right." you laughed awkwardly, your eyes dropping to scan the floor.

He means guns. Surely he's talking about guns? Seems like something he'd recommend.

There was a long pause. Roy was still grinning at you in that indecipherable way, and it knocked your pulse up a few more beats. It felt as if he knew something you didn't.

"How's your beer?" you asked, desperate for words to fill the silence.

He shrugged, eyes not leaving your face.

"S'fine. Not much of a drinker." he responded, taking another swig.

You hadn't the foggiest idea of what to say to that.

"So...you're going to get the key now. Right?" he asked, though no question was presented.

You nodded slowly, silently, the tip of your tongue pressed tightly to the backs of your front teeth.

"Good. Well, I'll start wrangling ferals towards the door. Do you still have the mask?"

"Yep." you said, clumsily flashing him the inside of your bag as proof.

His follow-up question changed the course of the conversation entirely.

"Find a solution to your smell problem?"

"...no." you sort of choked, your legs cut out from under you. The air in the room felt heavy all of the sudden.

"Well, that's a shame, kid. Hate for you to accidentally get lost in the fray and end up mauled." he said, fully relaxing back into the old metal chair. "I suppose I could help you out. Would be pretty annoying to have to find another smoothskin to open the door, anyway. But you're gonna have to give me a little inspiration."

A few seconds too many passed as you stood there staring at him, your brain spinning its wheels uselessly.

Is he really—? "What?" he asked. Though his tone sounded mocking, as it so often was, there was a glint in his eyes that you hadn't noticed before as they dragged up and down your body. "A guy can't perform on command like a dog. Gotta warm me up."

His words hung, weighty and surreal, in the space between you.

"Well...what do you, uh...?" you stuttered after another mortifying pause, tongue heavy and lips dumb in lingering shock.

"You could start by taking that ugly fucking thing off." he responded, gesturing towards your worse-for-wear Vault suit with the mostly-empty beer in his hand.

You looked down at yourself, wondering if it was really that unflattering, a hot blush quickly beginning to stain your face deeper than ever before. Wordless, Roy rose to his feet and nudged the heavy metal door shut, the bottom scraping unpleasantly along the little bits of debris that littered the floor. He tossed the bottle into the unlit burn barrel in the corner before reclaiming his seat at the desk.

Your heartbeat was thundering in your ears, hands fiddling with one another as you carefully evaluated him, testing his earnestness with your silence.

"Go on." he encouraged, tone a degree or two softer. "I won't let anybody see ya."

While your heckles remained raised, ears tuned to listen for any approaching sounds, something about his tone made you believe him, and you were able to relax enough to begin carefully tugging at the zipper of your Vault suit, exposing the grimy, sweat-stained undershirt you wore beneath. You'd traded away your only brassiere weeks before, and for a helluva price. Truly, you'd underestimated how valuable some items you'd always taken for granted could be with a little change of context. But you suddenly found yourself wanting for the added coverage, your nipples already straining at the dirty fabric, pebbled from the cool subterranean air and his eyes on you.

You were sure he'd expected some sort of waggling, a little dance where you shuffled your assets around for him, but you were far too focused on extracting your arms from the sleeves without making a fool of yourself to bother. He didn't seem to mind, eyes making long sweeps once more up and down the length of you. Stepping aside to carefully toe your boots off, you turned your back to him to fiddle with the rest of the zipper, carefully dropping the whole thing into a pile at your feet.

Again, he didn't protest. You could feel his eyes boring into your ass.

Dithering, your face felt almost pulsating as you slowly pulled the shirt over your head, tossing it to cover your boots. Your suit joined it, and you quickly had no more excuses to remain facing away. The initial, numbing shock that the bristly ghoul was actually willing to have you had begun to give way to a creeping nervousness, seeming to leech its way up from the floor until it filled you completely. A small shiver broke up your spine, goosebumps decorating your flesh, but the room wasn't that cold; in fact, another part of you felt intensely hot all of the sudden.

When you felt you could delay no longer, you turned back to face him, hands clasped at your waist so they wouldn't fidget. Though you tried to look at him, you failed, staring at a moldering spot on the wall above his head. It felt like eons before anything happened, simply stood there, focusing on your breathing and bracing yourself for rejection.

"C'mere." he said abruptly.

You hoped your growing flush wasn't as prominent as it felt as you took a few steps forward, bare feet tapping across the old tile floor. When you came to a stop, legs very nearly touching his you were so close, you felt brave enough to look right at him, but only for a single beat.

He wasn't looking at your face. Something about that actually made you relax, however incrementally, the idea that he wasn't as disgusted by you as he often seemed. A sudden sound drew your attention; his arm pulling away from where it had been resting, the leather of the armor that covered portions of his strong upper body extending towards you. However, his hand stopped short, hovering a few inches away from your flesh.

"Can I touch you?" he asked, and it took you rather aback.

Suddenly, you had no trouble looking him straight in the eye.

"Please."

Not 'yes'. Please.

Measuredly, and much more subdued than you'd been anticipating, he reached out and ran his hand up the side of your thigh, seemingly studying the feeling of the skin under his palm as it wound its way around to your ass. He kneaded at the mass of muscle, his eyes focused on your face, almost like he was more interested in your reaction than the actual feeling. You felt trembles raise all along your arms and legs, but you gave your most valiant effort to keeping your eyes on his face.

There was a touch of awkwardness in the silence as the two of you stared at one another, but his palm continued to smooth across your skin, the other moving to join in a beat or two later. His hands were coarse like unfinished stone, but shockingly warm as they very deliberately explored the parts of your body he could reach from his seated position, massaging almost placidly over your ass and hips.

"Let your hair down." he said after a rather long silence.

"It's messy." you responded, touching the soft, but tangled mass where you'd piled it on top of your head self-consciously.

"Didn't ask." was the only reply you were given besides an expectant look.

Rolling your eyes a bit, you gently tugged the old elastic band loose, securing it around your wrist to ensure you didn't lose it. They were surprisingly hard to come by. Your hair cascaded down as you freed it, frizzy and unkempt, gritty with sand and dirt. Running your fingers over it, you tidied it as best as you could, antsy.

As Roy looked up at you, the bright lamp light caught a distinct glassy glint in his eyes.

"Get down on your knees." he ordered.

You hesitated as little as possible, afraid you'd lose your mettle but equally afraid of debris digging into your bare legs. He seemed to understand your issue and slid a few pebbles away with his boot. Once the pair of you had cleared a little patch, you complied with his instruction, sinking down measuredly between his knees. He seemed to loom over you as he studied you.

Silently, his hands moved into his lap, tugging at the leather tongue of his belt. The buckle tinkled almost delicately as it slipped free. Your eyes were fixed on the spot, but you could feel that his were locked on your face once more, seemingly more interested in your reaction to his actions than anything. When he exposed himself, your lower lip slipped between your teeth.

He wasn't intimidatingly large, but was still bigger than anyone you'd been this up close and personal with, thick and patched with raised, reddened scar tissue. There was also a rather prominent curve to it, but it was almost impossible to tell if it was the sort of thing he'd always had or a result of the scarring contracting the base. Maybe both. Hard enough to stand mostly at attention, the warm flesh still had some give to it as you wrapped your hand around it carefully. When you looked up at the older ghoul, you found him watching you expectantly, adjusting his posture to slide his hips a few degrees closer to you.

He hadn't been joking about expecting you to warm him up.

Slowly, trying to keep your movements measured and as dignified as you could manage, you crawled just a tad closer to him, your bare breasts pressing into the heavy, worn material of his pants. Again, the tickling bloom of embarrassment raised the hairs on your forearms. You gave his still-hardening length a few slow pumps, buying yourself some time, your tongue running absentmindedly along the inner edge of your mouth.

Those intensely blue, slightly milky eyes continued to watch you with rapt attention.

"Got pretty lips." he said quietly, in a moment whose earnestness you hadn't expected.

A further blush heated your cheeks and neck, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as your gaze danced nervously away from his. Feeling a little bolder, you used your free hand to push your hair back from your face before leaning down close. Wetting your lips, you let them drag lightly up the side of his shaft, tracing them up and along the head in a feather-soft kiss. That earned you a low hum from the burly ghoul. You let your tongue peek out to experimentally caress the swollen-looking glans before slipping your whole mouth around it. Roy shifted in his seat, groaning aloud.

Slowly, you took more and more of him, studying the foreign texture of his flesh as it slid back and forth along your tongue. He grew thicker, harder between your lips, making you unhinge your jaw just a bit more as you let your head bob, the movement more and more natural as the moments ticked by. Your hair swayed along, loose bits falling back into your way and quickly becoming wet with spit. The hand that had been supporting your weight against the floor slipped between your legs, rubbing softly against your already aching slit. The older man's breathing began to grow heavy, labored; for a brief moment, you gagged around him, a bit too bold, and he let out an approving hum, vibrating deep in his chest.

Rather gingerly, he used both of his hands to gather the strands of hair that were kissing damply against your face, wrangling it all into the clench of one palm as the other petted across the top of your head. His throbbing tip pulsed against your tongue, leaking steadily as his entire body tensed. The taste was not unlike the time you'd been dared to lick the end of a micro-fusion cell, and you chased it across his skin, dipping the flexible muscle into the weeping slit at the top.

"Shit." he grunted, the hand that had been stroking at your hair jumping down to lightly, but firmly hold the back of your neck. He wasn't pushing your head down, but he was preventing you from pulling away any further. You took a deep breath in response, relaxing your throat as much as you could; the ghoul above you hissed at the additional sensation, and quickly his hips were giving a series of short, truncated thrusts against you.

Your entire being burned as he fucked your face, calloused fingers stroking almost absentmindedly at your sweaty nape as his other hand fisted harder against your scalp. The small shock of pain as he tugged your hair a touch too hard made you let out a garbled whine, two of your slickened fingers slipping into the heat between your legs; you were desperate to be stretched around anything.

Rather suddenly, one of his movements jabbed against the back of your throat just a little too hard, and you gagged again, pulling back suddenly as you pulled a few deep breaths in through your dribbling mouth.

"Get up." Roy murmured feverishly to you as he stood suddenly, fully engorged cock jutting into your face as he tugged you to your feet by your arm. Your legs were unstable beneath you, wobbly and awkward as he turned you in a quick pirouette to face the table. The tall ghoul essentially dragged you along with him as a result of your own body's refusal to cooperate; leaning your weight against the scuffed surface, he kicked your feet apart quickly.

"Ugh!" you grunted as you slipped forward, your chin cracking down against the desktop. It didn't hurt terribly, your arms just barely missing the catch, but it did throb noticeably as he loomed behind you, fussing with something for a moment before stepping closer. Your eyes fell shut at the feeling of his broad chest pressed into your bare back. His hot, swollen erection grazed your ass cheek as he brought one hand down to readjust your stance, the other hand knotted sloppily into your hair.

Guiding your knee skywards, he laid your leg as flat as he could make it across the desk, bent in at the knee. The move opened you wide and made your entire face heat up like a freshly lit torch. The metal edge dug almost painfully into your hips as he bent you over the thing.

"Roy..." you whimpered breathily as the fat head of him slotted into place against your opening.

"Shut up." was his only reply before he slammed himself home, burying nearly every inch in one brutal move.

The sudden motion halfway stunned you, a ragged gasp leaving you as the intrusive stretch of his cock inside you pushed you much closer to your limits than your fingers ever could. A loud curse fell from his lips at the feeling of your body struggling to accommodate him.

You braced yourself for him to move, but were surprised when he seemed to hesitate behind you. His whole body quivered, hips giving only the slightest, most stunted little buck against your ass. Initially, you'd mistaken that hesitation as courtesy, allowing you in adjustment what he hadn't in preparation. However, as he continued to loom over you, you began to notice his stunted, heavy breathing, the way his free hand was gripping the edge of the desk with noticeable force.

A small smile broke across your lightly dehydrated lips as you pushed your ass back against him by a hair.

"Fuck you." he growled, though there was shockingly no acid in it.

There was no time for you to respond before he'd brusquely seized you by the hips, long fingers digging hard enough into the silky fat there to bruise as he wrenched you back off the desk. Your legs were useless, and all your weight from the waist down was supported purely by his hands as he readjusted his stance.

This posture was more comfortable for you overall, less strain on your lower back, but it didn't allow him to penetrate you as deeply as he had been, the meat of your ass cushioning his pelvis as it rested against you. The reduced stimulation seemed to work for him, however, as he shifted himself back and forth experimentally, fingers carding through your hair once more to grip near your scalp, pressing you face-down against the cold metal as his other hand kept firm pressure around your hip.

His first proper thrust really knocked the wind out of you, catching you in the middle of a breath and sending you gasping humiliatingly loud. Seemingly finding his stride rather rapidly, he kept you locked in the position he wanted you using his weight and his grip on your hair as his hips began to pump at you. Every time he fully sheathed himself inside you, he rammed up against a particular spot that felt both deliciously oversensitive and a touch painful, and it sent you squirming. But your wriggling was useless, as it only served to spur the ghoul bending himself over you to yank your trembling body tighter against him.

The hand that had been pressing firmly against your hip slid along the soft skin of your flank, your belly, slipping south until he found that swollen nub between your thighs. Fingers achingly rough against your sensitive folds, you mewled as he began to experimentally strum at you.

It didn't take long for him to build you up so high that it felt as if you'd never come down. Despite the way you seemingly crushed his hand between your thighs in your unconscious attempt to keep him in place, Roy didn't pull his hand away as you began to spasm gently, maintaining those same firm, tight circles against your clit as you gasped his name.

"God yes, clench on my cock just like that." he breathed, maintaining that same tempo with his hand, his hips, until he was flattening you against the desk once more.

His lips were loosely pressed against the nape of your neck, his head lolling against you distractedly, when a low snarl began to vibrate out of his chest. Muttering something you couldn't quite make out, he pinned you rather uncomfortably against the table as he suddenly emptied himself inside you, hands both moving to hold you tight by your upper arms, laying himself against you fully. Your wild, loose hair fell into your face once more as he pressed it against the cool surface. There was the ghost of a metallic taste across the furthest back portion of your tongue as you felt a slick warmth run down your inner thigh. The heat of him filling you made you whimper and writhe.

Roy lingered longer than you'd ever anticipated, keeping his mostly clothed body lingering against your naked one until he'd stopped throbbing completely, silent as he wetly slipped out of you. You didn't move for a moment, too shaky and stunned to move, but you could barely make out the sound of the man behind you fixing himself, the quiet music of his belt buckle jingling distracting you from him attempting to help you stand.

Though you were too busy clumsily redressing yourself to notice (and suddenly too bashful to look directly at him), the older man scanned you over as you wrangled your limbs back into the Vault suit. When you'd finally re-done all the internal and external snaps and zips, you turned back to where your boots sat, only to nearly run face-first into him.

Wordless, he placed his hand under your chin and carefully lifted it into the now stark-feeling lamp light. You couldn't meet his gaze as it scanned your face, but you could feel yourself leaning closer to him. He must've been satisfied, or at least unmoved, by what he saw, as he pulled back into his own bubble sooner than you'd have liked.

"Alright, get outta here and get that key." he said, jerking his head towards the exit. "I'll meet you up there, kid. Take care of yourself."

There was no contentious teasing as you left this time, only sticky silence and the feeling of Roy's eyes still glued to you as you slipped out the door, turning away from where the trio had set up their beds and towards the egress onto the tracks. Watching your step closely, busy navigating the uneven terrain, you tensed when you suddenly heard the shuffle of loose debris from up ahead, the pinging echo of footsteps. Your hand flew to the plasma pistol at your hip without a thought, your spine stiff.

Thankfully or not, it wasn't a feral ghoul bearing down on you; they were walking in far too coordinated a fashion, their clothing much too intact.

Bessie Lynn. It was strange to see her out of her usual dress, her lightweight leather armor much less girly. It looked wrong on her. A bitter taste soured the back of your throat as your eyes frantically searched for somewhere, anywhere else to look, the two of you quickly entering speaking proximity. In the heat of the moment, you'd forgotten about the quiet, sweet woman.

Well, no. You hadn't forgotten.

"Good to see you!" she waved as she went by, not so much as a pause or stutter to indicate that she had noticed anything was amiss.

You tucked your chin and waved as she passed you, mumbling some mealymouthed half-greeting as you let the speed of your footsteps pick up.

At least you wouldn't have to worry about the ferals killing you if things went haywire.

Michael waved placidly as you mounted the toothy metal stairs back into the terminal entrance, barely looking up from a Big Book of Science with slightly less mildew than usual. Again, you waved back, trying your hardest to not let your face betray your inner tumult, your gut tight. By the time you rounded the corner and threw yourself through the old electronic turnstiles, still glowing faintly with life, you felt deafened by the sound of your thundering heartbeat in your ears. The Geiger counter attached to your wrist began ticking audibly, naggingly.

Guilt settled, hard and cold, in the pit of your stomach as you leaned against one of the heavy stone planters outside the station, your suddenly misty eyes wandering upwards to the inky sky. Tenpenny Tower stood, as always, stark and eerily perfect-looking against the decimated background. All along its height were glowing windows, goldenrod portals offering a peek into the dozens of different lives taking place behind the crude concrete walls.

From head to toe, you were rather uncomfortable. Your chin throbbed, the swelling of a small, early bruise beginning to form there. Your bottoms were unpleasantly damp, already beginning to chafe between your thighs from your trek out of the tunnels. As a strong breeze blew across the patchy land, you shivered, clammy and damp. Something dug, pointed and stinging, into the meat of your hip as you leaned against the planter, and you fished it out of your pocket with a frustrated sigh.

Dashwood's basement key glinted, deadly like a freshly sharpened blade, in the muted moonlight. It felt weighty for such a small tchotchke.

You felt shitty. Shitty for lying to Roy, shitty for stealing from an old man. Shitty for smiling in Betsy's face. Despite the wave of penitence that threatened to overtake you, you were distracted from your emotional distress by a more pressing physical one.

Your Pip-Boy continued to tick along as you dug into your bag, fishing out a dose of Rad-Away. It wasn't the most ideal place for an infusion, but already you felt dizzy, nauseous, the early signs of radiation sickness well into development. Dangling the thick, pliable bag from the rusty metal awning above your head, the plastic tubing was a nightmare to untangle with your head throbbing. You pulled your pistol from its holster and let it rest on your lap as the medication worked its way into your arm over a half hour or so, your head on a swivel. Turning your gaze back towards the Tower incessantly, you sat silently in your sin, literally and metaphorically.

By the time the full moon hung directly overhead, pale and indifferent to your plans, most of your guilt had been overtaken by resolve, your nausea replaced with the feeling of a pit in your gut. Testing your legs out, you were pleasantly improved, easily gathering your things up and tucking the empty plastic and used tubing into one of the strangely empty trash bins. Though you didn't feel completely better, you were able to hold your head up once more. Burying the key deep in your bag, you began to shuffle back up the hill towards the gated building.

Maybe you'd give talking things out one more try.

[dreadfutures]

and for Hal & Ixchel: "but I am not allowed to forget, the taste of the tears of yesterday" ;-;

for @dadrunkwriting

--

Morrigan and Kieran sat together in the same place they had been reunited, still entwined like the vines and stone of the Lighthouse's arboreum. Ixchel did not cross the floating path to join them; if they wanted dinner, they would find it in their own time, and she would not dictate how they spent that precious time now. Kieran had spent the better part of a year certain that he would never again feel the comfort of his mother's arms, until mere hours ago the happy truth had been revealed to them all.

Ixchel knew her own personal relief was but a fraction of what he must feel, and she wanted to let him bask in that joy for as long as possible. She knew very well how rare it was for childhood grief to be peeled back and healed--knew that this wound was one that would need tending, and a mother's touch.

There were other wounds more raw and open, older wounds left to fester for too long. Ixchel did not need her lost empathic power to feel Halevune's agony and followed it to its source.

The Lighthouse unfolded around her, revealing new stairways and doors that she had never seen. Her ears popped, a clue to where it was leading her: up, and up, and up, to the lonely beacon at its apex, the light that called out to the farthest corners of the Fade and said: come home.

Morrigan had followed that light home, to her great loves.

Ixchel braced herself for what she might see as she crested the stairs and felt the first fingers of a breeze touch her face. The air smelled of salt, and of sorrow.

Halevune was hunched like a vulture at the edge of the lamproom, back bowed with a weight he had always carried tall, spine strengthened by his own brand of defiant dignity. Anguish hung like a mantle about his shoulders, and he trembled with the effort it took to remain upright.

As Ixchel approached, she caught a glimpse of his hands wrapped tight around the railing, knuckles bloodied and blooming with bruises. In her mind's eye, or perhaps it was a twist of the Fade, he was a bloodied fox who had found momentary respite from the snapping jaws of the hounds--in a quiet hole, a grave to die in.

Her feet would not take her any closer. The world had fallen dark and silent around them, bathed in the unrelenting light of the beacon. He had noticed her; she felt it.

She kept her remaining hand pressed hard against her heart, a vain attempt to quell the pain that lanced through it at the scene before her. Everything always hurt, with Hal; everything was always complicated, muddied, stretched thin and tangled between two lifetimes. This was nothing new, and yet she prayed to anything that would listen, to the Fade itself, that this would be the last time.

They did not speak for what felt like an eternity. Hal's lips moved on occasion, but all Ixchel heard was his labored breath. His pale face grew green, then grey, then flushed, as every emotion in the Fade seemed to overcome him one after another.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose, then threw his hand away with a disgusted gasp.

"You didn't know?" he asked, his voice full of something she had never heard before.

"No," she said, just as woeful. "I didn't even know it was possible."

"Falon'din'enaste, I thought I knew what it meant to see ghosts," he choked out. "I see them everywhere. Everyone I've ever lost. Don't you?"

"Yes," Ixchel said faintly.

He shook his head like a hound shaking off a bothersome fly. "I thought it would be a blessing to see them in the flesh, to turn back death and go back. Why doesn't it feel like it?"

He pressed a knuckle to his lips, a last, desperate attempt to hold it all back.

His hand fell away, and his head fell with it, crumpling as if he had been struck. "Why does it still hurt?!"

Ixchel flew to his side, arms coming round him on instinct--clinging to him with all her strength as she had often wished to and never, ever acted upon. And it was just as she had always wished: he turned into her hold and returned the embrace.

Yet it was terrible, too. For as he pressed his eyes into her shoulder, he screamed.

They sank to the ground together, sobs ripping from them both. There was no distinguishing between their wails, their tears, the breaths that ripped them each in two. His clutching fingers tore at the hair that fell down her back; her teeth clacked on the metal brads of his Warden coat.

"It happened," she managed to say in the middle of that storm. "It happened, and it mattered. Of course it will always hurt."

Ixchel knew what an agony it was to be shattered to pieces; she knew the comfort that came with stale grief; she knew the indignity of being put back together.

It never really went away.

His cold, ragged ear pressed against the heated skin of her neck. His whole body was wracked with tremors, and she held him ever tighter, afraid that if she let him go, he would be swept away for good.

"I can't-- I just-- I don't--"

He was as fragmented as her borrowed soul.

"It's always like this." He was pleading with the universe as much as he was accusing it--or perhaps himself. "It's always like this. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. The sun never really comes out. The warmth never really sticks. The love will always leave. No matter how long I have it, I'm not allowed to forget the taste of the tears of yesterday. I can't. "

"You can," Ixchel rasped. "You are. Halevune, you cheated death twice. You can do whatever you want, gods be damned, and take your own fucking time with it."

He laughed, or he sobbed, or both.

"You've been a ghost in your own life for too long, lethallin," she said, pressing her wet cheek to his. A new wave of tears spilled out from beneath her lashes and splattered against his shoulder. "She died to free you from your own grave. And now she gets to see you live."

[detailtilted]

In Search of Supernatural Fans from the Early Years

Hi! I’m looking for the legends who originally recorded old Supernatural convention panels featuring Jared or Jensen, or possibly Misha. See "What I'm Looking For" below. If you know one of them, or if you're a member of a community with people who were in the fandom in those early years, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could let them know about this post. I can be reached at DetailTilted@gmail.com or here on Tumblr.

If you aren’t familiar with my project, see the “Project Background” section below. This is not a low-effort exercise to merely repackage old videos. I’m putting many hours of work into each video to improve their watchability and accessibility. I will always credit my sources unless you wish to remain anonymous.

Even if your videos are on YouTube, I’m likely to have more success upscaling them if I can get the original video files. Thanks to the videos AgtSpooky kindly sent me, I've learned how big of a difference it can make when I have the original files to work with. That's why I’m putting more effort into finding those elusive original video takers.

The problem is that they all seem to have fallen off the face of the earth. Most of their YouTube accounts, LiveJournal accounts, and whatever other accounts I’ve dug up haven’t had any activity in 10-15 years. I’ve left a few messages on some of them, but I doubt they’ll be seen on dormant accounts. I’ve also gone down some crazy and twisted Googling paths trying to find current contact info for them, but without much success. In one case I even messaged the wrong person, who was at least kind enough to reply to the psycho asking for videos to let me know she wasn't the person I'd hoped she was. Oops!

What I’m Looking For

I’ve already finished CHICON 2007, Comic-Con 2008, and CHICON 2008, so I don’t need videos from those events, but I’d be happy to try to upscale your videos for your own collection if you have some you'd like to send me.

Actually, I could use CHICON 2008 Breakfast videos if you have any. I plan to attempt to redo that video either late this year or early next year.

I’ve been trying especially hard to reach people with original video files from either LA 2009 or Asylum 3 (2009), and I’d also be ecstatic to get some from LA 2008.

Any other old con videos you’re willing to share that have Jared or Jensen in them would be awesome. I hope to get to all the old conventions eventually. I haven’t yet defined “old”, so I don’t have a specific cutoff point.

Even if you just have audio files without video, those could be helpful too.

Length doesn't matter. Both long and short videos are welcome. Maybe I won't end up using them all, but the more options I have the better. Even if I don't put your video in my final edit, it would still be used because I always listen to every single video I can find when I'm finalizing my subtitles. Each video sounds at least a little different, and sometimes just hearing the audio in a slightly different way lets me catch a subtitle I'd missed or misheard.

Also, just to be clear, it isn’t necessarily my intent to exclude Misha. I’ve watched and enjoyed many of his convention videos and I liked Castiel for the most part, especially in the earlier seasons. I’m just not obsessed with Misha like I am with Jared and Jensen, and these videos do take quite a lot of work, so I’ve been putting my energy where my greatest interests lie. I’ll absolutely be including him when he’s in panels with Jared and/or Jensen, and in the future I may consider doing some of his solo panels.

So if you have original video files of Misha's solo panels that you’d like to send me, I’d be happy to add them to my stockpile for future possible use. If your videos turn out to be mostly complete, and if they upscale easily, then I might go ahead and do his panel at the same time I do the other panels from the same convention. If they'll take more effort to work with, I’ll probably skip them for now, but I may come back and tackle them if/when I run out of old Jared and Jensen videos to work with.

For any con videos you send me, regardless of whether I use them or not, I’d be happy to try to upscale them and send them back to you for your collection. I can’t always get things to upscale, so I can’t promise success, but I’ll definitely try.

Project Background - Enhanced Edition Con Videos

You can find my videos on my YouTube channel. (If you're already familiar with my project, skip to the next section -- there's nothing new to see here.)

I started this project in December 2023 to enhance old convention videos. My goal is to make them easier on the eyes and more accessible to both new and old fans from around the world. The videos on YouTube from that time can be difficult both to watch and to understand due to a combination of the older technology used to record them, the difficult recording conditions the fans were working with, and the lack of subtitles that make any sense.

I’m enhancing the videos as follows:

Visual Improvements: I’m upscaling the videos if possible, making color corrections if needed, and adding some slight stabilization to reduce the jitteriness. The end result is far from perfect because there’s only so much that current technology can do, but it's noticeably improved if you compare it to the originals.

Subtitles: I’m adding good, color-coded, English subtitles that can be turned on or off through YouTube’s CC button. The color-coding makes it more clear who's saying what when multiple people are speaking, and YouTube can auto-translate them into other languages to improve the accessibility.

Multiple Sources: If one video has gaps in it, then I'll try to find another that I can edit in to fill those gaps so the end result is as complete as possible. If I have more than one source that captured the same portion of the event, then I'll cut to whichever video I think had the best view of the action. In a few cases I’ve added a split screen with two different videos showing simultaneously so we can see action that's taking place in two separate areas. For example, when Jared and Jensen are on opposite sides of the stage. (There were also the infernal talking head bubbles on my Comic-Con 2008 video which nearly made me throw in the towel, but taught me a lot. 😅)

Extra Content for Context: These older videos don’t take up the full width of a modern video frame, so I’ve taken advantage of the extra space to display some still images with text to add extra context for many of the things they discuss. Some things are a lot funnier, or at least a lot more relevant, when you know exactly what they’re talking about. I clarify Supernatural episode references and pop culture references among other things. Sometimes I’ve also inserted short video clips, usually just a few seconds’ worth, if I thought it would add worthwhile clarity or entertainment to the topic at hand.

Current Project Status

If anyone has been wondering how I’m doing on my current video and what’s next… I’m almost done with the last video from CHICON 2008, which was Jensen’s solo panel. I should be ready to publish it on YouTube this Friday, May 24. I plan to use the same schedule as last time and put the Tumblr post up the following Tuesday when it’s a little more likely to be noticed here.

The next sequential conventions are LA 2009 and Asylum 2009, but I haven’t had much success in my attempts to upscale the available videos. If I were to work with what I have now, I know I could turn out something better than what’s on YouTube today, but the end result wouldn’t be nearly as good as what I might be able to achieve if I can get some original videos to work with. So I think it’s more logical to skip over these conventions for now and give it some time to see if I get any responses, in hope of a better end result.

I do intend to come back to the skipped conventions eventually, even if nobody sends me anything. Once I run out of conventions for which I can upscale the videos, if I still don't have anything better to work with for the ones I skipped, I’ll just do the best I can with what’s available. Even if I can't upscale, I can still do color corrections and stabilization, plus the subtitles and extra content. Some of these panels are split up into a bunch of very short videos, so it would also add value if I can combine them into something more sequential and cohesive. (I found 130 videos from the Jared and/or Jensen panels at LA 2009, and most of them were under 2 minutes long. 🤣) I don’t know if there’s enough footage to cover the entire panels seamlessly, but I’m itching to get my hands on that jigsaw puzzle of videos to try to make sense out of them.

So… the next videos I intend to work on will be from Vancouver 2009. This is one of the conventions that AgtSpooky attended and sent me videos for and they upscaled very well. Her breakfast video had already found its way onto YouTube, but wasn't properly credited. Her main panel videos aren't on YouTube as far as I could find, so that version may be new to newer fans. I'm only just starting to play around with upscaling the other sources out there, but my first attempt at the other main Breakfast source came out well. Both breakfast videos were taken from extreme opposite angles, so that should provide some useful editing opportunities. I’d still love to get more videos of this event if anyone has them.

If you made it this far, I am in awe. Sorry for putting this wall of text on your screen! 😅

[songbirdsanctuary]

Grian and Mumbo fic(Such creative name, definitely not what I've been naming my past five fics.)

Warnings: Mild blood/injury

Word count: 2,843

Mumbo picked a comparator up and set it carefully on a blue strip of wool, the cool metal clicking softly against the fabric. His voice flowed steadily as he explained the contraption he was building to Grian, his words a stream of redstone logic and technical jargon. He was halfway through describing a potential observer clock when he noticed the absence of Grian’s usual quick-witted responses. The room had fallen into a quiet that felt softer than it should, the only sounds now the faint hum of machinery and the gentle rustle of Mumbo’s own moth wings as they shifted restlessly.

Curious, Mumbo turned, his dark eyes searching for his friend. Grian had slumped against a red shulker box, his head tilted back and his mouth slightly open, breaths slow and even. His feathers, normally so lively, lay ruffled and still, the soft hues blending with the muted red of the box beneath him. His small, talon-like hands were loosely curled against his chest, as if he had simply drifted off mid-thought.

A smile tugged at the corners of Mumbo’s lips, his expression softening. Grian looked so peaceful like this, the weight of their often chaotic lives slipping away in sleep. Mumbo wondered how long he had been asleep, how long he had been too wrapped up in his redstone to notice his friend’s fatigue. It wasn’t the first time Grian had run himself into the ground, pushing through projects and plans until exhaustion caught up to him.

Mumbo set his redstone components down with deliberate care, not wanting to disturb the quiet. Rising to his feet, he moved toward Grian with light steps. The avian felt almost weightless as Mumbo gently scooped him up, his wings brushing against the soft fabric of Grian’s jacket. He couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was to carry him. Was Mumbo stronger than he thought? It seemed unlikely—he was all limbs and angles, tall and wiry, his strength more a matter of leverage than muscle. Maybe Grian was simply that light, his hollow bones lending him an airy weightlessness.

As he cradled Grian against his chest, Mumbo’s wings twitched reflexively, wrapping around to shield the smaller man from the cool air. He moved slowly through the corridors of his base, the familiar path to his bedroom winding through half-finished builds and neatly stacked chests. The room was dim, the late afternoon light filtering through the window, casting long shadows across the bed. Mumbo eased Grian down onto the mattress, his movements practiced and gentle. The avian stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake.

Mumbo tugged the blankets up, tucking them around Grian with a tenderness he rarely showed. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering above Grian’s head before he gave in and gently smoothed a tuft of hair away from his face. The coolness of his fingers seemed to soothe the avian, whose breathing evened out again. Mumbo set a bottle of water on the bedside table, the glass catching a sliver of light. It would be there for when Grian woke, groggy and likely confused about how he had ended up in bed.

Satisfied, Mumbo stepped back, letting his wings brush against the doorframe as he left. He moved with a sense of purpose back to his redstone project, but his mind lingered on Grian, hoping his friend would rest well. Mumbo settled back onto the floor, his knees tucked up, and his eyes narrowed as he examined the fine, twisting lines of redstone dust. His fingers moved with practiced precision, but his thoughts kept circling back to the warmth of Grian’s weight in his arms and the quiet trust that sleep represented.

Mumbo worked for a while, his hands moving with careful precision as he adjusted the redstone components. His focus had narrowed to the tiny, intricate movements, the soft clicks of repeaters and the gentle hum of redstone lamps. The room was a tapestry of dust and circuitry, his mind threading through possibilities and problem-solving with every adjustment. He had almost tuned out the world around him when a sudden, heavy thud broke through the quiet.

He froze, the delicate line of redstone dust between his fingers slipping to the floor. His mind raced through possibilities—a creeper, maybe? But no, his base was well-lit and secure. A malfunctioning piston? But nothing in this room should have moved. His chest tightened as he stood, his wings twitching with a shiver of unease, and he moved quickly toward his bedroom. His feet barely made a sound on the stone floor, his body all sharp, quick motions as he pushed the door open.

Grian was on the floor. His small form was crumpled, limbs tangled awkwardly in the blanket that had slipped with him, his wings splayed against the cold ground. His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, and his breaths came in shallow, uneven puffs. He was still asleep, but it was not a peaceful kind of rest. His expression was twisted, brows drawn together, and Mumbo’s heart clenched at the sight.

Mumbo moved to his side, kneeling down and carefully sliding his arms beneath Grian. The avian’s body was limp, the weight of his exhaustion pulling him down even as Mumbo lifted him with ease. He shifted, turning Grian to cradle him against his chest, mindful of his wings. It was the second time today he’d held Grian like this, and yet now it felt heavier. He laid Grian back in the bed, the mattress dipping under his slight weight.

As Mumbo drew the blankets back over him, he noticed the wetness on Grian’s cheeks. Tear tracks glistened in the low light, his lashes damp and clumped together. His face was flushed, a faint red against his pale skin, and his lips trembled with the whispers of words not spoken. Mumbo’s fingers hesitated over his face, brushing just above his skin as if afraid his touch might shatter something delicate.

Had Grian been crying? Had the nightmare reached him even through the veil of sleep? Mumbo’s throat tightened, a thousand questions swirling in his mind. He debated waking him up, his fingers flexing against the blanket. Would it be kinder to pull him from whatever horror had him trapped? Or would the waking world feel just as harsh, his confusion and fear only magnified in the sudden light?

In the end, Mumbo let his hand fall to his side. He stepped back, his legs feeling heavier with every step toward the door. His instinct was to give Grian space, to retreat back to his redstone and let his friend find his way back to calm on his own. But his feet wouldn’t carry him across the threshold. His body resisted, his wings folding tightly against his back as if to anchor him in place. He didn’t want to leave Grian alone. Not like this.

With a quiet sigh, Mumbo crossed to a worn armchair in the corner of the room. He pulled a blanket off the back of it, letting it drape over his lap as he settled in. His hand found a book on the side table, one of the adventure novels Grian had recommended, with frayed edges and dog-eared pages. He opened it, his eyes skimming over the words, but they swam in and out of focus. His mind kept drifting back to the bed, to the soft rise and fall of Grian’s chest, to the way the shadows clung to the corners of the room.

Time seemed to stretch. He turned pages, but the story never settled into his mind. His ears were tuned to every sound, every rustle of the blankets, every uneven breath. He debated slipping away, back to his redstone project where everything made sense, where logic and mechanics could fill the empty spaces in his head. But then, a scream tore through the room, sharp and raw, shattering the fragile calm.

Mumbo’s book slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. His body reacted before his mind caught up, propelling him to the bed. Grian’s wings had flared wide, feathers bristling in every direction. His body was a storm of motion, thrashing against the tangled blankets as if caught in the grasp of some unseen force. His mouth was open, another scream building in his throat, the sound edged with pure, animal panic.

Mumbo grabbed for his shoulders, his hands firm but gentle, trying to ground him. “Grian! Hey, it’s me. You’re safe.” His voice was low, but Grian’s mind was too far away to hear it. His talons lashed out, sharp and wild, and Mumbo felt a sudden, searing pain as they caught his shoulder. He hissed, his wings flaring instinctively, but he didn’t pull back.

He tried again, his hands finding purchase on Grian’s arms. The touch only seemed to drive him deeper into the nightmare. His talons raked across Mumbo’s stomach, the fabric of his shirt giving way to sharp, stinging heat. Mumbo’s breath hitched, but he stayed, his body a wall between Grian and the edge of the bed.

“Grian! Wake up!” His voice broke, the urgency crashing over them.

Finally, Grian’s eyes snapped open, unfocused and wide with terror. He struggled against Mumbo’s grip, his movements clumsy and desperate. The momentum carried him over the edge, and he fell to the floor, the blankets trailing after him like the tail of a comet. His breathing came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he pressed himself back against the bed frame.

Mumbo stayed where he was, his hands raised, palms out. His own breathing was fast, his chest tight with the echoes of Grian’s screams. He ignored the sting of his wounds, the damp warmth spreading beneath his shirt. His focus was only on Grian, on the way his friend’s eyes darted around the room, still seeing the ghosts of his nightmare.

“It’s okay,” Mumbo said, his voice softer now, a gentle thread in the chaos. “You’re safe, Grian. It was just a dream.”

The words hung between them, a lifeline in the dark.

Mumbo held out a hand, his palm open and steady, a lifeline in the dim light of the room. Grian’s breaths still came in shuddering gasps, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His wide eyes searched Mumbo’s face, flicking over every feature as if trying to find something familiar in the haze of fear. Slowly, achingly slowly, the wildness in his gaze began to ebb, like a tide pulling back to reveal the jagged rocks beneath.

When Grian finally gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, Mumbo shifted closer. He moved with the cautious grace of someone approaching a wounded animal, every movement slow and deliberate. His wings folded tightly against his back, his body angled to be as unthreatening as possible. He wrapped his arms around Grian, the embrace loose and warm, avoiding the worst of the blood staining his shirt. He could feel Grian’s sharp edges against him—the brush of feathers, the press of thin shoulders, the tremors that ran through his small frame.

Grian remained stiff in Mumbo’s arms at first, his muscles tight with the remnants of his nightmare. His hands were balled into fists, knuckles pale, his talons digging into his own palms. Mumbo could feel each shallow breath, the way Grian’s ribcage expanded and contracted under his touch. He didn’t push for more, didn’t try to squeeze or draw him closer. He simply stayed, a quiet, steady presence.

It took a long time for Grian to soften. His rigid posture gave way to a sagging kind of exhaustion, his weight settling against Mumbo’s chest. His breathing evened out, though each inhale still caught on a sharp edge, a hiccup or a soft, broken sound. It was as if the walls inside him were crumbling, stone by stone, until finally, the first tear slipped free.

The sobs started small, a quiet hitch in his breath, and then they grew. His body trembled, his shoulders shaking as he clung to Mumbo, his fists uncoiling to grip at the fabric of Mumbo’s shirt. He cried with the force of someone who had held back too much for too long, the kind of grief that seeped into every corner of him and refused to be silenced. His tears soaked into Mumbo’s shirt, warm and damp, but Mumbo didn’t move, didn’t dare shift away from the raw vulnerability in his arms.

Mumbo’s fingers found their way into Grian’s hair, his touch gentle and rhythmic. He murmured soft, wordless sounds, a quiet comfort. He didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t press for answers. He knew Grian well enough to understand that the words wouldn’t come—not now, maybe not ever. There were some things too tangled to unravel, some pains too deep to put into words.

Eventually, the storm began to pass. Grian’s sobs faded to quiet sniffles, his breathing evening out into a fragile rhythm. Mumbo loosened his hold, giving Grian the space to pull away if he wanted. And, slowly, Grian did. He sat back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, his feathers ruffled and damp. His face was blotchy, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, but there was a softness to his expression, a quiet kind of surrender.

“Hey,” Mumbo’s voice was soft, a whisper between them. “I need to clean up real quick…”

He moved to stand, but the shift drew Grian’s attention, his head snapping up. “Cl-clean up…?” His voice was hoarse, the syllables rough around the edges. His brow furrowed, confusion swimming through the lingering fear.

Mumbo offered a small, reassuring smile. “Got a few injuries. I’m fine, though. Promise.” His tone was light, but the words seemed to hang heavy in the air.

Grian’s gaze dropped, and Mumbo followed the line of his eyes. The blood had seeped through Mumbo’s shirt, dark patches spreading across his shoulder and stomach. Grian’s expression shifted, horror washing over his features as he looked down at his own hands, his talons still stained. The realization struck him like a physical blow, his face paling, his lips parting in a silent gasp.

Before Grian could spiral, Mumbo hurried to the bathroom. His movements were quick but controlled, his fingers steady even as his mind spun. He peeled off his shirt, the fabric sticking to the wound on his shoulder, and winced as the cool air hit his skin. The scratches were jagged, the talon marks shallow but long, red welts that stung beneath the wash of warm water. His stomach bore similar marks, thin lines where Grian’s panic had raked across him.

He cleaned the wounds methodically, his hands moving on autopilot. He wrapped gauze around his torso, the white bandages stark against his skin, and slipped on a fresh shirt. The lightheadedness hadn’t faded, but he pushed it aside, focusing on each task, each step. When he finally looked at himself in the mirror, his face was pale, his hair disheveled, but his expression was calm.

He made his way back to the bedroom, his feet soft against the stone floor. Grian had moved to the bed, his small form curled into himself, wings wrapped tight around his body. His head was down, and he startled when Mumbo entered, his whole body flinching. His eyes were wide, fear and guilt mingling in the blue depths, and when he spoke, his voice cracked.

“I-I’m s-sor-ry…” Grian choked out. His hands twisted in the blanket, his knuckles white, and he seemed to struggle with the weight of the words, as if they hurt on the way out. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

Mumbo moved closer, cutting him off gently. “Don’t worry, I’m okay.” His voice was a balm, soothing and steady. He sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough for Grian to reach out but not so close as to crowd him. “It was an accident. I’m not hurt, promise.”

Grian’s breathing stuttered, but the words seemed to reach him. He wiped at his eyes, his fingers trembling, and after a long moment, he leaned against Mumbo. His weight was light, his body warm, and Mumbo shifted to support him, his arm draping over Grian’s shoulders. He could feel the way Grian’s breathing evened out, each inhale a little less ragged, each exhale a little steadier.

Mumbo didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t need to. Whatever darkness had wrapped itself around Grian, whatever nightmare had bled through into reality, it wasn’t something that words could fix. But he could be here, a quiet presence in the storm, a steady ground to hold onto. And that, Mumbo thought, was enough.

They sat like that for a long time, the room settling into a gentle quiet. Outside, the sun had begun to set, the sky washed in hues of orange and purple. But inside, in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, there was only the soft sound of breathing and the steady warmth of two friends finding solace in each other’s presence.