#the amount of characters out there with closed eyes and bastard energy and it's always like 'that's a gray adjacent character'

[b-bing]

One of my favorite things about sharing ocs with friends is when they find an official character that shares traits with ur guy and it's always like THAT character is the one that is like YOUR oc and not the other way around. "This character reminds me of ur scrunglo." Yeah. That's right. My character is the prime. The alpha. All those other ones are just copying him.

[a-libra-writes]

If you don’t mind, may I request headcanons for the lackadaisy characters reacting to the reader(GN) saving them by taking a bullet that was going to hit them and almost dies from it?

GN reader, most of these imply the reader and character are in a romantic relationship or at least close. obvs mentions of injury, blood, morphine, hospitals etc and the angst that follows! Our kitties arent doing well :(

♣️Rocky - The fact you took a bullet for him is ... a lot. That takes processing, something Rocky isn't good at. It ends up manifesting as a long, drawn-out anxiety attack that gives him jitters, a little dissociation and mild mania. Eventually the Arbogasts asks Freckle to just get him out of the house and do something with him; they'd call when you woke up. When you're awake, the tabby is making his usual quips and chatter, but his off-kilter mood is obvious to even your morphine-addled mind. Rocky's more disheveled than usual and clearly hasn't slept. His shirt still has blood on it - your blood.

He's is ready to go absolutely feral on the person who did this, channeling all his fear and guilt into a single plan of revenge. He's so full of this manic energy that it's hard for him to keep still, let alone eat or sleep. But first! You're awake! Even if it's clear he's unwell, he's trying to smile and assure you that you'll be back on your feet in no time! So don't you worry, he and Freckle will take care of it. No amount of exhausted arguing will divert him from this.

You're stuck in bed for days, so you don't know exactly what happens. It's up to Freckle to tell you, as he went along with his cousin - but he's tight lipped about it, and fidgety, like always. Once that's dealt with, Rocky's fixating switches to fussing over you. And his heart is in the right place, but ... he's exhausted, all that lack of sleep and emotional turmoil catching up. Eventually he just passes out on the bed and you let him curl up at your side for a while. Rocky's excellent company (and a questionable nurse) in the following weeks. He has plenty of stories, music and chatter to keep you occupied.

♣️Freckle - He is, uh, not coping with this well. At all. He jumps to action to shoot whoever did this... Several times, and keeps shooting long after they're dead. He doesn't stop until his cousin calls out to him. Freckle is in something of a daze on the way to the back-alley doctor - wow, people have a lot of blood in their body, but now it's all over you - and doesn't start throwing up until the bullet gets pulled out of you.

He's sent out of the makeshift operating room because even Rocky can tell he won't cope with it. How could he? Isn't this his fault? Maybe if he reacted sooner, it wouldn't have happened. The poor guy is sleepless for days and consumed with too much guilt to visit until he's all but dragged in your sickroom by Ivy. Freckle fidgets often and struggles to look into your eyes - it goes a long way to just reassure him and promise you aren't angry. He shot the bastard who did it, after all.

He visits most days, bringing soup (his mother seems to think you have a terrible flu?) and slowly, slowly talking more and relaxing. He has a better bedside manner than he thinks; Freckle's a fairly quiet companion and has a good idea of what you need. Changing your bandages makes him feel pretty awful, but he's a good help. If you decide to continue bootlegging after your recovery, he's extra jumpy and protective of you.

♣️Ivy - Ohhh nonononono no, this is not happening. She's grabbing your shoulders and yanking you toward her, ignoring the blood getting all over her. She's a mess and doesn't even think of the danger you're both in; the bullets and gunfire keeps on all around while she holds onto you and tries to pull you to safety. Small as she is, with pure determination and adrenaline, she makes it.

You don't remember much after that, but the girl's right in your face as you slowly come to. Ivy looks a complete mess; having been crying for the the last hour, and before that watching intently while a bullet was yanked out of you. At least she washed the blood off her arms, but the clothes she was wearing are utterly ruined. Ivy alternates between chattering apologies and quiet fidgeting, even if you're too loopy to respond properly.

Eventually she has some strings pulled to get you to a nice hospital, with no one asking questions. This whole situation alters her for the worse; she gets more frequent nightmares and struggles to focus in school. Nearly every day she comes by you bring you snacks and magazines and nice flowers for your room; sometimes seeming a little frantic, like she was trying to make up for something.

♣️Mitzi - She is furious. Someone told her when you woke up, and you hear her swishing dress and clacking heels rushing down the hall. Her eyes are red, her make up is ruined and she practically shakes you. Even though you're still full of morphine, she demands you promise to never, EVER do that again. Zib has to remind her that a) you're still drugged out of your mind and b) the bandages are getting bloody.

While she'd want you in a proper hospital, they'd ask too many questions. You stay in the apartment above the cafe. She's too squeamish (and guilty) to help change your bandages, but she does bring you food, some records to listen to, an extra pillow, and so on. It's obvious Mitzi struggles to talk casually, as if nothing happened. When you're sleeping, she'll sit at your bedside. If it seems like the wound - or maybe a dream? - is bothering you, she gently pets your hair until you settle.

♣️Viktor - He's only in shock for a few seconds before instinct and absolute fury takes over. The perpetrator is not alive for long, but their last moments are painful. Not that you're around to see it - you've longed passed out from bloodloss. The only thing keeping Viktor from totally rampaging is the awareness that you're in a critical condition.

His old soldier training takes over; he's able to push emotions aside and get you to Elsa, the only one he trusts with this situation. While you're being operated on, he's still stewing. If whoever is responsible still has friends or a leader around, well, that won't be the case for long. Mordecai considers stopping the big Slovak to make him see reason ... but just ends up helping him instead. 'Keeping him out of trouble', the shadowy man claims, but really he's just as angry.

Once you're awake and coherent, it takes Viktor a while to sit in with you. He's disheveled and tired, and has trouble meeting your eyes. His bedside manner is ... basically nonexistent, but earlier Elsa walked him through the basics of what foods are best and how the bandages need to be fixed. After this, he's adamant about not wanting you on jobs any more, even if you're recovering well. The fact you took the bullet for him is even worse, in his mind. He could've taken it; you should have let him take it.

♣️Zib - Nope, he's not okay. Definitely not coping well with this situation. It's bad enough he got involved in one gunfight, now a second and this happens? He wants to get the hell out of this speakeasy. Anyone can see how jittery he is. Zib alternates between smoking too much and avoiding your sickbed, or drinking too much and sleeping by your side. When it's two am and he's resting beside you and listening to your labored breathing, he really wishes he was shot instead.

He thinks he's pretty shit at caring for anyone, but he's actually not bad, especially when he's half-sober. Helping with the bandages gets him feeling queasy and guilty, but getting food and keeping you company isn't so bad. Now and then, he asks if you still want to hang around this place - what do you think about leaving, with him and the band? If you're a triggerman for Lackadaisy, why don't you reconsider? Is it really worth it? And so on.

Expect a lot of late-night discussions when he's restless and can't keep his mind wandering. What if you had died, what if you get sick like this, what if you just left with him? Where would you all go? More than once you've fallen asleep in the middle of his talking, but he doesn't mind.

♣️Atlas - Everything is spinning, but you can feel his arms around you. You don't realize how much blood has soaked through his suit. And for the first time, you hear him shout - his voice resonates through his chest as you rest against it.

Eventually you wake up in a hospital bed, though the blanket is something from home and there's flowers all over the windowsill - wait, is that a radio? The nurses don't say much, but you're also not in a state to talk. You aren't sure if it's been one day or many, but finally he visits. He looks more tired than you've seen him, and far more solemn. He puts his hand on your's and explains you'll be leaving the hospital soon and recovering in his manor, along with a live-in nurse. This is quite a shock if you two aren't married, but if you are, it's nice to go home again. The guest room is already set up with what you need.

You don't hear whatever came of that triggerman, though the Lackadaisy staff whisper about Viktor and Mordecai being away for some time. Atlas doesn't want you about the cafe or speakeasy anymore, or out on your own in general. It'll take time for you to recover, but even longer for his paranoia and agitation to lessen. He seems the same to his business associates and employees, but those who know him better ...

🏵Serafine - She only pauses for a moment, then jumps to action. Serafine doesn't have to say anything to Nico, he's already picking you up while she mows down whoever shot you. Outwardly she's calm, inwardly she's furious. At the gunman, at herself, at you. Well, they keep a doctor on call for this reason. Serafine holds you very carefully in the car ride to the hotel, alternating between talking about revenge and reassuring you that you'll be just fine. No need to fret.

Everything's fuzzy after that. Serafine isn't there when you awaken, but you're in her bed. If you're a girl, you're probably in her nightie, too (when did your clothes get changed?). There's warm food on the nightstand, enough morphine to take out an elephant and a little vase of flowers. It's like any other morning when you wake up in her bed, well. Except the drugs and the hole in your chest.

Eventually she comes back, with more food and a disturbingly calm demeanor. Whoever that gunner was, well, they're dealt with, and so is their boss. Isn't that good news, cher(ie)? You just rest up and you'll be back on your feet. The stitches are neat and the bandages aren't too tight - understandable, considering how much she was threatening the doctor. Nico tells you all about it later.

🏵Nico - He uh, probably manhandles you more than he should as he gets you into the car. He wants to retaliate - to bash in the gunman's head rather than put a bullet in it - but Nico knows a bad shot when he sees it. He grits his teeth and keeps you in his arms while Serafine floors it, not caring how much blood gets on his clothes or white coat.

As much as he wants to sit in on the operation, it makes him restless. So he settles for pacing in and out of the room, often reminding the doctor how unfortunate it'll be for him if something goes wrong. He's quietly boiling in the perpatrator, too; by the time you're bandaged and tucked in bed, he and his sister already have a plan of retaliation. While you're still doped up and asleep, he gives you a kiss on the brow and disappears to get the job done.

Once you come to, there's flowers on the nightstand and a maid coming in with room service. You stay in the Savoy's suite during your recovery; Nico only sleeps on the couch because he moves a lot in his sleep and doesn't want to disturb you (he still naps right by your side). He's not careful enough to help with changing bandages, but he's excellent company when you're bored. Nico only laughs when you bring up the gunman. Old news, he's taken care of it. He'll even share the grisly details.

🏵Mordecai - He doesn't react to the blood immediately. His mind tells him to clear the area first - but. That's a lot of blood. He's acutely aware the bullet was meant for him. The logical side starts to short-circuit once you're in the backseat of the car, bleeding all over the coat he wrapped around you. He knows how to put pressure on a wound, and he thinks he's staying calm, but he snaps viciously at Niko to stop screwing around and drive faster.

He bothers the doctor so much while they work - hovering, observing, commenting - he gets pulled out of the room. Whoever shot you is going to be dealt with, and whoever ordered the hit. Mordecai just wants to make sure you'll survive the next few hours, as that'll determine how he deals with them.

The first few days he's agitated and not sleeping well. Mordecai alternates between fussing and fixating on your wound, and bothering the hell out of whoever's looking after you. He really doesn't settle until the gunman is well and dead, and you're more coherent and talking. Expect lots of lecturing about how stupid it was for you to get in the way, how you need to fix the bandage this way or that, and have you been eating? When Mordecai's away, the Savoys like to come in and cackle about what he did to the gunman. They were also apparently given instructions by him not to bother you, which they gleefully ignore.

🏔Wick - He's completely frozen in place, stuck by distress and panic. It occurs to him to shout for help not when more bullets fly by, but when you start coughing up blood. He has enough wherewithal to get you to the hospital - somehow driving without crashing into anything - but once you're taken away, he just crumples. He's utterly distraught.

Once his mental faculties have recovered just enough to let him stand, he paces. And paces. The receptionist in the waiting room manages to get him to make a phone call; he tries to inform Lacy to just take the day off tomorrow, but the events of the evening all come spilling out. If you both were innocent bystanders in the incident, that's one thing, but if you were involved in some criminal business and that's what put Wick in the line of fire ... well, Lacy has some choice words for her hopelessly infatuated boss.

Once you're stable and resting, he finally allows himself to breathe. The receptionist all but shoves him home because he looks like a mess and he's frightening other patients. By the time you can accept visitors he's (somewhat) rested and bringing you flowers. There's still an awkwardness, so ... at some point, talking about everything is gonna have to happen. But Wick wants you to rest first, and he needs to figure out his own thoughts, without the whiskey.

[iwoszareba]

OC Mannerisms // Avinsin

got tagged by @dmagedgoods and @spyridonya thank you!! filling these things always takes me unreasonable amount of time so I hope you don't begrudge me for picking my newest kid

BASICS

- NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES >> low and high drow, drow sign language, abyssal, undercommon, common, druidic, (does speak with animals count?)

their memory got wrecked due to backstory reasons so it's hard to say if they could still fluently use all of them just like that, but I think with the headband of intellect they can

- TONE OF VOICE >> high / average / deep 

i’m using voice 2 in the game and i’m actually happy with it

- ACCENT >> yes / no - they grew up speaking drow and in recent times used mostly undercommon so i feel it’s unavoidable that their common has accent

- DEMEANOR >> confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other 

do not perceive me, do not interact with me kind of energy, but when actually approached/approaching someone they seem fairly unfazed by having to talk with someone

- POSTURE >> slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

their posture could be better and they always look somewhat uncomfortable

HABITS

head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

when dealing with people they don’t know they always default to arm crossing to keep their hands in one place, naturally they are quite fidgety, rub their hands or arms a lot it’s probably the first signal they are starting to be comfortable around someone when they stop hiding that

COMPLEXITY (Fill in the circle’s as you wish)

- VOCABULARY >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

they didn't have much reason to use common before. they can communicate fine but may not know less used words or surface idioms

- EMOTION >> ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️

they speak in a rather monotone fashion and their facial expressions are also slight and quickly return back to default resting sad face

after getting one unfortunate disapproval from Wyll I decided they are deadpan to the point people may not realise they are joking

- SENTENCE STRUCTURE >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪

nothing too fancy

PROFANITY

- FREQUENCY >> ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️

sometimes under stress or when they really dislike someone

- CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity) >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

they only curse in drow. undercommon and common swears just don’t carry the right weight and emotion to them. I like to think that drow can be flowery in their cursing, ‘may spiders devour your treacherous heart’ instead of ‘fuck you’, things like that

BOLD THAT APPLY

arse / ass / asshole / bastard / bitch / bloody / bugger / bollocks / chicken shit / crap / cunt / dick / frick / fuck / horseshit / motherfucker / piss / prick / pussy / screw / shit / shitass / son of a bitch / twat / wanker

THIS OR THAT

straightforward or cryptic? / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity, neutrality, or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or flattery / excessive or minimal hand gestures / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt?

one of the things I found out while playing the game is that they actually can use pleasantries regardless if they actually care or not, to not be an asshole yanno, but with their monotone delivery it's up for debate if they ever come off as genuine. maybe a drow being nice catches people off guard enough to counter that effect, or maybe that makes it sound even more fake, depends on the person and situation probably

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

- DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? 

almost always / frequently / rarely / never

they try to speak at the right volume but they have a whispery quality to the way they speak so they sometimes have to repeat themself

- DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK?

 almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

they have moments of stopping in the middle of saying something and then having a hard time picking it back up but most of the time they speak clearly and with intention

- WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS?

almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

- WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS?

almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

- WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE?

yes / no / only ironically

- YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE?

but / though / although / however / perhaps / maybe

- HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? 

walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they're done here / remain quiet / they don’t

- WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK?

upper / middle? / lower

I think people on the surface see them as a foreigner first but if they were speaking drow with someone they probably still have 'raised noble' vibes

- IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS?

accent  / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t

Anything that wasn’t touched on?

⚫️ They hum! Most commonly when they do alchemy/medicine stuff but sometimes they do it just to self-soothe. I found this nice track as an example.

⚫️ When the situation requires it, for example at the goblin camp/Moonrise, they can speak ‘with dead woman’s voice’ and change their whole demeanour back to the Lolth’s priestess they once were. Their posture becomes more confident, voice louder and more animated, they smile and act with practised courtesy which can very easily turn to condescension or cold threats. It must be a jarring shift to witness.

[oxytoxic-skeletonin]

The End of a Multiverse(...?)

Synopsis The end is nigh, the cosmos is going to be collapsed, and there was not a damn thing they could do about it. But perhaps, even if everything is destroyed, something might survive.

Even if this is an awful end, it feels nice to write about and for characters I created and loved for many years of my life.

CW; Badly written combat, a literal war, copious amounts of body horror (Iktatra's not the sole one to blame this time!), descriptions of immense gore, and a lot of major character death.

-

This was bad. Eviveru knew that things were looking bleak. Even as he watched Kittara's fist shatter through the skull of that bitch. Nevaerys Merathalae, servant of Xul Mekuriz, Eld of madness and destruction.

Her laughter echoed from her broken jaw, and the mouths of that thing she kept in her body. It's tendrils roping backwards to pull Nevaerys from her assailant. "I'll let you all on in on a little secret~!" The insane look in the blue haired woman's eyes didn't fade for a moment. Her mouth twisted into an expression of glee. "The barrier that protected your cosmos is gone~! We've won this battle, before you even gathered your pathetic forces!" Kittara snarled, glaring her singular eye onto her. "We'll not fall without a fight." the Korathin woman called out, charging ahead once more to attack the thing that once was human. The amount of people they gathered to fend off the servants of Xul Mekuriz was paltry compared to the strange energy Eviveru could feel in the air, ebbing from all around them.

-

Arethinel's blade clashed against Wylli'vyrr's rapiers, the elven mage struggling beneath the fallen paladin's might.

"Aheheheh, I could rrrREALLY use a hand here, guys!!" Wylli'vyrr yelped. "I have gifted Humankind, and Mankind alone with the glory that is MY creation! Filthy creatures such as yourself, do not belong in MY world." Arethinel hissed, the mad paladin leaning down to drive the blade closer to Wylli'vyrr's head.

His efforts to harm the elf interrupted by bullets pelting the side of his face, tearing through his cheeks. "EY. Don't go touchin' Kitt's man, ya fuckin' asshole!" Meara called out, weaving through the battle between undead forces and eld-serving bastards as she continued firing at Arethinel with her guns.

-

"E... Eviveru... Something's wrong..." Okka'lier stammered out, a cold shiver ran down the Esyrrlian elf's spine. He backed lose to Eviveru as they stood back to observe the mayhem. "Yeah, I know..." Eviveru grit his teeth, swinging his hand outwards to cast out minor bolts of electricity at the forces that got too close to the back line. Most of them shrugging off the blow.

That wasn't the part they had to worry about. Evi grew a wicked smirk, as he quickly called down a powerful bolt of electricity to strike himself. Feeling electricity course through his body was always euphoric. Directing the flow of electricity towards one target and casting it out at the forces that drew ever closer.

He watched with the glee that he only felt as he felt that electricity flood into the body of his target, frying them from within, before scattering in chains to the prior foes he marked.

The sizzle as it tore through every foe between each mark was the only good thing in what was happening.

-

Speakers crackled to life on the Magitech mouse's head. Ornax mustered as much of his courage up that he could. Raising his thumb to his mouth and activating the microphone held within. "COME ON, EVERYBODY!!! LET'S GIVE THESE JERKS THE SHOW OF A LIFETIME!!" Ornax called out, the speakers of his ears amplifying his voice like a loudspeaker. The Robomouse pulled a song list up on his HUD. "IT'S NOT OUR CURTAIN CALL, NOR IS IT OUR SWAN SONG." Play an invigorating file with drums of war, drop in some techno beats, and spin some tunes. "I MAY BE TONIGHT'S DJ, BUT I AM NOT ABOUT TO BE A DEAD MAUS, AND WE ARE NOT GONNA BOW TO THESE GUYS!!!"

A wide grin on his face, as Ornax cupped a hand over the side of his head and nodded along to the music he mixed. Letting the magic he manipulated in his body flow out with his songs.

Ornax grinned more as he watched how the beat, how the music pumped up his allies, how he could tell that the magic was imbuing his allies with the inner strength that he lacked.

He hoped Mom and Dad would be proud of him. Standing against the end of everything.

"LET'S GIVE THEM A PERFORMANCE THEY'LL NEVER FORGET!"

- "Hah, knew tonight was missing somethin'." Karlos grinned, the pauldrons affixed to his shoulders sparking with his magic. Letting every thread he could latch on to anything around him.

Each of his 'adopted' hands holding weapons of various makes as he danced through the battlefield.

Karlos laughed like a maniac, while he cut down undead and cultist alike.

Heh, 'picking up' extra hands as he lobbed off limbs of his foes. Never got old watching people freak the fuck out when they saw their own hands or arms coming to life under his control.

Limbs, weapons, even the sands beneath his feet. They all were something he could use against this army of absolute fuck clowns.

He could take 'em, he could take ALL of 'em. And he would happily take it all from them. After all, these bastards were quite literally trying to take everything from everyone.

A lucky blow landed on one of Karlos' hands close to his body, cleanly cutting it in half.

.... That hand. That was...

"You FUCKER, that was the ONLY one that worked with smart phones!!"

Every hand with a gun tracked onto his assailant, an orcish cultist, and opened fire.

Swiss cheese, like the jackass deserved!

God damn it. That was the one bad thing about losing his original ones to those jackasses in the labs.

"HOW THE SHIT AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE PHONE CALLS NOW?!"

-

"LARCENERS! Status report!"

Devaux called out, using levitation to stay above the madness below.

They weren't heroes, they were thieves.

The Lavender Larceners were meant to procure artifacts of terrible power, to keep them hidden from those that would abuse them.

It was agony to put his crew, his family against this threat.

But desperate times required desperate measures. It even called upon them to distribute some of these artifacts to their allies.

"SA, We're 'oldin' the line, but nawt by much!!" he heard Estoran call out. Anxiety clear in his voice, which only made Devaux more worried.

The only thing that gave him comfort was seeing Otto's 'magnum opus' of his close, the "Giant mecha" as Haruki had called it, to where he heard Estoran's voice from.

Haruki wasn't hard to listen for, he could hear the Shuri twin laughing as he weaved through the battle.

"Missed me, missed me, now you gotta-- Oh ew, definitely don't kiss me!" Haruki made a sound of disgust, Devaux could imagine the sneer of disgust on the mouse's snout. A toppling sound. "Haru, you'd be lucky if you got kissed tonight." Fumeiyo, his sister, sneered as she yanked her blade out of the spine of her mark.

Devaux smiled, at least the two of them could still find it in them to banter. That meant that they weren't completely in despair at the circumstances.

"HEY!!! I COULD get a kiss tonight if I wanted to!" Haruki yelped back.

Fumeiyo chuckled. "Well, might as well get it tonight. From the sounds of it, if it's not tonight, it's never."

Haruki gave pause as he just stared at his twin.

".... CHEEEEEEEEEEERYYYYYYYYYYYYYYL!" Haruki yelled out. He swiftly dodged another foe. "YEAH???" Cheryl responded from a distance, her voice still as chipper as ever. "THE UNIVERSE IS ENDING, CAN I GET A KISS???" Haruki yelled out again. His sister made short work of the foes that had their attention on him.

"OKAY~!!!" Cheryl said, cleaving her claws through another undead troop's armor like butter. "COOL!!!" Haruki responded. Fumeiyo looked at Haruki with amusement. "CHERYL. THINK YOU CAN MAKE THAT A DOUBLE ORDER?" Fumeiyo called out. "YUP YUP! WILL DO~!" Cheryl made another swing. Her arm was caught. "Oh no, oh no, no no no n--" Her bloodcurdling scream resounded through the battlefield, as she felt it torn clean off. "Cheryl!"

Devaux wasted no time, quickly flying towards the sound of her scream. Quickly conjuring an array of shadowbolts to strike the goliath of a cultist holding Cheryl's torn off arm. "FUCK FUCK FUCK-- CHERYL!!! OH FUCK DID I JYNX IT?!" Devaux could hear Haruki's voice growing closer and closer, the Shuri Twins were likely on their way to lend backup.

"Don't, you, DARE, touch, MY, CREW!" Devaux roared out, casting a ball of antimatter at the cultist before they could raise their weapon at him.

It was painful to watch, seeing someone, anyone, implode inwards as their own armor compacted inwards in noisy fashion.

But he was not going to overlook such a transgression.

Cheryl whimpered on the ground. Trying to hamper over towards her removed arm. Haruki scampered to her side, checking over her. "CHERYL, Are you okay?!" Fumeiyo followed suit, she swiftly yanked her lavender scarf off and wrapped it around the remaining stub of Cheryl's right arm.

"B-Boss... D-Do you think Otto can get it back on...? L-Like, usable..??" Cheryl sniffled.

Devaux sighed, his whiskers twitching. "We'll have to get you to him as soon as possible."

He wasn't going to risk Cheryl bleeding out, and while her bones couldn't break, her flesh could still tear.

"LARCENERS. FALL BACK!!" Devaux called out. Hoping the others would hear him amidst the chaos.

-

"ORUNA'AJA. WHAT'S THE CHANCES OF US MAKING IT OUT OF THIS ALIVE?" Eviveru called out towards the seer. Oruna'aja, Seer of Jyll'Nybbek, Eld of knowledge. The Xelyrr woman's eyes on her head only ever opened when she'd look into the future. The eyes that covered various parts of her body served fine to let her see the world around her.

"I am sorry, Eviveru. The future is... Gone. For all of us, we will not survive this."

Okka'lier shivered, a look of horror dawning on the young elf's face.

"I thought you said before that MY stupid ass would outlive even the stars." Eviveru growled out. He hated this.

It would have been fine if it was just him that got to experience an eternal death. More than fine, it's what he'd always wanted.

But for everyone else around him, good people, who had a reason, and a drive to live... It was fucked up beyond belief.

"You... You're correct." Oruna'aja perked up, as if having an epiphany. She turned her head towards Eviveru and opened her eyes. Looking at the pastel rainbow lights held within her eyes was always unnerving as shit.

"There... Is no future. For any of us... You... Have a future."

-

So much bloodshed, so much organic material to consume strewn about, so much genetic material to utilize.

Iktatra weaved through battle as though it were a dance, the tendrils from her body lashed out and rend through countless, poor, brainwashed fools.

It was disappointing, were she to have obtained the godhood she desired, perhaps there might have been some hope for these people.

Still, the majority of them tasted so rotten.

It's entirely likely they still would have died to her.

After all, the sweetest fruit is the most ripe and decayed.

A smile on her face, as she consumed every bit of genetic material that touched her cells.

So much new information to analyze, so many new people to mimic, so many new powers for which to call upon.

A battlefield truly was a doppelganger's buffet.

A tall armored man roared out as he charged for her, sword drawn.

Awh. It was cute.

A smile of adoration on her face as she saw him raise his weapon.

A look that didn't fade, as his blade tore through her shoulder, it's momentum stopping in her chest.

She stared at him, her smile widening as he tried to pull it from her, and found it wouldn't budge.

"Awwwh, that wasn't nice dawwring. If I had a heart, you would've cleaved it in half." Iktatra pouted.

It was delightful to watch the man grow pale and that look of fear bloom upon his face.

"My turn~."

It was always so fun to make her created body make sickening pops and tears, as she split it in half. Revealing rows upon rows of teeth, tongues, and eyes.

Gasps of terror as a would-be predator became a meal were always such beautiful sounds.

The moment the man's body flinched to flee, it was too late. The many tongues lashed out and wrapped onto the man, harshly pulling him in to her fleshy iron maiden. His scream lasted but a moment, as she closed her body, she could hear the beautiful pops of his bones and armor as they were crushed inward.

Mortals of flesh and blood were much like those treats that Meara loved... Squishers, was it? Sweet candies that popped as you bit down.

Come to think of it. Where was her darling Meara in this mess?

- "GOD, FUCKING. DAMN IT. That's FUCKING BULLSHIT!!" Eviveru growled out, feeling the electricity coursing off of himself in his anger. Oruna'aja sighed. "Though you wish only to darken death's door with your presence... It shall never come for you... As I told you before, civilizations will crumble, kings and emperors shall fall, gods themselves will be forgotten and--" "And planets shall die and stars will fade out yadda yadda yadda, the thing is that I'm going to be STUCK with the fact that out of EVERYONE here, I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO'S GOING TO SURVIVE THIS." Eviveru roared out, seething with rage.

Okka'lier shivered, Eviveru could feel the elf doing his best to use his magic to soothe Evi's temper. "I'm... I'm h-happy... I'm happy you'll at least be okay"

Eviveru looked down, seeing the lavender doe eyes looking up at him.

"Evi... You... Won't forget about me, right?"

"... Okka'lier... If I could make it be you that'd survive instead, I would... You deserve it far more than I do...." "I-It's okay... If you remember me, then... W-Well, I'll always be with you." Okka'lier smiled, through the tears that were prickling his eyes.

God damn it.

-

Maddened laughter echoed out upon the battlefield, as it was clear something had changed in the air.

"THE ELEVENTH HOUR IS UPON US~!!" Nevaerys called out.

Kittara disarmed a nearby soldier, using his blade to block an incoming sword. Her hand crushing the disarmed soldier's throat with ease.

She couldn't use a weapon, they always broke with the force she swung them with. But they could be used to parry.

Nevaerys was an elusive opponent, she hid herself behind what poor souls they controlled, living and dead.

Kittara caught glimpse of sickly tendrils firing forth from that woman, she swung her arm to throw the blade towards them.

She hit her mark, lack of depth perception be damned.

But many more seemed to grapple onto their mark, and yank back.

Kittara watched Arethinel hastily pulled towards Nevaerys.

"Come, Arethinel! Xul'Mekuriz still has need of us~."

They're... Retreating?

No...

"Savor your dwindling last moments, for this world shall be reborn anew, and I, SHALL BE IT'S ONE, TRUE, GOD." Arethinel called out.

He.. Always called that out, whenever he failed against them.

Nevaerys wasted no time in opening a portal in the air. And pulled Arethinel in with her.

No. They left far too hastily...

Kittara's hackles raised, she could feel it, the darkness encroaching far faster than it had any right to.

Wylli'Vyrr... She had to find Wylli'vyrr!

-

"Eviveru, I understand.. It is upsetting... I foresee nothing but darkness for so long... I had lost hope, but then I saw it..." Oruna'aja recollected, her brow furrowing.

God damn it, did they have any time for being--

"SPIT IT OUT." Eviveru snarled.

"She does."

Eviveru stared at Oruna'aja in disbelief.

"... what."

"A woman. She spits out your hand. Your hand exists. She is overcome with fear, and flees. But your hand exists. And from the rest of it, you follow after..." Oruna'aja explained. Eviveru sneered, that sounded like the typical seer bullshit. Sometimes he wondered if Seers were just high off their asses most the time.

"Eviveru. We may not be able to save our cosmos... But we... Nay. You can warn another. We were unprepared for the foe we face... Warn them of Perniciem. Prepare them for what they may face." Oruna'aja's voice was dire.

Electricity sparked off of Eviveru as he grew increasingly irate.

"The fuck-- You mean you're asking me to be a MESSENGER BO--"

Okka'lier's scream of agony cut Evi off. The Essyrlian elf crumpling to his knees and gripping his head.

"Okka'lier! Shit... Did I--"

Okka'lier clawed at his skull, screaming in agonizing pain.

Eviveru crouched down, and hugged onto Okka'lier. Fuck... That wasn't from his electricity.

Okka'lier naturally felt the lives of animals around him, and was in tune with nature. He felt that pain as if it were his own.

Evi braced the back of Okka'lier's head, as Okka'lier's screams died down to sobs. His body shook like a leaf. "E... Evi... E-Everything's... D-Dying.." Okka'lier choked out.

It pissed Eviveru off to no end that there wasn't shit they could do.

"I.. I know. At least--"

It wasn't supposed to happen that fast.

Eviveru had been through a land slide before, felt the earth cascade down on him in a flash and crush him beneath it.

This was far less merciful.

In a mere blink, he went from holding onto Okka'lier to try and calm him down...

To feeling everything and everyone crushed together.

It was miserable being conscious for a short period of it.

Feeling his body crushed completely, compacted by bodies of friend and foe alike.

The sickening crunches far more deafening than the screams Okka'lier had made prior. He knew broken bones of his own friend were stabbing through what little of him he could feel.

He knew that the blood around him that he could comprehend was a slurry of so many people he knew.

All their lives, snuffed out in a blink of an eye.

It was bullshit.

None of them deserved that.

Eviveru drifted in and out of consciousness.

Sometimes? He was aware that he was dead. He knew and enjoyed the comforting embrace of the void.

And sometimes, he was aware he was nothing but mixed bits in crushed viscera.

Sometimes he swore he could hear voices.

Chatter, chatter, lots of it.

Others were still there. Alive? Entirely unlikely. But still there.

That or he'd gone insane.

Which was unlikely. He sure as shit didn't believe anyone else would survive. Nor would he want someone to be alive in this mess.

Sometimes it felt like the remains of everything around him moved. Moved a lot. And sometimes it was extremely still.

He hated it. He'd rather be dead.

Every time death's sweet embrace took him from the horrifying mess that remained? He was thankful.

He didn't know how long it lasted.

Perception of time becomes warped when you're dying, and coming back to live, and barely aware in the soup of the cosmos that was your own home.

Eventually? He felt a thump, a portion of his left hand. His pinky, ring, and middle finger once more feeling.

It twitched.

It wasn't long after that he felt himself succumb to death again.

And then Eviveru opened his eyes.

A gentle blue sky overhead. Clouds in the sky, white and fluffy. The sun beaming down upon him.

He could hear the breeze through the grass that he laid upon.

Man... He never thought he'd be thankful to be alive.

At least this alive was better than mashed up alive.

Eviveru groaned, as he slowly rose to his feet, grumbling.

Why the fuck was he the one who had to get stuck delivering a message.

Oh yeah, because death was a bitch who wouldn't take him, no matter how hard he wanted it to.

If death was some manner of entity he could speak to? He would happily lay into them for not carting his ass to the void permanently.

He sighed, conjuring forth his staff. Thank fuck that his clothes were so soaked in his magic, that the damn curse he endured thought that it was a part of him.

He really didn't want to get stuck on a murder spree of any person who looked at him stark nude.

"... Where the fuck do I even start..." Evi grumbled, glowering at the land around him.

Countryside, not a settlement as far as his eyes could see.

Well at the very least, he wouldn't have to deal with any humans anytime soon.

Fluffing his wings, Eviveru paused.

He knew where he'd start.

"Hey gods, divines, eldritch entities, what the fuck ever?"

Eviveru called out.

"You fucking suck."

Yep. That was a good way to start trying to save this place, and whatever shitheads lived here.

[typhros]

oc vocal mannerisms tagged by @localcryptic let's goooo

this seems like a great time to introduce new fhr followers to my primary sidestep, aisling becker

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: [1] / 2 / 3+

(proof not all sidesteps are self inserts)

TONE OF VOICE: high / [average] / deep

nyr voice isn't low per se, but nie speaks in a pretty breathy tone at the back of nyr throat that gives off a deeper Vibe, if that makes sense. alto/tenor if nie could sing.

ACCENT: Yes / [No]

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / [approachable] / [hostile] / other

not like overwhelmingly scary, approachable enough that nie gets approached by a fair few homeless people asking for money/tourists asking for directions, but also definitely not anyone's first choice to talk to. has the energy of always having headphones in and a hoodie up, even though nie never has either of those things.

POSTURE: [slumped] / straight / [stiff] / relaxed

the slumped is somewhat affected in order to get approached less/interpreted as not a threat. when in the relativity suit, nie stands straight and moves with a little more fluidity.

HABITS: [head tilting] / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / [arm crossing] / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / [plays with hair or clothing] / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / [maintains eye contact] / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

the shirt pullerrrrrr! also was trained Too Well in eye contact.

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⬤⬤⬤⬤〇

EMOTION: ⬤⬤〇〇〇

very smart and doesn't mean to show off but it does happen sometimes. types in full sentences and shit

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

every single member of the rangers has at some point given nym shit for typing "like a robot".

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⬤⬤〇〇〇

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY: arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

swears a decent amount but generally not in public. mostly. mostly. tends to steer clear of genitalia swears?? idk why. nie just told me. shrug emoji.

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently / rarely / never

only during meltdowns, which nie makes a point to never have in front of people.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER'S INTENDED POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - [almost always] / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

on that telepath shit 78% in subtle manipulations

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / [sometimes] / never.

Ortega Stop Texting Me was a hallmark of nyr run. no. nie's dogshit at maintaining a conversation.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - [almost always] / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE 'WHOM' IN A SENTENCE? - [yes] / no / only ironically

only when grammatically necessary, or as relativity

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - [but] / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

no need to overcomplicate things here

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - [walk away] / [ask if that's everything] / [say that's everything] / give a proper goodbye / [tell their company they're done here] / remain quiet / they don't.

all things nie's done in canon

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / [middle] / lower.

nie does a good job trying to make nyr tone and vocabulary shift conversation to conversation enough to keep it unplaceable

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / [level] / politeness / [brusqueness] / it doesn't.

this being solely to people who know nym

THANKS FOR LETTING ME RAMBLE ABOUT AISLING. ASK ME QUESTIONS ABOUT AISLING.

(i tag @skysybil!!)

[sissytobitch10seconds]

Febuwhump 11: Freedom of Death

Fandom: Grishaverse: Six of Crows and Shadow and Bone Summary: Nina has lost them all. Jesper is the last of them, and she can already feel the ever-present death veil itching closer to them. Warnings: Major character death, past character death, extreme mental anguish, and heavy angst Word Count: 1,724 Ship(s): Nina Zenik/Jesper Fahey/Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa/Wylan Van Eck/Matthias Helvar

Archive link!

“We knew that this day would come,” Nina said softly as she brushed the tips of her fingers over his forehead.

“We did, but that doesn’t mean I want it to,” Jesper grumbled. He turned his head to the side and coughed, his body convulsing with the motion. “I wish I had used my power more when I was younger, so I could keep you company for longer.”

She could almost cry at that alone. She had resolved after the first death that she would keep her tears to herself, hiding them away until she could break down. She would wail and scream and curse the world, flinging the ashes of her loved ones so far that she could never control them in the bastardization of her power. Nina would not cry in front of him, even if his words were so sweet to hear.

Slowly, her green eyes trailed down his form again. It had been nearly two hundred years since they had met each other, some of the best years of her entire life had been spent with him. They were getting hazy now, the details all confused and muddled amongst the others that she had made. He had changed so much from when they had first run into each other in Kaz’s attic office. 

Back then, his face had been lineless with youth but creasing with worry and smiles just the same. His hair was black and short cropped to his head, his eyes gleaming with a mischief and flirtation that she had already cherished. Now his skin was old and leathery, marked with the years that he had spent living life to its fullest. His hair was graying as his body lost the ability to put pigment into it, now woven into careful braids that Nina had taught herself to do not long after their marriage. His once lithe body was now hollow from his body’s new inability to derive much nutrients fro his food. He was old, no question about that.

She had to let him go, just as she had let the others go. “Jesper, you don’t mean that,” she whispered. She took his hand in her own and then pressed her lips to his knuckles. “You meant it when we found you the amplifier, you meant it when we found you the healer, but you don’t mean it now.” She ran her other hand over the delicate horn-made necklace that sat heavy on his collarbone and then the old scar on his belly made from a knife of a witch-hunter.

“I don’t want you to be alone, my love,” he whispered. He was tired, he wanted to go. She knew that, she had seen it in their last two partners as well. She was the bringer of death, raiser of corpses, she knew what it looked like when someone was welcoming in the Grim Reaper.

“I will never be alone. I have my work with Sankta Zoya and Alina,” she responded. “When that is done, I will come and join you in whatever afterlife awaits us.”

He chuckled and let his gray eyes fall closed. He wasn’t gone yet, simply resting to conserve the small amount of energy left in his body. Nina brought her head forward so that she could lay it against his chest. His heartbeat had always been a soothing sound to her, ever since they were dumb teenagers breaking into the once-most secure fortress in the world. Now it was reassuring her that he was still with her, that she was not yet alone from love in the world she lived in.

Being next to a deathbed reminded her of the other times that she had done this.

The first had been with Matthias, which wasn’t a huge surprise. The boy had recovered from the near fatal wound that he had taken to his shoulder after their second heist together. Afterwards, the two of them had gotten married and then returned to his home country in the hopes of converting some of the Druskelle out of their indoctrination. He had taken a bad beating in the last town that they had been in before they got stranded in an ice storm. Nina had made it through despite not being able to use her powers because she was in better shape, but Matthias had never woken up again. They had all only been married for ten years, he was twenty three when they returned him properly to the ice.

The second was Kaz. Each member of their polycule was incredibly aware of how dangerous the lives that they led were, but that wasn’t what had taken him down. It turned out that the few survivors of the Queen’s Lady Plague were doomed to come down with a recurrence of symptoms later in life. It happened to some right after they had gotten better, others decades down the line. Kaz had shown no signs of being sick until one day he was bedridden with a fever so high he felt like an active volcano. He pocks had returned the next day, marking his feverish skin with massive welts. They had sat by him with masks wrapped around their faces just in case it turned out to be contagious and then set him off. It had been fifteen years after they were married, he was thirty two.

By far the hardest death that Nina had ever had to face was when she had lost her beloved wife. Inej had continued sailing on her boat well into their fifties. She returned more often than she had when they were younger so that she could dote on their children and grandchildren, but there was work to be done. The only way that they had known she had died was when they received word that the Wraith had washed up on the shores of Ravka in pieces, not a single survivor to be found. Nina and Jesper had both held out hope that she would return to them, that their love was harder than the wrath of the ocean. After five years, they both gave up hope and admitted that she had returned to her saints. It was fifty two years after they had gotten married, she was sixty eight.

The easiest death, and the one that Nina was hoping would be replicated with the man in front of her, was when they had lost Wylan. He had grown old as all non-Grisha did. His red hair had long since turned from gray to white. His face was marred with wrinkles that told of the life he had lived, each a memory that would live on in his wife and husband’s mind. He had gotten a lot slower after he had passed on the Van Eck empire to their eldest daughter. He spent more time playing his instruments and when the arthritis in his hands got worse, he listened to Nina and Jesper play. Wylan insisted that her singing had improved over the years, though she thought his hearing had simply worsened. They lost him one night after they came to bed. He had passed away softly in his sleep after telling him that he loved them, which was all they could have asked for. It was after seventy years of marriage, blissful and wonderful despite the pain. He had been eighty seven.

Now, Jesper had finally aged despite the Grisha ability to stay young and healthy for much longer. Nina had also lost several of her children. Her great-grandchildren knew of her but there were so many that she could hardly hold her presence in their lives anymore. She taught them when they came to the school that she ran with her old mentor, but they were not as close as she was with the people she had known in her natural lifetime.

“What do you think would have happened to us if we were all Grisha?” Jesper asked as his wondrous gray eyes opened to look at her again.

“I think that we would have been found and burned at the stake by other Grisha. We would have all been far too powerful, they would have had to make sure that we didn’t cause any more problems than we already had,” Nina forced herself to laugh. Joking was always easier with Jesper than trying to be serious. She preferred it that way. Deathbeds were always a place of mourning, but this was easier on her heart.

“Sankta Nina,” he murmured. He brought one tired, bony hand up to the side of her face and cupped her cheek.

“What would I be the saint of? Sass and bad singing?” she asked. She could feel the tears building up behind her eyes but she refused to let them fall. She would be strong for her husband in his last moments.

“Saint of the dead, I think,” he chuckled. He coughed and she rose to get him a glass of water before he caught her skirts and she was forced back to where she had been before. “You’ve comforted all of us in our last moments. Even Nej. Even though we didn’t get to see her when she went. I’m sure she thought of you and felt safe.”

Nina broke down then. She should have known that her husband would force her to feel her feelings before he was gone. He would want her to be that emotional and vulnerable around him anyway, he didn’t need the strong persona she put on when she was teaching. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

He sighed and forced himself up. She shook her head and then tipped him back down against the bed so that their foreheads were pressed together. Her tears fell from her eyes and onto his cheeks but neither of them cared. “I know you are,” Jesper whispered. “But you’re so strong. You always have been. Finish your business and then find a way to convince Alina to let you come to me.”

“I will. I’ll find you all,” she promised with a fervent nod of her head. “I promise, I promise.”

She pressed her hand to his heart and felt the beating slowly, slowly stop. Nina’s senses opened like a spider lily as she felt the life drain from him piece by piece. Her husband was gone.

[primofate]

Genshin x fem!reader [Volleyball Team AU - Inspired by Haikyuu!] Manager reader gets hit on/harassed

Note: IM BACK FROM VACATION I recommend you read “How it’s like to be their manager” first before this one. Gives it a lot more perspective :)

Scenario: During an away game at another school, you catch the eye of a senior there. Little did he know that you’re the Genshin team’s manager and how much trouble he just caused for himself. 

Warnings: SEXUAL HARRASSMENT but still SFW, swearing, profanities, fighting. platonic relationships.

Characters: Zhongli, Diluc, Kaeya, Albedo, Tartaglia, Kazuha, Xiao, Tohma, reader as the team manager

Other works in the Volleyball Team AU Series: Click Here

Lost.

It was like one of your traits. Getting lost easily. You sigh and look left and right to see if anyone was in the hallways to help you get back to the gym, or at least give you directions.

“Those guys...are gunna be worried if I don’t get back soon,” you sweatdrop a little and laugh nervously, picturing your childish team just losing it when you come back late. “I better hurry,” you mutter to yourself, pace quickening the slightest bit, just as a door to one of the classrooms slide open with a thud, revealing a spiky haired guy who stares and blinks at you. You take that opportunity to ask the guy where the gym is. 

Back at the gym where the team is doing warmups and practice receives, Tartaglia starts getting antsy and annoying. “Where’s Y/N-chan~~?” He sways back and forth. Zhongli sighs at his middle blocker, “She’ll be back soon, she just went to look for a vending machine,” They still had an hour to go before the practice match, so Zhongli wasn’t that worried. 

“Hmmm? It’s--HIT--been a while--HIT--since--HIT--she’s been back --HIT--though--HIT,” Kaeya states. Sentence cut off in pieces as he tries to keep the volleyball up in the air, his tied up blue hair starting to stick to his neck because of the sweat. Still, the team keeps practicing, up until 10 minutes later when even their captain starts to get antsy. 

“...Captain, don’t hide it, just admit you’re worried for her too,” Tohma states with a harmless laugh. Zhongli muses and finally sighs, “I have to stay here. Someone else go and look for her,” and immediately seven hands are in the air.

Tartaglia waves his hand “Me, me!”

Kaeya raises his hand “I’ll go!”

Diluc does too “I can do it...”

Albedo follows “I remember the layout of the school,”

Kazuha volunteers “I’ve got good instincts,”

Xiao gingerly picks his hand up “I’ll bring her back fast,”

and finally Tohma’s hand is high in the air, “I’ll find her!”

Of course everyone wanted to go... Zhongli decides he doesn’t want to deal with it and tells his team to go with rock paper scissors. Watching them battle it out really made him wonder how the hell he kept this team together. 

“YES!” Tartaglia pumps his fist in the air as he, Kazuha, Xiao and Tohma win the simple round of rock, paper, scissors. Kaeya, Diluc and Albedo are silently sulking, but continue their practice. “We’ll be back soon!!” Tohma waves at them as they exit the gym, starting their search on the ground floor classrooms.

Back where you were, you’d been following the guy for at least 2 minutes now. He said he’d lead you to the gym...but...it seemed as if there was less and less people to wherever he was taking you. It was the ground floor, at the end of the hallway where lockers lined both side of the walls. Suddenly the guy’s hand is wrapped around your wrist and he pulls you towards him. You instantly resist, pulling your wrist back and keeping away from him. “I-I just want to go back to the gym, my team is waiting for me,” 

You steel your gaze at the guy. If he thought you were just going to stand there and take his blatant disrespect for your personal space, he was wrong. But his next move leaves you feeling disgusted, your skirt hikes up and he grins. “Stop!” you screech and twist your wrist away.

Tartaglia halts in his tracks at your familiar voice. His head turns just as his other three companions does. 

The scene unfolding before him makes. him. see. red. 

Hell, he doesn’t even see anything except the image of him punching that grin off of that guy’s face. His vision zones in on the bastard’s features, he strides over, in less than 5 seconds reaching towards the guy’s collar and slamming him on the nearest locker. “The hell do you think you’re doing?!” You’ve never seen him so angry before, but the realization of what happened has you cowering away, feeling like some dirty thing that was played around with. 

“Tartaglia, ease up!” Tohma runs to try and restrain Tartaglia’s arms. He shoots a look at Xiao who immediately turns around to get the rest of the team, particularly his captain. Kazuha strides over to you, watching as you faced away and looked at the ground, ashamed. 

Kazuha was never one to resort to violence, nor was he particularly a resentful guy. But he feels it. He feels the hatred rush through his veins, but he focuses on you instead. “You’re alright, Y/N,” he places a hand on top of your head and smooths your hair down just as the others arrive. 

Tohma is barely holding on to Tartaglia, his strength matches his fury, but Diluc finally arrives and together with Tohma, successfully pulls Tartaglia away from the guy. 

“Calm down,” the red haired spiker insists, to which Tartaglia only shouts, eyes engulfed in fury and piercing the offender with his gaze. 

“This fucker touched Y/N!” 

Zhongli, Kaeya and Diluc freeze at the news. Their heads slowly turn towards the attacker. 

And now all set of 8 eyes on him are menacing, cold and unforgiving.

How dare he.

But Diluc holds his ground, restraining Tartaglia. 

Zhongli’s head turns towards your frame, seemingly meek and tiny and tears pooling around your eyes. 

Xiao hurries next to you as he arrives, the displeasure on his face was immense, specially when he starts wiping off the tears cascading down your cheeks. He grits his teeth “Don’t waste your tears on someone like him,” he knew well that you must have felt ashamed, and that your tears were not something you could control, but it was the best thing he could say. 

It was Kaeya, unrestrained and gurgling with hot anger that lifts his fist up.

But it was not his fist that connects with the offender’s jaw.

It was not his hands that pulled the offender up by his collar once again.

And it was not him who states “Do not come near her again. Don’t even look at her,” 

The whole team freezes. 

It was their captain.

The captain that was always calm and collected. Who always tried to stop fights and apologize for the inconveniences that his team caused. There’s a shiver that runs up the member’s spines at the feral look on their captain’s face. 

And then he drops the guy on the ground once again. The offender panicking and crouching backwards and away from them. “We should report it to someone,” Albedo, sensible and smart as ever, suggests. “...but throwing a few more punches in doesn’t seem so bad...” he adds and narrows his eyes at the guy.

“No, don’t. Let’s not waste our energies,” you firmly say and wipe the remaining tears away from your eyes. Kaeya moves over to your side and slides his jacket off of him and places it around your shoulders. “Okay, princess, whatever you want, we’ll just drop him off at the principal’s office and make a report,” when it really counted Kaeya’s flirtatious nicknames for you were quite reassuring. You smiled up at him a little.

Zhongli passes another glance at you, his fist is still tight next to him but he hoists the guy up and has Tartaglia come with him, since he was the one who saw everything. 

The rest of the team turns to you, with Tohma taking your hand and leading you back to the gym. “You’re okay, Y/N, we’re here,” and sure enough they keep close enough to you to fend off anyone else. Like wolves protecting their pack. You knew the chances of that happening again was slim, but seeing them so concerned and circled around you like a shield was really what you needed right now. 

“...Thank you,” you whisper to them as you arrive at the unfamiliar gym. They all turn back to you with a smile. 

“We’ll beat them to the ground at this game, Y/N, you’ll see,”

Taglist: @softlybeloved @bobaducky @normalisthenewnorm @how-simpy @atasi-luna @berryqueue @hallohun @milkypompon @fadinganchornight @coldstonecrematorium @probablybethere @hanachan_2481 @gultonluvv @batcatistruemaster @plumpkie @amigenshin @foxxtrot-116 @spirlimpo @hadesaedes @minyoustar @yunaholics

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[junk-whunk-punk]

Okay I’ve seen ur amazing art for punk Mairon but I’d love to hear what headcanons u have for this little bastard

OH *insidiously rubs palms*

Are you ready kids? I dunno there is bunch of punk Mairon headcanons, facts or smthg bebeh babah (sometimes supplemented!)

About AU in general: all the characters are humans in the modern life.

He actually is a little bastard. Total mischief, total cunning, total agility, mutton stubbornness and shamelessness - it's all him.

He is one of those people who, for example, can stand naked in front of a mirror at 4am and squeal with a bottle of port wine and a frog in his hands.

Mairon used to be a latent punk(:D) before dealing with Melkor. After that he was no longer afraid to show his fucked-up nature because he can.

I unreasonably headcanon that he has an accent on the similarity of German or Russian, something like roaring so please pretend that you understand me🥲... ... . .

I've been thinking for a long time about his specific affiliation within the punk community. His filthy soul lies towards crust punk and thrash punk mostly.

His dada and mama Aule and Yavanna and his brudas Curumo and Aiwendil love him unbelievably despite his punk ways and shitty behavior. At least they can say "Yeah, he's dumb, but he's ours"

He grew up in the blandest, most cookie cutter suburb imaginable with Very Wholesome parents Aule and Yavanna who don’t understand his punk ways but support him to an embarrassing amount. (addition by @the-ring-wasnt-even-pretty)

He has freckles! but! I found out that people sometimes get freckles only in the spring. SO MAIRON DOES!!¡!

Mairon and Melkor have always had a specific relationship. They are, of course, very close friends for many years, and therefore they are not at all shy of each other and can easily ask for anything. By saying "anything", I really mean "anything"... But there is no emphasis on their pair or sth, it is a bromance.

He is Melkor's «Meowron» and Melkor is Mairon's «Meowkor». Don't blame them.

He and Thuringwethil paint each other's nails💅

Mairon manually sews himself cool punk clothes. In the evenings he sits with a charmingly intelligent look, sewing up tears on the ass of his favorite torn jeans.

Mairon loves plushies, kittens, puppies and other cuties. And does not hide it. He feeds street animals. what can you say...

«ANARCHY IS THE MOTHER OF PEACE»

Respects some modern tendencies, but prefers the old lifestyle and fashion.

Versatile. He received a technical education but he didn't really need it in life, which is basically obvious. But! he is well versed in electric musical instruments.

Biker 🤝

«Rock, punk and metal are NOT THE SAME THINGS!! But I love them all»

He has tatoos: The One Ring inscription around the right biceps, sharp patterns those look like the eye of Sauron left on the chest. That's all-seeing tit...

A natural blondie💅

Voice of YOUNG Konstantin Kinchev from «Алиса»/«Alisa».

Celebrimbor's crazy salmon--I MEAN BOYFRIEND. And what's about Tyelpë? Sauron always tries to seduce him, but «Mairon please I'm working...». Tragic(((

Mairon's height is 5'9''. His physique looks lightweight, but muscular. Oh boy he is that very meowing comely attaboy with unrestrained energy and unkillable vocal cords. In a good and bad way...

To be continued...

[aalbedo]

tartaglia x injured!reader

request: Hello! How about scenario where character offers help to injured!gn!reader, who is very mistrustful of and reluctant to accept it? I smh love the dynamic "no I don't want your help or anything to do with you but I don't really have a choice". And yeah, I feel like Tartaglia fits it well though you may choose whoever you feel like T v T

format: two-parter (part two here)

ship: tartaglia x reader

tags: reader is the traveler-ish (a completely separate character from aether and lumine, but still the traveler, does that make sense?)

warnings: blood, mildly graphic depiction of injury, stitches and needles

words: 1951

notes: this request awoke something in me, i feel like i could’ve written an entire 70k words fic on this if i had the energy. im sorry anon but i kinda went off the rails with this one hfjdkhfd i hope you still enjoy it. also yeah the header is mildly fucked up because i don’t have the energy to find a better png ok.

You fell to the ground, placing your hands right in a small puddle of your own blood, while a ruin hunter laid on the ground, defeated. Your legs had given in, as a sharp pain hit you through your entire left thigh. There was a large cut on your pants, through which you could see a long, bloody, wound on your skin left by the mechanical monstrosity. It wasn’t too deep, but damn if it hurt.

You squeezed your eyes closed, and let out a loud groan. Reaching a hand into your bag, you pulled out the antiseptic solution you always brought with you, and found out that the bottle was empty. You rummaged more through the bag, looking for a numbing cream, an analgesic potion, even just a remnant of a bandage, anything that could help. Nothing.

Panic started settling in your chest, you were completely alone, in the middle of Lisha, where Hilichurls could attack you at any moment, and you were injured just enough that you wouldn’t be able to walk, let alone run away or even fight. You laid down with your back to the ground and covered your face with your hands, as your palms suffocated another loud groan.

You would have to crawl all the way back to the city, or until you found someone willing to help you before fainting from the slow, but consistent, loss of blood. Or worse, dying from shock.

Suddenly, you heard a voice in the distance yell “hey!” Then a second time, with a clearly worried tone in their voice. The pain in your leg made it almost impossible for you to focus on recognizing who that voice belonged to, but it didn’t matter - you were about to finally get some help. You kept your eyes closed as you raised a hand and waved it, showing whoever your savior was where you were.

As you didn’t move from the ground, you heard steps, quickly getting closer to you, until you could feel the presence of someone right above you.

“Oh thank the Archons, I’m completely out of-” you opened your eyes and were met with two bright blue irises staring into yours, and all of the sudden you recognized the voice from before.

“Did that ruin hunter hit you?” Tartaglia was perched right next to your injured leg, already starting to open a backpack that you didn’t recognize as his. He moved his eyes to your thigh and reached out a hand towards it. You swiftly moved the leg away from him, forgetting that it would make it hurt even more, and whimpered when the pain grew.

“I don’t want help from a Harbinger, least of all you” you spat out as you slowly sat up and used your hands to back away from him.

“Stop moving, or you’ll make it worse,” he said plainly as he stood up and followed you, while you kept backing away ignoring the pain through your leg.

“I’ll lose a leg before I let the fatui help me.”

“Alright then, I guess I’ll just watch you crawl all the way back to the Harbor.” He crossed his arms. Oh, he thought he was being funny?

You kept backing away with your arms, until you felt something hard hit your back. A rather large rock was blocking your way, and you would have to crawl around it, and the young man laughed, slowly walking towards you as he took his gloves off and put them in a pocket. You tried moving sideways, but he was quick to crouch down and grab you by the ankle, the one on the injured side, right when you moved.

You inhaled and closed your eyes as a sharp pain shot through your leg. “Are you out of your mind? That hurt!”

He kept your ankle pinned to the ground. “Don’t move,” he ordered. He used his free hand to carefully move the ripped fabric of your clothes out of the way, and get a better look of your wound. You started to feel lightheaded as you saw him tear the fabric further.

You felt some sort of damp cloth on your skin,figuring it was being used to clean the blood off your injury. Tartaglia was being so careful that you could barely feel it, it seemed like he had done this a million times before. You closed your eyes, placing a hand over them, and tilted your head forward, suddenly feeling overcome with dizziness.

“You’re losing a lot of blood. If you hadn’t moved, it would not be this bad right n-” he interrupted himself and he called your name. “You still with me?”

“Mh- huh-uh” you started feeling uneasy. You opened your eyes slightly and caught a glimpse of the wound and immediately looked away. So much blood.

“Stay awake, don’t close your eyes again.” You heard a ruffling of fabric, the damp cloth wasn’t on your skin anymore. “Tell me about the Archons.”

“What?”

“Tell me all of the Archons’ names and their elements,” he repeated. You couldn’t figure out why he wanted you to tell him, but you followed his order, keeping your eyes away from your wound, and instead fixating on the grass beneath you. You were feeling too dizzy to protest, your only choice was to trust him, despite all of your instincts yelling at you to get away from him.

“Okay, there’s... Barbatos, god of Anemo.” You heard more fabric rustling coming from him, but you refused to look at what he was doing.

“Yes, then?”

The dizziness was still overwhelming, but you managed to keep talking, “Morax, god of Geo.” Clinking of glass, probably bottles. “Tsaritsa, goddess of Cryo.”

“Mh-mh.” He sounded… focused. What was he doing?

“Baal, goddess of- Fuck!” The skin around the wound started burning, and so did the wound itself. You bit your lip hard and groaned as the burning kept going on and on, your skin was itching and for a split second it was almost unbearable. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Antiseptic potion,” he replied plainly. “I had to find a way to distract you or you wouldn’t have let me use it.”

“Bastard.” Your skin kept burning, but you slowly got used to the pain as you watched the clear potion sizzling over your still open wound.

He barked a laugh, “I’m trying to help you over here, you’re very welcome.”

You looked at his hands as he skillfully kept cleaning your wound, now there was way less blood coming out and you were starting to feel slightly more at easy. He lifted his head and looked right into your eyes.

“It’s not too deep, but it would probably be better if I stitched it.”

“You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“Of course I have, you think these healed themselves?” he asked, pointing at the seemingly long scar that started from the base of his neck and went down under his shirt. “At some point you have to learn how to stitch them up yourself.”

You exhaled deeply, still keeping your eyes on his. You realized that his irises resembled the starconches you had seen laid in the sand of Yaoguang Shoal’s beaches.

“Do you have an anaesthetic something to make the stitching hurt less, at least?”

He looked into the bag, moving things around, as if he had no idea what was actually inside the backpack. So it definitely wasn’t his.

He shook his head, pursing his lips slightly. “No, sorry.”

“It’s…” you pondered over it. You would probably have to go all the way to Bubu pharmacy to get an anaesthetic, and on the way there you might lose even more blood. “It’s okay.”

From his backpack, that you hadn’t realized was laid on the ground by your feet, he pulled out a small tin box, and from the box he took out an interestingly shaped needle, recurved like a crescent moon, then a pair of tweezers and a thread so thin you could barely see it.

Just by looking at the needle, you felt uneasy again. “Are you sure we can’t go to the Harbour and get help there?”

“We can do that, if that’s what you prefer, but I would have to carry you - I doubt you could walk at all right now.”

Somehow, the embarrassment of other people seeing you being carried, bridal style, by Tartaglia was stronger than any pain you might have to go through to get these stitches done.

“Fuck it, do it. But be quick.”

“I will try my best,” he said, and his tone sounded genuine to you. You still couldn’t believe you were trusting him like this, after everything he had done to you. “Try to think about something else, focus on anything but the stitches, it’ll hurt less.” He passed the thread through the needle’s hole with surprising skill.

“Okay, uh-” you watched him hover the needle over your skin, probably thinking about the fastest and least painful way to do the job. You moved your gaze from the open would to look at his face, and his expression seemed calm enough to put you somewhat at ease.

His lips were slightly parted and you noticed that he was biting his own tongue, the amount of focus he was putting into helping you was so intriguing to you, you could have never had imagined that he would be so… caring. At least not to you.

You suddenly felt the needle prick through your skin and you whimpered slightly. “Sorry,” he quickly said, before using the tweezers to make the needle pass through your skin and grab it again on the other end.

He repeated the process a few times, slowly pulling the thread every now and then to make the stitch tighter. You observed him the entire time, his eyes quickly darting from one spot to the other, his nose and mouth breathing at a steady pace. You saw him scrunch up his nose a few times, probably to release tension.

Each stitch hurt, you could feel the entire needle pass through your skin and come out again every single time, but you didn’t protest at all, and instead focused on counting the freckles on Tartaglia’s nose bridge, watching the muscles under his skin move every time he swallowed, and carding your fingers through the grass, accidentally ripping some every now and then.

“Done,” you heard him say in an unexpectedly cheerful tone. “I have some bandages, but I don’t think they’re enough for this large of a cut. Though, now that it’s stitched up, it’s probably safe for you to move, and I can help you get to the Harbor where you can buy some numbing potion and bandages.”

You looked down at the wound, and to your relief the stitches looked like they would hold together pretty well. “Sure, I think I can hop for a while, if you hold me.”

He picked up both his and your bag, putting them over his shoulder, then reached out a hand towards you and you realized just how bloody his hands were, as well as his clothes. You grabbed it with your own bloody hand and slowly stood up, placing your weight on the healthy leg. He placed your arm around his shoulders and put his own behind your back, holding you up.

“Ready to go?”

“Mh-mh.” You started walking in the direction of the Harbor, hopping on one leg while Tartaglia held you up.

“Whose backpack is that?” you tried asking.

“Honestly? No idea.”

“What were you doing here in Lisha, anyway?”

“Just some Fatui business, don’t worry about it,” he quickly dismissed your question.

“Always so secretive.”

[azure-bliss]

shinran oneshot

Fandom: DC

Pairing: Shinran

Excerpt: 

“Shinichi,” she whispered, warm blue orbs losing focus as she looked at him, though her smile remained. She rose her hand to caress his cheek (she’s so, so cold). “You found us.”

Her chapped lips met his, and then, “Arigato.”

A/N: I swear that this was supposed to be fluffy but brain said nope, angst-infused it is. Also, I’m no expert in medicine nor the Japanese police system, even criminology for that matter. Spare me. Enjoy!

Day 9

“I should write a book.”

Shinichi’s first instinct was to snort, as he was reminded of Kogoro-ojisan’s—who he should really be calling otousan nowadays—intention of becoming a mystery novelist, much like his actual father. Kudo Yusaku had made millions writing his thrillers, and today, years after the older Kudo patriarch decided to publish his final novel, he was still adding money to the Kudo fortune.

Perhaps his mother playing the titular character in one of Night Baron’s spinoff adaptations, Lady Baron, played a huge factor too. His parents were weird that way, almost like a tag-team, because the moment Kudo Yusaku announced his writing retirement, Kudo Yukiko came out of hers.

It was as if they thought that the world could not handle more than three (he was pretty sure his popularity was on par with his parents, despite his lack of big screen appearances) famous Kudos at a time.

“Finally jumping on the full Kudo experience?” he teased, adjusting himself on the hospital bed where his wife sat, left arm wrapped around her whole frame, right palm covering hers.

Eyes focused on the little bundle in her arms, she hummed before answering, “A best-seller for sure.”

As if on cue, their newborn squirmed before revealing twin orbs that matched his mother’s, unfocused eyes looking up to the woman who went through hell and back prior to his birth.

“Anata,” she called, her tired voice laced with a hint of excitement. “He’s beautiful.”

 Day 1

He stood in an abandoned room of an equally abandoned motel located just 50 km on the outskirts of Tokyo, the very location that had him and nearly the whole Tokyo Metropolitan Police Taskforce wrecking their brains and exhausting their resources to find. The identified suspect was one Seisaku Miyazaki, a serial rapist and killer with a tendency for flairs. The 27 crime scenes he left always had distinct blood splatter to them, resulting from either gunshot wounds straight to the temple, or intraoral ones.

Shinichi had never seen a crime scene so gruesome in his life.

As soon as Shinichi stepped into the room, the first thing he should have registered was the blood-spattered left wall and Seisaku’s limp and lifeless body on a chair in the same left corner, his riffle trapped in between his legs.

Instead, Shinichi’s frantic eyes zeroed on the figure on the bed in the middle of the room, merely 10 feet away from Seisaku’s body. The woman had her back against the headboard with an ungodly amount of blood running down her bottom half, arms cocooning a small bundle wrapped with a violet-colored cardigan—the same one she was last saw wearing before her disappearance.

She had her eyes on her baby, as if the newborn was the only person who mattered, seemingly unbothered by the chaos unfolding before her. It took the lead detective a full five seconds to notice that the newborn—oh God, their newborn—was not crying.

He was beside her in her flash, holding her tighter than he should. His wife was again, unbothered, but he noticed that she closed their baby more to her semi-naked chest. The cuts and bruises on her face and torso did not go unnoticed by him. All of Seisaku’s victims had the same markings, but unlike those women who bled from their heads, she was bleeding from bottom down.

Kudo Shinichi screamed for the medic.

It was only then did he hear a soft cry, and he released a breath he did not know he was holding.

“Anata,” she called, finally removing her gaze from their son to look at him “He’s beautiful.”

Her face was pale and hollow, but there was no mistaking the warmth in her eyes and the gentleness of her smile.

His heart both bloomed and broke for her.

“Ran,” he choked out the name he’d been desperately calling for the past few hours. “You’re going to be okay.”

When the medic team finally appeared, his wife first handed the closest medic the baby, “Take care of him, onegai,” she requested, sounding too much like a plea. “He’s a good boy.”

Releasing her son’s warmth, the brunette fell back onto her husband, who caught her naked shoulders, throwing her full weight onto his.

“Shinichi,” she whispered, warm blue orbs losing focus as she looked at him, though her smile remained. She rose her hand to caress his cheek (she’s so, so cold). “You found us.”

Her chapped lips meet his, and then, “Arigato.”

With a sigh of relief, she shut her eyes, and rolled limp further into her husband’s embrace.

Shinichi’s world stood still, the only things registering in his mind were his wife’s cold body, and their newborn’s loud cries in the distant.

 Day 8

She was in pure fight mode, forcing her body to function and conscious to stay awake. Once she knew that her child was safe, all the injuries and agony finally caught up to her, and she welcomed the numbing darkness.

The last thing Ran remembered was Shinichi’s rapid heartbeat drumming her ears.

The new mother woke up a week later, on an unfamiliar bed, to the familiar but tormented eyes of her husband.

“Baby,” she mustered breathily, and her husband’s eyes all but softened.

She knew that they were safe.

   Day 10

It was another two whole days before she was deemed fit enough to hold her newborn.

“Anata,” she beams, “He’s beautiful.”

“He is,” the Heisei-Reiwa Holmes agreed. “The brat gave the doctors and nurses a fright with his fever, would not stop crying too.”

If his wife was worried, she did not show it. “Is that true?” she cooed, “But you’re okay now, aren’t you sweetheart? Your Papa found us after all.”

Day 0

Kudo Ran did not fit Seisaku Miyazaki’s victim profiles by the slightest. The females he preyed on were usually late teens to early twenties, lived alone, physically petite, and had questionable practices in their private lives.

Or, in the words of Seisaku himself, whores.

Catching the serial killer had been the detective’s top priority, with the death count at 27 and the most recent killings at the heart of Tokyo, it was one of the most challenging cases for him to date.

With half of the murders in Tokyo and the other half in Osaka, it was a no brainer for both Detective of the East and West to join hands, special taskforces from Tokyo and Osaka rallying under their (unofficial) command. The investigation had been ongoing for more than four months before special unit finally made a definite progress, being able to identify a potential victim, shadowing her day and night, coming in to save her just in time from being abducted, and arresting Seisaku’s paid minion.

Genzo Okubo was no Seisaku, the two detectives figured. The latter was confident, methodical, a true psychopathic mastermind, yet the man they caught fumbled with his words, sweated profusely, and most importantly, had little loyalty as he quickly confessed to everything.

The unit rejoiced, but Shinichi and Heiji knew that it was too simple, as if Seisaku wanted Gento to be caught.

By the time they were finished with the guy, it was already 2 a.m.

The lack of miscalls from him wife caught him off guard.

He tried not to panic, reasoning to himself that Ran was probably at her parents’, fell asleep, and his in-laws forgot to inform him. After all, it would not be the first time this had happened. If anything, the Mouris had not stopped fussing over their daughter, and with this case constantly on his mind, Shinichi had not really been the doting husband and father-to-be that he ought to be. Their six-year-old twins were away with his parents somewhere in New York, the elder Kudo couple wanting to give the once-again new parents space to get ready for the youngest Kudo’s arrival.

Halfway through dialing Eri’s number (because his mother-in-law was a light sleeper), Heiji burst into the break room with a suspicious package in his hands.

“Kudo,” the dark-skinned detective panted, as if he just ran up flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator, “that bastard’s got Nee-chan.”

Inside the package were two things: a picture of a very pregnant Kudo Ran, blindfolded and gagged, and a lone platinum wedding band.

  Day 10

“He panicked.”

“Hmm?”

“Seisaku-san, he panicked.” His wife stated, the name of her kidnapper rolling of her tongue like she was mentioning a student of hers. “I started having contractions, started bleeding too. He mumbled something about ‘not following his plan’.”

Shinichi rose his brows, puzzled by Ran’s statement, but he let her continue.

“I think,” she paused, readjusting her hold on their son when they boy started to writhe, “that he was halfway out when Seisaku-san decided to shoot himself.”

Her voice was cool, too indifferent, and deep down, Shinichi knew that his wife may be scarred for life.

“Three sounds,” she gulped then snickered. “Me screaming during the final push, the baby’s cries, and the riffle going off.”

Shinichi held her tighter.

“His blood was everywhere, Shinichi. On the walls, the carpet, the bed, my face,” There are now cracks in her voice, the memories flooding her overwhelmed mind as she remembers it all again, “On our baby boy.”

“Ran…” He trailed off, not knowing what to say. His wife and son were alive, but the trauma she went through was something he wished on no one, not even Seisaku himself.

“I didn’t want him to get cold, so I wrapped him with my cardigan. Not the most hygienic, I know, but I didn’t exactly have many choices,” a chuckle. “He locked the door, so I couldn’t escape, and I couldn’t exactly kick the door open, my energy was spent on giving birth. So, I started breastfeeding the baby, burping him…making sure he was alive long enough for you to find us.”

Something in him shattered even more.

Ran averted her eyes away from their son to look at her husband, their faces only a few centimeters apart.  There were no tears in their eyes, the pain and regret that remained in their hearts too crushing to be expressed by mere crying. “I’m safe, our boy is safe, because you found us. None of this is your fault, so please, Anata,” she kisses him before continuing, “don’t blame yourself.”

Shinichi could not imagine what life would be without her. She was his wife, partner, lover, best friend, soulmate, the mother of his children, his world, his everything.

“Okay,” he promised simply, capturing her lips for a second time before kissing her forehead. “I love you.”

He felt her smiling into his neck, and at that moment, nothing was wrong; they were whole.

They stayed like that for a few more moments, savoring the peaceful yet short time they had with their baby boy before one of the nurses took him away for the night.

    Day 11

 “Your book,” Shinichi remembered far into the night. “What are you going to write about?”

A mischievous look twinkled in Ran’s eyes, and the man knows that his wife will heal just fine. “Kidnapped 101.”

- end

A/N: Nope, not their firstborn. And I also imagine that Ran has had her fair share of getting kidnapped so might as well write a book on it lmao. 

[commander-diomika]

Fear and Faith

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT MY FIRST FIC IN FIVE (???) YEARS! Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~6000 Additional Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Trans Male Character, Trans Crowley, Spanking, Restraints, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley, Established Relationship, Pining .

(YES it’s true, they’re established, yes they’re banging, but also somehow still pining at the same time! Read on to find out how I managed that mess.) Summary: Aziraphale gives Crowley a little payback for his outburst at the convent. This is a “deleted scene” fic where we pretend that Aziraphale doesn’t spot the book in the backseat, and instead they flow nicely from business to pleasure that evening. "Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another.

They played a different game in private. Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do." Read on Ao3

Or

“Not one single person would say bebop.” Crowley draped himself over the Bentley in what he thought of as an enticing manner. He dangled the topic change like bait.

Aziraphale took it, though in an unexpected direction. “I don’t think that’s really what we ought to be discussing, you know.” Crowley’s eyebrows arched up over the frames of his glasses as Aziraphale came round the car, heading for the door to the bookshop and opening it. With a tiny motion of his head he indicated after you. “Do come in.” There was flat fall at the end of the cadence, almost like an order.

“What ought we be discussing then?” Crowley asked, heading inside, hearing the order and unable to resist biting back. “We can’t contact anyone til the morning, angel, I don’t think there’s anything else we can do about it tonight.”

“No, I completely agree on that front.” They both automatically headed to the back room, treading a well-worn path with both their feet and their words. Crowley took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, before finding a perch on the edge of the couch. There was something expectant in his posture, as though he wasn’t planning on getting comfortable there.

“I think what we ought to be discussing,” Aziraphale said as he hung up his jacket, smoothing creases out of it, “is your little… outburst at the convent today.” He turned and fixed Crowley with a pointed stare.

“Oh,” Crowley said, and despite his lanky frame, he suddenly looked a little smaller under the heat of Aziraphale’s stare. He was in trouble… which meant things were going exactly to plan. He felt a smug throb of self satisfaction.

It was not that angels and demons didn’t have genitalia, as such. It was more than, unless they were thinking of it, the bodies beneath the clothes simply didn’t exist. In the same way that their wings waited, just off this plane, so too did anything not immediately needed to give the appearance of a human. The clothes were the body, for Crowley, willed into existence so that other beings could perceive him.

So until a stimuli brought what was under the clothes into this reality, it usually didn’t exist.

Usually.

That day, Crowley had been painfully, achingly aware of the juncture between his thighs, and the way Aziraphale now looked at him with a dangerous, thrilling intent only intensified that feeling. Perhaps the looming end of the world was playing its part in the heat that Crowley felt dripping from his heart, to stomach, to crotch.

“You seemed so upset for me to have called you nice, my dear boy, and the way you behaved was simply atrocious.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asked, tilting his head back to reveal the line of his throat, almost daring his angel to go for it.

Aziraphale still hadn’t sat down, and he took a single step closer to the couch, chin drawn slightly down, gaze dark and indulging. He understood perfectly what Crowley was playing at.

“Stand up,” he said, breath popping slightly on the end of the word. This had not so much the air of a command as the earth, fire and water of one.

A taut moment passed, where Crowley deliberated. He could continue being generally insufferable, or he could lean into the energy building in the room, and obey the command given by his oldest friend.

Crowley decided he’d been bratty enough for one day. He swallowed. Unfolding a seemingly endless amount of leg from his perch on the couch, he stood.

“Forward a few steps, there’s a dear,” and Aziraphale’s voice never lost that buttery sweet quality, even though Crowley could hear the knife’s edge of desire underneath.

Aziraphale, unlike Crowley, had brought his body, and the ability to feel sexual desire, fully into this reality centuries ago. It had happened in Rome, when he had sat across from Crowley and watched him eat oysters for the first time. Since then, he had inhabited his earthly body to the fullest, draping it with cloth the same way as humans did, hiding his sexuality as Adam and Eve had once learnt to do.

Crowley’s heeled boots gave a series of dull clicks on the wooden floor of the shop, and he stood for Aziraphale’s inspection. He had the air of a naughty schoolboy awaiting a telling off, one hand in a pocket, the other hanging loosely, weight on one foot and hip slightly popped. He licked his lips with a tongue that was looking slightly more split than usual.

Aziraphale took deliberate steps forward, and asking permission with his eyes, reached for Crowley’s glasses. He folded them with care and placed them aside. He might as well have stripped Crowley naked. Well, plenty of time for that later.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another. They played a different game in private.

Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do.

Aziraphale nodded, a wordless acknowledgement of the shift in the air. He began a scrutinizing walk around Crowley, a mockery of the what the demon usually subjected him to in public

“Yes. Very… nice.” Now Aziraphale was the one dangling bait. Crowley made a noise like he’d be punched but didn’t move an inch.

“What, no protestations? No manhandling me against a wall in a most undignified fashion?” Aziraphale teased. Crowley shook his head. “It’s almost like you were trying to get a rise out of me in the convent today.” Aziraphale watched, delighted, fascinated, as Crowley ducked his head, mouth twitching one way and then the other, as though the sly smile was trying to fight its way to the surface.

“You truly are an awful man, aren’t you, accosting me in public when you know I’m far too nice to do anything in retribution.” He wasn’t too nice by half, but he did have an image to upkeep.

Crowley glared down his nose at Aziraphale. “Pfft, don’t you try that with me, angel.” Aziraphale simply stared back with mild reproach, then continued to pace around him slowly.

“What have we here?” Aziraphale said, as he reached the empty space behind Crowley. Though he had his back to him, Crowley could still see Aziraphale, every atom of the angel clear and singing in Crowley’s perception of the world, as it always was.

Aziraphale pressed in, front suddenly flush to Crowley’s back, threading his arms around Crowley’s waist in a possessive gesture. The sudden physical contact was agonisingly intimate. Outside of moments like this, they rarely touched. Crowley’s little stunt at the convent had flouted an unspoken part of the Agreement.

They lived with the fear of being watched from all sides. But the shop was specially warded against such prying eyes. Customers and angels alike could enter the open shop, but once that sign flicked to “Closed”, they were safe. Safe to close that gap, for Aziraphale to hug Crowley to his chest, to turn his cheek and press his face into one lean shoulder.

One hand slid up to curl into the satin of Crowley’s shirt over where his human heart sat, brought into this reality by his aching need to feel the pulse of his own blood.

Aziraphale’s blunt nails scraped Crowley’s chest through the deliciously thin black satin shirt. The other hand moved in a firm slide from Crowley’s navel and down, stuttering slightly over the belt buckle on the too-tight jeans and stopping over Crowley’s fly. Where one might expect to find a bulge.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s single syllable was all feigned surprise and dark delight. “My dear boy,” he began, emphasizing by sliding the hand a little lower, to dip into the vee of Crowley’s thighs. “Does this mean you’re in the mood to be had?”

Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a gulp and grunt, that if it had to be given form sounded like “Urnghk.” To Aziraphale’s ears, well-practised in translating such noises, it sounded like a cavalcade of words, like yes and please and fuck me, Angel.

“Take off your boots, please.” Aziraphale said as he let go.

Crowley obeyed. This was part of it, the orders, the undressing, the vulnerability of standing in front of his angel, eyes bare and feet resting on the warm wooden floor. “And your shirt and trousers, too.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks redden at this request, but his gaze remained steady.

Crowley raised one hand to click away the offending items of clothing, a hurried, twitchy energy burning off him, but before he could complete the action Aziraphale caught the hand, firmly.

“The old fashioned way, if you please.”

“Oh come on,” Later, Crowley would deny that this was, undeniably, whiny.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Aziraphale was warming up to it now, something wicked in his eyes. “You know I like to watch this part.”

Crowley, denied instant gratification, undressed speedily, clothes flung in all directions.

Aziraphale folded his hands, perfectly composed as he watched Crowley’s little display, expression indulgent as a sock hit him square in the face. With a gesture from Aziraphale, all the scattered clothes, the black shirt, the inside-out jeans, socks and tie appeared draped over the back of the couch. Something in their folds seemed apologetic for the mess.

“So you’re allowed to do that and I’m not, is that it?” Crowley challenged, bold despite the fact he was wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. His belligerent tone was betrayed by his naked eyes. His longing was clear in the warm lighting of the bookshop.

Seemingly without taking a single step, suddenly Aziraphale was standing very close to Crowley, almost nose to nose. The small height difference between them was eaten up by the fact that the demon was barefoot, semi naked, and Aziraphale was still dressed, standing tall in his soft leather boots. “That, my dear, is exactly it.” They stared at each other, breath mingling for half a second.

Aziraphale took half a step back and his face softened, something so tender writ clear in the lines between his eyes. “Before we go any further, do you remember the safe word?” he asked.

“It has been awhile, hasn’t it.” Crowley murmured. It had been almost five years. Crowley remembered every second of their last tryst, back when he was still fond of playing the role of Nanny Ashtoreth, even in her off hours. He had worn her, but she wasn’t a costume. The only thing Aziraphale had said on Crowley’s presentation was an uncharacteristic enjoyment of the easy access allowed by skirts with no panties.

Time had a way of slipping by when you were 6000 years old.

“Crowley.” There was a soft reprimand in the way he said it. A pleading, a need for them both to be safe

Crowley sighed, acquiescing. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than for Aziraphale to feel safe. “Eden.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, simply reaching out to run his hand gently through Crowley’s hair, letting his hand come to rest on the back of his neck. The skin there felt cool to touch, and unbearably soft. The provocative energy the demon had been radiating moments ago shifted to something slow and fervent. He blinked, eyes closed for a whole second as if rocked by the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Now, my dear, what is it that you want?”

The question was asked so that Aziraphale could be certain he did not misstep, but he already knew what Crowley wanted. He just liked to hear him say it.

“Want you topunifhshd.” Crowley trailed off to something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked cheerfully.

“Want you to punish me.” Crowley’s eyes were anywhere but on the angel’s face.

“Why?” Aziraphale lifted a hand, and with a firmness belied by his soft fingers, caught Crowley’s chin. With gentle but inexorable pressure, he turned Crowley’s head until their eyes met.

“Because I’m bad,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Now… we both know that’s not true.” Aziraphale released his grip to slide his hands firmly down Crowley’s arms, and without thinking about it too much, took both of Crowley’s hands in his. “But I will give you want you want, because I am the giving sort.” And because I love you, he thought. It was yet unsaid between them. One didn’t simply go around saying these things to their hereditary enemy. Besides, Aziraphale thought, as he drew Crowley over to the leather ottoman at the foot of the couch… surely he already knew.

“Kneel, please.”

Crowley knelt, quiet and obedient for the moment. Aziraphale knew it wouldn’t last.

Aziraphale settled on the couch as Crowley draped himself over the lavish footstool, acquired sometime around 1855 for this exact purpose. A plush rug, previously elsewhere in the shop, had understood where it was needed without being asked and appeared beneath their feet, giving Crowley’s knees some protection against the wooden floor.

As Crowley settled, he turned his head to face the other way, but Aziraphale had other ideas. With a tug at the hair on the nape of Crowley’s neck, he guided the demon to turn and face Aziraphale. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled the legs of Crowley’s briefs up a little, bunching fabric into the demon’s crotch and revealing the sweet spots of curved buttocks.

Crowley shifted, wiggling a little at the sudden pressure of fabric against his cunt. “You really are a bastard, you know,” he said, half-mumbled into the leather of the ottoman.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked innocently. “Didn’t hear you, my dear.”

“I said, you’re a basta-AHrd!” He yelped into the latter half of the word as Aziraphale planted a firm smack on Crowley’s behind.

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale admitted, a little breathlessly. “I suppose I am.”

One hand resting firmly in the dip of Crowley’s lower back, Aziraphale set about spanking him with the other, relaxed and rhythmic. Crowley turned his head to press his damp forehead directly into the firm leather, breathing deeply. He relished each impact, stinging at first then settling into something deeper. A beautiful, slow-growing ache.

Aziraphale savoured it. Each muttered pant, each slight whine, he responded. They barely needed words after all this time, but they still used them, because what was the point of having these amusing human forms if not to wring every possible pleasure out of them?

“You look so perfect, my dear,” he murmured, massaging warm buttocks in his hands. Crowley whined and pressed his head against the leather, each sound saying need and want as clearly as if he were shouting it.

“Not nice,” was all he managed to choke out, arching his back up, begging for the blows to continue. He felt sweaty, and annoyed, and deeply in love.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, and resumed.

Angels and demons don’t get tired. They don’t get interrupted by hunger or full bladders or cramped knees, so when they are properly engaged, they can sink into that activity. Time becomes secondary.

Their bodies might not get tired, or interrupted with mere mortal concerns, but they can bruise, especially when their human bodies feel so present and raw. They can feel red welts begin to raise on sensitive skin, or they can see and marvel at the slow rise of blood, deep mottled purple under fair skin.

Aziraphale was murmuring steady praise now, my beautiful demon, my dear, you horrible, wonderful creature. He felt warm from exertion, so lost in the flow that he barely noticed his own arousal, his erection pressed into his trousers. He paused to run gentle hands up Crowley’s spine (which was still blessedly cool to the touch), and was overcome with his own desire.

“My dear,” He spoke more clearly, breaking the spell.

Crowley acknowledged with a wordless mewl, sounding dazed and a little pissed off.

“Would you mind if we took these off?” Aziraphale tapped a finger on the waistband of the black briefs. Crowley gave another muffled grunt and turned to stare up at Aziraphale. His eyes were glassy, the dusky yellow leaking outwards, pupils huge and dark.

Sudden worry seized Aziraphale. Perhaps he’d gone too far. “What is the safe word?”

No reply but for a long, slow groan, and more alarmingly, Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut as though to hide from Aziraphale’s concerned gaze.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke sternly.

As if dragged up from a great depth, he opened his eyes and finally replied. “Eden. C’mon angel, I can handle it.”

“Be that as it may, I asked you a question.”

Crowley lifted his head slightly and stared, surprised. He looked flushed, not dissimilar to how he would look after an evening of wine and whiskey. “Eh?”

“Your pants.” Aziraphale repeated, shifting. His worry assuaged, the distraction of taking care of Crowley briefly paused, he shifted part of his awareness back to how hard he was. “May I take them off?”

Crowley gave a lopsided grin, showing all his teeth. If they looked a little more pointed than they might in public, it was not a worry. If his eyes were blown fully wide, now golden right into the corners, it meant only that he felt safe. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Is that a yes?” Aziraphale knew the answer, knew the dance well enough by now, but he still had moments like this, where he felt uncertain that it was right to take what Crowley so wantonly gave.

“Yes angel, please, you can do whatever you want with me right now.”

Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his throat. It was right, and it was hot, and it was sacred. His friend and lover knelt at his feet and offered himself up, this time the same as ever and somehow different.

Aziraphale found his way to the floor, kneeling to one side, running hands delicately down Crowley’s flanks, curling his fingers beneath the waistband and tugging them down over narrow hips. Aziraphale’s hands felt sensitive and tender; even the soft fabric sang against his skin. He deliberately dragged the bunched briefs across the raw flesh of Crowley’s behind, his mouth twitching with the edge of a wicked smile as Crowley gave a soft yelp.

It was awkward to pull the underwear down thighs, helping his demon lift one knee then the other to remove them completely. Ungraceful, but Crowley’s body was so painfully real now, brought so fully into this world by desire and impact. In this moment, to miracle clothes away would have felt sinful.

Crowley settled his naked form heavily back onto the ottoman, sighing. In the soft light of the bookshop, Aziraphale admired the lines and angles of the demon, the hollow dip of his spine leading tantalisingly down to tenderised buttocks, to the wet slit between. The sun would yet rise on one of the last days on this blessed earth, and they would have to deal with what that meant in the light of that penultimate sunrise, but for now, there was this. There was them.

Aziraphale started on his own buttons; Crowley in this state would wait for a time, the impatience literally spanked out of him. So Aziraphale savoured the undressing like he savoured everything, wanting this moment to last forever. It felt like it would, and that time would continue the way it always had. If not for the unpleasant knowledge, looming in the distance, that the clock was ticking for all of them.

Aziraphale swallowed, brushing away the tickle in the back of his mind that this may well be the last time. They would find a way through this. They would.

He let his movements be slow and considered, pausing between each item of clothing to run warm hands over Crowley reverently, across shoulders, down his neck, fanning out over angled shoulder blades to the places where Aziraphale could feel the wings sprouting into the plane just next to them, unreal but ever-present.

Once he was naked, he carefully moved Crowley’s ankles apart, kneeling between them but keeping a polite distance. Massaging the tender, bruise-flecked skin of Crowley’s backside with one hand, he touched himself properly for the first time that evening, relishing the feeling of the hot skin of his cock on a tenderised palm. “My dear, you are beautiful.” Aziraphale sighed, taking a hold of himself and stroking.

Crowley’s response was to exhale through his teeth argumentatively. The rippling arc of his back muscles and slight press back of his hips, cunt needily pressing toward Aziraphale, spoke his true feelings.

Aziraphale smiled with that same fondness. He let his massaging hand stray, thumb slipping between wet lips. “Was this what you wanted, dearest?”

Crowley’s response could only be described as a hiss

Flipping his hand to let four fingers dip between Crowley’s legs, cupping his whole sex, Aziraphale let the full length of his thumb slip inside.

Crowley keened, jamming his hips back hard. If there was a flash of dark wings, spread wide to fill the room, or a ripple of scales down his back, no human eyes could have perceived it.

Aziraphale felt winded for a moment, to feel the wet heat on his hand, to feel the way Crowley consumed the single digit and pressed back for more, looking so perfect, divinely his. Normally never an issue, he felt lost for words and uttered a simple, breathless, “Oh.”

But as much as he enjoyed giving Crowley what he wanted, somehow a little denial first made it all the sweeter. Aziraphale squeezed his hand gently, momentarily, pressing down into the sweet spot and rubbing teasing fingers across Crowley’s clit, before drawing the hand back.

“Oh no you bloody don’t-” Crowley lifted one hand from its resting place on the floor and planted it on the ottoman, lifting and twisting his body as if to reach back, movements desperate and unrefined.

Before he could achieve anything with this quick movement, Aziraphale responded. He surged forward and flattened Crowley back down against the leather, strong enough to knock the wind out of the demon. The same amount of measured force Crowley had used to slam Aziraphale into the wall that very afternoon.

There was a puff and a wheezing sound as the air in the cushioned footstool was pressed out. There was also a slight puff and wheezing sound from Crowley, but he was undoubtedly playing it up for dramatic effect.

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley could take. Knew exactly what Crowley would like. And he liked this very much, to be flattened down by Aziraphale’s solid weight, squashed from thighs to neck against the sticky leather. This was the closest they’d been physically in years, and Aziraphale felt all the tension and attitude melt away from the body beneath him.

“Now then,” Aziraphale panted into an ear. “I can’t have you writhing around like that, Crowley. Wouldn’t be proper.”

There was a breath, and two anchor points came into existence. Without taking his weight off Crowley, Aziraphale slid sure hands down Crowley’s arms and guided each wrist to the loops, cream silk ties appearing then binding wrists to the side of the footstool. Crowley was safely secured in this position, kneeling with his arms wrapped and bound to each side of the ottoman. Aziraphale straightened up.

“You absolute cocktease. Give me that right now or I’ll call the whole thing off.” The epithet, despite not being applicable right this very second, still made sense. Crowley did have a cock sometimes, after all. Aziraphale made him beg for it even then.

“Safe word?”

“EDEN!” he yelled, hammering hands on the side of the footstool with as much momentum as the slack would allow him

“Are you using it?”

“No! You- arrghbfr.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Aziraphale leant forward and laid the line of his chest against Crowley’s back again, cock pressed between his stomach and the crack of Crowley’s buttocks, “is that you like me teasing you.”

“For sata- for FUCK sake I- you,” Crowley started about three different sentences before giving up, though he still wiggled between the angel’s weight and the ottoman.

“Say it,” Aziraphale said. He felt dizzy with it, the joy of feeling Crowley’s skin pressed so close to him, their bodies salt-sticky and warm.

“You’re a TEASE.”

“No, say that you like it!” Aziraphale was lost in it now, “Say you like me teasing you.” He wound a hand into Crowley’s hair, pressing him with just enough firmness down into the cushioned leather.

Crowley resisted upwards into the grip. If he wanted to be free, he could be back in his own apartment in the blink of an eye. Or maybe… he couldn’t. They had never tested their powers against each other in this realm. They had never needed nor wanted to. There was a thought, momentary but bright, that maybe Crowley actually couldn’t escape. And that if he tried, he would find himself blocked not just by the heavy body across his back but by the full might of Aziraphale’s heavenly power. Such a concept sent a wave of arousal coursing through him. He was hot, achingly wet, and he couldn’t even rub his thighs together, so firm was he being held, neck down to his knees against the ottoman.

One moment passed in which Crowley pushed his body back up against Aziraphale, but with no way to gain purchase or momentum, he collapsed down in submission.

“Angel… I love you teasing me.”

“Good boy,” he murmured in Crowley’s ear, before moving his hips back just enough for the head of his cock, wet with precum, to skim deliciously first against Crowley’s asshole then finding its way to the entrance of his slick cunt, sliding in to the hilt in one fluid motion.

Aziraphale sighed, and without moving, pressed a kiss to the back of Crowley’s neck.

Crowley froze at the tender gesture. His breath, which had felt so present up until that moment, disappeared completely. The love he felt, unspoken and bright, seemed to replace the air in his lungs. If he didn’t say something right now the next words out of his mouth were going to be I love you. And that simply wouldn’t do.

“Angel, if you don’t start fucking, I’m going to discorporate,” he said instead. “I’m serious.”

The only response was a low chuckle. Without taking his weight from Crowley’s back, Aziraphale ground his hips down, eliciting a wet choke from Crowley. “Like that?”

“Sure, if that’s the best you’ve g-“ Crowley stopped at the sensation of another sensual grind, Aziraphale making sure that as much of his fleshy hips were pressed into where Crowley’s skin was most tender. The witty riposte died in his mouth, and he moaned instead, breath returned but that same dazzling feeling in his chest. If not now, when?

The issue of the end of the world and when would be the right time dissipated as Aziraphale straightened back up, to curl assured hands into Crowley’s hips, and start moving.

The pace he set was steady, eyes shut and lips parted. It was Crowley who forced the pace, rutting back. The enthusiasm with which he rocked back, wordlessly begging for more, harder, would have been strong enough to drag the footstool along the floor. But Aziraphale wanted it to remain immovable… so it stayed put like a good footstool would.

Crowley was desperate, little grunts of exertion escaping his lips as he pulled back on his bonds, trying to drive Aziraphale deeper. It was rough and urgent but he felt undeniably gleeful. If Aziraphale just gave him what he wanted, if he didn’t have to wrestle for it, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.

Aziraphale was in control. Until he wasn’t.

Without being conscious of the moment he lost the tease, he started to meet Crowley’s needs. He plunged forward as Crowley pushed back, meeting in the middle with a growing urgency. To give Crowley what he wanted was the agreement, after all. When Crowley’s frantic motions slowed just enough to declare his satisfaction with the pace, Aziraphale leant forward to grip Crowley’s shoulder. His hand wrapped all the way round, fingertips brushing a clavicle, pulling Crowley back into each thrust, to give him more.

This was what it was, for an unknowable amount of time. When the moment was right, as was his decision to make, Aziraphale slowed, then paused, untying and guiding a sweaty, mussed demon to the couch. Aziraphale knelt between Crowley’s legs. They looked at each other for what felt like the first time in a long time. Sweat and exertion had ruined Crowley’s careful quiff. Aziraphale brushed a strand off his forehead.

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was rough and low. “you look divine.”

Crowley gave a manic half-laugh, half-sob. Without Aziraphale’s cock to distract him, the fear that this was ending, that everything was ending, was about to overwhelm him. He took a shuddering breath to steady himself and came back to the moment. “More?”

Aziraphale huffed out a disbelieving laugh, and without speaking leaned forward and kissed him.

This was divine, thought Crowley, as he turned his face up into the kiss, not allowing Aziraphale to take his mouth away once it was given. Aziraphale navigated by feel and experience to slip his cock into Crowley again.

The energy had shifted. Crowley had taken his punishment, and now it was simply time for mutual reward. Aziraphale could have continued to tease and deny, but he didn’t even break the kiss as Crowley snaked a hand between their bodies to touch himself.

Aziraphale fucked Crowley steadily, body an anchor for Crowley to writhe and squirm against. The angel kept his body forward, letting his weight rest, firm but gentle, on Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale buried his head in Crowley’s neck, and automatically long legs and arms came up to wrap around and pull Azirphale close, both panting with each stroke.

This is what Crowley had wanted all day, had been begging for it. The need had been spoken by twitchy energy and a violent shove and Aziraphale had heard it, had read Crowley like he always did and given it to him. Gave him everything he wanted, except for the words I love you.

For some reason, the sex and the games they played felt safe in a way the words didn’t. Both still held a fear in their otherworldly hearts. The fear that perhaps those words, like a prayer, would be heard above and below, and that the power in them would shatter the wards they had built to keep this space safe. Fucking and love weren’t the same thing after all; it has been clear for hundreds of years now, that this particular activity was no more visible or condemnable than all the eating, drinking, and doing each other’s damned or blessed chores had been.

Aziraphale paused and took a deep breath. They could truly stay in this rhythm forever, but all things had to have an end, didn’t they? Wasn’t that divine will?

Cupping one hand behind Crowley’s neck and winding the other around his waist, Aziraphale lifted and drew Crowley’s body forward on the couch, moving him so his hips practically hung off the edge. All this Aziraphale without separating their connection. This position curled Crowley’s head into the back of the couch, but he was a bendy creature, and quite pliable in his current state.

“Crowley, my dear?”

“Mmrf?”

“Would you like to come for me?” Technically, it should have been impossible for a demon to look so wrecked, but Crowley was unique in that. His only response to the question was to bring his hand back to his clit and let his eyes flutter shut. He ran fingers up and down his wet slit, dipping down to explore around the shaft of Aziraphale’s cock where it entered him, thick and full, stilled for the moment.

This time, Crowley’s wordless response was enough of an answer for Aziraphale. With Crowley more forward on the couch, Aziraphale was able to bring Crowley’s legs up. Delightfully flexible was his demon. From this position he could stroke into Crowley with the full length of his member, deeply, thoroughly. Aziraphale lost himself in giving, enraptured as he watched Crowley circle his fingers over his clit, eyes half closed, incoherent with it all. Together they brought him to an orgasm.

The sound he made was choked back, as it always was, some part of him still scared that somehow, someone would overhear them. Some part of him needed to hold that shining love safe, and protect it. At least in that moment, he was blissfully free of the fear that the world that they so dearly loved, the world that gave them these moments of hedonism and pleasure, was about to end.

Aziraphale ground his hips in Crowley, as deep as he could go. Aziraphale was breathless, delighted as ever to be the one to reduce Crowley, debonair, quiffed and elegant Crowley, to such a state. Aziraphale shuddered as Crowley came around his cock, but the angel was not yet spent. Crowley was floppy, fuck-drunk, pliable and warm on the other side of his orgasm. Aziraphale slid his hands up long thighs to hold the backs of Crowley’s knees, knowing exactly how much weight he could lean there as he finally allowed himself to get lost in the sensations of Crowley’s warmth around him. In his own blissful moment after he came, Aziraphale couldn’t escape the thought that truly, this felt sacred. Perhaps the thought was profane, but he had learned long ago that even the Almighty could not see inside his mind. Or if she did, she did not disapprove.

As they untangled themselves, unfolding Crowley’s long body, the sweat and ejaculate simply disappeared, without thought or action from either of them. The pleasure they shared was indescribable, and it was the marvel of the sweaty, sticky human bodies that made it all possible. But why worry about a clean-up if you didn’t have to? A cosy blanket knew it was needed nearby, and the two of them settled on the couch and pulled the tartan fabric over them, Aziraphale tucking his back against the seatback, and drawing Crowley close to his chest.

Crowley had regained just enough of his faculties to start to feel something akin to nausea as he settled his back to Aziraphale’s chest, firm arms drawing him close. If not now, then when? If he didn’t speak the words that gave shape to the luminescent glow inside him now, would he get another chance?

He knew what Aziraphale would say if he asked something like that. Hold fast, my dear, we’ll sort it out, there won’t be a war, you worry too much, I have faith in the Almighty, pip pip

Crowley felt ill with fear even as he felt all the tension melt out of his body, warm in Aziraphale’s arms. Their bodies somehow fit so perfectly together. Almost as though they had made these forms for each other. He was afraid that perhaps, despite everything, he hadn’t gone fast enough, and that they were both about to run out of time. Overwhelmed from the spanking, the sex, and the safety of the space the two of them created inside of the shop, he closed his eyes, feeling tears squeeze out.

Navigating by touch, Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s wrist to his mouth. He wished that he could draw a little of that faith into himself through the pulse there, so he kissed the inside of the wrist. Feeling the gentle throb of Aziraphale’s blood on his lips, he sent out a prayer he feared fell on uncaring, callous ears.

Please Lord… just give us a little more time.

 Notes:

*arrives two years late with starbucks* "Why are so many people determined to see Crowley as the top in this dynamic?" I ask my partner. They reply "It's because some people confuse brat energy with top energy. I can see where the mix up comes from."

Hope you enjoyed this piece, the first I've written in about five years. I may write a follow up where they actually DO get their love confessions out, but I couldn't resist the angst of it all.

[bisexualsforprompto]

Cat Fight

Based on this art by @gajer-1226

TW: major character death and suicide, please read at your own risk

“...Marinette?”

Cried a panicked and pained voice from far away. So far away it seemed, as Marinette felt herself slip in and out of consciousness. Letting out a hum, all she could muster to say in greeting to the strange shadow who whispered her name, Marinette let her eyes close slightly. Her pillows were soft beneath her head and her sheets were a comforting warmth. She felt weak laying down, but couldn’t even remember when she had done it.

She suddenly felt warm hands on her. One on her cheek and the other intertwined in her limp hand. Willing her eyes to open, Marinette let out a small whimper that sent pain straight to her side.

“Don’t move,” said the figure, who Marinette belatedly realized was her boyfriend, Damian. He inhaled sharply.

“What happened?” He muttered, squeezing Marinette’s hand.

Her eyes looked dull and almost a pale grey rather than the joyous bluebell he’d known so well. The last bit of life he felt in her hand started to seep out slowly as her eyes began to close.

“No!” Damian yelled, taking his hand out of hers and placing both on her cheeks, “Don’t close your eyes, beloved.”

“Hmmm...hurts...Dami.”

“I know,” he said, pulling out his phone he forced himself to stay calm. He began to dial, “Just stay strong for a while. Help is on the way.”

Marinette’s hand was quickly on the arm hold up his phone. She whispered something unintelligible and nodded her head slightly. Prying his hand off his phone, Marinette instead moved Damian’s palm to her heart.

“Chat Blanc.” Was all she said.

“The akuma?” Damian asked, slowly rising in anger. Did he do this to her? ‘I’m going to skin him alive,’ he thought.

With a small smile, Marinette pointed weakly to her shelf. On it was a normal looking silver ring.

“Please,” was all she said.

Then her body went limp before him and her eyes glazed over.

“No.” Damian said, he began to shake her, “No, no, no.”

He squeezed her hand, hard. Almost enough to bruise.

“Wake up. Wake up right now Dupain-Chang, or I’ll...I’ll...”

He looked away and to the ring she had pointed to.

What was so special about it? Did she want him to have it, or did she want it herself?

Damian felt possessed as he walked over to the shelf and slowly picked the ring up. In a flare of magic a small creature appeared before him.

“Ugh finally! I was beginning to think I’d never get fed again!” The black cat bug thing? said before taking a double take at the boy in front of him, “You’re not pigtails...”

“Who are you?” Damian demanded, crossing his arms, “If you can fix this, you’d better do it right now.”

“What?” The creature asked, “fix wha...”

The green eyes of the cat fell on the pale body laying in Marinette’s bed.

“Pigtails...” He whispered. He then hardened and trained his eyes on the boy, “What happened to her?”

“Answer my questions first.”

“Huh?” The creature asked before nodding, “Right...My name is Plagg, I’m a kwami, basically, I’m the god of destruction. And as for fixing her...”

Plagg shifted his gaze from Damian’s, “I’m sorry kid...”

Damian narrowed his eyes, “Why exactly are you here then?!”

Plagg sighed, “Pigtails...your girl...she was involved in some things...”

Damian raised his brow. Coldly, he spat, “Talk.”

~~~~~~~~~

Running on the rooftops was nothing new for Damian, but running on the roofs of Paris was something completely new for him.

Somehow the atmosphere was different from Gotham’s. Cleaner air, more beauty and lights, but somehow there was more despair in his heart...

Damian had to be strong. He’d seen death before, this one shouldnt phase him. He remembered his training from the League, block out all distractions.

Marinette was a distraction. Logically, he knew that, but it didn’t stop the stabbing in his heart, as if thinking that was wrong. Guilt.

Why was he feeling guilt?

He wished he could tear out every emotion from his body...why did it have to be like this? He felt like guilt, regret and sadness were tearing his body apart.

But at the forefront of them all...

Revenge.

~~~~~~~~

“Little kitty on a roof, all alone without his lady~”

Chat swung his legs as he sat on a roof overlooking Paris. His eyes were trained on his love’s room.

It all happened so fast.

He didn’t want to hurt her.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

She was supposed to be indestructible as Ladybug...why did she detransform?

Why would his lady detransform?

Was it an act of revenge?

She hated him so much she’d rather die than be with him?

Chat hummed to himself and thought, no that wasn’t it.

Did she do it because she wanted the destruction of everything? Just like him?

Was her act of destroying herself a way of telling him she was on his side? After all, he was the destruction to her creation...

Yes, that had to be it...

She wanted everything destroyed just like him because she believed in him. She believed in Chat Blanc.

If only he had the cat miraculous as well as the ladybug earrings that he’d taken off his love.

Then he could bring her back...

After all, what would his destruction matter if he didn’t have someone to share it with?

She must’ve trusted him to bring her back.

He was touched, really he was. And thinking of bringing her back to be his queen in a completely destructed world made him smile.

And laugh.

“How can you be laughing?” Hissed a voice from behind him.

Chat whipped his head around. His eyes unfeeling as he gazed upon a man in a cat costume.

He felt anger boil inside him as he realized this fake cat had stolen what was rightfully his.

“Give me that ring.”

The cat shoved his hand that had the ring into his side.

“No.”

Chat grit his teeth, “Give it to me now. She wanted me to have it. Me not you!” He snarled as he lunged for it.

“How dare you...” the cat whispered, as he drew his blade, “You don’t know what she wanted, you killed her...

“You bastard cat...” continued the poser as he brought his blade into a fighting position.

Chat brought up his finger without emotion. He would take back that ring and get his lady back no matter what.

He felt the destructive energy well up inside of him until he let it all go, unleashing a deadly beam of energy to his opponent.

The cat dodged, flipping agilely and effortlessly as he sidestepped the destruction.

Chat huffed, “Just who are you?!”

“I’m Kharaab, but you know me as Damian, don’t you...Adrien?”

“I am Chat Blanc.” He said as he aimed again.

Of course it was Damian...that nuisance had always been in the way of him and his lady. He dated her, made it impossible for Adrien to even get near her...

“I’m surprised you don’t want her alive Damian,” Chat said, “Although, you never did love her like I did...”

Damian lunged for him, his claws almost scratching Chat’s face.

Chat grabbed Damian’s hand and quickly pulled him inwards. He hissed into his ear, “You didn’t deserve her...”

Damian grit his teeth. He kneed Chat in the groin, “And you did?”

Sweeping his legs out from under him, Damian continued speaking, “You think you were entitled to her, but you never cared about her feelings. You’re the reason she’s de-“

“And I’m the reason she’ll be alive after this!” Chat screamed as he quickly aimed his fingers toward’s Damian’s face.

Damian grabbed Chat’s fingers, applying more pressure than necessary and practically breaking them.

Chat held in his pain.

“SHE’S NOT COMING BACK!” Damian hollered, “How deranged are you that you can’t see that.”

He kicked Chat in the face, still holding onto his fingers.

“I could’ve saved her,” Damian muttered to himself, “Put her into a Lazarus pit...but because of you, I had to leave her. Who knows if she’ll even be there once I’m finished with you!”

He punched Chat in the face with his other hand, taking a small amount of pleasure from the blood he saw trickle down.

“You can’t save her,” Chat grinned wildly, his bloody face making his smile all the more gruesome, “No matter how hard you try, I’m her prince, her white knight, not you. Once I take my ring back my lady and I will be reunited.”

“What nonsense are you spouting now?!” Damian growled, pushing Chat down into the concrete.

He placed his steel shoe onto Chat’s face and listened for the ever-satisfying crack.

But instead he heard Chat chuckle in a pained voice.

“So Plagg didn’t tell you...figures.” He winced as he tried pushing Damian’s shoe away, “With both the Ladybug and cat miraculous...the earrings I have and that little ring on your finger...I can bring her back.”

Chat smiled softly as he watched Damian’s bewildered expression, “With both miraculouses the user is granted one wish, why do you think Hawkmoth wanted them?”

Damian teetered between shock and anger, “Y-you’re lying.”

“Am I?” Chat whispered, “Fine then. Kill me and spend the rest of your life without her...At least I’ll be reunited with her at last.”

Damian pressed toe a bit harder onto Chat’s skull, hearing the white clad boy groan. With a sigh, Damian moved his foot off. He flipped Chat over to grab his arms.

“Where’s your akuma?”

Chat was silent. All he did was simply laugh. A laugh that turned into a loud and long cackle.

“I see you’ve bested me. Ohhhhh well!” He said in a mock sing song. Snickering, he finally looked back at Damian.

“Do me a favor would you?”

Damian cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes.

“Take the earrings in my back pocket.” Chat instructed, “Then Break my bell, the akuma is in there.

“Once you cleanse the akuma...” Chat have him a deadly grin, “Bring her back, will you?”

Wordlessly, Damian took the earrings out, if nothing else but to keep them away from Chat.

He grabbed the bell next. Just as he broke it, Chat broke out of his grasp.

“Well our time together is almost at its end. Put on those earrings, say the magic words and cleanse the akuma.” Chat’s expression went into a Cheshire grin, “And don’t forget what I told you...bring her back.”

Damian placed the earrings on himself, feeling a new transformation bond with Plagg.

He’d never felt so much power...

Chat slowly backed away, towards the edge of the roof as Damian fidgeted with his new yo-yo.

Grabbing the akuma in his new yo-yo, Damian watched as it began to re-emerge as a white butterfly.

“I can feel that this is coming to an end...” Chat said as he started swirling in black bubbles, “Well...” he whispered as he backed onto the ledge of the roof.

“Adieu.” He winked as he let himself fall off.

After hearing the crack on concrete and shrill screams from below, Damian knew...

He lowered his eyes and hung his head.

He couldn’t say he was unhappy with the cat’s death, but he couldn’t get the words out of his head. ‘Bring her back.’

He knew...he knew Chat hadn’t meant the Lazarus.

And somehow, he remembered something Chat has said earlier...about a wish.

It was possible he was lying, but...

With a shaky breath Damian called upon his power.

“I wish—“

[livia-dovehallow]

Hello ! I just finish COI and I love your gabrily fics,

CHAIN OF IRON SPOILER

so can you do one about the part of Gabriel near death experience, maybe in the infirmary or Cecily realising Gabriel in distress with Anna, Christopher and Alexander in it ?

THANK YOU!! :’) You actually have the perfect request as I was already working on a piece on that exact topic. I plan to make an extended version of this soon, but for now, please enjoy!

WARNING: COI SPOILERS AHEAD

Stay With Me - Gabrily (Chain of Iron Fix-It Series by livia-dovehallow)

Characters: Gabriel Lightwood, Cecily Herondale-Lightwood, Anna Lightwood, Christopher Lightwood, Alexander Lightwood, Will Herondale, Thomas Lightwood, Alastair Carstairs

Time slowed down.

As if the world had stopped along with the beat of her heart, Cecily could only watch as the creature’s barbed tentacle grabbed hold of her Gabriel and brought him down.

“Father!” she heard her precious Kit scream before he ran toward Gabriel, Thomas and Alastair Carstairs close behind.

No, Cecily thought, Raziel, no, please no. She held the witchlight stone in her hand with a grip that should have shattered an ordinary rock. She knew she shouldn’t scream; Alexander was in the room, sitting quietly on the bed behind her, and she need not frighten him more than he already was.

“Be brave, my darling,” she had told him when they first fled up the stairs. She had tucked him in below the sheets, kissed his head, and gazed into his wide, scared eyes. “We are brave, yes?”

Alex had nodded and believed her. Cecily did not believe her own words now.

A scream—a terrified, broken scream—lay stuck in her throat. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, taken below the murky waters. The only sign he was still alive were the signs of struggle in the rippling water and the young boys slashing vigorously at the creature’s extended body. Christopher was unlike his normal self; his face was hard, his body swinging and throwing with all its might. Cecily did not know what she would do if she lost them both today—the love of her life and their sweet, sweet boy.

She knew her marriage runes were symbolic—meant to display their vows of love and loyalty to one another—but she did not lose faith that there was something more. Something beyond symbols that connected her to Gabriel.

Come back to me, Cecily prayed. Come back to me, Gabriel. Please don’t leave me now.

.

.

This was not how Gabriel wanted to end his day. Or his life, for that matter.

The barbs on the tentacle twisted around him dug deep into his skin. Had he screamed with the pain then he would have drowned by now, surely. He heard Christopher’s shout before he went below the water and hoped he was all right. Gabriel wanted to live, but if giving his life meant his family would live, it was an easy decision.

Above him he could see the faintest of shadows indicating that there were people above him fighting to set him free. He knew from the shape of one of the shadows that it had to be Thomas and Christopher there, hacking away. The third shadow was anyone’s guess.

Gabriel thrashed, ignoring the continual digging of the barbs into his skin. He’d lost his knife in the fall but there was no time for sorrow now. Just as he was about to pull a Will Herondale and sink his teeth into the closest flesh, a ringing sound went through his mind.

Come back to me, Gabriel.

It was Cecily. He would know her voice anywhere. He thought of years past, when she had nearly died taking down a pack of Raum demons and he was sure he was moments away from losing her. He would not do that to her.

A wave of strength came over him. He turned his body and rammed against the boulder he had fallen from. He fought for a sturdy grip, reaching higher and higher until—

A hand clasped around his wrist and pulled hard. At the same moment, the tentacle engulfing him fell away with a screech, and the rest of his body came flying through the waves and back onto the solid rock, where he lay gasping for air.

“Father!”

“Uncle Gabriel!”

Gabriel coughed up water before looking up into the concerned and frightened eyes of his son and nephew. “Are you hurt?” he choked, reaching his hands toward the both of them.

Christopher burst; his lavender eyes wild. “Me? Father, you are bleeding! Thomas, where is your stele?”

Thomas fumbled at his coat desperately and swore. “Bridgestock took it from me!”

“Use mine.”

Gabriel glanced behind Thomas and was surprised to find Alastair Carstairs standing there. He held his hand out to Thomas, offering his stele with a softer expression on his face than Gabriel had ever recalled seeing. Without a moment’s hesitation, Thomas took the stele and began scribbling runes all over Gabriel’s arm.

The world suddenly went silent. Then, a roaring thunder sounded across the Institute lawn as the water that had filled the land drained away; the monstrous tentacles draining away with it.

“Bring him down,” Thomas said to Christopher. “They’ll be filling the infirmary soon.”

Christopher paled; his eyes wide toward the Institute. Gabriel started. He was badly injured and bleeding, but the look of fear on his son’s face paled in comparison. “What is it, Kit?”

Christopher swallowed; then, in a shaking whisper, said: “Mam’s coming.”

The boys scrambled quickly to bring Gabriel down to flat ground. Gabriel turned toward the doors. The closer Cecily got, the more he realized that the fierce expression on her face was not anger--it was desperation. She was, or at least had been, crying.

“Mam,” Christopher started, but faltered when Cecily reached them. She fell to her knees beside them and brought Kit into her arms in an iron embrace. “Are you hurt?” she fretted, looking him over. A stele had appeared in her hand, though from where, Gabriel couldn’t say. Years of marriage had not yet answered the mysterious origin of a mother’s love and protection.

Christopher shook his head. “Father—”

Cecily turned to him, her skin flushed, eyes wide with worry. She kissed Kit’s head and scrambled to Gabriel’s side, her eyes now scanning his body. He knew it was not a pretty sight—the barbs had torn his flesh and he’d lost a significant amount of blood. “Cecy—” he began and was promptly cut off.

“Boys, we must move him to the infirmary,” she commanded, gathering her skirts and squatting, ready to lift. “Now.”

There was no disobeying her; Thomas, Christopher, and Alastair all assisted her in lifting him off the ground without the slightest hint of hesitation or protest. The scenery passed Gabriel in a blur; of Anna spotting them and racing down from her position; Will running between the injured and barking commands; even James, Lucie, Matthew, and Cordelia appearing at the gates.

The infirmary was in chaos. Beds had been quickly assembled and set across the vast room. There had been no deaths reported yet, and Cecily Lightwood was determined to keep it that way.

After ensuring that all three of her children were safe and unhurt, she sent them upstairs to stay with Alexander. “Keep him busy,” she had told them, her heart racing. “He’s frightened.”

“So are we,” Anna had answered, but it was not argumentative. Cecily placed her hands on both their cheeks.

“Your father is a stubborn one,” she had said. She smiled, though it was wavering. “He will not go without a fight. I will make sure of that.”

With a flurry of kisses and “I love you’s,” the children finally left to care for their brother, leaving Cecily at Gabriel’s beside squeezing his hand tight while a Silent Brother tended to his wounds.

“Stay with me,” she whispered to him. His eyes were fluttering. He was fighting hard to stay awake, yet he had not the energy to do much else. Against her will, Cecily’s tears had begun to fall again. “Stay with me, Gabriel. I love you. I love you.”

Cecily had begun to fall into a dark pit of grief when she felt a hand grip her shoulder tight. She turned to find her brother looking at her intensely, concern evident in his expression. He said nothing, but she knew that he would always be there when she needed him, and here he was. “I can’t lose him,” she told him blankly.

“You won’t,” Will said.

“Is that what you told him, too?”

Will’s eyes were sad. “Yes. And here you are, aren’t you?”

Cecily placed her hand over her brother’s on her shoulder and looked back at Gabriel. His fight to stay awake was lost. He was too pale for her liking, his lips faded into the slightest memory of pink. “The children need their father.”

She felt a tugging at her arm and found herself being lifted from her seat and into Will’s arms. He held her tight and rubbed her back soothingly. “The last thing Gabriel would ever do is leave you or the children,” he assured her. “Not if he has any say about it. The man is a stubborn and loyal bastard.”

.

.

Cecily was unsure how much time had passed since she had last seen her children. Jem had come by to treat Gabriel, who slept, and had told her to take a break. It would do him no good if he woke and saw she had not eaten or slept.

When Cecily emerged from the infirmary, she found all three of her children posted along the wall across from the infirmary entrance. Anna and Christopher sat beside one another, each resting their head on the other’s. Alex sat in Christopher’s lap, his back to his brother’s chest, and was fast asleep. The sight alone warmed Cecily’s heart, a welcome distraction from the wounds that nearly tore the love of her life away from her.

She stepped forward and kneeled in front of them. She hated to wake them, but the corridor was cold, and she worried they may catch a cold waiting out there for too long. “Fy anwylyd,” she said gently, brushing their cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. “Come along. It’s much too cold to wait here.”

“Mam?” It was Alex, blinking sleepy eyes at her. He shifted his position, which woke Christopher with a sudden, “What ho!” and disoriented expression.

Cecily smiled gently at them. Her boys were such gentle people that sometimes she could not believe they came from her. “Come along now,” she repeated.

Anna lifted her head from Christopher’s with a tired scowl. “Watch your head,” she told him, rubbing her temple. “Those curls do not provide ample cushion for sudden movements.”

“Sorry,” Christopher mumbled, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. “Mam,” he said upon noticing her kneeling in front of him. “Is Father all right?”

Cecily brushed his curls from his face. “He will be,” she said softly. “It will take time for him to heal, but he will be all right.”

Relief filled her children’s faces—even Anna’s, who had pretended she wasn’t terribly worried despite rightfully being so. “Can we see him?” she asked carefully. Cecily patted her knee.

“In a bit,” she told them and stood. She held her hands out to them, to help them stand or hand Alex over, whichever they chose. They chose to hand Alex over. He immediately hooked himself onto her neck and dug his heels into her side, firmly planting himself there in her arms. “He’s been given a sedative to sleep while the Brothers work to heal him. Your father will fret over us all if we have not eaten or slept before visiting him, you know.”

“Bridget is cooking a feast in the kitchen with so many people about the Institute. I hope there are still lemon tarts,” Christopher said wistfully. “I can save one for Father, too.”

Cecily smiled. “Let’s go find them before the others do.”

.

.

When Gabriel awoke, he had forgotten where he was. His body ached terribly and he could feel beads of sweat drip from the hair at the base of his neck. He could feel something warm in his hand—something comforting. He forced his eyes opened and groaned.

“Father,” someone gasped. The warm feeling—a hand—tightened in his and a head full of dark hair shot up beside him.

Cecily gazed at him, her grip strong as it ever was. Her hair had fallen from its pins when she rose from his shoulder, but he’d never been so happy to see her looks so disheveled. She rose her other hand and brushed at his cheek softly. “How are you feeling?” she whispered. Over her shoulder he could see his children. Anna, with Alexander climbing about her back, and Christopher stood beside each other, hope and weariness filling their eyes. He smiled at them all.

“I ache,” he admitted. “I don’t think I can move very much. But I don’t feel terribly under the weather.” He squeezed his wife’s hand with as much strength as he could muster. He saw the tension release from her shoulders and felt himself relax with her.

“Incredible!” Christopher said in awe. Gabriel met his son’s eyes and smiled in amusement. Christopher was observing the bandages across his body with fascination. “These were severe injuries, Father, and you only ache? I must figure out how that’s possible and recreate it in the lab.”

“I’ll do what I can to help,” Gabriel answered affectionately. Christopher grinned.

.

.

Cecily brushed away the hairs that had fallen into her husband’s eyes. He had regained color in his skin soon after waking up and looked like her lively Gabriel once again. She’d sat beside him for hours upon hours, her children coming and going throughout. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay with me?” she wondered aloud with a soft shake of her head. Gabriel chuckled. “This is not a request. It is a demand.”

“Leave this?” Gabriel asked, gesturing to their children asleep, their heads on the end of his bed, and Alex clearly enjoying the nook between Gabriel’s feet and the iron railing at the foot of his bed. He turned back to Cecily. “Not a chance. I’ve worked too hard to get here. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lightwood, but I will not be throwing away all my hard work.”

Cecily’s smile grew until she could no longer hold in her laugh. “Hard work indeed,” she said and kissed him.

@tsccreatorsnet

[slashingdisneypasta]

Poly!Laughing Jack x Fem!Reader x Offenderman

Title: Punish Me // The Odd Throuple

Plot: Y/N gets shot in the neck and through the chest and is rushed to get help at Slender Mansion. This is your boyfriends’ reactions to you being seriously hurt. 

Notes:

I wrote most of this on my phone on the train so I’m sorry probably lots of errors!! My autocorrect likes to correct properly spelled words to the wrongly spelled versions I’ve accidentally typed in the past. 😒

Why, oh why, are my fluffiest works always with these two bastards??? Comfort characters...

Warnings: Well, you get shot because Offender raped someone. So, decide with that how you will. Sexual references also

~~~

"This is for my daughter, you f-freaks!" The man behind you is sobbing now. When he caught you it was just an itchy fidget, now that Offender and L.J are here he's falling apart.

The gun pressed into the crook of your neck moves and shifts with his ugly, heartbroken cries and all you can think is; I'm sorry. Oh my god, I'm so sorry, even as your body goes cold and you shiver with fear at having such a lethal weapon pressed to your skin at the hand of someone so unstable at the moment. You didn't even do anything to this man, but you feel his pain and feel sick anyway.

I'm so, so sorry.

You can only imagine what he means. What happened to his daughter...

"Who's your daughter!?" Offender growls, desperately. And uselessly. There's no way he remembers, there's no way he could help now. He doesn't ask for the names, and he certainly doesn't bother to listen if they tell him. He's just pleading. He doesn't know what else he could do. Just don't shoot her lethally. Miss the heart, he chants in his head. He can get you to Slender then but if you're dead... there's just nothing he can do. Its out of his power and he feels useless.

And this is his fault.

L.J doesn't respond at all, standing beside him. His eyes are on you, watching carefully. Communicating through his eyes. He hasn't moved since he realised the situation, struck completely still. He doesn't know what to do. If he fights for you, and he loses you still? ... He doesn't know if he could do that.

And then again, if you're killed anyway and he did nothing, it'll still hurt... but then at least he would have plausible deniability. He can... he can live like that. The alternative is worse. Far, far worse, to him.

And more then that, he doesn't care about bartering with this man.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes- losing a few tears you didn't know, through the shock, where glazing your eyes.

"You... fucker... took her before it was time, and now... " The man takes a deep breath in, making it cold on your neck where his face is hidden. "I'm going to take something you care about."

"WAIT- "

BANG.

A searing hot pain tears through your skin, everywhere as the bullet rips your insides open and a terrible scream rips out of your throat, more from shock, as the man lets your body go and gravity drags you down, nearly knocking your head on the concrete. Before that could happen though, Offender teleports and catches you.

As your sight dapples away into blackness and L.J's cries for you to say something peter out, you feel the familiar terrible whooshing of teleportation just before the world goes

completely, 

and

   utterly,

           still.

___TIME SKIP___

"Y/N... Y/N... I see your eyelids flickering, are you awake? Or experiencing some kind of terrible neural damage I need to get Slender for?" Claws slide under your neck, against the pillow and sit there cool against your skin as L.J shifts his body, and his chair, more impossibly close to your bed. "Lollipop~ You have to give me a sign, I'm not a real doctor."

"You... play one... pretty well. D-don't you?" You whisper, voice croaky and hard to utilise. Your eyelids are heavy, too, but you manage to peak at him for a moment. He opens his mouth in a sharp grin, relieved.

"So no amnesia then??" He exclaims, excitedly.

"Was that," Coughing into the air, because your body is still too weak to really move, you taste metal on your tongue. "A possibility???"

"Well, Slender didn't say it in those words, but... I feel like it was unspoken."

Knitting your eyebrows together, you start to worry about your condition yourself, before a weight like a folder or a clipboard drops on the bed by your feet and Slender heaves a great sigh.

"You were worried." He says sternly, assuredly to L.J. "You were in no danger of enduring inflicted amnesia, Y/N. L.J just has a wild imagination due to a birth defect called stupidity. Unfortunately there's nothing we can do about that."

L.J says nothing in response to that for a moment, and you can imagine him just looking deadpanned at the taller creature. "You're toad, Slender."

"Whatever. However, Y/N, while you do not have amnesia you do have a number of other inflicted injuries and because of that I am suggesting you stay here where you can properly be watched until they're manageable for you to deal with on your own." He pauses, apparently tired of our presence already. "That is unless, of course, you want to rip your many stitches or contract any kind of infectious disease because you trusted the man that thought you had amnesia, and the one that fully trusts in the 'psychologically healing' properties of copious amounts of alcohol," Oh, so that's where Offender is. "to take care of you medically."

"Um," Your voice is high, unsure quite how to respond. Slender and his bluntness does this to you a lot. "No, that's okay? Thanks for offering for me to stay?"

Another cough forces itself suddenly out of your throat from the use of your voice, as your throat is so dry - How long were you asleep?? - and, this time, L.J extends his free arm to gently cover your mouth like you would with your own if you could move right now. As soon as you're done, he retracts his long, loong arm and your stomach squirms pleasantly about how cute and affectionate that was for him.

He takes a deep breath. "Very good. I'm leaving. Offender can read your chart when he gets in here." Then, like a light, the heavy atmosphere that Slender carries with him everywhere disappears from the room and you feel L.J stretch and snatch the folder object at the end of your bed.

"I can read this, thanks." With one hand to hold the thing, L.J peers at it for a moment... for so long, in fact, that you risk your energy to peak at him again just see him use his pointed nose to slide the page up to look at the next one... Before he frisbee-throwing the folder back to the end of the bed and returning his attention fully back to you, crossing one elongated, stripy leg over the other. "Never mind. What’s with this family? They make up there own language?"

Grinning at his antics like you always do, your eyelids fall shut again and you feel the relief of not using so much energy. "I think medical charts everywhere are like that."

"So the whole medical profession started there own code, then. Bastards."

A chuckle escapes you, as you're slipping closer to sleep. "L.J, I think I'm... gonna... go back to sleep... for a bit... "

"You do that. I'll make up jokes."

"Okie, yay... "

As you fall back into the welcoming arms of sleep, L.J puts his free claws to work removing the crinkles out in your bed spread and nightgown- unable to stay still. Unable to leave you alone.

He has to stay with you.

___TIME SKIP___

The next time you open your eyes, Offender has joined L.J, but instead of sitting in a chair he leans sloppily on the wall by the door, evidently still feeling the effects of his 'psychological healing' with the alcohol.

This time you're able to open your eyes a crack and keep them open like that. You’re able to to see the room now, which is basically just like any other bedroom in Slender mansion with hard wood floors and dark walls, except there’s an IV beside you and sheets on the floor.

Again, L.J's keen eye catches your consciousness first. "You're awake again!"

"Hi." You grin in greeting, noticing L.J's claws are on your tummy now, the one on his thumb rubbing up and down a small area.

Offender comes forward immediately and leans close to your face over your bed, draping an arm over the bed frame to hold himself up. "You good there, squirt?" Wincing at the nickname, because it does not come from Finding Nemo, you shift your head on the pillow in a nod. He chuckles.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Well, you're not, but that's my girl." He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling back and picking up the medical chart on hi way back to the wall. Blowing air out of his cheeks in reaction to the information, he leans back on the wall again and starts reading the 'code'. "Now, lets see what's wrong with ya... "

L.J and you sit - and lay, - at attention as he lists and explains what it says. Some of the things that come out of his mouth do scare you, but honestly most of it was just stuff you expected. You still may be in a bit of shock, to be honest, but at the moment you're just more concerned with the fact that Offender really can read it! Unless he's making it all up, in which case, boo.

When he's done, you're all quiet for a moment, taking in how long that took - and therefore how much damage was really done by that bullet, - before L.J, of course- well, doesn't lift your spirits exactly, but changes the course of the worry in the room, for sure. And that's why you and Offender love him. Well, one of the many reasons. Raising his pointer claw off your stomach, he announces, "I call conspiracy!!"

Offender puts down the chart and crosses his arms, bemused at him. "What this time?"

"These charts. You say this is English??" L.J squints, looking between your and his boyfriend.

"Yeah."

"I don’t buy it. I'm British and I tried to read that, and it was total gibberish. Tell him, Y/N."

"He is British and he did try to read it." You concur.

L.J nods at Offender. "Yep."

"And he did fail." You grin, this time.

L.J nods again, without shame. "Yep."

"Well... " Offender leans menacingly forward, towards L.J who leans back despite them being feet away from each other, then grins. "I read it just fine."

"I feel like I'm being gaslighted."

"Oh jeez." You grin, turning your head on your pillow to set L.J with a look, amused by him.

"Oh, and- Your brother called me stupid. Again. You need to fight for my honour." L.J informs Offender, swivelling in his seat to properly face him, while still holding me.

"Oh, you poor victim, you." Offender shifts, shaking his head amusedly at L.J. "Tut, tut, tut. What a cruel world."

L.J ignores that obvious sarcasm. "Yes, precisely. Oh woe is me, and all that. Hop to it." Nodding to the door promptly, L.J turns back to me. A little grin plays at his black lips.

"Oh sure thing." Offender shakes his head again, before pushing off the wall and straddling the arm of L.J's chair instead. "Anyway, the only honour I care about right now is Y/N's." L.J seems to agree with that, eyes going steely and lips curling at the memory of why you're all in this room in the first place. "So, what'll it be, beautiful? I'm the reason you got hit, so, by Vikings oath I've vowed to endure whatever punishment you decide is necessary." You open your mouth immediately to laugh him off, but he makes no movement like he usually would if he were joking. Instead, he quickly adds, "Go on."

"... hold on, you're German. Aren't Vikings Scandinavian?-"

"Shut up, clown man; I'm old. I've been places. Get with the program."

Rolling your eyes, unintentionally fondly at the two, you look around the room. "Um," Unbelievably croaky, and painfully, you ask. "Get me a cup of water?"

"Oh!-" While Offender quickly teleports off to get you that, L.J just absentmindedly brushes some hair out of your face. Offender comes back in a young moment and they both help you sit up. L.J helps guide you by your hands, while Offender stuffs pillows securely at the base of your back.

"Thanks, guys," You accept the glass of water with a gracious smile. "Thank you."

As you're taking a sip, Offender returns to his spot on the arm of L.J's chair and watches you expectantly, heavily. Swallowing the water, you raise a curious brow. "So? My punishment?"

You nearly choke on the water, but instead take a moment to compose yourself. "Wha- I thought that was the punishment!"

"Getting water??"

"I didn't say please!"

L.J clicks his finger claws, lifting them off you for a moment to point and nod in agreement at Offender. "Right, that's true. She didn't. 'S not her fault you have no sensitivity towards good manners." He turns back to you as Offender makes a perturbed shape with his mouth. "You have lovely manners."

"Thank you!"

"Of course dearest."

"Wha- I- F- hah???" As you and L.J have your 'Old British Sit Com' moment as Offender would always refer to it from then on, he stutters and looks between the two of you confusedly. "Hold on, hold on stop that this instant-" Reaching over and waiving a hand between the two of you as you were looking sweetly at each other, he successfully snaps you both out of it. "Neither of you are taking this seriously. You," He points his finger at L.J, who narrows his eyes at the offending appendage. Probably thinking 'And your manners, are terrible.'. "Shoosh. And you, “ L.J presses his lips firmly closed as Offender turns his stern finger to you, making you sit up straighter at attention. “Come on, baby.” He slips to his knees as you start to fully understand his desperation right now and grips the side of your mattress. His hat slips to cover the top of his face and your eyes flicker to L.J’s, which are also sheened in a very covered layer of worry, and back. “Punish me. It’s my fault. You got bandages and tubes and... fucking bloodstains. I did this. And in order for our relationship to continue healthily you need to get back at me somehow. So come on, one more time I’m gonna say it so L.J if you say something about masochism I will throw you out the window; Y/N, punish me. Goddamnit, please.”

“Offender,” You start in a scolding voice, pushing yourself off the pillows with difficulty, wincing at the pain shooting through your collar bones. When L.J’s eyes flicker over you and your pained features, because, while Offender is clearly perfectly fine with showing his affections, L.J certainly is not. You flash him an ‘its fine’ smile as you push your legs off the end of the bed. “I’m not that hurt! And I’m certainly not upset with you in any way, its not necessary!” 

“You were shot, Y/N!” 

“Yeah, well.” You roll your eyes, as if the infliction wasn't a big deal. Like there are more important things, which in the moment you do think there are in Offender’s outlook at the moment. It honestly scares you. It isn't him. Dropping your hands on his shoulders, you dip your head to look seriously at him. “Its not that bad! I mean, I think Slender woulda told me if I was gonna die, don’t you think? And you read the chart! You know I’ll be okay.” 

“... Yeah, he would've. And then the little punk woulda left the room chuckling."

"Oooh," L.J leans back in his chair, thumb claw between his teeth as he imagines how it would have gone, arctic blues glazed over with imagination. "He totally would... "

Nodding in agreement, you kneed your thumbs into Offender shoulders comfortingly. "Yep. Same thing for if I wasn't going to recover at all. Don't you think?"

"Y/Nnnn,” He groans, resisting. 

“I’ll, be, fine.” Leaning down, you press your forehead to his- breath hitching when you feel your stitches stretching but forcing your self to stay put for a moment. “Don’t feel so guilty. Or, at least try- its an odd colour on you.” 

“Mm.” Offender’s mouth twists like he tasted something gross. Then he sighs, the muscles in his shoulders easing. “Oh, what, you think a good old ‘belligerent’s more me?”

“Maybe a gentle ‘creepy’, at most.” L.J pats his back, breaking out of his dream world. You grin and nod. 

“That work for you?” 

“We can try it on for size.” 

L.J snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Offender turns and looks up at him, a bemused smile on his face. Still reluctant to let it go, but trying. “What? Does BEN need to re- try on his used condom hat now, too??” 

With that, Offender and you dissolve into barks of laughter, you hiding your pink face in your hands while L.J just shrugs, holding up his hands like ‘Aren't I right though??’. “What?? Its one of your charms!” He adds, a corner of his dark mouth fighting to point up even as he looks confusedly at your shaking bodies. 

“OKAY,” Slender pushes the door open then, interrupting and dropping his shoulders slowly. “I’ve heard enough. It time for Y/N to return to sleep- what. What is she doing out of bed? Put her back. And then, both of you, can get out of my house! ... and take your unfortunate analogies with you.” Shoulders slumping, he then mutters, “... I’ll never be able to look at that hat again without thinking about that... “  

Offender heaves his own sigh, so like his brother in the moment as he pushes himself up and guides you back into a comfortable laying position, muttering himself. “You would think, after so... so, many centuries with that man, I would be immune to his annoyingness... But no.” 

Snickering, L.J leans back in his chair, reaching down into the pockets of his pants as you start to feel exhaustion wash over you again. Slender’s right, you do need more sleep... 

Slender just opens the door more fully and gestures towards it for his brother and Laughing Jack. Slowly, he drawls the next word. “Out?” 

“G’night sweetheart.” Offender gives you another kiss on the forehead, completely ignoring his brother this time. “Just keep thinking about that punishment, okay? Just... keep it in mind.” Chewing on your bottom lip, you wish Offender would let it go... but nod anyway, for his sake. Not like you actually will think about it at all. L.J brushes your hair back after he steps back and taps your forehead gently with his thumb. 

“Sweet dreams lollipop!” 

Then L.J returns to his chair and Offender drags up a chair beside him for himself and Slender grips the door tighter. “Oh, no. No no no. Get, out, of my home.” 

Slowly L.J looks over at Slender, then squishing his butt down further into the chair pointedly, and Offender props his legs up on the end of your bed. You chuckle, and close your eyes. Embarrassed by your weirdly good boyfriends.  They aren't perfect by any, a n y means, but they are pretty cool sometimes. You like them- and that's an understatement. 

“Aghhh, don’t think I’m bringing you dinner.” Slender lets up quickly, disinterested in putting up any fight and rolls his shoulders of you all, closing the door as he walks off. “Hooligans.” 

As you close your eyes, and pull the blankets up further over your body to your chin, relaxing into a resting, sleep exposed state Offender crosses his arms, setting in probably for a nap himself, with no other idea how to pass the silent time and L.J turns promptly to him, with a colourful but mostly black box in his hand. 

“Silent Uno??” 

[joonsdiary]

worth fighting for (08)

pairing: jungkook x reader genre/warning: royalty au, historical au // humour, fluff, angst / tw: mentions of character death, alcohol consumption, playful!general jeon and over-thinker!reader is back, this chapter is me trying to juggle scene vs. plot, even more yearning, slowburn word count: 6,775

summary: fresh out of the perils of war, jungkook didn’t think that his task as the newly appointed general would be to look after you.

                                                                      EIGHT.

Dawn arrives without sunlight, carrying along with it the crispness of the air that signals the finality of summer. It’s unusual for you to feel such coldness so early in the year, but that only means that you’re much closer up north than you are in the capital. Your home. The mere thought of residing within the safety of the palace seems foreign and unfamiliar; remembering specific details feels as if you’re looking into someone else’s mind instead of your own.

Home now resides in the carriage you sleep in for much of your travels, or whichever dense forest you decide to stop over and rest for a few days. Home is the warmth of the quilt Jimin lends you; it’s the food he and Miyoung whip up in a pinch when ingredients are scarce, yet manage to taste delicious. Home is embodied in the way Jungkook’s eyes linger far longer than he intends to, thinking you haven’t noticed; it’s his noticeable hesitance around you, always teetering on the ledge between familiarity and professionalism.

Home is in the callousness of his stern voice when he instructs you to move in a particular way as you struggle to carry the long sword with both of your hands. It hadn’t been anything like the one he had lent you previously; the current one is much heavier, evident by the way your arms work strenuously just to be able to hold it properly.

The grass blade’s morning dew permeates into your shoe-less feet and you wobble from your position as he kicks your left leg further backwards.

“Like this?” you ask, unsure of your position. It feels awkward and unfamiliar; the weapon does nothing but makes your arms quiver in pain. Jungkook clicks his tongue as he uses his index finger to lift your elbow slightly higher than previously. You grit your teeth as you hold back the uncomfortable throbbing of your shoulders.

He finally nods in approval and you relent, groaning in frustration as you drop the hefty metal on the ground. It hasn’t been an hour since he woke you from your slumber to practice, and yet your forehead is already beaded with sweat. It’s hard to resist laying on the ground when the soft gust of wind tempts you to do so. Jungkook watches, eyes filled with curiosity as you yield to your whims and press yourself against the cold grass.

“That was intense. I didn’t think you’d make me hold the sword up for that long. If I didn’t know any better,” you pause to gaze suspiciously up at him, “I’d think this was some sort of punishment.”

“I thought you wanted something intense,” he shrugs nonchalantly, but the action comes across as a terrible attempt at hiding the roguish grin crawling on upwards on the corner of his lips. Smug bastard, what little remains of your dignity as a royalty prevents you from speaking the thought aloud.

“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d lend me the blade you use. Whatever happened to the wooden swords?” you whine, watching as he picks up the weapon with ease.

“It’s not too heavy,” he examines the sword before offering it back to you. “And you need to build up your strength—your arms are too weak.”

You simply stare at him impassively, hating that he has a point.

“It’s unfair. You’ve had twelve years of a head start, so you can’t say things like: It’s easy, Your Highness,” your tone is childish. But he stays impassive, undeterred by your mockery of him.

A few days ago after your full recovery, he met you in the middle with a compromise, promptly suggesting the idea himself that you should get back to practice if you were still willing to learn. Of course, you said yes in a heartbeat. It seems Jungkook’s mood is dictated by the moon and you know better than to simmer on a decision for long since the tides might turn against you in an instant.

You hadn’t known at the time of agreement how serious he would take the whole ordeal, jumpstarting you far off from where you left last time. At first, you took the challenge head-on but after three days of gruelling lessons and drills, fatigue is beginning to settle nicely deep within your bones.

“All the more reason why you should keep training.”

“You are cruel,” you finally take the weapon from his willing hands as you push yourself up with a groan. “One day, I will snap and drive this blade straight into your heart. Please be aware that all responsibility falls onto you for any such actions hereafter.”

His expression morphs into a lopsided grin; the kind that steals precious oxygen right out of your lungs. The absence of the morning sun’s warmth is scarcely felt when he’s practically bursting at the seams with radiance.

“I’d actually like to see you try.”

“I’m serious, General Jeon.”

“So am I.”

The palpable challenge in his eyes vexes you enough to accept, doing so by wordlessly picking up right where you left off. You stand, but not without much difficulty, before bending your knees into position. It takes all your remaining strength to ignore the ache in your muscles that soon follows. Taking a deep breath, you step forward with one foot as you sling the weapon with all the energy you have left. It undoubtedly fails as your unstable hands drop the sword once again.

You groan as you land on the ground for the second time. You appreciate that he’s fostering your growth towards improvement, but a little part of you is still convinced that he’s doing this solely out of spite.

For what, exactly, you’ve yet to coax the answer out of him.

“Aw, is the princess giving up?”

Especially when he says the right words to rile you up.

“No,” you roll your eyes. It’s hard not to act silly when he invites such reactions from you. “General Jeon is just being spiteful. But I suppose that’s nothing new.”

“I’m merely following direct orders from you, Your Highness,” he extends his hand in an effort to help you up, but you brush it away with a scoff. “Your stubborn streak continues, I see.”

You prepare yourself for a barrage of snide remarks, or perhaps even a lecture about your feeble attempt to learn sword fighting when you shouldn’t. Much to your surprise, he sits across from you instead, tucking his legs neatly underneath him. He slouches forward, resting his elbow on his thighs as he places his chin on top of his palm.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“It’s unfair if you’re the only one who gets to rest,” he says as he mindlessly plucks several pieces of grass at once before opening his palms to let the wind take them. “Barking orders at royalty turns out to be an exhausting task. Who knew?”

You grin in lieu of a verbal answer, and he returns the favour with a soft smile. There’s a pause, and when you don’t say anything further, the lids of his eyes flutter slowly before closing shut. There is no question that he seems to lack proper sleep, evident by the dark circles and heavy bags under his eyes. You’re beginning to suspect that staying up well after dusk has settled in order to stand guard is beginning to catch up to him — certainly now more than ever if he’s cutting hours of slumber just to train you.

Your pulse hums unabated at the thought, and you have to quickly remind yourself that he’s doing this not due to his own volition, but because you ordered him to.

“Jungkook,” you make an effort to whisper as quietly as you can. You didn’t mind that he hadn’t heard you, you’d simply pretend you hadn’t called him out in the first place. His breathing stays even, and you smile to yourself; if there is one thing you’ll never grow weary of, it has to be seeing him simply be at peace. It’s maddeningly frightening how one person has the capability of banishing all your worries away, no matter how trivial they might seem.

If you weren’t in trouble then, you certainly are now.

Like a moth to a flame, your gaze lands on his lips, reminding you of the kiss you had so boldly initiated with him. What seemed like seconds at that moment feels like a lifetime when it’s embedded deep in the crevices of your memory. It appeared to be a good idea then, a quick way to dispel an itching curiosity.

Curiosities like: Would your attraction for him dissipate in thin air if you kissed him? Would he even try to kiss you back? Would it progress your relationship further? Did you want it to progress? Do you even have time to be thinking about all these things?

(The answers are: No, no he didn’t, no it doesn’t seem like it, maybe so, and perhaps not.)

Now that your concerns have been partially satiated, only regret remains. That very same foolish curiosity only brought an insurmountable amount of consequences you’d preferably avoid. You’re grateful Jungkook hasn’t asked anything yet; you hope it stays that way, for the sake of your well-being. It’s reached a point where it seems as if he’d much rather avoid than confront the topic, as well.

(But would it have hurt for him to care in the slightest? His non-reaction makes your stomach coil uncomfortably more than it should.)

“I hate you,” slips out of your lips unprompted.

“So you keep saying,” he mumbles, and you flinch back at his unexpected response.

You know the consequence of him catching you is nothing serious, but that doesn’t stop your heart from knocking steadily against your ribcage. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Me? Never,” he cracks one eyelid open as if to wink. With a sly grin, he says, “I’m always watching.”

“In any other context that would sound extremely repulsive,” he laughs at your displeased expression before he stretches both his hands up with a yawn. “Thank you, regardless.”

He shrugs in good nature as his arms fall back down, shoulders slackened. You thought you’d learned to ignore that part of you that tugs painfully at your heartstrings every time he smiles, but apparently, that’s not the case.

“It’s what I’m here for, right?”

That’s right, Jungkook’s not here due to his discretion. He’s here for a specific reason, tasked by the king to look after you and ensure your safe deliverance to the hands of somebody you’ve yet to meet. You’ve not forgotten the mere fact, but the almost month-long voyage only reminds you of how delusional you were to think that mulling your feelings for Jungkook would end anywhere but devastation. You even went as far as to put him in utter discomfort by giving into your foolish desire and kissing him, with a lack of remorse as to how he would feel afterwards.

“What’s wrong?” your attention collapses back to Jungkook, who’s now staring at you with confusion. “I feel like you’re always having some sort of crisis every time we’re conversing.”

You want nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders, shake him out of his boots and say, “That’s because it’s you. You’re the cause of my woes.”

“I feel like I owe you an apology,” is what you tell him instead. You’re unsure of how to begin when his attention is fully focused on you, and instead wish he were still half asleep. Perhaps then you’ll find the right words. “It wasn’t my intention to—”

“I knew it,” he crosses his arms and straightens his back with a newfound sense of confidence. Your eyes widen in surprise; have the not-so-subtle hints of your proclamation of affection been made known to him?

“You were the one who ate the remaining piece of red bean rice cake last night. Jimin told me it was him, but I had an inkling he was covering for you.”

Of course not.

“What?” you gape at him, trying to blink your anger away at his sudden accusation. “No, it wasn’t me!”

“Mhm, sure,” his nose wrinkles in discontent. “You were well on your way to apologizing but now you’re denying it altogether. Tsk.”

“I wasn’t talking about that!”

“I’m hurt, Your Highness. You know that’s my favourite dessert.”

You did know. That’s why you didn’t even bother eating a piece of it after seeing how much he prefers them.

“I was going to apologize for the unwarranted kiss I gave you, but now I’m not so sure,” you mutter. He must have heard what you said regardless of the quietness of your voice because he visibly deflates, back slouching forward and eyes seemingly bugging out of their sockets.

“W-what?”

You resist the urge to smirk despite your embarrassment at his change in demeanour; all his arrogance is chased out with a mention of one word. Although you’re unsure if you should act with such haughtiness in the first place. Your own heart, after all, feels as though it’s about to erupt from delight. So you continue, making sure to tread forward cautiously.

“I don’t know if it was right of me to do such a thing without your permission.”

For days you’ve been battling with yourself for the right words to say. You’re still unsure, feeling as though everything that comes out of your mouth consists of the wrong words to say. Yet at the same time, holding on to it doesn’t seem feasible. Telling him outright is the best option, for better or for worse.

You study Jungkook’s expression, or lack thereof, as he stares into the distance with an impassive gaze, mouth agape and evidently unresponsive.

“General Jeon?” you wave your hand in his line of sight. Nothing. “Jungkook?”

His gaze finally meets yours, but only for a brief second, before his eyes scan the vast surrounding. He clears his throat before idly rubbing the nape of his neck. You can gauge his struggle with what to say by the way his mouth opens without uttering a word, then quickly closing.

“Apologizing is not necessary. I mean…” he trails off, and you hang onto every syllable he says. Your expectations soar to unattainable heights. “You weren’t feeling well, to begin with, so I’m aware you might not have fully realized your...um, actions at that time.”

Your mood quickly spirals, bringing along with it your hopes. And your poor, poor heart, always bearing the brunt of your misfortunes.

In essence, you should have seen that type of response coming. There’s nothing Jungkook did, or said, which would have made you misinterpret his intentions. This has always been a one-sided charade from the beginning, fueled by nothing else but your disillusion. Recalling the way you had acted so wantonly before him weeks ago even before the kiss occurred feels silly and juvenile. If you’re ever given means and the power to reverse time back to that situation once more, you would, only if it means saving your past self from your present heartache.

“I wasn’t apologizing because I was half asleep and didn’t realize what I was doing,” you mutter under your breath with a frown. You’re apologizing for the lack of consent, not because you think you made a mistake as he interpreted it. The fact that he even thinks it’s a mere slip-up says all you need to know.

“Hm?” with his furrowed brows he leans forward, encouraging you to repeat what you’ve said.

“I said it’s good we finally cleared that up,” you heaved a sigh as you noticed a movement from the corner of your eyes.

“I had a feeling you two would be slacking off,” Jimin offers his hand, which you gladly take. He pulls you towards him and with a bright grin, you mumble a quiet thank you. Jungkook mumbles something but you give your outpouring attention to Jimin instead.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been hard at work for the past few days,” you cross your arms with a pout. Jimin grins as he gently pats the top of your head.

“I know, Your Highness. That’s why I’ve come to save you; General Jeon asked if I could provide a less brute lesson. I couldn’t say no,” he angles closer to whisper, “or else he’ll have my neck below a guillotine.”

“Hey, there was no intimidation of sorts!” Jungkook protests.

“Jimin, your new dancing master, at your service,” he bows. When he straightens his back, he tosses you a wooden sword, which you catch with ease.

“We’re going back to these?” you inspect the material, brows furrowed in confusion. Wasn’t Jungkook preaching to you just moments ago about having to build resilience towards brandishing broader swords? You glance towards the general in question and catch his gaze momentarily but he looks away while scratching the back of his head. You glance back at Jimin instead. “Also, you never told me you were skilled.”

“You never asked, and I never thought to share,” he grins, slipping one hand behind his back as he holds the weapon with another. “I’m teaching you a different method than the general did, so yes, we’re using these again. But only for a little while.”

You grip the object with both your hands and Jimin shakes his head.

“One hand,” he instructs sternly, and you chew your lower lip in hesitance. You relent, however, and point the sword towards him with your right hand. Its heaviness is magnified by the soreness of your muscles, but you grit your teeth instead of complaining.

“I suppose he grew tired of teaching me, since he asked you,” Jimin strikes swiftly above your head and you parried, albeit clumsily. Jungkook laughs somewhere behind you.

“He practically begged me to let him take over.”

Your eyes trail back towards Jungkook briefly, allowing Jimin to jab you on your torso. You push his sword off with yours as you frown, but he merely grins with glee.

“Eyes to me, Your Grace,” Jimin catches your attention with another stab on your lower shoulder. “You just died.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue as he folds his hands above his chest. The way he mockingly shakes his head puts you in a foul mood. “You’re always unfocused. I thought we’d gone over this before.”

“That’s because you’re the one distracting her, General,” Jimin says pointedly, and you nod in agreement before you realize what he said.

“Exactly! Thank you, Ji— wait, no.”

“I highly doubt that.”

You and Jungkook speak over each other, prompting you to face him with a scowl. Jimin merely watches with a bemused expression. “Miyoung was right, this is going to be entertaining.”

//

The following morning, it’s Jimin who wakes you before daybreak. He explains that it might be the last proper training you’ll have before you embark once more. It’s not like you’ll decline otherwise, so you do your best to rub the tiredness out of your eyes. You work to move with as little noise as possible so you don’t wake Miyoung, who’s still sound asleep, as you slip in a pair of unworn trousers lent by Jungkook previously. Because according to him it seems tough to move in a billowy skirt, which is something you both agree on without any argument (for once, it seems). The fabric is large, undoubtedly, but they weigh less than your dress; movement is not much of an issue as it had been.

Much to your surprise, it’s Jungkook you see outside of your tent, however, who continues to sport fatigued, sunken eyes.

“I thought the point of Jimin taking over was so that you can catch up on sleep,” you greet him with a soft nudge to his arm.

“I don’t remember that being the reason,” he replies with a lazy grin before running his hands through his dark hair. You belatedly remember that you hadn’t exactly pointed it out to him the day previous.

“Well, it should be. You’re in dire need of rest, General Jeon.”

“I’ll catch up on sleep when I’m dead.”

You know he means it in jest, as evident by the playful lilt in his tone, but there’s nothing amusing about imagining his demise. The thought of losing him, now more than ever, sends your stomach spiralling into intricate knots.

He frowns when you stay unresponsive, and inches closer before reaching up to pinch your cheeks. “Good thing I work for you as a general and not a royal jester. Or else the frown on your face would get me thrown in the dungeons.”

“I don’t recall permitting you to touch me,” you glower, but no effort is placed into moving away even an inch.

He stares at you in disbelief. “Who was the one that decided, completely unprompted, to put their lips on mine—”

You’re swift to place your palm on Jungkook’s mouth to silence him when you spot Jimin emerging from his tent.

“Did I interrupt something?” he looks between the two of you as he approaches. You free yourself from Jungkook and he doesn’t protest when you pull away.

“I was just telling General Jeon that he didn’t have to come with us so he could rest,” you give Jimin a strained smile before giving Jungkook a pointed look.

“Alright, as you wish,” it still surprises you, however, when he relents without much protest. “I shall not be a distraction, as you so-kindly point out I was being, for you this time around.”

He winks at you and gestures a salute towards Jimin before walking towards his sleeping quarters.

“Does he always do that?” Jimin asks as you both watch his figure disappear behind the tent.

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be all smug. I’m only speculating, but his ears were practically bleeding scarlet.”

You bite your lower lip to prevent a grin from spilling, but they curl upwards nonetheless. No matter how direct his words may seem or how rough he wants to appear, he still gets shy, after all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize why Jimin refers to himself as a dance master, despite the name baffling you the first time you heard it. The man moves with such poise and grace that you would never expect in someone teaching sword fighting. It’s a skill no one possesses but him, and him alone.

When the afternoon arrives, you forgo resting altogether and push Jimin to use the sabre he brought along with him.

“Right,” he announces just as you deflect his oncoming blade with yours. “Right. Right. Left. Low. Left. Right,” he’s relentless in his attacks, not letting you breathe even just for a moment as he steps forward with each command. You move back, but meet each blow with calmness as you keep your left hand training behind you.

“Heads up,” he thrusts forward as you sidestep, swiping his sword with yours and subsequently disarming him. You point the blade, barely touching his neck as you huff with satisfaction.

“I win this round,” you announce with excitement, as you lower the weapon. Jimin claps in the wake of your triumph and you make the effort to amuse him with a bow.

“After losing seven in a row,” Jungkook points out. You wrinkle your nose in annoyance but choose to ignore his snide remarks; so far, your attempts to combat his presence as a distraction have been working. Hours prior, he arrived to convince you to take a break, but you refused when Jimin admitted he wasn’t tired yet, so Jungkook opted to stay on the sidelines and watch, instead. “You are picking this up faster than I thought.”

You finally turn to him, chin high with pride. “It’s easier since it’s lighter than your sword. And I actually don’t mind having to carry it with one hand as much anymore.”

Pain clambers from your back shoulder all the way to your right arm as you boast, but you repress the affliction with the grit of your teeth. You hope none of them noticed the slight change in your demeanour as you turn to Jimin.

“Thank you for being patient with me.”

“It’s an honour to be able to share my knowledge with you, Your Highness,” Jimin bows, but you’re quick to push his shoulders and straighten his posture back up.

“No need to be so formal. I should be the one who’s honoured. I feel quite embarrassed to not have known you possess such talent.”

His cheeks turn ruddy as he looks away. “Ah, well…”

“Yeah, we could have used your expertise weeks ago when we were attacked. Maybe I wouldn’t have been injured, then,” Jungkook adds, slinging an arm around Jimin. The latter huffs as he crosses his arms defensively.

“To be fair, I thought you had that handled, General,” he deadpans. “Thank heavens the princess was there to save us.”

The statement must have rubbed Jungkook the wrong way as he moved to place Jimin in an uncomfortable headlock. Despite the obvious disadvantage he’s in, Jimin giggles, whining about how Jungkook should learn to respect his elders. Jungkook relents with a chuckle and Jimin sulks, gently rubbing the nape of his neck.

“I knew I should’ve shared sooner, but I honestly thought you’d be insulted by it,” your brows knit in confusion at Jimin’s words, but you let him continue. “A lot of people don’t prefer this style of combat because it’s slower and often a defensive method. There’s a lot of waiting and anticipating the enemy’s moves. General Jeon’s style is more straightforward; you’re taught to attack, which is the usual training for our infantry. Also, the blade isn’t as impressive.”

You examine the steel in your hands — it’s merely a little more than the size of your fingers. You offer to return the weapon to him, and he takes it. “It’s much easier to wield, nevertheless.”

“That’s what made me reluctant, to begin with. I wasn’t sure if you were going to take offence simply because it might seem easier.”

You profusely shake your head in disagreement. “I can only hope to be half as skilled as you while emulating your poise.”

“I swear my ego is always being fed every time we talk, Your Highness.”

“If anything, you deserve all the praise in the world for being such a gifted mentor,” you hear Jungkook clear his throat beside you.

“It’s really the least I could do. After seeing you dedicate yourself, I couldn’t just stand by and watch idly, twiddling my thumbs.”

You grin shyly at his words, unsure of what to say next. It’s Jungkook who breaks the silence as he nods towards the direction of your campsite. “If you two are done flirting, I think Miyoung is trying to call Jimin.”

He quickly sheathes the sword and turns to wave back at her. “I almost forgot I was going to help her pack up before we embark tomorrow,” his attention returns to you momentarily, his smile mischievous. “It turns out you carry a lot of items with you, Your Highness.”

“H-hey, most of the items were bought along the way. I didn’t,” you pause when he runs off. “I’m demoting him from dance master back to a stable boy. I swear.”

“I highly doubt that. You can barely resist the man,” Jungkook mumbles impassively, and you chuckled in agreement.

“That I can’t deny.” You turn to follow after Jimin, but before you could take one step, Jungkook grabs your wrist tightly causing you to hiss in pain.

“You’re injured,” he murmurs, forehead creasing with worry.

“It’s fine,” you twist your arm to free yourself from his hold, but it only brings you more discomfort. You bite your lower lip to prevent a moan from revealing your true condition. You watch as he rolls your sleeve up. “I’m fine, General Jeon, I don’t need you—ack!”

This time, Jungkook allows you to pull your hand back, and you cradle it against your chest protectively. “Please don’t do that.”

“I barely pressed your skin.” He gently tugs on your arm and despite your early protests, you relent and let him examine your hand. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble as he drags your sleeve further up, revealing a newly formed mark on your forearm. Jungkook turns to you, eyes thinning to slits in an obvious look of disapproval. “It’s not! I’ll be fine.”

He grows quiet as his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go of your arm completely. Gaze downcast, his thumb runs gently across the bruise, as if doing so would ease the pain.

(It does. Because for the briefest moment your attention is shifted away from your burning muscles and onto the singular point where his skin meets yours.)

“I’m not a fragile porcelain made simply for display, Jungkook.”

“Says the person who almost got swept away by the river.”

“That was one time.”

“One time is still too many, if you ask me,” his bottom lip juts into a pout. It took quite a lot of self-control not to giggle at his defeated state.

“As you said, that’s what I have you for,” your free hand finds its way up the top of his head to ruffle his hair. You feel his body go rigid upon your touch. “I’ll try not to get killed to make your life easier, don’t worry. That’s why I want to become stronger.”

Jungkook hesitates, before inhaling sharply. “You know that you don’t have to prove yourself to me, or anybody for that matter,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. The sudden seriousness in his tone almost gives you whiplash.

“What do you mean? I’m not doing this to prove anything,” you intend to keep your voice level to let him know you took no malice in his words.

His forehead creased in confusion, nonetheless, eyes searching yours. “Then what?”

Prior conversations with him play in your mind, persistent and foreboding. One wrong word could send Jungkook spiralling into the limbo between a stranger and someone seemingly only there because he’s bound by the duty to serve his country. The thought of laying down parameters for you to walk around each other is terrifying.

Therefore, you believe there’s no use in being privy to your fears anymore; not when you’re about to enter the lion’s den. “The same reason as before. I just want to be able to protect myself, and everyone for that matter, including you. That isn’t to say that I don’t trust you, but I want to be of use if there comes a time when—” you pause, unsure of how to continue. Jungkook’s worried gaze is unnerving, but he allows you to finish your train of thought. “Hearing your horror stories about the dangers that might be waiting for us when we cross that border…”

“I’m not saying everyone who lives there has evil intentions by default. I’m just relaying whatever information I’ve been told by the others.”

His statement makes you wonder even more why your father decided to ship off his only heir if they weren’t the kindest people, to begin with. Surely, he was aware of their reputation despite how diplomatic he thought the matrimony would be.

Jungkook continues. “I’m sure Min Yoongi is reasonable. I heard he refused to let his men get killed in battle, so they yielded. He probably agreed to this deal because he’s a pacifist, unlike his father.”

No matter how reassuring his words are on the surface, there’s still an underlying tone of uncertainty in his voice. It’s understandable because neither he nor you know what type of danger lies when you step foot beyond the safety of your kingdom. You couldn’t bring yourself to muster even a smile as a response.

Jungkook must have sensed your distress as his fingers slid down to clasp his hand in yours. The gesture might not be anything other than a mere consolation, but it’s enough to keep your nerves buzzing with intensity.

“I won’t let harm come to you. I promise,” the gentle breeze seems to heave a sigh, ruffling the fringes of his hair ever so softly.

You hold the weight of his words gently between the warmth of his palm against yours. In reality, no matter how much you try to shield yourself by swimming away, you’re caught by the hooks and reeled right back into him, always. The space he occupies within the confines of your heart grows infinitely larger each day that passes by, and you’re unsure if you should feel elated or terrified.

*  *  *

Min Yoongi reckons he has a great sense of proclivity for fortune without ever having to work for it; all according to hearsay, that is. He never quite understood where such sentiment roots from. The last time he checked, the inheritance rightfully belongs to him so any notion that he has to “work” for anything is moot. However, being within close reach of the throne does come at a costly price; one that is paid with people’s lives as currency. It seems that when one barters with Fate, Death comes tagging along.

The first victim is his younger brother.

During the tail-end of the recent war that passed, he catches wind of the crown prince’s demise and immediately orders his men to withdraw from their position of defence to return safely behind enemy lines. Retreating at the first whiff of danger is not his proudest moment, admittedly, but at the time he decided he wanted to be alive to see another sunset rather than being buried six feet below the ground to become a feast for maggots. As much as he’s a man of pride, he still values his life to a certain extent; at least enough to get himself out of peril.

It seems to be a backwards decision to the people of Tuo, but he is to assume the crown prince’s responsibility, therefore assuming the position to control what little remains of their infantry. The subsequent and constant deterioration of his father from an unmistakably paralyzing disease no one in the kingdom knew the cure of only brought about his hurried ascension to the throne. Yet, instead of being elated in the position he finds himself in, he’s inclined to feel otherwise.

And rightfully so, because the provision to him being a ruler includes marriage to a certain princess who heralds from the land which they sought war in order to stake a claim on.

His father, unbeknownst to Yoongi during the genesis of the agreement, promptly carried out a deal with the so-called scums of the South to unite the two countries together through matrimony. The inclination to roll his eyes is strong with such a clichéd premise.

“Even on your deathbed, you manage to make life a living hell for me. I commend you for that, I suppose,” he mutters under his breath, tightly clutching the neck of the ceramic vial that holds his rice wine. He’s well aware that his father couldn’t hear him from a safe distance. He isn’t even sure the king is alive at this point—for all he knows, the queen could be playing it up to prevent Yoongi from fulfilling the role of the king.

His father lays peacefully, bed surrounded by a thin, almost see-through muslin fabric. The canopy serves both as a barrier and a warning; unless you’re an experienced physician or the unfortunate chambermaid who has to look out for him, you should not pass through.

“You despised that your favoured son to inherit the throne died, making me the next in line. That’s why you’re doing this, am I right?” he raises his voice, unconcerned with the fact that servants and guards just outside the room can possibly hear him. “A matrimony I never agreed to.”

He’s unsure whether it’s a well-known truth among the nobles and anybody else living inside the palace walls, but it does raise questions in their minds as to why Yoongi hadn’t been the second in line to the throne after his father. But then again, nobody questions anything the Mad King did or said, not when he raised hell against his enemies in the South, and certainly not when he declared his second-born son as his successor.

Except for Death, of course, who’s seemingly the only true entity that’s able to cripple the king in his tracks. He likes to think Death is on his side and took away the bane of his existence, the stain in his claim to the throne. But then again Death also took the only person that matters in his miserable life, so Yoongi concludes one simply cannot have everything they covet. Perhaps he is lucky after all, and fortune will willingly land on his lap if he so wishes.

Too bad it’s not what he truly desires.  

Yoongi takes a swig of his makgeolli wine, taking pleasure in the way the fiery water washes down the undesirable lump in his throat. He chugs and chugs, ignoring the excess liquid that spills from the corners of his mouth, as he desperately wishes for the goddamn ache in his chest to disappear. Once the ceramic decanter runs dry, he tosses it across the room and the chambermaid yelps in surprise when it shatters into tiny pieces.

A low chuckle emits from within his chest as his legs buckle from underneath him, bringing his knees down on the wooden floors with a thud.

“Do you really expect me to roll over like an injured beast and be receptive to whatever it is that you’ve planned for me?”

He didn’t think the people who they called enemies merely a few months ago would easily submit to such a fallacy for the sake of maintaining “peace”. But they immediately sent out the only heir to their throne, and without so much as a mere palace guard as a form of protection! Yoongi partially believes they’re more foolish than any palace jester he’s met, but the failure of the men he hired makes him conservative against such prejudice.

Perhaps dealing with their princess will be quite entertaining, after all.

“It’s a damn shame you won’t be alive to see what will become of this kingdom and its people whom you failed,” he hollers in between his unhinged laughter as he clutches his stomach. He swipes the spill on his chin using the sleeves of his golden speckled black robe. “Don’t worry, my only aim is to uphold your vilified reputation. It’s not like I’ll be doing anything sacrilegious, certainly not one that you haven’t already attempted in the slightest. After what you did to her, it’s the least I could do in return—”

“Sorry to bother, Your Majesty, but the queen has arrived for her visit,” the eunuch’s voice pierces through the closed doors, interrupting him. Yoongi hisses in indignation as he staggers to get up from his position. “Do you need a bit more time?”

“I’ll be right out, for fuck’s sake,” he manages to get to the door without stumbling over. The door slides open to reveal the eunuch in question, as well as the queen herself, in all her youth and glory, and the now noticeable bump on her belly. Yoongi doesn’t know how she managed to procure such a thing from his father, at that state, not to mention at her uncertain age to bear another child, but he digresses.

“Queen Dowager,” he slurs, choosing the name for no particular reason other than to draw ire from her. She finally shows her maturity when her forehead wrinkles in displeasure, showing certain lines that cannot be hidden by the flaked lead she generously patted on her face.

“What an abhorrent name to greet your mother,” she seethes and Yoongi couldn’t hold back his scoff. “Especially when the king is very much still alive.”

“Is he, though?” he points behind him with his chin mockingly, before his grin widens. “I’ll leave you to it then, Mother. Be careful though, he just won’t shut up. I could barely get a word in.”

Yoongi collapses on the floor when he takes another step, prompting the eunuch and some court ladies to rush to his aid. He waves them off with a mumble and a hand gesture, before pushing himself up using the wall.

“Sober up, will you,” the queen calls out from behind him. “Our guests should arrive tomorrow.”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth curls up in delight as he locks gazes with the eunuch, whose face blanches with fright.

“Finally.”

— previous ; next ; series masterlist

note (edit): now that i don’t want to claw my eyes out from being sleepy, i just want to give credit to “game of thrones” (book one) for bearing inspiration to this chapter. again i hope you enjoyed reading ♡

taglist: @apurpledheart @koochiekoo @fan-ati--c @grandqueen1533 @awsome-small-k @novusluna @yodakoo14 @politically-acurate @bangtandongsaeng @taevkimchi @ausjeons​ @zxlummxxd​

[xinfamousxunderdogx]

Did our fairytale go bad?

Since I'm currently rather uninspired to write something new I decided to post an older one shot I wrote last year.

Pairing: Ymir x Historia

Source: Attack on Titan

Trigger Warning: kind of alcohol abuse / getting drunk

I just wanted to write a dramatic breakup story. I hope you like it. A bit different than my last two quite fluffy Jaskier x reader one shots, but I hope you'll like it anyways ^^

______________________________________________

‘You can’t just leave!’, I shouted, trying not to let my voice show her how hurt I was. How broken. How desperately I wanted her to stay. I looked at her, but she kept her gaze down, slowly shaking her head, strands of her blond hair covering her eyes. Those deep, blue, ocean eyes.

‘I can. And I will.’, she said calmly, eventually looking up. Her face didn’t show a single emotion. Did she really not care at all about all this? About us? About me? I thought I would mean at least a bit to her. But apparently not. Otherwise she wouldn’t have chosen Reiner. Not to sound selfish, but that jerk didn’t deserve her. Not at all. He was just so … I don’t know. He seemed so self-centered. I doubt that he cares about Historia the way I do. This girl deserves to be treated like a queen. But apparently that was not what Historia was looking for.

She sighed and grabbed her coat from the chair in the kitchen. ‘My uber-driver should be here any moment.’ She looked at me. I looked back, trying to figure out what exactly was going on inside her. Nothing. Historia turned around and made her way to the door. And I … I just stood there, frozen. I couldn’t let her go, but I couldn’t figure out any way to make her stay.

‘Historia, please!’

She didn’t stop, nothing that showed that she regretted her decision at least a little bit. I couldn’t move, my eyes were basically glued to the back of her head. This blonde, soft hair I ran my fingers through so many times.

Even though every part of me tried to resist this, a loud sob escaped my lips. Fuck. I hated showing feelings. Historia was actually the very first person I was with where I allowed myself to be me. To even show weakness from time to time. It was still one of the things that scared me the most. Appearing vulnerable.

“Please don’t leave me.”

My voice was cracking, I took a deep breath and bit my lip. And for a very short moment Historia stopped and her movements became more hesitating.

“I’m sorry, Ymir.”

These were the last words that left her lips, almost too silent for me to even hear them. Then she left and the last thing I heard was the door closing shut and footsteps running down the stairs.

Almost automatically my feet made their way to the kitchen, to the window from where I could see the street in front of the house. Historia stood there, next to a black car with tinted windows. And Reiner was there, too, he was leaning against the back of that car. When Historia came out of the building he smiled, approached her only to place one hand on her waist and a kiss on her forehead. Unfortunately, her hair covered her face so I couldn’t see if she was smiling. But that was better for me, I assumed.

I clenched my fist, so hard that even my short nails were digging into the skin of my palm.

That bastard.

When Historia got in the car he looked up, directly at me as if he had already known I was standing there, watching them. He even had the nerve to slightly smile at me. As if he’d conquered me or something. As if Historia was his trophy that showed his victory over me. This man was so disgusting. Historia was nothing but a toy for him, someone to brag with, and someone to be seen with. I knew that outside he’d pretend to be the perfect boyfriend, caring, courteous, protective. But as soon as they were home, alone, he wouldn’t care for her, except when it would come to his desires.

At least that’s how I expected him to behave. Maybe it was just a product of my jealousy that wouldn’t let me realize that Reiner maybe really was better for her, and that Historia actually could become happy with him.

Afraid that Reiner could read my face I turned around. From the corner of my eyes I could see him get on the back seat of the car next to Historia. And I was somehow glad they were finally leaving. I couldn’t stand seeing them together.

---

I felt as empty as back in the days where I was all alone, not knowing who I was, not really having a name or an existence. Before I met Historia.

I sank down to the floor in the hallway, closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. Within a few minutes I lost the most important part of my life. The person that meant everything.

Where did I go wrong?

I don’t think I ever told Historia how much she actually meant to me. We also hadn’t been together for a very long time, officially together at least. Almost a year. Even though things started way earlier. But in the beginning, everything was just more of an open on-off relationship. We hooked up from time to time, went to several clubs, Historia pretending to find a guy and me pretending to help her even though we both knew that we’d end up in my bed. Together.

But I never dragged her to make things official, to decide and to state what exactly the thing between us was. I didn’t want her to feel constrained or anything like that, not only because I was the first woman she was with, also because she told me her parents were very conservative. I didn’t want her to get in trouble.

And I admit it, I was kind of afraid to confess how much she really started meaning to me in such a short amount of time. I didn’t want to acknowledge that I saw more than a friend or fuckbuddy in her. Because it scared me that I caught feelings, on top of that such strong feelings, so quick. That has never happened before. Which as well made me realize that Historia was different. My soulmate, even though that sounds corny as shit. My feelings for her were different. I’ve had several relationships before, not many, but enough to be able to compare them to Historia.

All this went on for … let’s say a bit over a year. And then Historia was the one who asked to make our relationship official. Not in public, at least not to everyone. But for us. She asked me to be her girlfriend. And I was so overwhelmed and happy. I refused to believe that all this should be over now. Everything we had.

I just wished I was more honest with her. About my feelings I mean. I wished I would’ve told her how much she really meant to me; how special she was to me. I don’t know if she knew, but I never specifically said it to her. And now I’ll probably never again have the chance to do so.

But why Reiner? Why him? She could’ve had anyone. I always saw how people looked at her whenever we were outside. And not only boys. But mostly. Hardly surprising. Historia was stunning. Not merely her character. Her bright, blue eyes, her soft, blond hair, and her smile. My god, that smile.

But why, of all other people she could have, did she choose him? Reiner, the biggest jerk I’ve ever met. It just didn’t make sense to me. To be honest, it didn’t really even make sense to me that she left me at all. I thought she was happy. I thought we were happy. Together. Was it something with her parents? Did they force Historia to get together with Reiner?

I didn’t know her parents very well, I’ve met them twice or so, but that was enough. It wouldn’t surprise me if they forced Historia into this relationship. In their eyes Reiner was probably perfect for their princess. Tall, popular, from a wealthy family. The exact opposite of me. He was perfect. Highest graduation, and probably about to be the next head of his father’s company. God dammit, why do I know so much about this bastard? Right, Historia had told me about him. Not often, she just complained that her parents always reproached her with what a perfect guy he was. Comments, that subtly meant that they wanted him and Historia to get married and have lots of children together. But Historia also always told me how ridiculous this behavior was in her eyes. And how disgusting Reiner was to her.

“He doesn’t really have much respect for women. He’s that kind of guy that thinks a woman belongs in the kitchen and who wants his girlfriend to stay at home, look pretty and be completely dependent on him.” She said all that with a face that clearly showed her disgust about his attitude.

Was this all a lie?

I buried my face in my arms which I’ve rested on my knees. I couldn’t prevent a single tear from running down my face. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Maybe I didn’t mean as much to her as I thought I did. Maybe I was kind of an experiment for her. Maybe she saw the past two years as an adventure, a break from her stereotypical, normal, boring life. But now she’s had enough and wants to get back to her usual, previous life.

The last thing I wanted to do now was to drown in self-hatred and doubts again, but I couldn’t help. Too many questions were running through my head.

What if I did things in a different way? Was there anything I should’ve done different? I could or should’ve done better? Did I hurt her without noticing? Did I give her the impression I didn’t love her?

“Fuck!”, I whispered, my voice thin and raspy.

How do I shut my fucking brain off? I don’t have the energy to overthink about every single thing that I did in the past weeks. But I still do. My brain automatically starts overanalyzing everything, every single situation from the past weeks. Everything I said, everything she said. I even tried to remember if she behaved differently or anything. But I couldn’t remember. And that stressed me out. I felt horrible because I knew that it must have been my fault. I must have done something wrong.

I furrowed my eyebrows, my teeth clenched as I aggressively ran my fingers through my hair. Then I abruptly got up and made my way to the living room, directly to the cupboard next to the TV and opened it. I hated myself because alcohol seemed to be the only thing I could think about when it came to coping mechanisms. Why wasn’t I able to handle things in a normal way? My other coping mechanism had been sex, healthier than drinking, but well, kind of hard to practice when you just got dumped. So, I had to take the other opportunity.

I didn’t want to fall back into old habits. But I kept telling myself it was just this time, only tonight, that I just needed distraction until tomorrow, when I could maybe see this whole situation clearer. When I would be calmer and wouldn’t feel the shock that deeply anymore.

I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured the liquid into one of the glasses that were standing on the counter. Then I took the bottle as well as the glass with me to the sofa where I sat down. There was no need to lie, I knew I would drink more than one glass.

I took a sip, bigger than I intended and hated myself for it. This wasn’t a solution. I hated myself for being better at drinking my feelings away than talking about them. And I guess that was the main problem.

How could you be so emotionally dependent on one single person that they could leave you as a total mess as soon as they were gone? When did I even allow myself to become so attached to a person, to become so vulnerable? In a way that I couldn't come up with anything but drinking my feelings and my pain away? And even though I told myself it was only today, that I’d feel better tomorrow, that everything would be fine again in a few days.

But a tiny part of me knew that that was not true. That I wouldn’t stop drowning my sadness in whisky or any other strong alcohol. That I wouldn’t get over this so fast.

I grabbed the bottle and filled my glass again, taking a big sip to silent this voice in my head that was whispering all these verities to me, at least for tonight.