#the shadow is but a small and passing thing

[rosiecosy]

come back home୨ৎ

(seventeen x reader) — angst, comfort

fights weren’t common between you and the boys, but when they happened, they always felt big.

tonight was no different.

you weren’t even sure how it started—something small, something dumb. maybe you were feeling overwhelmed, maybe they were frustrated too. but words were said, voices were raised, and suddenly, the walls of the dorm felt too tight, their voices too loud, the weight of their concern too heavy.

so you left.

you barely registered the way the door clicked shut behind you, barely noticed the cold bite of the night air against your skin. all you knew was that you needed space.

—

your feet carried you to the nearest park without much thought.

it was mostly empty at this hour, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. the only sound was the distant hum of passing cars, the occasional rustling of leaves. it was quiet. peaceful. a stark contrast to the suffocating tension in the dorm.

you wandered over to the swings, hands shoved into your pockets as you let out a slow breath.

maybe you had overreacted. maybe you should’ve just stayed and talked things through. but it was hard—being the youngest, the only girl in a dorm full of overprotective boys. they meant well, you knew that, but sometimes it was exhausting. too many opinions, too many voices telling you what to do, too many people hovering, worrying, questioning.

and you knew they only did it because they cared, but sometimes… sometimes you just needed to breathe.

you sat down on the swing, the chains creaking softly as you pushed off the ground. the rhythmic motion was soothing, the cool air helping to clear your mind. you closed your eyes, letting the weight of the night settle around you.

—

meanwhile, back at the dorm, the boys were spiraling.

"she’s not picking up," minghao muttered, lowering his phone.

"maybe she just needs a minute," vernon offered, though he sounded unsure.

"what if she doesn’t come back?" seokmin blurted out, eyes wide.

"don’t be ridiculous," woozi sighed, though his grip on his phone was tight.

"what if something happens to her?" mingyu asked, looking way too close to panicking.

"okay, enough," seungcheol cut in. "jun, jeonghan, joshua—you check the streets. hoshi, woozi, dino—stay here in case she comes back. the rest of us will check nearby cafés or parks."

"we’re not splitting up like a horror movie," jeonghan muttered, but he was already grabbing his coat.

—

you didn’t know how long you had been swinging when you heard footsteps approaching.

you blinked, slowing your movement, turning your head just in time to see seokmin and mingyu jogging toward you, relief washing over their faces the second they spotted you.

"there you are!" seokmin huffed, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

"we’ve been looking everywhere," mingyu added, slightly breathless.

you blinked at them, a little guilty but mostly just tired. "i was just getting some air."

your phone buzzed in your pocket—seungcheol’s name flashing across the screen. you hesitated before answering.

"…hi?"

"where are you? are you safe? why didn’t you answer your phone?"

"i’m fine," you sighed. "i just needed to clear my head."

"stay where you are. we’re coming."

you didn’t get a say in it.

—

when you got back to the dorm, thirteen pairs of eyes were on you.

seungcheol looked like he wanted to lecture you. seungkwan looked like he wanted to cry. dino looked like you had personally betrayed him.

"i was literally gone for, like, twenty minutes," you pointed out.

"twenty minutes too long," hoshi muttered.

"don’t do that again," jeonghan sighed, pulling you into a hug.

"we thought you left for good," dino mumbled.

your expression softened. "what? why would i do that?"

they all exchanged awkward glances.

"…because of the fight?" jun said hesitantly.

you blinked. "guys."

"you left without saying anything," joshua pointed out.

"because i knew i’d come back," you said. "i just needed some space, that’s all."

seungcheol exhaled, rubbing his temples. "just—next time, tell someone, okay?"

guilt crept in at the worry in his voice. "okay. i’m sorry."

they all nodded, still looking a little shaken but relieved.

"now, group hug?" seokmin suggested.

before you could protest, you were pulled into a mess of arms, warmth, and way too much body heat.

"okay, okay, i get it!" you laughed. "i’m not going anywhere."

"good," woozi muttered. "because that was awful."

"never again," seungkwan mumbled into your shoulder.

and despite everything—despite the fight, despite the worry—this felt like home.

[inbabylontheywept]

I went to summer camp as a kid. Six times, actually. I have many fond memories, and even more terrible ones. Here's one that's a mixture of both.

To set the stage, I had just spent the night in the infirmary due to a big fight I had with almost my entire tent. They never wanted to sleep, and were always obnoxiously loud with a lantern dubbed "the sun" that let me see movement around me with my eyes closed from the shadows passing over it. I was sleep-deprived, overstimulated, autistic-but-unaware-of-that, and twelve years old, and I already disliked these girls because they talked shit about me behind my back and took advantage of naivety. This unfortunate combination lead to a blowout meltdown in which I said some things I regret, so the counselors decided it'd be best if I spent some time away.

Now, this had the unforeseen consequence of putting me in a place with less supervision. This place also had some strange bugs. They were small, about the size of my pinky fingernail. Most of their bodies were in their tails, which curved downwards like a reverse scorpion. They were black and white, sort of striped, with six legs and no wings. Their fangs were very thin, but long, extending out from their faces like brownish parentheses. They had a propensity to bite.

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

While messing around with these bugs, I noticed that when they bit, they didn't just chomp and leave. They sunk their fangs in and they kept them there for a long time. Naturally, I decided to see what would happen if I let them, nay, encouraged them to bite me, as an experiment. When would they extricate their incisors from my flesh? Would my reaction to the bites vary depending on the amount of time each bite lasted?

I let these bugs bite me four times, once for about 13 minutes, once for about 5 minutes, once for about 1 minute, and once for 45 seconds (I didn't have a watch, so these are estimates). Then, I forged a peaceful resolution with my tentmates and we went to watch the beginning of Color War.

Except, turns out it's stupid to let unidentified insects taste your blood. The bites swelled up huge. I got chills. My stomach hurt intensely. My counselor took me back to the infirmary to get them checked out.

Needless to say, this was not easy to explain to the nurse on duty ("WHY" "For science!"). His first thought was we needed to figure out what bit me. If only it were that simple.

We combed through the databases for insects in the state. We expanded our search to arachnids, even, although it certainly wasn't one. I drew a little mock-up on a Post-It to show him. There was not a single match. To this day, I have no idea what it was that I let bite me. I was given orders to come back tomorrow to get them checked by a doctor, and also return every morning and night for a week to put warm compresses and medicinal ointments on the bites, and a strong directive to never do anything like that again, with a side of "What the hell were you thinking????"

A couple of months later, after camp, I went to my friend's bar mitzvah. The woman in the row behind me tapped my shoulder. She asked me how the bug bites were. It was the doctor from the infirmary.

-- @dr-robert-chase-apologist

That was a beautiful ending. I have a similar story, but less gruesome than letting bugs bite me. My family used to go up to trips to the Mogollon Mountains two or three times a year. The woods were where my dad always felt the most at peace.

My dad used that time to hike through the trees. And I grew into that eventually, but when I was very little, I felt a particular kinship to the small things of this world. Worms and beetles and woodlice and those peculiar Arizona grasshopers with wings the size of jellybeans and tummies the size of my thumb.

And on one trip, there was an incredible number of these beautiful, fuzzy caterpillars. Picture below.

I went a little crazy about them. They were fluffy, and they were had pretty colors, and they had the cutest, softest, stubbiest little suction cup feets that I'd ever seen. Watching them climb up stalks of grass or over fallen branches was enchanting.

So I caught, like, twenty of them, and most got put in a little terrarium where I could watch them do cute caterpillar things. Mostly eat fresh pine needles and wriggle gregariously. But some I kept out just to play with. I'd put them on my palm, and I'd watch them crawl all the way up to my neck, then I'd move them somewhere else. They tickled, and I was charmed to be their jungle gym.

But apparently, those little hairs break off like fiberglass, and they have some kind of venom on them, so I had these strange, wriggling, almost tattoo like rashes all over my arms up to my neck. Very embarrassing to explain to my parents.

There was an entomologist on the street that I grew up on named Freddie. And he wasn't just a bug expert, he was specifically a caterpillar expert. He had a garden in his backyard that was specifically tailored for butterflies, he'd always draw in clouds of Monarchs during their migration. My parents asked him about the mysterious itchy caterpillars, and he said they were lophocampa ingens, and that I was lucky that I didn't inhale those hairs. They can stick inside your throat and make it swell closed. Scary little bastards.

I'd still see them after that, but never in such numbers. And while I appreciated them, I always tried to keep a few feet of distance. Just to be safe.

(Also, just wanted to clarify that I didn't remember the name for 20 years, I googled "irticating caterpillar Mogollon", and saw the picture. It wasn't until I read the caption that I was like oh yeaaaaah, that's what he called them. But it was one of those memories I could never have pulled at will.)

[pukefactory]

⫘⫘⫘⟢ SUPPRESSING FIRE ⟢⫘⫘⫘

！ Summary: Caregiver Burning Spice Cookie X Little Reader Headcannons

！ Character(s): Burning Spice Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

！ Genre: Headcannons, SFW, Agere

！ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

！ Image Credits: @theleverethiding

⚡︎ His hands, capable of razing kingdoms, cradle you with an impossible tenderness—firm yet reassuring in their strength. Despite his destructive nature, Burning Spice Cookie is fiercely protective of you. His grip is steady when you cling to him, his warmth enveloping, his voice low and gruff as he murmurs, “In the end, everything turns to dust, but not us. I’ll keep you safe.”

⚡︎ You whimper in the dark, small and afraid. The embers of his flames cast flickering shadows along the walls, restless and alive. “There is no need to fear,” he rumbles, shifting so his warmth surrounds you. A low hum escapes him—ancient, steady, a melody lost to time. It resonates in his chest, reverberating gently off the walls as he murmurs words you do not recognize yet find strangely soothing. Wrapped in the arms of destruction itself, you drift into sleep, safe and warm.

⚡︎ He wields his colossal axe with ease, his devastation swift and absolute. Yet, when he adjusts your clothes with massive, careful fingers, his touch is as light as a whisper. “There,” he grunts, satisfied. You beam up at him. The Great Destroyer scoffs, though his fire burns a shade warmer before a large hand ruffles your hair.

⚡︎ A warrior’s den should be adorned with the spoils of war, but his is strewn with plushies, rattles, and soft blankets. The first time one of his generals entered and saw you nestled in a pile of stuffed animals, they braced for his fury. Instead, he merely ignored their presence, picked up a large, fluffy tiger plush, and placed it beside you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his wicked grin. “Hah! Now he will guard you when I’m busy turning up the heat!” That tiger plush quickly became your favorite.

⚡︎ His people tremble when he storms through the halls, fire licking at his heels. Yet, when he sees you standing there, arms outstretched, the flames quell. He grumbles but lifts you effortlessly, holding you close. “You are bold to make such demands of me, little one.” And yet, he carries you in his arms for the rest of the day, that single remark the only complaint he utters.

⚡︎ A passing Cookie sneers at your childish garb—the sippy cup, the pacifier. “Pathetic.” Before they can blink, Burning Spice Cookie looms over them, flames curling up his arms. “Say that again,” he growls, voice low and dangerous. The Cookie flees. Later, he kneels beside you, placing your fallen flame-shaped pacifier back in your hands. He seems more upset than you, but his tension eases when you lean your head against his side.

⚡︎ Tantrums mean nothing to him. You kick, wail, pound tiny fists against his chest—he does not budge. “Haha! Is that all you’ve got?” he teases, amused. But when you sniffle, rubbing at your tear-streaked face, he sighs. Lifting you onto his shoulders, he rumbles, “Come. We will find something for you to truly destroy.” He does not say he means himself, but his excitement at teaching you destruction is unmistakable.

⚡︎ His body radiates an ever-present heat. On cold nights, you burrow against him, seeking warmth. “Clingy thing…” he huffs, yet he shifts closer, his massive frame blocking out the chill and surrounding you in gentle heat. In the morning, you wake to find your favorite tiger plush nestled beside you, a red fluffy blanket draped over you. He does not mention it, and neither do you, simply holding the plush close.

⚡︎ Before battle, he marks his body with crimson streaks, sigils of war and violence. Yet, as he grips his parashu, ready to leave, he abruptly pauses. Your small hands reach for him, and he kneels, allowing you to press a sticker—a simple tiger, much like your plush—onto his spiked shoulder armor. “He wants to watch over you!” you say excitedly. He snorts. “Then he and I shall have many tales of destruction to share when I return.” He does not remove it. When he comes back, the sticker remains, untouched by battle.

⚡︎ He has burned civilizations, crushed empires beneath his heel. Yet here he kneels, letting your tiny hands press against his cheeks. “Be gentle,” you murmur, worried about the rage in his eyes. He closes them, exhales slowly, faint wisps of smoke curling from his nostrils like a sleeping dragon. “For you,” he rumbles, “I will try.”

[starsfic]

Child Support

I got inspired by @linkinaboxx's ideas for @quitealotofsodapop's Shadow Triplets, including the one where the triplets refer to Macaque as a deadbeat.

Something was up on Flower Fruit Mountain.

For the past few weeks, Wukong had opened the door to the cabin to find an arrangement of... stuff on his doorstep.

At first, it had started off as gold and jewels, with a monetary worth enough for the triplets to go to college in America several times over if they wanted to. Wukong had ended up exchanging it all for money, confused but shrugging it off. Weirder things had popped up, and even if he was already rich, it was nice to have more money just in case.

Then, toys and treats joined the gold, narrowing down to match each child's taste.

This sent terror down Wukong's spine. It confirmed that something or someone was actively stalking his children.

Thunder had complained about breaking a calligraphy pen and the next morning, there was a new pen. Savage had been introduced to the 1941 Princess Iron Fan animation and, by next morning, the animation stills that had been reported stolen had popped up on his porch. Rumble wanted croissants but the nice bakery he bought them at, which got butter directly from France, was having delays, and the next morning there was a fresh box from a French bakery, still warm from the oven.

Wukong had checked with the others, even the Demon Bull Family, to make sure he wasn't freaking out over nothing. He had double, even triple checked to make sure there was no curses ir or anything before letting the children have them. There was no ill-intentioned magic, but the fact that his family wasn't involved?

He could still feel the Lady Bone Demon's strings. The Mayor had disappeared.

That meant one thing.

Wukong went through the evening routine as usual. He kissed each of his sweet little stormclouds after they fell asleep. He turned off the lights, making sure the nightlight was on to keep any nightmares away. He created a clone and ordered it to sleep in his bed.

With that done, Wukong settled next to the door and kept his breathing soft and even.

And then he waited.

What felt like an eternity passed. Wukong waited and waited and waited. Once, he startled, but realized quickly that one of the kids had just gotten up to go to the bathroom.

He kept waiting.

When 2 AM blinked from the stove, Wukong let out a soft groan. Exhaustion tugged at him. His butt felt numb from the floor.

He was tempted to get up and go to bed. Xiaojiao had offered to set up cameras-

A soft noise rustled outside.

Unlike other nature noises, however, this contained the soft ssh ssh of magic.

This was it.

Wukong sprang to his feet and let out a war cry as he threw open the door-

"Macaque?"

His ex-mate knelt on his porch, frozen. He looked kinda like Thunder when he got startled by something. Wukong looked down and stared.

He was setting down a box of Savage's favorite cookies next to the usual gold. Next to it was a small jewelry box, open to reveal a citrine bracelet, another box of sweets, and a large box of chalk.

In his arms was a large bundle of yellow flowers, sunflowers and peonies alongside roses, all tied with a turquoise ribbon bearing a tag with "WUKONG" written in his ex's familiar swooping handwriting. A few petals had fluttered off but stuck, making his dark fur look like sunlight shining through trees.

"...hi?"

Wukong blinked and then rubbed his eyes. He was half-convinced he was dreaming. When he looked up again, Macaque had stood up, half hiding his face behind the flowers.

"What are you doing?" Wukong finally settled on asking. He hadn't really seen the shadow monkey since the bone demon's defeat and, he hated to admit it, but it hurt. He had at least hoped Macaque would want to see the kids.

Macaque stood there, not looking at him. Wukong was ready to ask again when there was a quiet rumble, one he had to strain to hear.

"...child support."

[secretlysimpash]

Pt. 1

Pt. 2

It's been a few months since your initial mating, you’ve got three mates and some pups on the way…And Price is left alone with you on the base while the boys are off on some classified business.

!!!! MDNI !!!

warning(s): reader is female, typical A/B/O shit (alphas, omegas, betas, mates, marks, scents, pups), pregnancy, lactation, fluff (kinda?? i think this constitutes as fluff)

“I’m sorry, did you say triplets, John?”

Laswell’s incredulous voice came from the other end of the call, and the equally surprised Captain held the phone from his ear for a moment. Inhaling deeply, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You heard right, Laswell…” He confirmed, his voice perfectly calm, even if he was still reeling himself. “The medic found three during the ultrasound. Can’t tell if they’re all Simon’s either.” Not that it’d matter. He added mentally, knowing full well that you and the three men were mated now. Even if it’s Simon’s mark on your neck, Johnny and Kyle are also your alphas in every sense of the word. Heteropaternal superfecundation isn’t common, but not unheard of for omegas in heat, and especially for omegas whose bodies accept more than one mate…Like yours did. 

“Fuck me…So her temporary replacement might be more permanent than I expected.” Laswell said, a begrudging note of resignation laced into her words regarding the flippant alpha filling in for you. A beat of silence stretched between them before she exhaled. “Okay…Keep in touch, I’ll swing by when I’m finished with this paperwork. God knows how long this’ll take.”

John straightened up, humming out softly in response. “Right…Take your time, don’t go completely mad, Kate.” And then the call ends. It went over better than expected, all things considered. She didn’t tear him a new one the same way she did when he informed her that you’d be staying for an extra week after the initial incident roughly four months ago. 

Bringing a hand down his face, John abandons his phone and makes his way to the window in his office. A lot has happened in four months, and he’s still wrapping his head around it. He watched his lieutenant and two sergeants stake their claim on you, taking you on many dates and outings, and just being wonderful alphas…If not a bit overprotective of you. John watched you splitting your nights up between the three alphas, never once asking for your own room (he tried giving you your own room, only to find your three alphas piled into the small bed meant for one, crowding you that morning).

Speaking of the other alphas…All three had to head out of the base early this morning to share notes with Farah Karim and Alex Keller in a classified location, and they aren’t expected to be back until tomorrow evening. They didn’t want to leave their sweet omega alone, nor did they want to wake her up to say goodbye since you seemed so peaceful. So, instead, John listened from outside of Soap’s quarters as they shared hushed farewells with you.

“We’ll be back before ye ken…”

“Captain’ll be here if you need anything, birdie.”

“Stay outta trouble…And don’t give your mum a hard time.”

That last bit from Gaz was aimed at the pups growing inside of you, and was no doubt followed up with a kiss to the growing bump. It warmed his heart a bit, truly…Seeing the three men he works so close with, ones he’s been through hell with, being so content. He watches the budding leaves sway on the tree near his window, exhaling through his nose when he hears something shuffling past his office. Turning his head, he can see the shadow of someone passing by under the door. 

Must be her. He thought as he crossed over to the door. Once it was open, he’s greeted by the sight of you toddling into the kitchen. You’re practically swimming in one of Soap’s shirts, wearing an old pair of pajama pants courtesy of Gaz, and he can pick up on Ghost’s leathery scent underneath the other two. 

“Morning.” John grunts out, making his way into the kitchen after you. When you turn to look at him in front of the fridge, he can’t help but smile. You’re literally barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, practically glowing despite your slightly frazzled appearance. 

“It’s…” You begin, squinting at the time on the clock. “More like afternoon…But hi. My appetite finally caught up with me.”

John hums in response as he fills up the coffee maker before hitting brew. He recalls how you weren’t feeling very hungry in the past few days, having an upset stomach that would only tolerate liquids and the occasional strange pregnancy craving (the sight of you eating pickles with chocolate ice cream will haunt John’s dreams). “Want me to make you something?”

“I can cook…” You respond, shifting through the cabinets. “The boys are amazing, but they haven’t let me cook my own meal since…God, since before they knew I was pregnant, actually.”

“They’re just eager to show you that they can provide.” John explains, taking out a mug for himself and one for you. “It's a thing with us alphas. The macho and dominant part is there, but we want our omegas to know they can count on us to provide for them and our pups. An alpha being soft for their mate and brood is important.”

As you listen along, you pull out some pancake mix, intent on making a nice stack for yourself. You try to ignore the odd feeling in your chest…In your breasts, more specifically. It’s just another side effect of being pregnant with pups, three at that. They seem more tender, sore even. Your mind is set on making and devouring as many pancakes as possible, sore tits be damned. 

John is in the middle of pouring himself some coffee, fixing it the way he likes, but stopping mid-pour of the miniscule bit of milk he usually adds. There’s something about your scent, something different. The usual sweet scent was already faintly noticeable under the three scents of your alphas. But now, it’s growing stronger somehow. Vanilla fills his senses, and his eyes turn to you. It’s almost intoxicating, and he really shouldn’t be eyeing you as you mix together the contents of the pancake batter. But here he is…Staring…And staring…Until he sees it.

“...Did the medic say anything you need to look out for?” He asks suddenly, eyes settled on your chest area. “Changes, or…”

You think for a bit, your caffeine-free brain taking some time to catch up as you squint at nothing. “Uh…Weight gain, cravings, tender breasts, tender…Gums, I think, and…” Finally, you felt his gaze practically burning a hole through your–rather Soap’s–shirt. Your face warms when you see where he’s looking, and your own eyes drop. “Oh…! Oh…Shit. That’s…” You bring a hand up to the damp material, milk staining the area over your nipple. 

John scrubs a hand down his beard, covering his mouth to conceal an amused chuckle. “Was lactation something to expect this soon?” The way your mouth opens and closes wordlessly as realization takes over your eyes, has his answer. “Did you want me to finish with the pancakes…? You could go take care of your…Situation. I won’t interfere.”

You give him a grateful look, setting the whisk down in the batter. “Yeah…I’d like that.” You say before scurrying off to the bathroom. Before you’re too far, you throw over your shoulder, “Add blueberries and chocolate chips…Please!”

At least you didn’t ask for pickles on the side.

…

John made a nice stack of five pancakes for you, not putting the syrup on just yet. He waited for a bit after they were finished, and waited some more. When you didn’t show twenty minutes after, your stack and coffee starting to cool, he got curious. They took a few minutes to cook, so it's been…Nearly an hour since you left to deal with the leakage. So, he followed your scent down the hall and right to the bathroom. Your scent is still there, but faint, and leading to Simon’s room. Inside, he finds you sitting on the bed. You’re sitting cross legged in the middle, a barely audible whine leaving you as you press a damp cloth to your tender breasts.

“Hey…Feeling alright?” John asks, leaning in the doorway as he sets a concerned look on you. His inner alpha is demanding that he go in there and gather you up into his arms. But he holds off…He is nothing if not a very disciplined man.

“The cold compress works but…I…” You avoid his gaze, feeling heated under it. “Didn’t want to just walk out without a shirt on.”

When John hears your stomach growl, followed up by a frustrated sound caught between a whine and a groan, he makes the conclusion. “And you’re hungrier now than before…You know it's nothing I haven’t seen before.”

It’s true, John has walked in on you with one or more of your alphas more than once in some compromising positions. But still, you have some shame. 

John thinks for a moment, exhaling through his nose as he observes your current state. Shirtless, with your hands clutching at your chest with a damp cloth. He mutters out a “stay here” before leaving the doorway. When he returns, he has a plate of pancakes in one hand, and a cold pack in the other.

“Set the washcloth down. This’ll stay cold longer…” He says, offering the pack to you. When you remove the washcloth, he’s met with the sight of your breasts. A bit of near transparent liquid is beaded at one of the peaks, and part of him wants to use his mouth to assist you…But the louder, more disciplined part of his brain is in control. He lets you place the pack over your sore chest, and then he spears the pancakes which he already cut up onto the fork. Once he brings the forked pancakes up to your lips, his free hand hovering under to make sure no syrup drips onto the bed, you realize what he’s doing.

Silently, you take the fork into your mouth, giving him a grateful look. For the next few minutes, he just repeats the process of gathering the cut up pancakes onto the fork and feeding you. As he does, he talks to lessen the tension or any awkwardness of this alpha who’s not mated to you taking care of you. He doesn’t talk about anything in particular, nothing serious. Just about the weather, the news, how happy “his boys” have been since you stumbled into their lives. Your inner omega is calm, at peace, much less worried and uncomfortable than before. 

The blueberry-and-chocolate-chip pancakes are just about finished, the last bit stabbed onto the fork and being lifted to your mouth when the door to Simon’s room opens. You didn’t hear anyone coming into the base/pack house, not over John’s soothing, honeyed voice. And no discernable scent is present…It isn’t until you see a familiar blonde head peek in, blue eyes settling on the pair of you, that you see who it is.

“Laswell!” You chirp out, eyes lighting. It’s been a week or so since she last visited. “Laswell, guess what, I’m having–”

“Triplets.” She finished for you, eyes finally settling on John. The beta wasn’t sure where to look at first. Your topless self, the blue cold pack covering your chest, the syrup drenched pancakes…

John, who’s letting you finally take the last bit of your breakfast into your mouth, gives her a sheepish smile. “I feel like you’ve walked in on your assistant enough in the past few months…”

“Not the worst thing I’ve seen from the past few months either.” She deadpans, leaning in the doorway. Despite her tone, her eyes hold a fondness at the sight before her.

So now you have four…Four alphas who are more than willing to look after you and the three pups on the way.

[mybelovedwoo]

in which a midnight chase leads to a warm embrace

wooyoung x f!reader

fluff, established relationship, angst / wc: 1.7k

warnings: worried woo, an eerie feeling/scenery

note: i had this fic in my drafts for ages now, thought it's finally time to post it. hope you like it <3

wooyoung masterlist - main masterlist

The library was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of old books and the soft rustle of pages being turned. Y/n had been studying for hours, buried in her textbooks and notes, her mind focused on the upcoming exams. The autumn day had turned chilly, the leaves outside painting the ground in hues of orange and red. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, trying to keep the cold at bay.

As the afternoon wore on, Y/n felt her eyelids growing heavy. She fought against the drowsiness, but the combination of the quiet library, the warmth of her seat, and the exhaustion from hours of studying proved too much. Before she knew it, she had drifted off to sleep, her head resting on the pile of books in front of her.

When she woke up, the library was dark. Y/n blinked groggily, disoriented. She glanced around, realizing with a start that she was the only one left. The usually bustling library was now eerily silent, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning. She checked the large clock on the wall and saw that it was well past closing time.

Panic set in as she reached for her phone, only to find the battery completely dead. "Great," she muttered, quickly packing her things. She made her way through the deserted aisles, her footsteps echoing in the empty space. As she reached the hallway, she ran into the janitor, who looked surprised to see her.

"Are you still here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I fell asleep," Y/n explained, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I didn't realize how late it was."

The janitor shook his head, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "Come on, I'll let you out."

Y/n followed him to the main entrance, where he unlocked the door and let her out into the cold night. "Thank you," she said, stepping outside and wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.

"Be careful getting home," the janitor advised, giving her a nod before locking the door behind her.

Y/n shivered as she made her way to the nearby bus stop. The street was deserted, the usual hustle and bustle of the day replaced by an eerie stillness. Streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, and the crisp autumn wind whipped through the trees, sending leaves skittering across the pavement. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself, her breath visible in the chilly night air.

As she approached the bus stop, she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. The illuminated schedule posted on the side of the shelter confirmed her worst fear: she had missed the last bus of the night. Panic started to rise, and she glanced around, hoping for a miracle. The empty street offered no comfort.

She sat down on the cold metal bench, her heart pounding. The bus stop, usually a place of transition and movement, now felt like a trap. The wind picked up, cutting through her coat and making her shiver uncontrollably. She wished she had remembered to charge her phone. 

As the minutes ticked by, the chill seemed to seep deeper into her bones. She huddled into her coat, trying to conserve any bit of warmth she could. Each gust of wind felt like tiny needles pricking her skin. The darkness around her seemed to close in, and the silence was deafening.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and glanced at her surroundings, her eyes darting from one shadow to another. The occasional distant car passed by, but otherwise, the world seemed empty. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more alarming than the last. She felt increasingly isolated and vulnerable, every creak and rustle making her jump.

As she sat there, the anxiety gnawing at her, she suddenly heard the sound of footsteps. They were quick and purposeful, breaking the silence of the night. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she strained her eyes to see who it could be. The footsteps grew louder, echoing off the buildings and pavement.

Y/n's grip on her bag tightened, her body tensing with fear. The darkness made it impossible to discern who was approaching. She could feel her pulse racing, each beat pounding in her ears. The footsteps were closing in, and her imagination ran wild with terrifying scenarios. She wanted to run, but her legs felt like lead.

Then, through the darkness, she heard her name being called. It was a familiar voice, one that instantly brought a sense of relief and safety. "Y/n!" The sound was like a lifeline, pulling her back from the brink of panic.

Her eyes searched the shadows, and she saw a figure emerging into the dim light of the bus stop. It was Wooyoung, his face etched with worry and relief. "Y/n! Thank God, I found you!" He rushed to her, pulling her into a tight embrace. "I was so worried."

-

Wooyoung had been feeling uneasy all evening. Y/n usually sent him a text when she was wrapping up her study sessions, but tonight there had been nothing. He glanced at his phone for the umpteenth time, hoping for a message, but the screen remained stubbornly silent.

It was already past six, and the sun had long since set. He had tried calling her several times, but each call went straight to voicemail. His anxiety grew with each unanswered attempt. He drove over to her apartment, hoping to find her there, but when he arrived and knocked on the door, there was no response. Panic started to set in.

"Where could she be?" he muttered to himself, pacing back and forth. He decided to call her friends, hoping one of them might have heard from her. Each call ended with the same response: they hadn't seen or heard from her since she mentioned going to the library to study.

Wooyoung's heart pounded as he realized she must still be at the library. He jumped into his car and sped towards the campus, praying she was safe. The drive felt like an eternity, each red light and slow-moving car amplifying his frustration and fear.

When he finally arrived at the library, the sight of the darkened building sent a jolt of fear through him. He ran to the door, only to find it locked. He knocked frantically, hoping someone inside would hear him. After what felt like an eternity, the janitor appeared, looking annoyed.

"We're closed!" the janitor said, his tone gruff.

Wooyoung held up his hands, desperation in his voice. "I know, I know. But I'm looking for my girlfriend. Please, have you seen her?" He pulled out his phone and showed the janitor a picture of Y/n.

The janitor's expression softened as he recognized her. "Oh yes, she just left about 30 minutes ago. I don't think she caught the last bus; she must've been walking."

Wooyoung felt a mix of relief and worry. "Thank you, sir," he said, already turning to leave. He sprinted back to his car and began driving around the area, his eyes scanning the sidewalks and bus stops. His mind raced with worst-case scenarios, and he pushed them away, focusing on finding her.

After what felt like hours, he spotted her sitting at a bus stop, looking small and cold. Relief and love surged through him as he pulled over and jumped out of the car. He called out her name, and she looked up, her face lighting up with recognition and relief.

-

Wooyoung's heart ached as he held Y/n close, feeling the chill of her skin through her coat. He pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Y/n nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "I fell asleep in the library. My phone died, and I missed the last bus. I didn't know what to do."

Wooyoung cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing away her tears. "I'm just glad you're safe. Let's get you home."

He kept his arm around her as they walked to the car, helping her inside and turning up the heater to chase away the cold. As he drove, he glanced over at her, seeing the exhaustion and relief on her face. He reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently. As Wooyoung drove, he lifted her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her fingers.

"Are you starting to warm up?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

Y/n nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Yes, I'm feeling much better now."

Wooyoung smiled in return, his heart swelling with affection. "Good. I was really worried about you, you know."

She squeezed his hand back, appreciating the warmth and reassurance it provided. "I know. I'm so sorry I scared you."

Wooyoung sighed, his grip tightening slightly on her hand. "I almost went crazy. I even called all of your friends, trying to figure out where you were."

Y/n's eyes widened with guilt and surprise. "You did?"

He shook his head, his expression softening. "I just needed to know you were safe. When none of them knew where you were, I started to panic. I drove to the library, but it was already closed."

Guilt rushed over her, but Wooyoung noticed it before she could say anything. "Hey, it's not your fault. I know how exhausted you are these days. I'm surprised you haven't fallen asleep earlier honestly."

Y/n gave a small, tired smile. "I'm just really stressed about these upcoming exams."

Wooyoung nodded, understanding the weight of her worries. "I know you are. And I wish I could do more to help you."

Y/n's eyes softened, the warmth of his words soothing her frazzled nerves. "Just having you by my side helps more than you know."

"Well then, I won't ever leave you alone, how about that?" He said with a smirk on his face.

Y/n laughed, the sound bringing a smile to Wooyoung's face. "Can I at least go to the bathroom alone?"

Wooyoung's smile widened, his heart warming at the sight of her laughter. "No, you have to deal with me even there."

Y/n shrunk in her seat, feigning horror. "Omg, what did I get myself into?"

He chuckled, giving her hand another gentle squeeze. "A lifetime of me, baby. Hope you're ready for it."

She smiled, feeling the love and warmth radiating from him. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

They drove on in silence for a while, the city lights casting a warm glow inside the car. Y/n felt herself relaxing, the warmth from the heater and Wooyoung's presence chasing away the last remnants of her fear. She watched the familiar streets pass by, feeling a deep sense of comfort.

taglist* @laylasbunbunny @yeow6n @taz-97 @soso59love-blog @tiredlittlevirgo @everythingboutkpop @abibliolife @k-zuzu @ateezswonderland @Reayahnadeem24(you can message me if you want to be added or removed)

[heejamas]

scott street ── ˙ ̟🏡 ⛰️

pairings: beomgyu x female reader genre: childhood friends to lovers, beomgyu as your ex, romance warnings: none <3 w/c: 3.3k author's note: this fic was inspired by the song scott street by phoebe bridgers. it’s a drabble i’ve been holding onto for a long time, and i actually cried while writing it—it was really emotional for me. it’s nothing like the genre i usually write, but i hope you guys like it <3

It was sunny the day you saw Beomgyu for the last time.

The kind of sun that tricks you, golden and sprawling, but with a wind sharp enough to cut through skin. It was bright enough to make the moment feel less real, like the day was too beautiful to hold something so heavy. You remember the way the light caught in his hair, the way his shadow stretched too long on the pavement, the way he smiled at you—soft, knowing, like he had already made peace with something you hadn’t even begun to understand.

And then he was gone.

You didn’t cry that day. You remember thinking you should’ve. That it would’ve been easier if it hurt all at once, like a clean break, instead of the slow, creeping ache that settled in your bones. But you just stood there, staring at the spot where he had been, blinking against the brightness of the sky.

The days after were quiet. You learned to live around the absence of him, the way you’d live around a missing tooth, tongue always searching for something that wasn’t there. The spaces he left behind became part of the scenery—an empty chair at your favorite café, a number you refused to delete from your phone, a playlist you skipped over in the car. You kept expecting time to dull the sharp edges, to smooth out the rough parts of remembering. But grief is funny that way—it doesn’t soften so much as it changes shape, curling around the parts of your life you never expected it to touch.

Still, you tried.

You told yourself you’d move on. You changed your number, dyed your hair, picked up bad habits and dropped them just as fast. You filled your time with people whose voices you wouldn’t remember in the morning, let yourself laugh a little too loudly at things that weren’t really funny. You said yes to invitations just so you wouldn’t be alone, then spent the night staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, gripping the sink, wondering if he still thought of you, too.

You threw yourself into everything. You filled your time with new people, new routines, new cities. You let yourself be swallowed by the hum of life, the late nights and early mornings, the crowded rooms and quiet walks home. You stopped counting the months. You thought, maybe, this was what moving on looked like.

And then, two years later, on a day like any other, you walked into a flower shop.

It wasn’t something you planned. You were just passing by, taking a different route home, when the scent of fresh flowers drifted into the street. The shop was small, tucked between a bookstore and a bakery, its windows framed with ivy, soft music playing just loud enough to be heard over the sound of traffic. It wasn’t there when you first moved to this neighborhood. You hesitated at the door, not really sure why you went in at all.

Maybe it was the way the light poured through the windows. Maybe it was the empty space in your apartment, the way it still didn’t feel like yours. Maybe it was something else entirely.

The air inside was thick with earth and petals, the kind of scent that felt like stepping into another time. Sunlight slanted across wooden shelves, catching in the dust floating lazily through the air. The counter was lined with small potted plants, leaves trembling slightly under the hum of the ceiling fan. It was warm. Still.

For a moment, you just breathed.

Then—

Your name.

Soft. Familiar. Said like a secret, like something fragile enough to break.

You turned.

And there he was.

Beomgyu.

Older now. His hair was longer, curling slightly at the ends, falling into his eyes in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly. His hands were covered in soil, pressed against the wooden counter, but his eyes—his eyes hadn’t changed at all. Wide, bright, unreadable. The same eyes that once held entire summers, entire lifetimes.

He looked like he belonged there.

And you—

You felt like you had stepped into a memory.

Like you were seventeen again, sitting on his parents’ roof, listening to the cicadas hum in the heat. Like you were twenty, laughing into his shoulder, your hands tangled together under a bar table sticky with spilled drinks. Like you were twenty-four, standing on the sidewalk, watching his back as he walked away.

The way his laugh echoed in your childhood bedroom. The way he kissed you for the first time, all nerves and certainty, right before he left for college. The way he whispered I love you against your skin, when you thought forever was something you could hold onto if you just tried hard enough.

The way he left.

The way you let him.

Everything pressed in at once. The weight of all the things you never said, all the years spent without him, all the ways the world had changed and stayed the same.

And then—

“Hey,” he said.

Like it hadn’t been two years. Like the last time you spoke wasn’t a goodbye.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your throat felt tight, like if you said his name, it might break something open inside you.

And now, here he is.

Smelling like flowers and soil and something achingly familiar.

Smiling at you like no time has passed at all.

You swallow, forcing yourself to find something—anything—to say. Your voice feels strange when it finally leaves your throat, too thin, too unsteady.

“Hey.”

It’s such a small word. So small, so weightless. And yet it lands between you like a stone dropped into water, sending ripples through the space you thought time had settled.

Beomgyu’s smile twitches, something flickering behind his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or something heavier, something that settles in the lines of his face, in the way he exhales as if he had been holding his breath.

The silence stretches, neither of you quite sure how to move through it.

He gestures vaguely at the counter, at the shop, at the air itself. “So… this is me now.”

Your gaze drifts, taking in the warmth of it all. The deep greens and soft yellows, the faint scent of soil and petals in bloom. The air is thick with summer, even though it’s still early spring. You think it suits him in a way you can’t quite put into words.

“I never thought you’d open a flower shop,” you murmur, letting the sentence settle between you.

His mouth quirks to the side, like he wants to argue but doesn’t quite know how. Instead, he exhales through his nose, gaze dropping to the countertop. “Neither did I.”

Another beat of silence. Another second where everything inside you feels like it’s trembling on the edge of something unspoken.

And then—

“I quit.”

You blink. “Quit?”

He nods, fingers brushing absently over a stray leaf beside him. “The firm. The whole thing.”

Your brows knit together, trying to bridge the gap between the boy who once traced constellations into your palm and the man who disappeared into something colder, sharper. The Beomgyu you last knew was all pressed collars and coffee gone stale, his voice too measured, his laughter too rare. You wonder when he stopped seeing the point in beautiful things. When he stopped letting himself reach for them.

“Why?” you ask.

His eyes linger on yours for a moment too long, like he’s deciding how much to tell you. Then, finally—

“Because it wasn’t what I thought it’d be.”

The words are simple, quiet. No bitterness, no regret. Just the kind of understanding that only comes after losing something you didn’t know you needed.

Your gaze drifts, tracing the curve of a vine creeping along the shelves. There’s a small, wooden sign hanging near the window—Lily of the Valley. The name catches on something at the back of your mind, but before you can follow the thread, Beomgyu shifts his weight, clearing his throat.

He watches you carefully, fingers twitching against the counter. There’s a question at the back of his tongue, one he doesn’t dare to say out loud.

Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?

But he swallows it down. Instead, he asks—“So… what about you? What have you been up to?”

You hesitate, like you’re sifting through your own memories, trying to find an answer that doesn’t feel like a lie.

But before you can speak, before you can string together something coherent, Beomgyu is already somewhere else. It happens so easily. The unraveling.

At first, it’s just a day, a week, a month. A shift so slow it barely feels like moving. Then suddenly, you look up, and you don’t recognize the space you’re standing in anymore.

Beomgyu tells himself it’s just part of growing up. That loving something and leaving it behind are not contradictions, just inevitabilities. He throws himself into the next thing, and the next, and the next. If he moves fast enough, maybe he won’t have time to feel the spaces he hollowed out inside himself.

But time is cruel in its stillness. The days stretch long in the quiet of his apartment, filled with things he does not love, things he did not choose. The walls are too white, too cold. His bed is too big, the silence too loud. He starts leaving his windows open at night, hoping the wind might carry something back to him.

It never does.

It’s funny—the things you don’t realize you’ll miss until they’re gone.

Like the way you used to laugh at your own jokes before you could even finish telling them. How your voice would lilt when you were teasing him, your grin all sharp edges and bright light. How you always knew when he was about to say something stupid before he even opened his mouth.

He doesn’t remember when it started. When looking at you became unbearable in the best way. When he started memorizing the way the sun caught in your hair, the way you bit your lip when you were trying not to laugh. He had known you forever, but at some point, it started to feel different—like he had spent years standing in front of a painting, only to wake up one day and realize it had been shifting the whole time.

And then he left. Just like that.

He never let himself feel guilty about it. Not at first.

Because it was what people did, wasn’t it? They left home, they outgrew the things that tethered them. It was a sign of something—of movement, of ambition. So he convinced himself that this was what he wanted. The long hours, the office with a view, the sound of his own footsteps echoing down endless white halls. He wore suits that didn’t fit right and shook hands with people who looked right through him. He pretended not to notice how his own reflection started to feel like a stranger.

But it was in the in-between moments that it would hit him.

Like when he’d come across something absurdly stupid and go to text you, only to remember that he hadn’t heard your voice in months.

Or when someone would try to make him laugh, and he’d think about how no one was as funny as you. No one knew him the way you did—how to push his buttons just right, how to make his ribs ache with laughter even when he swore he wasn’t in the mood.

Or when he walked home alone after work, passing storefronts filled with things he knew you’d love, things he knew you’d hate. It was strange, how the world kept carrying pieces of you, even when you weren’t there to claim them.

And then, one night, he caught himself staring at the skyline and wondering if you were staring at the same moon. And it was something so cliche, so painfully sentimental, that he had to laugh at himself. But then the laughter faded, and the ache stayed.

That was when he knew.

Knew that he had spent years trying to shape himself into something he never wanted to be. Knew that all the things he thought he was supposed to want—power, prestige, a life paved in sleek ambition—meant nothing if he wasn’t happy.

So he quit. Just like that.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself want something just because it was beautiful.

He built something of his own. Something that reminded him of home, of childhood, of summers spent sprawled on front lawns with you by his side. Of the way you used to pluck wildflowers and braid them into his hair when you were kids, giggling at how pretty he looked.

And when it came time to name it, he didn’t have to think twice.

Lily of the Valley. A flower that meant sweetness, renewal, the return of happiness. The flower of the year you were born. He never knew if you’d ever walk through the doors. If you’d ever see the name and wonder.

But now, here you are.

Standing in front of him again.

Smelling like something achingly familiar.

Looking at him like no time has passed at all.

“I moved around here,” you say, and Beomgyu blinks like he’s just now hearing you. Like he had been somewhere else entirely. You can tell by the way he straightens up slightly, clearing his throat.

“Yeah?” His voice is even, but his fingers twitch against the ceramic pot he’s holding.

“Needed to be closer to work,” you explain. “New job, new place. Figured it was time for a change.”

Beomgyu nods, slow and measured. His gaze flickers over you like he’s taking inventory, checking for things that are different, things that are the same.

“You seem good,” he says eventually.

You smile, though it feels like pressing on a bruise. “You seem good too.”

The silence stretches, thin and delicate.

Maybe you both look fine, sound fine, play your parts so well that no one would know the difference. But the weight of the past settles in your chest like a stone, pressing against your ribs. Because you remember.

You remember the day he left. The way the air felt thick with something unspoken, the way you stood there, hands curled into fists at your sides, trying to swallow the ache in your throat. He had smiled at you then—soft, apologetic, like he knew exactly what he was taking with him when he walked away. And you had let him go. What else could you have done?

Now, your eyes sting. You blink fast, locking it all away before it can spill over. Not here. Not in front of him.

Then Beomgyu shifts, stepping out from behind the counter. “Well,” he says, voice lighter now, “I guess you’ll need some plants to fill the space, right?”

It feels like an offering. Like something small and safe between you, something that won’t crack open the past.

“Yeah,” you say, exhaling. “Guess I do.”

He picks up a monstera, large green leaves curling outward like open palms. Holds it out to you like he’s handing you something more than just a plant.

“You always thought these were beautiful,” he murmurs.

The weight of his words settles somewhere deep in your chest.

“I did,” you say, softer this time.

You think about all the times you almost asked. The quiet moments when his name would surface in conversation, sitting there, unspoken on your tongue. The way your fingers hovered over old texts, over the urge to reach out, to ask how things were—how he was.

But you never did. Out of pride, maybe. Or fear. Or the gnawing possibility that he wouldn’t answer.

Still, some things slip through the cracks.

“How’s your sister?” You ask.

Beomgyu stills for half a second, then huffs out something like a laugh.

“She’s good,” he says. “Finally got her degree.”

“Wow.” You shift the bag in your arms. “That makes me feel old.”

Beomgyu smirks. “What does that make me, then?”

You roll your eyes, and for a brief moment, something almost like comfort settles between you. Almost.

“What about the band?” you say, glancing at the shop around you, the soft green of leaves, the scent of fresh soil and something warmer, something achingly familiar.

“They’re all getting married,” he says, a quiet laugh in his voice. “Or buying houses. Moving up.”

You wonder if he means the garage band he had with his friends, or the life that came with it. If he means more than that.

His fingers brush absently against the edge of the monstera’s leaves. He doesn’t say what you can feel pressing against the air between you.

Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?

But he doesn’t ask. And you don’t answer.

You exhale softly, shifting the weight of the monstera in your arms. “I’ll take this one,” you say, fingers tracing the edge of one of its broad, waxy leaves. “Feels like a good place to start.”

Beomgyu watches you for a moment before nodding, stepping back behind the counter. “Good choice,” he murmurs, ringing up the sale.

The hum of the register fills the quiet between you.

“How are your parents?” he asks, glancing at you as he types in a price he doesn’t intend to charge.

“They’re good,” you say. “Still in the same house. Still in Scott Street.”

His eyes shift at the mention of that street, a spark of recognition lighting up his expression. Scott Street—a river of memories flowing through your mind, winding back to days of innocence.

But now, that street feels like a faded photograph, each memory tinged with a bittersweet ache. You stand there, caught in the tide of nostalgia, longing for the comfort of those moments when everything felt right, before life pulled you both in different directions.

“My dad still spends his mornings on the porch, waving at every neighbor like he’s running for office. My mom still keeps the same wind chime by the door. Says she knows when I’m visiting because I always hit my head on it.”

You say and Beomgyu smiles at that. A real smile, though it fades almost as quickly as it comes.

His hand stills briefly against the register. “Mine moved a while ago. Somewhere quieter. Said they wanted a fresh start.”

“I know,” you say softly.

Beomgyu blinks at you. Then something like understanding settles over his face. Of course, you’d know.

The past has a way of circling back, even when you think you’ve left it behind.

You reach for your wallet, but before you can pull out a card, Beomgyu shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he says. “It’s a housewarming gift.”

You frown, looking down at the plant. “Beomgyu—”

“It’s my store,” he interrupts, a teasing lilt to his voice, but his expression is something gentler. “I make the rules.”

You hesitate. “Then I owe you a store-warming gift.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, looking down at his hands for a moment before meeting your eyes again.

“You already gave it to me,” he says.

Something shifts in the air.

The words settle between you, warm and heavy. You don’t need to ask what he means. You can see it in the way his fingers tighten slightly against the counter. The way his shoulders drop just a little, like he’s been holding something up for too long.

For a second, you want to say something. Anything. But the weight of it all sits too thick in your throat, and you think maybe he feels it too.

Then he inhales, exhales, and shakes his head slightly, like shaking off a thought.

“Anyway,” he says, voice lighter now, carefully placed. “Don’t be… a stranger.”

The words settle somewhere deep, pressing against your ribs, slipping between the cracks of something you thought had long since healed.

You swallow around the bittersweet ache, adjusting the plant in your arms before offering him a small, quiet smile. “I won’t,” you say, though you’re not sure if it’s a promise or a lie.

Outside, the world moves on. A car horn echoes down the street. A bike bell chimes, sharp and fleeting. Somewhere, a dog barks.

Inside, nothing feels normal at all.

my masterlist <3

author's note: yeah. anyway. so.

[thefairiesinthegarden]

I’m tired of trying -pt3

———————————————————

Hey guysssss this is parttttt 3

Lemme know if a part 4 is needed

I just wanted to say that this part gets really dark and has themes of suicide and depression and really dark thought so please read with caution

Word count: 2500

Azriel x reader

Warnings: suicide and attempts, depression, dark thoughts

Please read this is caution

———————————————————

The Summer Court’s gentle breezes and soft warmth felt more like a prison than a paradise. Every day in this perfect realm was a reminder of the life you once had, a life that seemed impossibly far away now. The palace’s beauty—its glittering walls and lush gardens—did nothing to ease the weight in your chest. Instead, the brightness only seemed to mock the darkness inside you.

You had been here for what felt like months, though you knew it was only a few weeks. Time no longer had meaning when every day was spent in a haze of numbness and pain. Your body had grown weak from the lack of food and movement, your mind lost in an endless cycle of sorrow and hopelessness. Nothing mattered anymore.

The healers who visited you daily became more insistent, their soft voices urging you to eat, to drink, to take the potions they offered to ease your pain. But their words washed over you like the wind—present, but meaningless. You had nothing left to give. Every ounce of energy you had was spent on merely existing.

And then there was Azriel.

He had come to you again and again, his presence a constant shadow in the room. Sometimes, he spoke in that low, rough voice of his, trying to apologize, to make you see how sorry he was. Other times, he simply sat in silence, his golden eyes filled with regret and sorrow. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how sincere his words, it was never enough.

You couldn’t feel anything for him anymore. You were too tired to feel.

He had broken you in ways you didn’t even know were possible. The things he had said to you that day—those cruel, cutting words—had shattered something inside you. You had fought for him, for the love you thought you shared, and it had never been enough. It would never be enough.

And now, here you were, in a beautiful palace, surrounded by caring people, but utterly alone in your pain.

Tarquin had been patient with you, more patient than you deserved. He checked on you often, his voice soft with concern, but never pushing you beyond what you could handle. Yet even his presence—his kindness—felt like a burden. You didn’t want kindness anymore. You didn’t want anything.

Your hand absently traced the delicate veins of your wrist, where the skin was thin and pale. The thought had been circling in your mind for days now, a whisper in the back of your mind that grew louder with each passing hour.

There’s a way out.

You don’t have to feel this way anymore.

The thought was seductive, offering you a kind of peace that you hadn’t felt in so long. The pain could end. The weight of your heart could finally be lifted. All it would take was one moment—one decision—and it would all be over.

But something held you back. Some small part of you, buried deep beneath the layers of pain and hopelessness, still remembered who you used to be. That part of you still wanted to live, still clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back.

But it was growing weaker every day.

Azriel hadn’t left the Summer Court in days. Not since he had seen the state you were in, the way you had looked at him with so much pain and loss in your eyes. The guilt had consumed him from the moment you left the Night Court, but seeing you like that—so broken, so fragile—had nearly destroyed him.

He had tried everything he could think of to make it right. He had spoken to you, apologized over and over, poured his heart out in ways he had never done before. But no matter what he said, no matter how much he begged for your forgiveness, it never seemed to reach you.

Every day, you grew weaker. Every day, you slipped further away from him.

Azriel sat in one of the Summer Court’s grand balconies, his hands resting on his knees as he stared out over the glittering ocean. The sunlight reflected off the water in golden waves, but he felt no warmth, no peace. His mind was consumed with thoughts of you, of the life you used to share, and the devastating realization that he might never get you back.

Rhysand had told him to give you time, that you needed space to heal. But how could he give you space when you were unraveling before his eyes?

“Azriel.” The familiar voice of Tarquin pulled him from his thoughts. The Summer Court’s High Lord stood a few feet away, his expression troubled.

Azriel turned to face him, his jaw clenched. “Is she…?”

“She’s the same,” Tarquin said, his voice soft. “Physically, she’s holding on. But emotionally…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anyone this broken.”

Azriel’s heart tightened. “Is there anything I can do?”

Tarquin sighed, his brow furrowing in sympathy. “I don’t know. She’s shutting everyone out—even you. And I fear if she continues like this…”

Azriel didn’t need him to finish the sentence. He knew what Tarquin was trying to say. If you kept going down this path, there was only one possible outcome.

And it would be his fault.

That night, you stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection but not really seeing it. Your once-bright eyes were dull, dark circles etched beneath them. Your skin was pale, almost translucent, and your hair hung in limp waves around your face.

You didn’t recognize the person in the mirror anymore.

Your hand shook as you reached for the dagger that Tarquin had given you for protection when you had first arrived in his court. It was a beautiful blade, crafted from pure silver, with intricate designs carved into the hilt. You had barely touched it since you arrived, but now, it felt like the only thing in the room that made sense.

The blade gleamed in the dim light as you held it in your trembling hand, your fingers wrapping around the hilt. The weight of it was oddly comforting, as if it could finally bring you the release you had been craving.

You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest. This was it. This was the moment. The pain would end. You would finally be free.

But as the blade hovered over your wrist, something stopped you. A voice, soft but insistent, echoed in the back of your mind.

This isn’t the way.

You can still come back from this.

The voice sounded like Azriel’s. And for a moment, you hesitated.

But then you remembered the way he had looked at you that day—the cold, dismissive words that had cut deeper than any blade ever could. He had broken you, and there was no coming back from that.

With a sob, you pressed the blade to your skin.

Azriel had been unable to sleep that night, his mind too restless, too filled with images of you—your broken form, the pain in your eyes. Something felt wrong. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, the cold, sinking feeling that had been building all day.

He couldn’t shake the thought that you needed him. That something terrible was about to happen.

Without thinking, he rose from his seat and moved swiftly through the palace, his shadows curling around him as he made his way to your room. The guards didn’t stop him this time—they knew better by now.

As he approached the door, that cold feeling intensified, a sickening dread settling in his chest. His heart pounded in his ears as he reached for the handle, pushing the door open without knocking.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

You were sitting on the floor, the silver dagger in your hand, pressed against your wrist. Blood was already welling up, dark and red against your pale skin.

“No!” Azriel’s voice was hoarse, desperate, as he rushed toward you, his shadows flaring in panic.

You didn’t seem to hear him. You were lost in your own world, your body trembling as you pressed the blade harder against your skin. Tears streamed down your face, but your eyes were distant, unfocused.

Azriel reached you just in time, grabbing your wrist and pulling the blade away. You struggled weakly against him, your body too weak to put up much of a fight.

“Let me go,” you whispered, your voice broken, tears streaming down your face. “Please, just let me go.”

Azriel’s heart shattered at the sound of your voice, at the sight of you so lost, so hurt. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as you sobbed against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

But you shook your head, your sobs turning into gasps for breath. “It’s too late, Azriel. I’m already broken. You can’t fix me.”

His arms tightened around you, his wings curling protectively around your fragile form. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You’re not broken. You’re not. I won’t let you go.”

But you didn’t respond. You just cried, your body shaking with the force of your sobs, as if you were trying to cry out all the pain that had been festering inside you for so long.

Azriel didn’t let go. He held you through it all, whispering apologies and promises, vowing to do whatever it took to make things right.

The following days were a blur of healers and potions, of Tarquin’s quiet concern and Azriel’s constant presence. He never left your side, not even for a moment. He watched over you as you slept, as you fought through the waves of despair that crashed over you. He refused to leave, even when Tarquin suggested that space might be best. Azriel didn’t care. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The wound on your wrist was healing, but the deeper wounds, the ones that had been carved into your heart and soul, were far from mended. You rarely spoke, rarely ate, barely moved. And though your body was growing weaker, it was your spirit that worried Azriel the most.

He had tried everything to bring you back—to get you to talk to him, to react, to do anything other than lay in that bed, staring blankly at the ceiling or curled in on yourself. But nothing worked.

Each passing day was another weight on his shoulders, the crushing realization that he had done this to you—that his words had driven you to this breaking point.

He had never felt so helpless. The shadows that had always been his allies now seemed like enemies, swirling around him in confusion, mirroring the chaos in his own heart. He couldn’t fix this with a sword or a plan. He couldn’t strategize his way out of this. This was something he had no control over.

And that terrified him.

One night, after hours of silence, you finally spoke. Your voice was so quiet, so broken, that Azriel almost didn’t hear it.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Azriel’s heart lurched in his chest, and he leaned forward, his hands shaking as he reached for yours. “Y/N… don’t say that.”

But you didn’t look at him. Your eyes were distant, your face pale and gaunt from days of neglect. “I can’t keep doing this. It’s too much.”

His grip tightened around your hand. “I know it feels like that now, but you’re stronger than this. You’ve always been stronger than this.”

You shook your head weakly. “Not anymore. I’m tired, Azriel. I’m so tired.”

The tears that Azriel had been holding back finally spilled over, hot and painful as they streaked down his face. He had been trying to be strong for you, trying to hold himself together, but hearing you say that—hearing you give up—was more than he could bear.

“You can’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please. I can’t lose you. I love you.”

You flinched at the word. It was as though the very sound of it hurt you, and Azriel’s heart shattered all over again.

“I loved you too,” you whispered, and the past tense of your words cut deeper than any blade ever could. “But you didn’t want me. You said it yourself.”

“That’s not true,” Azriel said quickly, his voice thick with desperation. “I never meant what I said. I was scared, and I said terrible things, but I didn’t mean them. You’re everything to me, Y/N. You’re my everything.”

You didn’t respond. You just turned your face away, closing your eyes as if you were too exhausted to even speak anymore.

Azriel stayed by your side, holding your hand, his chest tight with fear and guilt. He didn’t know how to bring you back from this. He didn’t know if he even could.

Two more days passed in the same unbearable silence. You refused food, only drank the water Tarquin’s healers forced upon you. Your once-vibrant eyes were dull, your skin growing more fragile, your strength slipping away. The healers tried everything they could to coax you back into health, but nothing worked.

And Azriel—Azriel was drowning in his own guilt.

He couldn’t stop replaying that last argument, couldn’t stop hearing the cruel words he had thrown at you in his anger, couldn’t stop imagining how different things might have been if he had just told you how much he loved you, how much he needed you. If he had just been honest instead of pushing you away out of fear.

Azriel watched you closely, his golden eyes filled with fear as each second passed. It was unbearable—seeing you like this, wasting away because of his mistakes. His hands trembled as he reached for your face, gently brushing the stray strands of hair from your forehead. He leaned in, his voice low and rough, thick with emotion.

“Please, Y/N. Just tell me what to do. I can’t lose you like this.”

You didn’t respond right away, your gaze still fixed on the ceiling as if you were far, far away. The quiet hum of the Summer Court’s night breeze filled the room, mingling with the soft crashing of distant waves. But your heart… it felt as though it was miles beneath the surface, buried so deep you weren’t sure it could ever be reached again.

Azriel’s hands, usually so steady, so sure, shook as they held yours. His shadows curled around him in confusion, sensing the depth of his despair. You could feel his presence, his warmth, but it only reminded you of how cold and numb you had become.

He had broken you. And yet here he was, still trying to put the pieces back together.

“I don’t know if I can come back from this,” you finally whispered, your voice fragile, almost inaudible. “I feel like there’s nothing left of me.”

Azriel swallowed hard, his throat constricting with emotion. “That’s not true. You’re still here, Y/N. I know you are. You just need time, and I’ll give you all the time in the world. But don’t… don’t leave me like this. Please.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a tear slipping down your cheek. His words sounded sincere. They sounded desperate. But how many times had you believed him before? How many times had you thought that things could change, only to have it all fall apart again?

“Why now?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “Why are you fighting for me now, after everything?”

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “Because I was a coward. I didn’t realize what I had until I lost it. I didn’t realize how much I loved you—how much I needed you—until I pushed you away. And I hate myself for that. But I’m here now, Y/N, and I’ll fight for you every day, for the rest of my life if I have to.”

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest, torn between wanting to believe him and the overwhelming doubt that had built up inside you. You had heard words like this before—had thought that love could fix everything. But love hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been enough to stop him from saying those terrible things, from pushing you away when all you had wanted was to be close to him.

“I’m so tired,” you murmured, your voice breaking. “So tired of hurting, of trying.”

Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened, his thumb brushing softly over your knuckles. “Then let me try for you. Let me be the one to hold you up this time. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, for the first time in days. His face was drawn with worry, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion. He looked as broken as you felt, as if your pain was his own. The guilt etched into his expression was raw, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw the man you had fallen in love with—the man who had once made you feel safe and cherished.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “But… I hope you can try for me, Azriel.”

His breath hitched at your words, the smallest spark of hope lighting in his eyes. “I will,” he promised, his voice shaking with emotion. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Y/N. I swear it.”

You gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and though it was barely a gesture, it was enough for him. It was enough to make him believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to save what had been broken.

But as you lay there, staring up at him, the weight of the past still heavy on your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder if love alone would ever be enough. Would it be enough to heal the wounds he had caused? Could you truly let him back into your heart after everything?

As Azriel leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a tear slipped from your eye.

And somewhere, deep in the recesses of your heart, you felt the beginning of a new ache—an ache that whispered, What if it’s too late?

The thought lingered in the air between you, unspoken, but undeniable.

What if love would never be enough?

Azriel pulled away, his hand still gripping yours tightly as if he feared that if he let go, you would slip away forever.

And maybe… just maybe… he was right.

———————————————————

Attached below are places you can reach out to if you need support.

[thecrowskitten]

A Moment of Stillness

Pairing: Sylus/Reader

Summary:

In a rare moment of silence, Sylus can't help but wonder why his partner hasn't said a word

Masterlist

Word count: 993

A/N: This idea hasn't left my head in weeks and I love this fic sm. Reader is an artist!

The room held a quiet kind of tension, broken only by the faint rustle of paper and the occasional scratch of charcoal against parchment. Y/n couldn’t help but notice how the dim light from the window caught the silver strands of Sylus’ hair, casting soft highlights along its length. Something was mesmerizing about the way he held himself, completely absorbed in his work, the sharp focus in his red eyes making it feel as though he existed in a world separate from hers. She could study him for hours and still never fully grasp the layers behind that calm exterior.

She shifted slightly on the chaise, repositioning herself to get a better angle. Sylus didn’t budge, didn’t acknowledge her presence at all. His gaze remained fixed on the document, his fingers moving with the quiet precision of someone who had memorized the rhythm of every task they undertook. It was as though he were a machine, programmed only to work, to think, to achieve. At this moment, he wasn’t the man she knew—he was simply the version of him that existed when the world was too loud for anything else.

And yet, despite the stillness, there was an almost palpable energy in the atmosphere.

“You’ve been quiet,” he remarked his tone a mix of observation and mild curiosity. “Longer than usual.”

His fingers turned another page, but there was no immediate shift in his posture, no sign that he expected her to respond. He seemed unfazed as if whatever silence had settled between them was just another fleeting moment in their shared existence.

Y/n lifted a brow. “And that’s a problem?”

“You? Silent? Highly suspicious.”

She smirked but remained focused on her work, the soft drag of charcoal against paper continuing.

He glanced at her briefly before turning back to his work. “Should I be worried?”

“No.”

After a moment, Sylus shifted again. “If you’re plotting my demise, at least be creative about it.”

Y/n hummed thoughtfully. “Noted.”

Another beat of silence passed before Sylus finally turned his head slightly, catching the edge of her gaze. “Alright, what are you up to?”

Y/n clicked her tongue. “Now you’ve ruined it.”

His frown deepened. “Ruined what?”

She lifted the sketchbook slightly. “My sketch.”

Sylus blinked, then looked at the parchment in her hands. His side profile was captured in fine, careful strokes, the shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his features. His expression flickered—something unreadable, caught between intrigue and unease. Setting his paperwork aside, he moved to the chaise, his arm effortlessly pulling her against him as she shifted onto his lap. He took the sketchbook delicately in his hands, studying the piece.

Red eyes traced every detail with a quiet reverence, fingers ghosting along the edge of the parchment, careful to avoid smudging the lines. Y/n watched as he memorized it, committing it to the same careful vault in his mind where he kept every small thing about her.

She toyed with the edge of her sleeve, waiting for him to say something—anything. Sylus remained silent, expression composed, the same neutrality he offered the documents he had been reading moments before. Still, she knew him too well. The way his thumb lingered on the page, just a mere second too long. His grip on the parchment, both careful and firm, as if he weren’t quite ready to let go. A small, yet identifiable glimmer in his eyes, akin to the look he gave her when he thought she wasn’t watching. He liked it. He wouldn’t say it, not outright, but she knew he did.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Y/n mused, tilting her head against his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his arm.

Sylus hummed, tilting his head slightly to rest on hers. His eyes remained trained on her drawing. “What thing?”

She nudged her chin toward the parchment in his hands. “Pretending you’re not touched by something when you absolutely are.”

His gaze flicked to her then, sharp but laced with unmistakable fondness. “I don’t pretend.”

She scoffed, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re holding that sketch like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever seen.”

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but the barest hint of colour dusted across his cheeks. He finally placed the sketchbook down beside them, his arm wrapping fully around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

“Maybe I just like the way you see me,” he admitted, voice lower now, softer, like he was saying something he rarely allowed himself to.

Y/n’s breath hitched slightly, the warmth of his words curling around her. While his physical affection was something she was very familiar with, his words of affection were few and far between. When he did find his voice in these matters, it was with intention—every sentiment carefully chosen, irreplaceable.

She barely had a chance to respond before Sylus pressed his lips to her forehead. It was slow, lingering, a gesture of his love for her. His free hand came up, fingers threading gently through her hair as he kissed again, this time on her temple. A small smile played on her lips as she ran her fingers along the fabric of his shirt before resting them against his chest. She let her eyes close, savouring the warmth between them. “That’s more like it.”

“May I keep it?” Sylus cupped her cheek, thumb lightly brushing along her skin.

“After I colour it in.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to argue, but instead, he just sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. Just don’t take too long.”

Before he could pretend to be unaffected, she caught his lips with hers, silencing any further protest he might have had. He didn’t fight it—not even for a second. Instead, he kissed her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered as if the moment itself was something worth preserving.

[deathworlders-of-e24]

Thomas, Engineer

Part 5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The klaxon call of the alarms.

Electrical shorts all around.

Sparks raining down as equipment blew.

The temperature rising as the last of the protective shields failed.

Burning-

Thomas woke up. He was still in bed and not in the CORE control room about to be incinerated. His quarters were still dark, and the air was cool. Almost hesitantly, he touched his arms, his chest, and finally his face. His skin wasn’t searing away as he had feared, however, it was slick with a layer of cold sweat. Inversely his throat was dry as bone.

Thomas kicked his damp blankets to the foot of the bed and swung his legs over the side. In the dark, the room looked… alien, for lack of a better word. The walls looked ugly with little variance in the shadows, and for the first time he was thankful there wasn’t a window to look out of. Thomas thought if he saw any more dark looking back at him he might be sick.

The single point of comfort was the soft yellow light coming from Roomba’s eyes as he sat atop Thomas’s desk on the quick-rigged charging platform they’d made. The little droid was recharging, napping as Thomas had joked, during the ship’s night cycle. In the low light Thomas thought he saw Roomba twitch, but decided it was just the dark and his mind playing tricks.

Water. Thomas needed water, something to drink to wash away the taste of dried saliva in his mouth. He pulled a hoodie over his head and stepped barefoot out into the hall to go hit the nearest Vending Machine. He swiped up his ear piece translator as an afterthought, not because he thought he’d have any conversations at 0400 hours ship time, but purely as trained reflex. One floor down and a hundred feet later, Thomas was chugging down a second glass of ice water when he felt the little tug on his pant leg. Looking down in surprise, he saw it was his mechanical companion, standing only a few inches taller than his ankle. Roomba looked up at him with bright eyes and lifted his little arms up towards him.

“Beep”

[Inquiry: are you experiencing a malfunction as well?]

“Nah buddy, I’m okay,” Thomas leaned down and scooped the small robot up from the floor, carrying him in the crook of his arm like a small child. “What about you? Seeing things again while you’re offline?”

“Beep.”

[Affirmative, this unit is experiencing a persistent malfunction of unknown complexity]

“Beep.”

[Diagnostics show zero fault anywhere in internal systems, and externally there were zero changes as well]

“Well don’t worry buddy, we’ll go see Miss Liz tomorrow after the shift, okay? If the two of us didn’t catch anything, a third pair of eyes might. You’ll be okay.” Thomas pat the little robot on top of his head twice before heading back to their quarters.

He sat Roomba down beside his charging plate again and half sat-half flopped onto his bed with a weary sigh. The idea of going back into his traumatic dreamscape wasn’t exactly relaxing. If the lights had been on he’d have been able to see the bags under his eyes in the mirror.

“Good night Roomba,” Thomas said, head on his pillow.

“Beep.”

[Good night Human Thomas]

A moment passed, then another. Thomas was about to take his ear piece off but stopped at the next-

“Beep.”

[I hope our malfunctions are repaired soon]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That’s him, that’s the human,” whispered one of the crew, a young Mondonian woman in a Operations Management uniform, the blue suit conflicting with her crimson skin. She was whispering, unsuccessfully, to a Zilgrat from communications as they hid around a corner a ways away from Thomas. He’d noticed them the moment he’d stepped off the lift, as they’d immediately stopped their conversation to watch him start his work.

“You’re sure that’s the human from the CORE room failure?” the Zilgrat squeaked. Thomas tried not to pay any attention to it, choosing instead to think how nice it must’ve been for them in their home system. The Zilgrats and the Mondonians had actually evolved on sister planets in the same solar system, not even separated by an asteroid belt. How nice it must’ve been for their species to have always known they weren’t alone. It was no wonder you always saw both species on the same crews in the GAIL fleets. The Mondonians looked humanoid, but with dark cherry skin and something akin to rams horns growing out the sides of their heads. Zilgrats however were almost identical to Terran ferrets, just bigger, about as big as a mid sized dog.

Thomas gave up on ignoring them and decided to wave with a small smile. They startled briefly before sheepishly approaching.

“Apologies,” said the Zilgrat, “we didn’t mean to offend. It’s just… we had never met a human before, and you’re famous.”

“I’m what?” Thomas almost shorted out the panel he was fixing in surprise.

“Famous!” said the Mondonian. “Sorry, is the word not translating? I was just saying we’ve heard of you from the rest of the crew, they all said you’re a hero.”

Aw damnit, Thomas thought. That’s still going around.

“No, no, I got the translation,” Thomas feigned a laugh, “I was just surprised. You’re talking about the CORE breach right? That wasn’t anything too serious. I was just doing my job.”

“You are in maintenance yes?” The Mondonian asked. “Your job is to repair, not risk your life. I was wondering how you even overcame the fear, it must’ve been very frightening.”

“Well you know, adrenaline kicks in, you don’t really think about how scary it is, you just do it,” Thomas shrugged, wishing he was back on the lower decks right now.

“Adrenaline?” This time it was the Zilgrat. “You had a wartime stimulant injection during this?”

“What? No,” Thomas was confused, “no, just a normal, everyday adrenaline response, no injections.”

“You are saying that humans simply produce a level 3 restricted enhancement naturally?” The Mondonian woman questioned, concerned.

“I suppose I am, yeah. It’s a survival reflex, I think most of the creatures on Earth can make the stuff no problem.”

“E24 sounds like a truly terrifying place if all your creatures can produce such a dangerous chemical unrestricted. It’s highly regulated in our home galaxy.”

“Beep.”

[Warning: threat approaching]

Thomas, confused and alarmed, looked down at Roomba by his feet, the small droid half in half out of the wall panel they were working on. He was pointing back down the hall to the lift, the doors of which were closing behind someone in a white custodian uniform, with a rocky exterior.

“Roomba, what do you mean?” Thomas asked quietly as the two crew-mates they’d been speaking to made themselves scarce.

“Beep.”

[Explanation: a scan of the security chief’s logs list this individual as a security risk]

“When did you scan his logs?!” Thomas whisper shouted, concerned.

“Beep.”

[When task queue was updated to: protect Noah]

“Beep.”

[New Task parameters dictated more information was required, so this unit downloaded necessary archives from the Security consoles]

“Fucking how?” Thomas was so certain that Chief Ducane would kill them that he wasn’t even paying attention to the Sed man walking toward them anymore. That was, until the man in question intentionally stayed course and shoulder checked Thomas into the wall.

“What the hell dude, watch where you’re going!” Thomas cried out, understandably pissed.

“Be silent, human-AHH!” The Sed man howled in pain, confusing Thomas further. He hadn’t touched the guy. Thomas looked down, eyes widening in shock. Roomba had activated the soldering torch in his finger and grabbed onto the Sed’s foot, carving a little chunk of exoskeleton off with the miniature flame. He must’ve hit flesh down there too because Thomas smelt burned meat.

“INSOLENT LITTLE SCRAP METAL!” The Sed roared.

“Roomba, stop!” Thomas called, but it was too late. The Sed man cocked back his leg and kicked the little droid into the wall with a heavy metal KLUNK!

From down on the floor came a little-

“Beep.”

[Protect the Noah]

“Beep.”

[Protect Human Thomas]

“Roomba!” Thomas shoved the Sed away will all his might, sending him sprawled to the floor, and dove down to the droid, scooping him up and making a break for it back into the lift, leaving his tools and the bastard Sed behind, who was now leaning against the wall staring death in Thomas’s direction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t know what to tell you Hardware,” Liz shrugged, “every internal diagnostic I’ve run said the little guy is running perfectly. Better than perfect.”

Roomba was sitting on the table as Liz from Biotech scanned over him with multiple pieces of equipment. Thomas stood beside her fretting, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“You’re sure he’s okay?” Thomas was wringing his hands together so much his skin had turned pale.

“Totally no damage,” Liz confirmed. “These little guys were designed to withstand massive blunt force, like the kind from getting run over by heavy machinery. Grite’s foot won’t do a thing to him.”

“Grite?”

“Yeah, at least that’s who I assume it was. Sed guy, white janitors uniform, right? Same guy who cost me an arm,” Liz folded her arms in front of her. “That guy sucks, in my professional opinion.”

“He’s that guy?” Thomas was incredulous. “How the hell is he still working here?”

“Political bullshit,” Luz said dryly. “The GAIL doesn’t want to deal this any more than we do, so we gotta wait till at least half the mission is over before we get relief personnel. At least, that’s what Danny told me.”

Danny, Thomas thought. Aw crap!

“Oh hell I’m in so much trouble!” Thomas whined. “Yeah the guy shoved me, but Roomba actually set the guy on fire! Ducane is gonna kill me.”

“God I wish I’d seen that,” Liz laughed.

“Beep.”

[Sed Grite was exhibiting hostility and violent behavior, use of force was warranted]

“Buddy, you can’t just do that, okay?” Thomas tapped the droid’s little head.

“Beep.”

[Human Thomas was threatened. Action was required]

“That’s really sweet, but you gotta be smart about it,” Thomas said, “you can’t just assault people.”

“Oh please, Grite deserved way worse,” Liz tutted, “fucker owes me an arm, but I’ll take a foot. Good job Roomba you little masterpiece.”

“Beep.”

[Affirmative, Human Liz, this unit will acquire a foot for you]

“No, no no, do not do that,” Thomas chided. “Remember, sometimes people joke buddy, don’t always take it seriously.”

“Beep.”

[Confirmed]

Thomas leaned over to whisper in Liz’s ear.

“That being said, I am going to rip that fucker apart with my teeth” Thomas said quietly, to which Liz laughed out loud.

“I’ll shoot a link to Jane, see if she can leave him in the waiting room afterwards.”

“You’re a good person,” Thomas joked. He glanced to Roomba and back again, before taking a half step further from the table, turning his back to it.

“And about that other thing we talked about? Is he okay okay?”

Liz too glanced toward the little droid before dropping her voice lower.

“As far as I can tell, he’s perfectly functional. But his code is rapidly evolving, changing its structure in a matter of nanoseconds. It’s like he’s a Padrino, but he doesn’t have any of their base directives.”

“What, so he’s got their code, but he doesn’t have to follow their rules?”

“Kind of,” Liz shrugged. “Every Padrino is a copy of the original AI construct downloaded into a mobile unit, that’s the guys we have on board. Once they’re copied, they become independent people with different experiences and perceptions. The big difference here is that eventually their base directives are to upload their memories back I to the original AI on their home planet. Follow so far?”

“Yeah, I know all this,” Thomas scoffed. “I might not have studied AI at the academy but I know how the Padrino operate.”

“Okay smart guy, here’s the kicker.” Liz pointed to Roomba. “When the Padrino on board upgraded him, they downloaded their own code into him too, without any of those directives. The Padrino might be individuals right now, but they’re all Pinocchios. I won’t deny their sentience, but they’re all following orders from the big momma back home. But your boy there doesn’t have any strings.”

“So you’re saying-”

“I’m saying he’s got a perfectly unique little mind in there, and he’s getting smarter. We’re essentially watching consciousness come into being in real time.”

“He’s been dreaming,” Thomas said softly, barely a whisper. “They aren’t malfunctions, he’s just evolving.”

“Exactly,” Liz was grinning now. “He’s gonna be a real boy soon I think.”

“You hear that buddy?” Thomas picked up the little robot. “Liz said you got a real good brain in there!”

“Beep.”

[This is accurate, yes]

“Beep.”

[Inquiry: can this unit make a request?]

“Uh, sure buddy, what do you need?”

“Beep.”

[Request: game pad please]

“Oh, sure,” Thomas pulled the tablet from his back pocket and gave it over. “But you know you don’t have to follow that task queue anymore if you don’t want to, okay?”

“Beep.”

[Acknowledged]

A short pause before the next-

“Beep.”

[The games are enjoyable]

“Beep.”

[This unit-

“Beep.”

[I like them]

“I think, if I’m right of course, that he might end up being the second fully confirmed conscious AI in the entire galaxy,” Liz said, after Thomas told her all Roomba said. “He’s showing signs of empathy, protectiveness, likes and dislikes. I could write like fifty papers on Roomba, just to start with.”

“Beep.”

[I could assist]

“My god I love him,” Liz cooed.

“I know right?” Thomas said delighted. “No more nightmares for you buddy, you’re gonna be just fine.”

Something trilled, and it took Thomas a second to realize it was his comm-link. He set Roomba down on the table and checked the message.

It was from the captain.

“Well, that was fun while it lasted, but I gotta go get fired now, so…” Thomas let the sentence drag.

“Oh, just tell him what happened, it’ll be fine. Skitch hates the guy too.”

“Can you watch Roomba for me while I go deal with this?”

“Sure. I can even watch him a little longer if you want, maybe give you some time to go see Jane maybe,” Liz seemed more serious now. Thomas turned back around and looked at her, eyebrow raised like it got caught with a fishhook.

“Why would I go see Jane?”

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe because you’ve missed your last two mandatory sessions with her?”

Thomas could feel his face getting pink.

“What makes you think so?”

“Dude, your therapy is right after mine, I pass by you in the waiting room. You haven’t seen her in weeks, and you look like you haven’t slept since then too.”

Thomas, now in a full on blush, tried to shrug it off.

“I’m sleeping fine,” he lied, hopefully convincingly, but the bags under his eyes told the truth to everyone who looked him in the eyes. “Just watch him for me, okay? I’ll think about it.”

“Just because you got a degree in psychology doesn’t mean you can do the sessions yourself.” Liz held out her cybernetic arm. “Just because I know how this works doesn’t mean I can avoid putting in the work.”

“Beep.”

[Human Thomas needs maintenance]

“I don’t know what he said, but he probably agreed with me.” Liz folded her arms again, ending the discussion.

“He did, actually, yes,” Thomas sighed. “Fine, after this if I still have my job, I’ll go to therapy.”

“Good.” Liz patted Roomba. “Now go, keep your job first.”

Thomas waved from the door and finally left. Roomba looked around the room from his perch on the table, settling on the tank of baby creatures in the wall. Liz sat down at her desk and watched him, delighted at the chance to observe.

Thomas made his way through the ship, occasionally catching stares, wondering what the future held for himself and his friends.

[saradika]

— liminal.

din djarin x f!reader

rated e - 4.2k

tags: snippets in time, amnesia, winter soldier-esque trigger-words, implied brainwashing/cult!au, angst, descriptions of wounds, yearning, soft smut & piv, outdoor sex, canon-typical violence and death (bounty hunters), ‘darksaber is haunted’ vibes, unhappy ending

a/n: gorgeous moodboard is from the angst challenge hosted by the lovely @almostfoxglove! was so excited to contribute to freya’s event!

If there was a past, he has forgotten it. But you’ll help him remember.

You’ll make new memories with him.

(or - you find yourself spending the summer with a stranger who can't seem to remember anything about his life. And you might just be falling for him, too.)

Twelve weeks have passed since your stranger slipped headlong into your life.

Sudden, in the way you found him, stumbling into the aftermath.

You had thought him a machine, with the way the metal armor had encased him, glittering in the sun. The dome of his helmet, seemingly still and unblinking - a single figure, amongst the dead around him.

The sight was gruesome - red spilled across the ground, darkening to umber where it seeped into the earth, and you still shielded away from the memory of it.

A yelp, when he had stirred. You hadn’t been able to leave him behind. Even then, you had known he had needed your help.

It took another week for his wounds to heal, even with your care.

Vicious things, the tears in his side. A glimpse of bone and sinew in the tender space beneath his armpit - a weak, unprotected spot. A dagger still buried in his thigh that you had had to tug free - the limp still slipping to the surface on rainy days.

Bacta was an expensive commodity, but you had given him all you had stored. Smeared carefully across his wounds before you bandaged them - how alive he had been, then. Your hand pressed against a bare chest, his heart thrumming beneath.

It knitted him back together but hadn’t fixed everything.

His head must have been hit hard. There’s no memory of the battle. If his friends or family were amongst the fallen, what had lead to the fight in the first place.

There were no memories of where he came from. Of his home - his look blank, when you carefully prod.

Why he was here.

“If there is a past,” He told you, “I have forgotten it.”

Even his name is shrouded, lost inside him.

A ‘hey’ and a ‘you’ is enough in the time that followed, as he trails behind you like a shadow. Shaking off your questions - the rapid-fire trying of titles, to see if one feels familiar. Unmoored and left adrift - your small home and bit of land are the only spaces that felt familiar.

So, you let him stay.

The shadow sticked, melding with your own.

It’s been ten weeks since he removed his helmet.

You hadn’t pushed.

His grip was firm that first day - catching roughly around your wrists as your fingers hooked along the edge. Unyielding. No words spoken, but you had understood, even then. Leaving him to his own devices, letting him eat in the guest room you cleared for him.

Until a morning comes, when you catch yourself looking into a pair of eyes. Warm and brown beneath dark curls that spill across his forehead - and even then, something behind your ribs had hitched.

The movement slow as the helmet had lifted fully, with hands that hesitated. A stiffness in the way it was set down on the table beside him as you doled out breakfast, as if there's something about it.

An urge to keep it near, though he did not know why.

Like he shouldn’t, but there are no words to explain why he felt this way. Just the same sense of knowing that kept him in his armor every day. The routine in the way each piece snapped into place, down to the short hilt of black metal at his belt, though there had been no blade.

You had examined it yourself, once. While he slept, fingers traced over the handle, each groove. Hot beneath your touch, a sharp wash of unease had pulled your hand away.

It’s written across his face - the lines near the drawn-tight pull of his mouth.

Without the helmet, he could not hide.

Despite how much he does not know, you can read him. Even when his words come slowly and quietly.

In the days that followed, everything flickered across his expression. A furrow of his brow in concentration. The quirk of his lips when you said something funny. Those eyes sliding away, as his hand scratches at the scruff lining his jaw.

A flicker of worry, under the heat of summer. Reacting to the hiss that slipped from you when you burned the side of your wrist, working on repairs to your speeder. The barest brush of a hand at your hip, as he moved you out of the way.

Something innate alighting inside him, as he finished welding the piece himself. The bright sparks glanced off his armor, stars in the afternoon light.

Finding his voice, as time passed. Uncovering that edge that must have always been inside him. Sharp snark, and a sense of humor that could rip a surprised bark of a laugh, from deep in your chest.

And when you’d caught his matching rumble after, it felt like a triumph.

Eight, since he gave you something.

The sun dipped low, bathing your cabin in orange and purple. Exhaustion weighing down your limbs, after another long day of gathering fruit for your stall at the market. Hours spent standing in the shade of the trees, but it hadn’t made the heat much more bearable.

Though you had to admit - time passed much more pleasurably, with his addition.

It had been hard at first, to pick out what to say, when he had no stories to pull from. When everything he knew had melded together, unsure of what was dream and what may have existed.

You filled the space instead. Your own stories not much to tell, but you could feel the weight of his gaze often. Small comments and questions, when silence stretches out. Encouraging you to continue.

Conversation turning easier, with each passing day.

A dutiful presence at your stall. Catching everything - a leashed hound at your side, hackles ready to bristle. As much of a fixture as the handmade wooden crates, lined with soft linen. The hand-carved sign, passed down by your father’s father.

And in the quiet, evening light, he had plucked it free. A bruised jogan fruit from the basket at your feet - the word tumbling from him around a mouthful, teeth sinking into the purple flesh.

“Din.” Chewing, then swallowing, “I think that is my name.”

Your eyes had bounced to his. Dripping down to the tongue that had peeked out against his lip, before slowly repeating.

“Yeah?” You asked, before trying it for yourself.

“Din.”

It tasted sweet.

Fruit-ripe against your lips, and you had found yourself smiling.

Six weeks, since your lips had first touched to the nape of his neck.

Fitting together in your tiny bathroom, with the stone walls curling in.

Din’s back had been to you. Head bowed as you trimmed the grown-long curls, skin sticky with heat. His armor was in a neat stack at his feet, shoulders bared.

Mirroring your first few days together - but so different.

Your fingers had traced over the silver at his temples, catching in the warm light of your bathroom. Meaning hidden, in the careful touch.

It felt easier than it should be.

Natural.

And deep down, you thought it should scare you.

Maybe it does. At night, when you’re tucked into bed. Caught thinking about the man in the other room - who he might be. Where he came from, what higher power had guided him down here, to you.

But then you see him - the crinkle of his eyes and that easy routine. Looks exchanged that you’re not sure how to interpret, as if in a language only he knows.

Ones you never learned the words for.

And you just - forget.

You hadn’t been able to help it.

The dip of your head.

A chaste kiss pressed against the notch of his spine, right at the nape of his neck.

Summer lingered in his hair. Soaking in the sun and the wind off the lake - a hint of shampoo, when your nose brushed against his curls.

He smelled like home. Like you, mixed with leather and metal and man.

Din’s shoulders strung tight where your palm pressed, the soft inhale of breath that you almost missed.

You caught his eyes in the mirror, after.

When they opened again.

Where they had snagged. Watching every little movement - the careful brush of clippings from his skin. The touch that he had leaned into.

They burned, in the hazy reflection. A different kind of heat bloomed over your skin, and you thought, maybe-

Maybe he felt it, too.

Things had changed, four weeks ago.

The surface of the lake had been like glass, stretching out from the grove of trees.

Your favorite place - you’d spend all day out here if you could. Shirking responsibilities for a few hours beneath the branches, watching the sun change the water from blues to pinks and purples.

Something you had decided you were doing, today.

Your market stall was doing well. Picking extra fruit the day before - working longer, later, for this.

Din’s look dubious, when you told him you were going in. Those eyes caught between watching and turning away, as your shirt was peeled off.

Left behind with your boots, socks, and pants.

Scattered across an old blanket, the pattern sun-bleached and faded.

A shiver wracked through you, at the cool cling of the water. A balm to the heat, soothing all those weeks spent working.

Step after step, as you had let the lake surround you. Head tipped up, as you let the water mute everything.

And underneath the clouds, you had let yourself go under.

There was a splash, at the shore.

The catch of the sun against metal, left amongst the thick grass. Half-undressed already, as he had rushed to follow once again.

Din’s hand had curled around your bicep - pulling you to the surface, leaving you sputtering.

Worry, etched in the lines of his face, when your eyes had opened.

You had laughed.

Not meaning to - his brows furrowing as you explained.

“I’m fine.” You grinned, “It’s just a lake. I’m not drowning”.

His heart hammered beneath the press of your palm. Fingers smooth against your skin, goosebumps raised with the prickle of wind.

With more than that, if you were being honest.

Even now, you’re not sure who had moved first.

Maybe you both did. A part of your lips and the tilt of your head, and suddenly, his mouth was covering yours.

His rough groan echoed your soft sigh, as arms wrapped around your waist to crush you against him.

Melding yourself against bare skin, as you opened for the lick of his tongue.

The kiss had been clumsy. Clicking teeth and churning water as you grasped at each other. Unable to get enough, now that you’d begun.

But there’d been something practiced in the way he touched you. In the cup of his palm as he felt your warmth, thrust beneath the surface of the lake.

How he tucked you beneath him on the blanket, back at shore. A knee shifting as it pressed into your thigh, opening you up for him further. The weight of him as his hips rolled - separated by thin, soaked fabric.

You can still remember the way he groaned against your mouth when you tugged on his curls. How his skin felt feverish to your touch, and you knew yours must have faired the same - those weeks of wondering and wanting building. Taking off full tilt, and neither of you wanted to stop.

His hand had slipped to cup the back of your head, as your hips lifted. A rough sound when you brushed against the straining weight of his cock - tentative at first, and then desperate.

“Tell me I can have you.”

Another roll of his hips, and heat bloomed in your belly, as a confession slipped free. Husked into the shell of your ear.

“I haven’t wanted anything the way I want you.”

Your breath hitched, as something in your stomach bloomed. Clinging to him even tighter, as he nosed against your throat.

“You can’t know that.”

But out of everything, this had been one thing he was certain of. Drawing back until he hovered above you, blotting out everything else.

“I do.” It was soft. Emphatic, as his fingers kept your face tilted up to meet his, “I just know it. Can feel it, when I’m with you.”

It’s enough.

What remained was tugged off, left among the grass. The ragged groan warm against your skin when he finally sank to the hilt inside you, your cry lost among the lapping waves and birdsong.

Learning each other in new ways, committing each second to memory.

“Please-“ It slipped from you.

Your peak had dangled just out of reach, inching closer each time you took him fully. Your thighs hooked around his hips, driving him deeper. Needing more.

“I know, cyar’ika.” He mouthed at your throat. Teeth scraped against skin, needing his mark to linger, “Feels so fucking good. I shouldn’t have waited. I-“

The rest was lost, in the snap of his hips. The admission, the sweet name coming from a place deep inside him, as something forgotten slipped free.

Gold had burst behind your lids. The sunlight was demanding, filtering through as you drifted among the clouds.

Never knowing bliss like this, until him.

It snatched your breath, as your heart galloped away from you. Thrumming down and around him as he growled your name - before he followed, just as he always did.

Content to sink into your embrace.

After - your fingers traced over sun-warmed skin.

An ache in your chest, at the split slash at his hip. The healed blaster wound on his chest. Another mark against his ribs, one that had long faded.

A dozen others, cut into the planes of his torso.

He let you, as he sank into the grass. Head tipped up, eyes closed as you trace out words you’re not ready to say.

Biting them back, from the tip of your tongue.

Ones that echo his from before.

Ones about wanting. Needing.

You’d make new memories with him.

You’d help him remember if that’s what he wanted. Write down every detail, until he could see the bigger picture.

Until he could piece things back together.

It might take time - but in that pocket of summer, it didn’t matter.

Together, you’d have plenty of that.

It’s been two weeks now, since you’ve spent every night together.

The evening after the lake had been an unspoken thing. An entwining of hands again, and you had led him into your space.

His few things mixed with yours in the nights that came after, the bed in your guest room untouched for days.

You slept better than you ever did before. Eased by the weight of him beside you. Comforted by his presence, content to wind down the evenings with your limbs twined together.

A breeze sifted in through the cracked window, after another long day. With the lights off, you could see the sky above - the scattering of twinkling stars against a blanket of inky indigo.

Din’s eyes were drawn to it, often. Head tipping up, as the sun set, and the moon slipped into view. Minutes passing, with his eyes narrowed.

Sifting through broken slivers, twisting them until they fit.

“Do you think you’ve been up there?” Your head cradled against his shoulder. His arm was warm where it wound around you, your eyes fixed on the stars like his were.

He was silent for a long moment - the room filled with the hum of evening life, the steady inhale-exhale of breath.

“I think so.” It came slowly, “I dream of flying. And it feels…”

The words trailed off, a breath before he finished.

“It feels like I have.”

Your hand squeezed against his arm, thumb smoothing over skin.

“I’ve never been.” You admitted, “I’ve always wanted to go somewhere when I was younger. Anywhere.”

You’d spend ages pouring over holo-novels, dreaming of seeing different planets. The sprawling city of Coruscant. The forests of Kashyyyk, Beaches in Iloh, the vast stretch of the ocean before you.

“I’d take you.” His voice was a rumble, beneath your ear, ”I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

Your head tilted, as you regarded him.

Curls mussed from your fingers, crushed against the cushion of your pillow.

Eyes dark and expectant. Earnest - you knew he was telling the truth.

You smiled, as your head dipped. Your admission breathed out, just before your lips touched to his.

“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”

It’s been one day since everything changed.

Your afternoon at the market drawing out into the night. A runaway speeder clipping the side of the booth, sending fruit to spill upon the ground. The awning drooped, the wooden pole splintering.

Din had stepped away to get supplies. Your fingers smeared with pulp as you scavenged what you could, tucking fruit back into boxes.

Disposing enough that worry had begun to creep beneath your skin, prickling.

It had taken two hours to fix, his hands overlapping yours as the new piece was fitted into place.

The bag of credits tucked in your pocket, the evening light stretching out your shadows on the walk home.

And on a long strip between old buildings, the split of shadows became four.

Then six, as you found yourself boxed in.

Your heartbeat leaped, with the gravel-rasp of one of their voices. The glint of metal - a blaster, held loosely in the palm of a hand.

“Been looking for you. You’re hard to find, know that?”

There was an ache in your hand, as it wrapped around Din’s pauldron. It’s immediate - the way his arm had reached out, tucking you between him and the stone wall behind you.

“I don’t know them.” There was a wobble in your voice.

A rough laugh answered, “Not you, girlie.”

Din.

The knot in your chest dropped to your stomach. Fear like acid in your throat.

“The Tribe is looking for you. Not too happy you split. Offered a hefty sum.” It’s too casual, for the way the blaster pointed at Din’s chest. Still at each end of the alley, but each word brought them closer.

“Children of the Watch, too. It’s tempting, but…”

Din’s back was strung tight beneath your touch. These words meant nothing to you - names you didn’t recognize. References you didn’t understand.

The man was close enough then that you could see the glint of his eyes. The pull of lips across teeth that felt too sharp. An urge inside to run - but Din was too solid to move, and you couldn’t bear to leave him.

They paused, as their eyes dipped.

“Personally, I think we’d much rather have that.”

It’s almost as if Din instinctively knows what he meant, with the way his hands slipped to the black hilt.

Where it’s sat for weeks - an ever-constant, silent presence.

Two of the men had twitched, a foot shifting backward.

“Dead or alive, Mandalorian.” The man’s voice turned pressing, tipping towards desperate, “Doesn’t make a difference. Don’t need you, and definitely don’t need her-“

The blaster twitched towards you, and it’s as if a switch was flipped - no more than a heartbeat passed before the blade hummed to life in Din’s hand.

Inky black, fathomless. Consuming, as it swung through the air, and the last light of the sun dimmed with its presence.

Unnatural. Dangerous.

There was the smell of burnt flesh. The man’s arm cleaved at the bicep, paired with a wail.

A shorter knife pulled from Din’s hip, seated into their chest. The cry cut short. Red smeared across his armor, as you sank back against the wall in shock.

The destruction made sense, now. The carnage you had found him in - you had thought he'd been the lone survivor in a battle.

A half-truth, at least.

Instead you saw him for what he was.

You can picture what happened - for it was playing out in front of you. He moved as if he were made for this.

Fluid. Too much so, muscle memory kicking in, in a way that tells you he had done this many times before.

A second downed, before you managed to move. His name was weak on your lips as you reached for him, trying to keep him from pursuing after the rest who scattered.

Flinching, when his head whipped your way. Your own face had reflected back at you from his visor, fear widening your eyes - and for a moment, you didn’t recognize him.

The fierce warrior, in front of you.

But then, it was there.

Finding him in the slope of his shoulders. The way he stood - weapons sheathed as he cupped your face.

Urging you back toward home, trying to shield you from the mess that had become stuck to your thoughts like burrs.

It's only these weeks together, that had your legs moving. The fact that it's still him - that he did this for you - even if it caused your stomach to lurch.

Letting him take you as far as the house, then deeper.

You needed all that red gone. His armor peeled away in the golden, safe lights of home.

He husked your name once, then twice. Red-stained hands catching at your own. Excuses and promises murmured out, crackling through his helmet.

“I couldn’t let them touch you.”

“Cyare, please-“

And you only relented, with the lift of his helmet. Those brown eyes finding yours, and it’s only then that you could breathe again.

Letting him erase what happened, as his mouth brushes against yours. Waiting for you to close the gap - and, you had.

The jolt and sting of the near misses eased with the touch of hands that you’d come to know well. Stripping him as bare as you felt, the stained armor left at the foot of your bed - the hilt stinging your hand, pain prickling up your arm as it had dropped to the floor.

Trying to erase what happened, as you fell into the man you knew, until it all feels like a bad dream.

He did this for you.

It echoed in your mind, and from his lips. Assurances uttered, with the low rasp of his voice. Smeared across your skin, pressed against the soft curve of your inner thighs.

Filling you, with a familiar weight. Fingers entwined as you’re flipped onto your belly, another promise groaned into your ear.

“I’ll always take care of you.”

“You’re mine.”

“You’re safe.”

It lingered, after. You fell asleep with that thought, those words, letting them wrap around you like a cocoon.

Maybe if you believed it hard enough, it would be true.

There’s a weight when you wake.

A third companion, in the slow creep of the morning hours. Silent as it follows you.

Somber in the eyes that almost meet, only to just miss each other.

You don’t know how to take what happened. The admission after - everything you’ve ever wanted to hear, just at the wrong time.

Wishing you had been back at the lake again, instead.

Wishing you had said something, then. That you had left the stall broken, and gone home early.

Because while it doesn’t really change things, you still reeling with the change from the slow, idyllic life you’ve become accustomed to. The two sides of the coin, of the man you’ve come to love.

That heaviness between you swells - cracking open, with the silhouette of figures against the horizon.

That fear creeps back again, as you look to him. Leaning into the hand at your shoulder once more, tucking you amongst the grove.

But it’s not the men from last night.

The ones that slip through the trees look like him. Gleaming helms, covered head to toe.

Long capes and blasters at their hips, a commanding voice ringing out from the woman whose gold helmet is adorned with twin horns.

"Djarin."

A name, a title, you think - you cannot tell. But dread still curls in your stomach, mirroring the ache when his blade had arced through the air.

You wonder if they were the ones looking for him. Wonder where they’ve been, how they knew-

“You must have known we’d come for you. That it would lead you to us.” Her head cocks, as she takes him in. Voice turning sharp, cracking like a whip.

"You’ve been gone too long. You toe the line of dar'manda, mand'alor.”

He flinches, as one last phrase is uttered.

“Ibic haar Yust.”

This time the words - what is spoken - does something to him.

Din’s posture straightens, as if awakening from a long slumber. Hands methodical with the way they drop to the clip at his waist, unlatching his helmet.

Your Mandalorian disappears beneath, his voice distorting with his dutiful echo.

“This is the way.”

He leaves your side, and your brow knits. Hand reaching for the tattered cape as he goes to them, though the fabric slips through your fingers.

The pit in your stomach drops, as you call after him - panicked.

That single syllable stretches long.

Becoming lost to the wind.

He doesn't answer. Doesn’t react. Doesn't turn, as he rejoins his clan. Melding in with the others - their figurehead back in place, after weeks of searching. The darksaber back where it belonged, calling out with spilt blood, until it could find its way home.

After all, that name was never yours.

And neither was he.

thank you for reading, and thank you again freya for this event! it was so fun to use your images for inspiration, and to tap into that angst

cyar’ika - darling, sweetheart

cyare - beloved

Ibic haar Yust. - ‘this is the way’

dar’manda - the state of being ‘not mandalorian’

mand’alor - leader of the mandalorians

[makimaglazertilldeath]

Perfect Isn’t Enough

Yandere popular girl x loner reader

Seraphina Laurent is perfect. Everyone knows it.

Top of the class. Flawless beauty. The kind of girl who doesn’t just exist in school—she owns it. People orbit around her, desperate for a glance, a touch, a second of her time. She gives it in careful, calculated doses, just enough to keep them hooked.

But you don’t care.

And that makes you a problem.

You don’t stare when she walks into a room. You don’t scramble to impress her. When she speaks to you—soft, honey-sweet—you barely glance up, answering with as few words as possible.

At first, she thought it was ignorance. Maybe you were too much of a loner, too detached, too apathetic to understand who she was. So she tried again. A passing compliment, a light touch on your arm, a lingering glance. Subtle things, meant to pull you in.

You didn’t bite.

Her friends told her to let it go. "They're just weird. Who cares?"

But Seraphina does care.

Because no one ignores her.

So she watches you. And the more she watches, the worse it gets.

She notices things. How you always sit by the window, head tilted slightly, lost in thought. How you move through the halls like you don’t need anyone. How your eyes—sharp, steady, and utterly unimpressed—sometimes flick to her, like you know.

And then she realizes.

You saw through her.

Not Seraphina Laurent, the perfect, adored girl. But the real her. The cracks beneath the mask. The way her smile tightens when things don’t go her way. The flicker of calculation in her eyes.

You know.

And you don’t care.

That’s just not acceptable.

She starts small. A missing book. A rumor whispered in the right ear. A teacher suddenly docking your grade, unfairly so. Just enough to see if she can make you react.

Nothing.

And that’s when she realizes—this isn’t enough.

You won’t come to her willingly. So she’ll just have to drag you in.

The school is quiet when she finds you alone.

You’re in the library, the dim glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows as you flip through a book. You don’t react when she pulls out the chair across from you, don’t even look up.

This is just pissing her off.

"You’re avoiding me."

You sigh. Close your book. "I don’t think about you enough to avoid you."

A lie.

Her lips curve. "Don’t you?"

Your gaze finally lifts to hers. Tired. Bored. But there’s something else there, too—something that makes her fingers twitch in her lap.

Amusement.

The realization makes her stomach twist.

You think this is funny. HOW DARE YOU—

"You don’t like me," she muses, tilting her head.

"Not particularly."

She hums. "That’s fine. I don’t need you to like me."

That amusement in your eyes deepens. You lean back in your chair, stretching lazily, like this is all some minor inconvenience to you. "Then what do you need, Seraphina?"

Something about the way you say her name makes her shiver.

She leans in slightly, eyes narrowing. "I want your attention."

You blink. Then, to her horror, you laugh.

"God, you really are desperate, huh?"

She stiffens.

You rest your chin on your hand, studying her like she’s the entertainment. "All that popularity, all those people falling over themselves for you, and you’re still this pressed over me?"

"The weird loner, who's always quiet and never interact with anyone? The person who never bother to socialize?"

Her nails dig into her palm. "You don’t understand."

"No, I do," you say, grinning now. "And that’s what’s funny."

She hates this. Hates the way you look at her—not with fear, not with awe, but with pity.

But somehow it made her close and rub her thighs together

But that’s okay.

Because she’ll wipe that smirk off your face soon enough.

She rises from her seat, smoothing down her skirt, forcing a pleasant smile. "You’ll come around."

Your grin widens. "Oh? Is that a threat or a promise?"

Seraphina leans down slightly, just close enough that her voice is a whisper against your skin.

"It’s inevitable."

And then she walks away.

Not because she’s given up.

But because she’s already won.

This is so buns 🙏😔

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

Headcanon - Helluva Boss / Hazbin Hotel Crossover

But not in the way you think.

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

Basic concepts:

You have Angel Dust who was Mafia and hated it, esp bc of his dad

Alastor who loves to take out the nastier elements and clearly killed his dad for being a bastard.

Charlie who is full of sunshine and misguided dreams

And then you have IMP

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

Maybe Crimson and his goons get Moxxie cornered somewhere, and it catches the attention of Alastor, who was following up on the whole ''Mimzy situation'' from a few months prior now the extermination is over.

Millie is caught in an electrified net, they want her Alive to punish for the whole wedding debacle. 'That fuckin broad killed all my guys, she needs to learn her place' said the macho mafioso from behind like 40 armed guards the little cretin.

Blitzo is contending with Striker, who is playing best friends with Crimson right now.

Loona… well she WAS right there, but something caught her interest on one of the nearby shopfront screens, where it will turn out Vox was playing games with the minds of viewers again.

--

Alastor had been passing the area, mostly to make a point of still being alive to Vox as he saunters past the stronghold, when things began to explode around him. Which, honestly, not unusual.

However, when peering into the smouldering crater of several buildings and storefronts, it was clear a rather nasty altercation was in progress. 

“What the FUCK?” comes a familiar voice, as Angel Dust appears at his left shoulder. Those sharp eyes had snapped alert and were roving the scene for information as that third pair of arms materialised, tommy guns and all.

Ah yes, the other reason for this whole foray was a request from Charlotte to pick up the adult entertainer, as some of his fans had been getting rather… unable to understand boundaries as of late. And as someone who could enforce them in an eldritch manner, Alastor seemed a positive choice.

Only because Husk was overly sensitive when it came to Angel's protection and would fight anyone anywhere if they looked at him funny; Niffty wouldn’t differentiate between good and bad interactions; Vaggie was a bit twitchy to be a bodyguard right now; Lucifer didn’t do public real well right now; Charlie didn’t want to go near Vee HQ for a while… and let’s face it, Alastor was going to go there anyway to upset the television demon. 

Not normally one to meddle in others’ affairs… hah! Can you imagine? 

No, Alastor was going to get in there and have a look, but he sent his shadow to scout it out first… the goons definitely looked like the ones Mimzy had brought to the hotel a while back, but then there were a lot of sharklike hellborn, and he wasn’t going to be accused of racism by slaughtering wholesale (under these circumstances).

From up close, you could see the little lapel pins clearly, and yes… those were definitely the hellborn he was after.

“Why, my dear Angel Dust, would you care to join me in some tomfoolery? They appear to be related to the mooks who decided to ‘run up on our turf’, as they say. Do you require any rizzing before the battle?”

Angel just about got whiplash from that one. “Okay, who the FUCK is teaching you these terms and why? I thought I was hallucinating when you said 'Fs in chat for the king's sense of tste' this morning when Short King was putting more syrup than pancake on his plate. But you just-... what the-...

Never mind, we’re gonna fix your old timey ass’s vocabulary when we get back t’the hotel. But yeah, I’m always down for a quick bang sesh…” He winked lasciviously. Laughing at the eye roll he received.

They advance on the unsuspecting fools.

Charlie was NOT going to be pleased.

“MILLIE!” comes the agonised cry of a small dapperly-dressed imp being pinned to the ground by sharklike hellborn several times his weightclass. Blood drips from a gash across the temple as he struggles to free himself.

A female imp is fighting to free herself from an all-encompassing mesh net that sparked violently, her muscles fighting against her from the shocks. “M-Moxxie, I’m fine! Pr-omise!” 

“Oh you little daddyfucker, I’m gonna rip your goddamn horns off and shove them up HIS ass!” Blitzo yelled, firing wildly at Crimson between dodging fists from Striker. “Loona, Looney-Petuney where are you?!”

“Oh shut yer holes, ya fuckin’ whore. You think I don’t know that ya banging that blue-blood? Is that any kinda example for you to set for my son? He’s already a weak waste of space, and that’s before we get t’the limp-wristed part… but you certainly ain’t helping.”

“Do-Don’t listen t’him honey, you’re perfect as y’are!” Millie yells, she’s managed to tear a few threads with her claws, but the smell of burning flesh is ever present.

“Yeah, I’m the only Daddy you need!” Blitzo calls back, pauses as he rethinks the statement, and adds, “I mean, daddy-ish figure, but we can negotiate if you and Millie ever wanna-... ow, would you stop fucking biting me? I’m trying to have a meaningful emotional moment here with my bangable employees?!”

“Hey now, you little traitor… I think you’d best give me a little more of that attention. Got a score to settle with you after that last mess you left me with. Gonna make you a new hole, and if you’re nice… I might just fill it for ya.” Striker snarls, lunging with a blade outstretched. 

“Oh fuck you, can’t you go back to the horse thing? That was at least a little sexy.”

“ENOUGH!” Crimson shouts, firing off at Blitz who can’t dodge both blade and bullet, resulting in the projectile hurling him several feet down the alley in a bloody mess. “Now, I’ve had about enough of this whole fucking mess you’ve made for me, boy… every moment you draw breath you’re bringing shame t’The Family and I can’t be having that. There’s time for me to start again, make a better brat… but you know the sayin, ‘out with the old...'".

He cocks the gun. “Say hello t’ya mother for me.”

Someone is screaming his name as the barrel comes sharply into focus... and that’s when Crimson’s hurled several feet away into what was once a solid brick wall. 

“What the FUCK?”

“Hahaha! Why hello, what’s happening here then?” comes a too-loud, violently cheerful and utterly spine chilling voice. “My, my... you see, my associate and I couldn’t help but overhear the ruckus and came over to investigate! I’d advise you not to move an inch, if you would, for my friend here has excellent aim and I find bullet-riddled meat so tediously chewy.”

Crimson got a full look at the tall red fucker getting in his business, and blanched at the sight.

Two male sinners stood there backlit by fire, smoke and the sparking neon lights of the city. The pink one had to be eight feet fucking tall with six arms, sporting a definite scowl just as sharply as he held two tommy guns that appeared to be of Carmine make.

The red one, that freak was smiling rigidly as black tendrils extended from his back… his own hands bare of any weapon.

With a click of those talons her calls fingers, akin to the sound of bone breaking, the electricity that had been surging through the net wrapped about Millie ceases completely. The voltage fizzling out.

With a sharp grin, Crimson fires off a round at the red one, confident smirk falling to a snarl as the Sinner didn’t do more than roll with the impact to his shoulder. “Who the fuck are you? This ain’t your business… get outta here.”

“Why, Angel… someone who hasn’t seen your various portfolio of work! How truly unusual... shall I alert the media?" The red one croons, eyes going black with red… dials? Were those dials? Appearing in the depths.

“Heh, well that makes like four people in all’a Hell… so I think my hit rate is better than miss.” 

“Indeed! Well, well, well, to answer your question I am Alastor, pleasure to meet you, truly a pleasure! And this is Angel Dust, infamous adult entertainer and excellent marksman, so do try to run… I rather enjoy seeing how far fear can get you before he blows your head off.” There’s a pause as this Alastor turns to Angel. “Do at least try to hold in the innuendo, I can sense it on the tip of your tongue…”

“You know what else could be on the tip’a my tongue…?” 

“Hah! Save it for your talkies, my dear fellow… now, where were we? Ah yes, dealing with this unpleasant creature. First and foremost, I have been looking for whichever fool decided to send his little puppets after my dear friend Mimzy and ended up damaging our lovely hotel.”

“What? Mi-... HER? That fuckin’ bitch? She stole so much shit, killed a dozen’a my guys and ran off with the goods she was supposed ta move in this damn ring. You sayin’ I should just forgive and forget you fucking freak?”

“Oooh,” Angel made a show of hissing between his sharp teeth in faux sympathy. “Yeah, so Radio Daddy ain’t like it when you talk about his friends like that…”

“Too true, and-... you know, we need to talk about the increasingly bizarre nicknames you keep creating. Anyhow, secondly, well… we’re nosy little altruists slash sadistic brawlers who love a spot of bloodshed, who rather dislike when the powerful are mistreating those below. Especially when a father is threatening the life of their child, little mobster, right in front of Sinners who have a distinct distaste for it.”

“Wait, are you the fucker that ATE my guys? The goddamn Radio Demon? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

“Well, I assume that in general I am god-dammned, but I don’t think he did it personally…” muses Alastor, while Angel Dust stifles a laugh. “Still, I don’t appreciate when a friend or even a thrall is targeted. Torture and murder are fine things, but in moderation my good imp, you can’t do this willy nilly, yeeting bodies hither and yon, that is simply cringe of you.”

Angel was going to die again if this didn’t stop. He was trying so hard to keep a straight face. Who the fuck was teaching him these phrases?

“We don’t really get along with those who pick on those weaker than them, or their kids, especially not whatever the fuck this is. And dontcha do the whole ‘for the Family’ bullshit with me, bub, ‘cause I literally lived and died that life already. Willing to go a lot further now I can regenerate, but you can’t…” Angel advises, his eyes tracking more goons sliding out of the shadows.

“Cute little ambush, all looming out of the shadows like that. Think you’re forgetting who owns them, huh? Al, you want ‘em or can I shoot ‘em?”

A rather satirical sounding waltz began as the shadows about the encroaching creatures hardened, locking them in places. “Do have your fun, Angel, I will see to this situation over here first… join when you have a moment!”

Bullets sprayed through immobilised bodies for a few seconds. “Hey, actually, can y’let some run, I’ve been meaning to test my range since the Extermination and well, the Hotel ain’t got no range.”

“Of course, the idea is quite based… pookie.” 

Angel nearly shot a flying demon out of the sky as he turned around abruptly, his heart thundering from the strain of this weird interaction. Was he still high? Did he stand too close to Val during that last shoot? 

“Your toys are escaping, which is a Big Yikes, bestie. This discussion is for another time. Assuming I ever decide to tell you. Now, are you Gucci?”

“Y-yeah I’m Gucci. But seriously, who the fuck is sliding you slang under the damn table, is it Rosie? Charlie wouldn’t. You and the King are fighting too often for it, so who the fu-...?!”

This was starting to feel like a fever dream.

“Nevermind that, my good fellow, see to your targets. Now, I am going to count to three and everyone will take their hands, tentacles and other appendages off of one another or I’m coming over there!”

He sighs and rolls his eyes at the sudden burst of giggles from Angel Dust, and apparently a rather tall imp that was bleeding a few feet away. “Do try to contain yourselves. One… Two… Two and a half…”

Sharklike demons hurled themselves from their place atop the littlest demon, who crawled over to the one in the net. Crimson rolled upright to take a step towards them, but found his way impeded by an inky black tendril.

“Millie, are you okay? How badly are you hurt?” Moxie gasps, untangling her and not really noticing the small shadowy hands that helped until she was free. He jolts backwards, shocked, but returns to his wife immediately.

“I-I’m fine, Mox, nothing that won’t heal. You need t’go help Blitz, I think I saw that fucker Stryker over there get a shot in.”

“This little fellow?” Asks the figure who looms over them, with the reptillian ensnared in a tentacle, snarling furiously at being held upside down.

“Fucking Sinners always think they’re too good for the likes’a us and you sell-outs do whatever they damn want, as long as they pay. Ain’t nothin’ but a buncha whores…” snarls the cowboy.

Somewhere in the distance, a familiar theme song starts as the cowboy frees himself momentarily, grinning brightly as if he was in control of the situation. It fades as Alastor tilts his head and snaps the music out of existence. 

“Oh really, I’ve heard of people being quite full of themselves without cause, but to have your own theme song feels somewhat… masturbatory. You should really try something with a little more life, like Jazz. Now, what to do with you?”

With another snap, a portal full of tendrils appears, immobilising both Crimson and Striker.

“Would anyone have any suggestions? I do enjoy listener participation, don’t be afraid to call in your ideas now.”

“Oh I have a few ideas, but they’re mostly around how deep you can get those tentacles if I ask. However, in lieu of that, your up-tight-i-ness how about you maybe rip a few limbs off and we’ll see what’s left of old Stryker here, huh? He’s been bragging about his plans to kill Overlords and Goetia for like, fuckin’ forever and it’s so annoying!” Blitz interjects, grinning coldly at the now-sweating cowboy.

“You intended to kill Overlords, little one? Hmmm? Have you ever actually seen one up close?” Alastor’s grin widened, the dial eyes spinning as he took note of the angelic blade tucked into the cowboy’s belt. “Would you like to…?”

And with that, he expanded to a far larger form, drinking in the fear that exuded from the previously cocksure one. With a casual swipe, a few remaining shark demons were scooped into his mouth like the morsels they were. Stryker was plucked carefully up to stare at those wide eyes.

“Do feel free to scream, it makes an excellent accompaniment to the next song.” He encourages, before plucking off one of the man’s arms and tossing it carelessly away. One of the imp’s legs was next. Alastor dropped him back to the pavement, stunning the fool, as a tendril snagged that blade free from the would-be assassin.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck me, that was HOT! Sir, I am absolutely hard as fuck right now for that tentacle shit, what can I-... I mean, WE at IMP do to thank you for that little show.” 

Alastor was caught off guard by the sentiment, and laughed as he shrank down.

“No need, my good man. There was an opportunity to pummel two drones with a single stone, and I don’t like to waste such little miracles.”

“Well, he sure looks fucked up… you want to see him do a little jig?” Angel offers, hefting the guns suggestively. The sinner returning to the small gathering covered in blood splatter and grinning wildly. Alastor cannot help but feel that some of the mirth is due to Angel overhearing the uh, offer, provided by the Imp and his compatriots.

“No, I think I’d like to see him bleed out right here after all the shit he’s caused us, Mr Dust. Also would you sign something for us? It’ll have pride of place in the office, promise.”

“Hell yeah I will, always happy to meet a fan… or fans, plural? Either way, nice ta see ya.”

Angel pulls out a small slightly crumpled poster from his pocket, and scrawls on it. Say what you will, the man was always prepared to run into a fan… that’s also what the taser in his other pocket was for, if they got too close for firefighting. 

“Hey, you fuckers best not ignore me! Do you know who I am? I’m fucking Crimson, head of the-... mmmpgh?!” 

“I think you’d best be silent now.” The Radio Demon’s neck did something impossible to stare at him. “Crimson, is it? I do not believe there is a single person in this entire area who particularly cares if you live or die right this moment,  and while I would love to guest star you on my broadcast… the sins of the father should be weighed by the son, don’t you think?”

Angel knelt next to Moxxie, Millie and the still bleeding Blitz. 

“Alright, I know it can be a big decision to take ya dad out… especially when he’s been a bastard to ya your whole life up til now, but if ya not ready then Al can always drop him into one of those little weird-ass pocket dimensions of his until you are.”

“I-... thank you, sirs, but… why are you helping us?” Moxie asked, feeling very small and exhausted right now.

“Hey, my family was in the damn mob when I was alive and they never approved’a my lifestyle… I know what it’s like ta have someone you’re supposed to trust try to beat you down in every way imaginable. Just lucky that I got the chance to watch him die by my own hands ‘fore I did!” Angel laughed, the sound delightfully cruel. He pokes Alastor. “Hey, tell him the thing, give him some confidence to make a choice…”

“Very well, but only because this whole situation has a strange frequency to it… oddly familiar in a detestable manner.” The Radio Demon responds. “Moxxie, was it? Normally I would compel you with a deal to keep this secret, but given that blasted Vox has been watching this whole time, it will likely not remain so even with one. The truth of it is that the crimes my own father committed were numerous and violent over his lifetime, using the power he was afforded at birth to do so to anyone considered beneath him… but in the end, he was simply a mortal man who could beg for his life as his blood drained into the bayou. And again as I shredded his soul into my broadcast. We will not tell you what to do with this piece of rotten meat, but his life is yours to judge… do let me know if you require a specific weapon.”

“...at this point, Mox, I think you could use my dick as a bludgeon, this is so fuckin’ hot!” Blitz muttered, expression joyful. 

“Wh… why is it always… sex with you people…?” Stryker huffed out, exhaling low and long as the life left him. 

“Okay, now THAT was kinda hot.” Millie admits, and Moxxie laughs, nuzzling her face. She’s badly injured, but neither sinner can fix that level of harm. They’d need help.

With a deep breath, Moxie pulled out his gun. The very one Blitz had gifted him after his first proper kill at IMP, that he’d scrawled their names into the handle of when no one was looking. Millie would love it, Loona would roll her eyes and Blitz would say something that was masking his affection. 

“Dad, I thought I was clear the last time we ran into one another in Greed, that I don’t want or need you in my life and your absence makes me happy. I hate that you killed Mum, I hate that you tried to hurt Millie and Blitz and force me to marry my asshole ex just cause he had money, but I especially fucking hate that at no point in your entire fucking life did you ever think to take responsibility for the awful shit you’ve done. And I’m tired of always wondering when you’re going to put a gun to my head, or poison me, or hurt someone I care about just to force me to be like you… alone, cruel and miserable. I like who I am, and what I do, and those around me. So I guess what I’m trying to say, is… go fuck yourself, Crimson.”

The bullet imploded the front of the mob boss’s face, tearing through to the other side in a shower of delightful gore. 

“Way to go MOX!” Blitz shouted, punching the air with the hand not attached to his bloody shoulder. “Fuck yes, I knew you could do it! Best way to solve daddy issues is to just fuckin’ kill ‘em!”

“I’m so proud of you, Honey!” Millie smiled, her eyes filled with tears of joy, and her posture deliberately still in order to minimise how much pain she was exhibiting. “You did it!”

“I-... I-... wow.” He felt amazing! He was gonna throw up! He was going to fuck everyone here! He was going to cry! Fuck, what was this?

“Take a deep breath, it’s gonna feel fuckin’ weird for a bit, and you might even get sad about the old bastard for a while, but that’s normal.” Angel comforts, resting a hand on the imp’s shoulder. “I even missed my fucker of a father a few days after, but it passes. Promise.”

“Why yes, it definitely will, dear. Did you want anything specific done with the bodies, or shall I ask my Shade to drop them off to dearest Rosie, she likes unusual flavours best. Hard to get around here, though.” 

“I-...what? Oh, yeah… might as well not let it go to waste.” Moxie waves a hand. 

The dual corpses of Stryker and Crimson are swallowed by shadow, leaving nothing but traces of blood upon the ground before them.

“Well, this has been a fuckin’ weird day… who wants tacos? And where’s Loona? LOONEY-PETUNEY WHERE ARE YOU?” 

“Well, it’s nice ta meetcha all, but I have ta say you guys look like shit right now. What say you come back to the Hazbin Hotel with us and we’ll sweet talk the staff into giving a little healing to ya.”

“Oh, the hotel! I heard something about it on the television, and the exterminations that happened recently. Didn’t you guys win?”

“We sure fuckin’ did, Toots! Lost a few people too, but… we took down that shitlord Adam, which actually required the King to get in the ring to deal with after he targeted Charlie. Uh, I mean, Princess Charlotte, who runs the place.”

“You know the Princess? I’ve always wanted to… meet her…” Millie’s excitement couldn’t eclipse her pain any further and she was starting to pale. As was Blitz, but he was busy striding through the wreckage towards the few undamaged shopfronts there where a number of citizens still waited despite the obvious danger.

“Loona? Are you okay? What the FUCK is happening here?!”

“Ah. Vox has her and the others bespelled by one of his tacky little commercials, one moment…” Rapping his staff against the screen display, Alastor whistles and the pixels distort. “Oh Podcast, are you in there? Do let these toys go… the product you are selling is already ash, or were you too busy acting quite the voyeur to the little event to notice?”

Electricity crackled out of the screen and shaped into a familiar overlord.

“AL-... I mean, Al, what the fuck was that? You and Val’s little whore interjecting in random shit for, what? The hell of it? Ugh, of course you would so fucking reckless. What did you want again?”

“For you to release the trapped crowd, they are likely to be immolated shortly, and I need to borrow one for the hotel. Aren’t you bold to question my motives… I know what you were doing in that little control tower of yours, watching us fight. Such a perverse little thing you are…” 

“I’ll let them go if you make a deal with me…?”

“Vox, I was merely informing you of the choice to voluntarily remove your influence or I would break it by myself, to give you the chance to make the right choice. What could you possibly offer me?”

“Must you be such a condescending old-t1111m33y prick? Fine. But that’s for… the entertainment value alone. I’d be willing to wheel and deal bigger if you ever wanted to go on that da-...”

“This will suffice, thank you Podcast.”

With a grumble, Vox hurled himself into a nearby camera.

Dazed sinners and hellborn staggered slightly as their minds came back to them.

Loona found herself nearly hurled to the ground by the force of Blitz’s frantic hug. 

“Looney-petuny! Oh thank Satan you’re okay!” 

“Dad? What happened? I was just looking at the TV and then-...?”

“Rots the brain, dear. Try not to look at the idiot box too often. Now come along, we need to be going to the Hotel, where we should be able to fetch medical aid for your father and the others. Come along.” The jovial tone was a tad forced, as the pair of Hellborn trailed after the Radio Demon, reuniting with the others.

“Come now, I think it would be best to shadow travel there… but some of you may not take to it well given your current states. Hmmm, there’s nothing for it, Angel if you would be so kind as to carry one of our new compatriots, I can come up with options for the others.”

Angel scooped up Blitz and held him in his tertiary arms, one of his primary hands was pressing a red handkerchief on the bullet wound. If anyone had a little tingle of thrill from the experience, they didn’t mention it to the other.

With deliberate care, Alastor’s tendrils slipped about the parts of Millie that seemed least deep fried, and laced about like a sling. She was drawn close to hover over an arm. There in case of unforeseen discorporation of the tendrils, but not touching. She was shivering in discomfort, so they would need to speed this up.

“Miss Loona, would you be so kind as to carry this fellow? If you don’t feel able, I can definitely try something else… I know Vox’s little eye trick can make one feel quite shook, and it can hit different for everyone.” Alastor said, enjoying seeing multiple eye twitches from Angel Dust.

He pauses, thinking of how best to phrase this kindly so as not to offend a lady, as his mother would burst out of heaven to kill him again if he should try. “And… would you mind remaining on the furthermost side of Angel Dust as we travel?”

“Whoa, hey, you prejudiced against hellhounds? I take back my erection for you earlier!” Blitz yells, and that just about short-circuits Alastor. It certainly was the cause of several exploding neon signs across the way.

Loona growls at him.

He blinks. “What? No, not at all… it has to do with my death, and being torn apart by hunting dogs, ha hah! I suspect dear Charlotte will try to ‘fix it’ for me when she discovers that little tidbit… but until her majesty forces us all through psychotherapy, this will have to do. If you are amenable?”

“Ugh, yikes dude… I totally get it. I’ll be over here… line of sight and all.” There was a pause. “I uh, I think your show is kinda cool, in a retro way though…” 

“Splendid dear, I will have my shadow show you the Radio Tower if you so choose when we get back. Once we get to know one another, why, I may even be able to show you a few of the dances I often speak about… dancing today is too tame, we used to really throw one another around in the old days. All about trust!” 

“Don’t let Char-Char hear ya say that or we’ll all be doing the Lindey Hop for next month’s group thing. Ugh… I mean, it’s been ages since I did that, and I’m pretty sure having more arms’ going to complicate things.”

“Nonsense, Angel! If Vox could do it with his balance impediment, you should be more than capable… not that I particularly care for the details of your profession, but I understand a high level of strength, dexterity and flexibility are required for at least the dancing portion. If you have mastery of that, then who knows!”

“Aw, thanks Al! That’s actually really encouraging… I used to like the weird social dancing shit we got up to back then. Ugh, we’re getting all nostalgia-y and I feel like someone’s gonna ‘Ok Boomer’ me.”

“Hah, I actually was but you beat me to the punch!”

“You have to fuckin’ spill the beans on who is feeding you this terminology, if only for my mental health, man…”

“Hmmm, no. I think I’ll keep that to myself. Come along now everyone, only a few more blocks and we’ll be in range of help. How about something soothing?”

Soft jazz plays as the strange sight strides through town. 

And so the bizarre sight of two sinners, a hellhound and three injured imps arrived upon the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel that afternoon. Causing quite the stir as Charlie opened the doors to the chaotic sight.

“Welcome Ho-ooooooooly Shit, what happened?!” Charlie’s brilliant beam dropped immediately, and then Vaggie was there, spear to hand. She aimed it at Alastor out of instinct, and dropped it a second later as she saw the injured imp in his, well not arms but tendrils at the very least.

“Good afternoon dear Charlotte, Vagatha, could we trouble you for some first aid for these delightful new companions? I was just out tracking down the source of those mobsters from a while back, the ones Mimzy brought of course, and we ran into a troubling family situation that needed some intervention unfortunately.”

“And which one did you make a deal with in order to give such compassionate consideration, hmmm?” Vaggie growled. 

“Why, none. Dearest Vagatha, can you not trust your hotelier after all this time?” he teased, and she grumbled something quite derogatory, but her eyes were on the Wrath Imp in his charge. “Do we have anything that can effectively treat electrocution burns?”

Husk was already halfway down the stairs with a first aid kit from the second floor, it was a tad fancier than the one in the lobby. 

It thudded violently when it hit the countertop, clicking open to dispense a number of wipes and pads to help at least clean the grime from the wounds first.

“Niff, we might need ya to sew up these guys, can ya come out?” Husk called, aiming for the ceiling vent that the little demoness popped out of. With a snap of Alastor’s fingers, she was cleaned of all soot and grime, sterilised magically.

“Heheheheheeee, where? Where?! I have my threads!”

“One moment while we clean and assess the wounds, dear.” he pauses, thinking and ultimately grimacing to the best of his ability, ears flattening. “Charlotte my dear, would your father be about this hotel today? I fear he may be the only one with the ability to help miss… Millie, I believe her name is.”

“What? Oh, yes! Yes he’s in his room! Vaggie, would you…?”

“Of course, babe, you know I can get them by hook or by crook and all that.”

“Soooooo… Alastor, Angel Dust, would you mind telling me what happened?” Charlie asks in a very subtle and convincing way. 

“Al came to pick me up from my job, and we ran inta a few citizens in need of support… that’s all. These guys are Moxxie, that’s Blitz, that one’s Millie and I’m pretty sure the badass hellhound over there’s name is Loona. See, Mox’s dad was tryna’ kill him, and well, Al and I thought that wasn’t good enough. So we stepped in.”

Charlie’s expression went through the full gamut from horrified to hopeful to concerned and chucked a uey to go back to hopeful. “You tried to help someone? Just because? Oooooh, I am so proud of you both!”

“Ah… I mean, it was a bit fun to shoot someone again, and Al ate a few guys but it wasn’t too bad overall.”

Charlie wasn’t listening, she was shaking Moxxie’s hand and introducing herself to the overwhelmed sharpshooter as he waited his turn to be patched up. On a barstool nearby Husk was holding onto Blitz to steady the guy as Niffty’s tiny fingers carefully wiggled the bullet free of the wound, he seemed mildly blissed out by whatever had been provided for pain relief.

Alastor was near one of the couches, but had yet to release the imp, uncertain if the fabric would be of detriment to such wounds. For Sinners and especially Overlords, you needed to get clothing or other materials out of a wound relatively quickly before they started to heal over or you had to cut it out later. It was not clear to him if Imps had the same level of ability.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” came a somewhat smug voice, as Blitz and Moxxie’s jaws collectively hit the floor. Lucifer fucking Morningstar appeared before them all from a portal, Vaggie climbing out after him, to surveil the chaotic scene. “Imps, huh? Been a while since I needed to heal any hellborn… so let's see what I can do. Hmmm, did you do this to her?”

Angry radio feedback blared across the room for a moment as Alastor glared at the King. “Why your Lowness, I understand your attention span is quite short, but do try to recall I do not utilise electricity in the same manner as that blasted picture box. Our dear Charlotte here was just mentioning that you may be the best option to assist young Miss Millicent here with her injuries… I am hoping that was the correct choice, or am I ‘delulu’?”

“I don’t know what that last word was but shut the fuck up, Al, so I can focus on healing. Ugh, you pompous piece of shi-...” 

“Dad, please, we talked about this! And Alastor, you are both important to me and I need you to get along especially now. Don’t make me point at the portrait of Sir Pentious and cry, because… you know… I will…” she was fighting back tears already, and both demons pulled back on their griping rapidly.

“Of course, Charlotte.”

“Anything for you duckling.”

Golden light permeated the room as Millie’s skin smoothed out, the rancid scent of burnt flesh subsided gently, and her tense muscles settled. She blinked her eyes open, and startled back as she ran into an unfamiliar and oddly angelic face.

“Hello there, nice to meet you I’m Lucifer.”

“The fuckin’ DEVIL?! Ooooh, my maw and paw are gonna be so jealous I met you, can we take a selfie?!”

“Uh, sure?”

They get one pic of alright quality before Moxxie launches himself over the couch to hug her, sobbing loudly. “Milliiiiiiiiiiiie, I was so worried! They hurt you and it was all my fault! Are you okay now?”

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold ya horses, that wasn’t ya fault. Sometimes your dad is just fucked up, that happens… and then you happen to ‘em in return.” Angel adds, grinning darkly.

Alastor places a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Hmmm, indeed. Never too late to take the opportunity…” he glares at Lucifer, as Charlotte tenses. Then he bursts into laughter. “Or not, we’ve had QUITE the day and I believe that it might be best for these little fiends to rest here tonight before returning to their offices. Niffty and Husker, arrange that for us, will you?”

“Hold on, you arrogant deer asshole, I’m not done talking to you yet!” Lucifer yelled as he followed the other towards the kitchens. The door hadn’t slammed shut before loud banging, crashing and shouting stirred up with intriguing radio effects contrasting violently with the blinding gold light spilling out. 

“Uhhhhhhhhhgggg, Vaggie, can you…?”

“Again? Fine. Alright you two, I’m counting to three and coming in with my spear!”

She didn’t bother to count, thanks to experience, and kicked the doors in. “Okay, you-...” 

“Is uh, is she gonna be okay?” Moxie asks, concerned. 

“Hah, of course, they won’t hurt her… but she miiiiiight stab them a little if they don’t calm down.”

“Do they fight like this often or is this for our benefit?” Loona asks.

“No, welcome to the Hazbin Hotel where everyday involves soem form of fun, frivolity and felony at this point.” Husker interjects, amused clearly.

“Metal.”

“Please don’t encourage them!”

“...-ING TO CHARLIE?! SHE CARES ABOUT BOTH OF YOU, YOU SELFISH MO-... oh, uh, everything’s fine, honey!”

Forced out of the kitchen at spear point.

Golden and Crimson blood all over them, Lucifer trying to hide a handful of Alastor’s flesh behind his back.

“Dad! What the fuck?!”

“Hey, in my defence, I was trying to help get the bullet out, and the Bellhop wouldn’t cooperate. So I did it, I got it out. You’re welcome!”

“Excellent your Majesty… what would simply have healed over in an hour is now a nuisance for the rest of the day. Good show indeed. And how do you think it will impact Charlotte’s mental health if she sees us fighting? It can be detrimental to children's development you know.”

“Us fighti-... Charlotte is MY daughter, you pompous twit! She’s the picture of mental health because she knows we love her! So there!”

“Yes, I would say everyone at the hotel does, indeed.”

“Oh you slimy word-twisting snake!”

“No, deer actually. I thought you were the serpentine one in this establishment.”

“I sure fucking am, and if you don’t shut up, I’m going to bite you!”

“...okay, Boomer.” Laugh track.

Angel Dust breaks down in hysterics.

“What did you just say to me? What the fu-... Charlie, are you teaching him the hip lingo or something? Where did he-...?”

[More stuff about them interacting]

[helpmeimblorboing]

It��s Gorgug. Keep going

[froggies-bloggies]

I'm gonna dress him up like my liddol doll <3

[imagymnasia]

personal yelling below the cut, feel free to keep scrolling. I just need to be sappy and hopeful for like two seconds before The Despair tries to take me again.

So first, some context I guess.

I've always loved books; always been a storyteller. And when I realized that writing was something anyone could do, the entire world opened up. (Shout out to my 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Nutzman. I owe you my life.) And for a long while I wrote for the joy of it, you know? Just because I could. Just because I had stories that needed to be told. Sometimes the story was profound or about processing deep emotion, and sometimes it was making a self-insert OC and kissing your childhood cartoon crush.

You know. Like you do.

And then I graduated and went to college and learned about the world and (for a multitude of reasons that would take me a book to explain fully) I gave up. I lost it. My muse, my motivation, my spark, whatever you want to call it. It was just gone. I stopped writing, I hit the wall, and all that shiny-eyed wonder and joy and purpose simply vanished.

Years pass. I try again, sometimes, but it never sticks. I can't recapture what I had, but neither can I make it anew. I try again. I fail. I try agan, but with less optimism. I fail.

I stop trying.

Fast forward to the pandemic, and discovering a fandom that inspired me so much I started writing fanfic again. I hadn't written fanfic in 20+ years. Hell, I'd barely written ANYTHING since the early 2000s. And it feels good! I'm on a roll. I join zines, I slap stuff on AO3, I trade headcanons with my buddies. It was great! But it wasn't enough. People leave. Fandom fizzles. ButI keep trying.

And I burn out. Again. And I quit. AGAIN.

Then FFXIV took hold of me and I give it one last shot. Just a little; just a TASTE. It's not even writing, I tell myself, as I give my character backstory and watch as she slays gods and falls in love. It's just for me and like one other person, anyway. (Hi, Haj! You are the Newt to my Herman, the Sain to my Kent, and I forever adore you.)

And it's fine. At this point in my story, I'd given up on Writing, but I could play in my little sandbox. Whatever dregs of happiness I could find in my pretend world were enough. Honestly, I was just happy to be imagining again.

And THEN I found more XIV fans, and god help me but they cared? About my character? About her story? About ME? And the fans became friends. And then we started writing together. And then we made a small writing group together. And somehow in the two decades since I decided I was going to Be a Writer I was actually for-real writing again.

So here we are at present day and we're trading fics and talking about poetry and doing writing challenges and sharing prompts and building resources and ??????

[The writer pauses here because she is once again overcome with emotion because the profundity of what is happening hits her all over again.]

...

You know, I was trying to be witty and articulate about this but I just gotta say it: I'm so happy.

I'm so fucking happy it hurts, because this is all I've ever wanted. All I have ever truly wanted was to find a group of friends who love this as much as I do. Who want to write, who want to create, who care what other folks are doing and working on and creating, who cheer for each other and lift up the things we make and say This is Good. This Matters.

Not all of us want to be capital-w Writers (in fact I may be the only one? One of two? I don't know and I haven't asked and that's on me) but the fact that we all came together because this thing that brings me, personally, so much joy ALSO does that for the rest of us? It gives me hope. It is inspiring and beautiful and I am not at all exaggerating when I say that sometimes I am so overwhelmed with emotion just because our little writing corner exists that it brings me to tears.

I'm crying right now.

Community matters. Art matters. And for the first time in my life those two things have finally intersected in this wonderful awkward beautiful messy imperfect incredible space, with people I care about and trust with my whole heart, and I am so

fucking

happy

that I truly do not have the proper words to convey what it means to me.

I feel like I've found a little piece of myself again, a piece I have long neglected and ignored and told it didn't matter---all because it only ever mattered to me, and that just wasn't enough. Dreams long since dead are rising up again; for they were never dead actually, they were just sleeping and now that season is over and it's time to grow again.

So while I'm processing a lot of Big Dark Scary Things right now, I am also thinking of the Good, and holding to hope and defiance and beauty in the face of all that. And I'm going to keep creating, because to do otherwise would be to turn my back on the things that make me, me; to give up is to let Big Dark Scary win, and I refuse to let it take these things from me again.

I don't really know how to end this so I guess I'll just say it's really nice to have direction again, and to have people to share it with. I don't talk about this stuff irl and there are a myriad reasons why that I won't get into.

So. I guess if you're in the group and you've read this then thank you.

It feels weird to thank people for this but I'm truly grateful to each and every one of you. Thanks for being a bright spot in a dark world and giving me a place to actually, fearlessly, be my fucking self. It may seem like a small inconsequential thing but I promise you, it's not.

That's all.

I'm going to go have another cry and eat snacks, now.... and then? Then I will write.

Ioj out.