#this post brought to you by the guilt of all the other posts I’ve been tagged in that I’ve let slide

[ay0nha]

Please Forgive Me | Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch (REWROTE IT)

SUMMARY: You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

Where you and Robby explore the first steps towards Ho'oponopono.

PAIRING: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!attending!reader

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, blood, death, smoking, Myrna, ANGSt-heavy, the "Kraken" mentions (mental health is no joke, I have opinions), seizure mentions (also no joke, although used humorously), plot driven by movie magic, reader getting physically hurt, flashbacks, arguments, fluff if you squint, word vomit, therapy session w/Kiara, mentions of terminal cancer, incarcerated patient, razor blades, glass, (let me know if I missed anything, I've been staring at this too long), etc.

Inspired by @skulandcrossbones's post, @xxdrixx's post, and @sunkissedburns' post. Also inspired by Joan Didion, that one Grey's episode, and other things I can't remember, so remind me if I missed things. CREDIT GOES WHERE IT IS DUE.

A/N: So I REWROTE this part because it was just Not It for me tbh. It didn't hold the angst/vibes I wanted it to, so please forgive me (*wink*) if this is confusing or jumbled, I just felt like this fit better for what I'm trying to do. Comments are HEAVILY encouraged; they truly keep me going and motivated to write. Many thanks to @hummusforthewin, @est1887, and @sunfairyy for helping me out! Enjoy.

prologue

“They all say ‘Life doesn’t work that way,’ ‘Live with the consequences and learn,’ ‘No one can cheat the system,’ but I did.” You paused, letting the admission be a placeholder. “Why would I regret that? They want to humanize everything; they just see wanting to die as a crime.”

Kiara always started with a baseline. It helped ease you into conversations you avoided. Yet, today the air was different. You came in with vexation. You kept storing up all that anger. You hoped for it to spill over. Otherwise, you’d drown in it. 

“And you don’t?” Kiara prompted. She was subtle with her interjections, learning your habit to retreat when prodded. 

You’d already mourned what could have been, what would not be, what you couldn't save. It was a daily practice. But this, what got you here, this was different. This didn’t come with the same leverage of sadness and authenticity; this felt radical even for you.  

“I’ve seen so much life and death that it’s become one and the same.” You continued. “I’m not trying to be clever, here…I just—” Another pause before you decidedly gave up. “—don’t get it.” 

Kiara hummed. She balanced her opinions well. She never pressed you too far, but you could tell that with your little progress, she needed to be more critical. 

“How poetic.” Kiara rested her hands on her lap. It was picture professional, minus the smirk settled on her face. “Yet another doctor who thinks they can control life—death. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”  

“Administration doesn’t see it that way.” You welcomed being brought down from a pedestal. It was the last thing any doctor’s ego needed.  “Aren’t I lucky?”

“Who doesn’t?” She challenged, eyebrow perked. “You gave Gloria more paperwork, but more than that,  she doesn’t have the time—or energy to evaluate your morals, frankly.” 

“Dana—

“Please,” Kiara laughed. 

You frowned. 

There was no point in arguing; you’d fallen for the bait you’d spent weeks avoiding. Kiara saw it firsthand, eyes always finding yours when you were both on the floor of the ED. It was easy to brush off, blaming time and urgency. 

Now, you were just stuck, trapped. Your eyes fled to the clock, its slowness insulting you. 

“Everyone’s eyes are always on me, waiting for me to crack with regret, with…guilt…” You held in the bitter laugh, knowing the reaction would be scribbled down. Your humor wasn’t always appreciated. “...but—nothing. I know what I did and I didn’t hesitate.”

As the topic shifted, the spacious room felt like it was suddenly collapsing in on you. You kept your breathing even. You learned young that nobody touched you when you looked sharp, but Kiara’s gaze could see through whatever facade you felt the need to put up. 

“If Robby is who you’re referring to…” She eyed you as she pressed further. 

“Robby?” You scoffed, echoing Kiara’s humor. “Please.”

“Your anger seems pointed.”  Kiara was specific with her words, adjusting in her seat. 

The office felt awfully small.

Robby stood far away from you, leaning against the opposing wall stiffly with hands in his pockets. His hair was a mess, a clear indication of the utter frustration he was in. 

Despite the distance, the tension between the two of you was palpable. He was absolutely livid.

Deservedly so. You should have listened to him and stayed out of it, but you didn’t—couldn’t. Now you had to simply stand and take whatever he was about to throw at you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, preparing for a half-hearted apology. “I’m so—”

“You—” He straightened himself, finger pointed out in accusation, “—had one job. I asked you to stay out of it— no, I ordered you to stay out of it. And what the hell do you do? The absolute fucking opposite. The actual fuck were you doing?”

Robby’s eyes narrowed deeper, the sharpness of the glare hitting you right in the chest. You flinch. “What makes you think you can ignore the rules? Have you forgotten that I’m your attending? I—”

“Do not pull rank with me.” You snapped. So much for just standing there and taking it. “You know damn well I am just as competent as you are.”

“Competent doesn’t mean that you’re—” Robby paused, taking in a tight breath. His voice stayed level, a refusal to let his anger get the best of him. “You were reckless. Out of line. I have to pull rank if you choose to act like one of the students.  What is not clear here?”

 You can’t help the bitter laugh that burst from your lips. You had a meanness inside you, real as an organ. With a slit down your belly, it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor just so you could stomp on it. 

“You can pretend to be Adamson all you want, but this morning, you froze.” Low blow. But the ripple of emotion in Robby’s face was satisfying.“ So, sure, I’m fucking sorry for taking things into my own hands when you couldn’t.”

“This was not your patient, and you are too stubborn to understand that. Now she’s dead.” Robby kept going, “Gloria is expecting you this afternoon. You will listen to her if you want to stay here. Don’t fuck up again.”

You tried opening your mouth, but nothing came out; your face was too hot, too hurt, too full of rage. 

“I’m not angry.” A lie.

“What’s your diagnosis then?” Kiara was kind, her tone carrying her warmth. 

Just like most people in the ED, you struggled to show your appreciation for Kiara. She was always present and shared everyone’s bad days. She braved the follow-through once the doctors walked away after the patient stabilized. She not only took on the burdens of the patients, but also the doctors. 

The guilt made you prickle. 

“She was going to die anyway. By my hand or theirs.” You put it starkly. “I just made her fate more bearable…she deserved the dignity…” 

You had never addressed what you had done so directly. It always lingered as something you both just knew. Everyone knew. It was memorable. You sat in the quietness, letting your words sink in, remembering the day the Earth stood still. 

“...what I did was wrong. I was willing to lose my license—prepared even.” Your arms crossed across your chest protectively, your voice becoming hushed. “But Robby—Robby told me I was playing God..…can you believe that?”

The words came to you so suddenly, it felt like you’d lost your breath. They wrapped around you like a boa. You heard them when you slept, and they loitered until you rubbed the exhaustion from your eyes. It had never cracked down on you like this.

“And now, this—” You gestured around you. “It’s a Sisyphean act, never-ending, useless—whatever you want to call the write-up, the babysitting, the obligation, the—t-the…”

One must imagine Sisyphus happy. Robby’s words mocked you. 

“You can convince anyone that I meant well. Robby, though? You’d die trying.” You jeered. “He expects me to be grateful for keeping me here. Prick.”

Kiara was proud; you could see it in the soft look she gave you. The foundation was finally laid bare to explore. 

Yet, you recoiled at your vulnerability. At your harshness. It shocked you, how gentle a tug it took to unravel everything that you built up. Truthfully, you were petrified. The core issue had been exposed, and you felt like a child throwing a tantrum. 

However, it took many years of vomiting up all the filth you’d been taught about yourself, and half believed, before you were able to walk on the earth as though you had a right to be there. You’d be damned to forget that because of him.

—

The ED was slow. 

No one acknowledged it; everyone was too superstitious to. 

The quiet no longer felt like rest. The weather consisted of sleet that kept everyone off the streets. All that could be done was to wait idly for those who were brave enough to come in and those who had no choice but to succumb to the danger of it all. 

The snow fueled your smoke break; it was a subconscious way to find warmth and stave off the anxiety that lingered from your morning with Kiara. Neither was remedied. Instead, your fingers were stiff from the temperature, and there was no relief from how the pit in your stomach grew. 

“I could fake a seizure.” 

“Too ‘boy who cried wolf’…” You shook your head. The strike of your lighter was motivated by agitation. On the first exhale of your newly-lit cigarette, you said, “It has to be a…casual—believable lie.”

“All this for what? Feelings?” Myrna gestured at the air with mocking disgust. “I know a thing or two about a crime of passion.”

“Robby’s allergic.” Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it. 

“Oh, honey, I knew you were stupid, but not that stupid.” Myrna cracked with humor. Her insults made you feel electric. Normal. They humbled every egotistical vein in your body. “Robby looks at you with nothing but feelin’.”

“That ‘look’ is….” Disgust? Resentment? Loathing? “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’d bend him over my knee for what he did to you.” Myrna carried on with her opinions, humoring herself as she continued. “I like big butts and I cannot lie…”

Your eyes sparkled with the image. You’d pay good money to see Robby’s face painted with discomfort. His self-control irked you, got under your skin without even trying. It used to drive a competitive friction between you both, one that was light, teasing, even. But it festered to the point it controlled you; you relied on proving a point. 

“Breach of duty, my ass.” She barked. “So you were a drug dealer, so what! I know plenty. God forbid you did something about healthcare in this country.”

“Myrna,” You warned. You wish you were just a ‘drug dealer.’ Instead, you became the judge, jury, and executioner.  “When are you going to stop bringing it up?”

“When you do something better.”  

“It’s temporary, anyways.” You said more to remind yourself. It hadn’t quite stuck as a mantra, but it was enough to get you through a shift. “Family emergency? No—Robby would call my sister and that’s—

“Find an obituary.” Myrna shrugged. “You’ve got four grandparents to choose from.”

“Can’t.” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought caused your lips to tingle with indifference. Deep down, you knew nothing would change.  “Used that one not too long ago, Robby’d sniff that out…”

“You asked me how to get him off your back: seizure.” Myrna snapped playfully, not letting your eyes glaze over for too long. “Give me a few minutes, I’m sure I can start foaming at the mouth.” 

“He’s already onto us.” You didn't have it in you anymore to struggle and fight and suffer; you wanted to enjoy the quiet when you could find it. You smiled. “‘Fruitcake,’ though—that always gets me through the day.”

“Happy to oblige.”  She snorted. “Now, if you really need him gone—I can make it look like an accident.” 

A laugh bubbled through your chest. “I’ll remember that for when I really need it.”

“Listen, girlie…” Myrna gave you the least offensive nickname in the ED. It was why you passed the dwindling cigarette to her; you always played favorites. “...whatever you do, don’t bet on a losing dog.”

You hummed in response. You didn’t need to look too deeply into her words, but you knew they’d ring true when things got too quiet, when you’d want to avoid them the most. 

“I’ve made that mistake before, and lemme tell you: not worth it.” She smothered the roach on her wheelchair, flicking the remains to melt into the snow. “Sad eyes comin’ in, twelve o’clock.” 

The hospital door popped the bubble created. The interruption was overdue. 

“Everything alright out here?” Robby’s voice was traced by the cold air, cautious enough not the call too much attention but aware enough to know you weren’t.  

“Just gettin’ some air.” Your sigh was heavy. Your day was not ruined. Your world was not over. Take a deep breath. It’s just temporary. 

“Patients shouldn’t be out here.” Robby's lips pressed together. You knew he wasn’t surprised, but entirely unimpressed. 

“I don’t clock in for another…” You looked at your watch. “...eight minutes. Not my circus, not my patient.” 

“Myrna.” He greeted her. Robby ignored you, nodding to the nurse who followed him out. “Please make sure someone keeps an eye on her.” 

Before being rolled past him, Myrna winked at you. “Fruitcake.”

Robby stayed quiet, head dipping with feigned politeness. 

You looked ahead, avoiding his eyes. It gave a moment for Robby to imagine the way your fingers deftly played with your lighter. The way your side profile was traced as you exhaled the smoke. The smell lingered, and his finger twitched with desire. 

From your peripheral vision, you watched Robby rock on his heels, wanting to say something. You didn’t smoke often, so he knew nerves formed the habit. His attentiveness made you nauseous. 

“Need something, doctor?” You snapped first. 

“Nicotine lowers the seizure threshold...” He hummed. You focused on Robby carefully, watching how his disappointment fed through his body language. “...but there’s no way Myrna can smoke with those handcuffs, right?” 

“Right.” Your tone was always tight around him. Sterile. “I’ll meet you inside.”

You meant to be firm. To give Robby no option other than to leave you to the cold. However, the more you spoke, the more he lingered. 

“You’re gonna freeze out here.” His hands were deep in his pockets, as if talking about himself. “Coffee’s fresh in the lounge.”

“I’ve got a few more minutes until the frostbite kicks in.” You clicked your teeth with sarcastic resistance. 

Robby left, his attempt futile. He only got a few strides away before bursting. 

“You’ve got to stop—” Robby rubbed his palms to his eyes. “Besides it being extremely unprofessional, you’re doing my head in. You fucked up. Accept it.” 

Your eyes widened. It was early for him to be fed up with you. It usually hit after the day’s first coding, or if Gloria hit below the belt. This was new. Anger rarely settled so explicitly in Robby’s voice. 

You were always quick to retaliate. “You think I enjoy this?” 

“I’m starting to think you do, yeah,” Robby egged you on. He’d come to his boiling point. “We save lives, we work with the circumstances given to us. We strategize. We treat. We cope—

“She swallowed razor blades—” You bit. Prepared.  “—then, a lightbulb, Robby! How’s that for coping, huh?”

“She wanted a break from solitary, do you know how many incarcerated—

“She did what she did because she had to.” 

“That is not for you to decide.” Robby provoked in a low voice. Hissed. “And neither was her death.”

“She was metastatic! What difference would it have made?” Your words were weak with exasperation. Yet again, a repeated conversation. “What I did was safe and comfortable. No one deserves to go through that in prison—”

“She would have received another round of radiation—”

“She was non-responsive to chemo for years.” You laid the well-known facts bare. The patient wouldn’t have made it to the end of the month. It was a surprise that the ED was able to bring her back. “Besides, you know prisons are the first place the shortages affect.”

Robby spoke to you distinctly. Professionally. He didn’t delve into morals or politics, but standards of care, something he was usually willing to be flexible on. He was the first to put himself on the line or take the hit for perilous risks. Yet, now he suddenly remembered standard treatment: evaluations that measure the quality and adherence to established medical protocols or best practices. 

“We did what we were supposed to do.” Those textbook methods always forgot how much empathy could treat. “You went rogue.” 

“This is more than that—”  The air stilled. This was new. Things haunted. Things existed long after they’d been smothered. “—and you know it.”

You remained leaning against the brick building. It’s frigidness bled through your thin scrubs. Yet, you could feel the warmth, the frustration, in Robby’s movement towards you.  

“What are you saying?” The lines of worry between his eyebrows deepened, and hands hands pulled at the ends of his stethoscope to stop fidgeting.  Yet, they couldn’t decide to settle with irritation or confusion.  

“I doubt you would’ve batted an eye for Abbott, Langdon—Jesus—even Whitaker.” You finally confessed the truth, your anger. “They’d get a slap on the wrist. Yet, I’m not allowed to be anything but perfect; you second-guess my every breath, Robby.”

You’d noticed it before, a pattern when Robby was sinking. The days were hard, the hours unrelenting. The times that were harder than others, his inclinations, conscious or not, took control. Robby moved on instinct, but it always revealed how he saw you. 

Now, he understood. You accepted your so-called punishment. You just expected more from him. Disappointment was never a welcome feeling, and it struck Robby sharply, painfully. He didn’t move fast enough to apologize, so you did. 

You pushed off the wall, the eight minutes up. “Forgive me that losing this patient only proved my point.” 

—

Mr. Krakozhia woke up. 

The sedation wasn’t monitored. The fault didn’t fall on anyone when the ED had resources spread thin; no available beds, never enough nurses, and emergencies that required split attention. 

No one volunteered to restrain the ‘Kraken.’ Robby declined Dana’s request for assistance, merely providing a verbal order for sedation. Nurses, inexperienced learners, and you were left to haphazardly fill the gaps. All your strength combined, you still received a boot to the mouth. 

A metallic taste spread in your mouth. You tongueed at the teeth that’s nerves felt stunned. All twenty-eight were accounted for, but blood spilled from your tongue and lip. 

“Oh, he got you—you alright, kid?” Dana laughed sympathetically, pulling you up from where you’d been knocked back. “I’ll keep ‘em off your back for a little. Take a break. You know the drill: direct pressure, cold compress.” 

You had a love-hate relationship with hospitals. You thought they were always too bright with a bleak atmosphere. There were phones constantly ringing, monitors always beeping, people coughing all of the air out of themselves; everything was too overwhelming to the senses.

So, your attempt to decompress, to stop your lip from throbbing against your heartbeat, was always found in the stairwell. They were rarely used and acted as a sound barrier to the city’s whelm. 

You sighed heavily, letting your head drop. 

The tears that fell from your cheeks left dark bruises on your scrubs. Quiet, like they always do. You wiped at your eyes; your tears felt like a burden. But they wouldn’t stop until they ran out. Then, you were still and silent. Because if you opened your mouth, you were afraid you'd never stop screaming.

“Hey—” 

You hadn’t heard the door creak. Or felt the hand that rested on your shoulder. It was the first time in a long time you didn’t flinch. The words I’m fine died before you could breathe them out. Instead, Robby met you at your level, sitting on the stairs next to you. 

“Let’s take a look.” Robby’s gloves were pulled on with dexterity. Your bloodshot eyes were wide, reading worry on his expression. Robby assessed you softly. Even softer when you winced.  “Tender?” 

“Dana told you where to find me?” You exhaled slowly, the edge of defiance in your posture softening into something a little more tired.

“She could only hold me off for so long.” He pulled his gloves off, hands retreating tentatively. “Feeling dizzy, headache…did you hit your head?”

“No LOC, EOM intact, just a busted lip.” 

Your pupils were wide with stress, but they were equal and reactive. You knew Robby wouldn’t press further, but he was reading into every twitch and movement just in case he missed something crucial. But he knew not to misread your calmness, healthcare assault, accidental, incidental, or not, happened. 

For the past few shifts, you didn’t need to avoid Robby. He gave you space, still processing your last interaction. You wouldn’t admit it, as if felt hypocritical, but it was strange not having him close. Even his eyes had stopped tracking you, and it felt like something was wrong. 

It felt like your fault that one day you both woke up, no longer speaking the same language. You hadn’t heard from him since. You couldn’t translate how badly Robby wanted to tell you he knew you didn’t need to be saved, protected. That you needed to be found and appreciated. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Robby started, but you heard an undercurrent of hesitation. Nothing haunted him more than the things he didn’t say. “About what you said…”

You’d been thinking too. 

You knew he’d been trying to catch you for days. Weeks. But his irritability got in the way. Impatience for Gloria got in the way. He had trouble sleeping, and when he was awake, he was vigilant. Then, when you didn’t see him, you knew he carried his sadness to the roof.  

“Let’s not—not now, at least.” Your plea was soft. You cleared your throat, as if telling the tears that pricked your waterline to stop. 

“Okay.” Robby swallowed everything with that tight-lipped, polite smile and nod. That smile that he wore—it didn’t shine. Soft and a little sorry. It settled over guilt.

You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. Both Robby and you were slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

You were both stalling, not used to being so close for so long. You both desired one last deep breath, but the air was running out. You both didn’t know how to exist so softly. 

You heard a new tone when people asked how you were, a tone you had not noticed before and found increasingly distressing, even humiliating: these people seemed impatient, half-concerned, half querulous, as if no longer interested in the answer. As if all too aware that the answer will always be a complaint. 

You’d been trained to speak, if asked how you were, only positively. That was healthcare; you were not allowed to not be OK. You framed the cheerful responses. What you believed to be the cheerful response, as you framed it, emerged, as others hear it, more like a whine. 

Do not whine. Do not complain. Work harder. Spend more time alone, you told yourself. 

You listened. 

You did not whine when hunger sawed your body in half. You did not complain when, after you worked for hours, trying to get the sound of a sentence right. You bled politely all over Pittsburgh. 

However, the cold was catching up to you. So was the exhaustion. It weakened your senses and put your emotions at the forefront. You wanted to be held, to be cared for in ways you couldn’t provide alone. Robby was familiar with the feeling, but was better at hiding the ache. 

Now, Robby could handle your anger. Anger was good. Anger meant that there was something he could react to, challenge. But your self-restraint dwindled. The smallest gesture of affection brought a lump to your throat, whether it was directed to you or at someone else.

So, Robby stood, hand reaching for yours. He had the awkward tenderness of someone who had never been loved and was forced to improvise. 

“Ready?” For the chaos.

He pulled you gently, eyes still roaming you for discontent. It felt good, as if one thing were normal. The rest of the shift, you knew he’d be back to lingering, back to playful chiding that would burn your skin, and watching you so closely for any pain he could relieve. 

It wasn’t a long-term solution, but this shift’s abatement. 

“Yeah, yeah,” You sniffed through your words, clearing any emotions that loitered. “I want a good case after that beating.” 

Once you stood, Robby was going to release you from what he suspected was torture. Yet, your grip tightened, palm to palm. You clung to his hand so that something human could exist in the chaos. Hand in unlovable hand, you stay attached until the buzzing took over at the nurse’s station. 

Robby understood why people held hands: He'd always thought it was about possessiveness, saying, "This is mine." But you had revealed to him that it was about maintaining contact, speaking without words, and saying, regardless of everything, "I want you with me, and don't go."

[gojos-version]

hii!! :D can you write nsfw oneshot about pervy + nerd!gojo x reader after they had a huge fight?? 😳 pls pls pls ☹☹

Nerdjo pt 2 <3

Pairings- Y/N x Nerd! Satoru Gojo

Word count- 1.7k <3

Proof read- ✅

Warnings- Mating press, Stupid argument, fluff if you squint, doggy style, riding.

A/n- hey guys!! I’ve had some writers block lately but this request helped me come out of it. So thank you so much for your request <3 I've had alot on my plate that delayed me posting this, im so sorry </3 but its been a bit difficult to do anything i want to do lately. Besides being very busy i finally had time to post this. Thank you so much and I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3 Nerdjo..save me..Nerdjo..

⋆ ✩°｡⋆ 𖦹｡˚ ⋆ ✮ ༺ ⟡ ݁₊ ⊹ ა ✧ ໒ ⊹ ₊ ݁ ݁⟡ ༻ ✮ ⋆༺ ⟡ ݁₊ ⊹ ა ✧ ໒ ⊹ ₊ ݁ ݁⟡ ༻ ✮ ⋆

“No Satoru, I’ve had enough.” You angrily spit out and walk to your bedroom and shutting the door, sitting behind it as a way to lock it. “W-wait- baby-!” He gasps out, “Please open the door, my love I’m so sorry please let’s talk about it more calmly!” He puts his head on the door trying to hold back his tears from forming.

Maybe you did have enough of your panties being stolen because now you have absolutely none! Anybody would be frustrated that they have no panties ! I mean would want to walk around panty- less???!! Sure, your boyfriend would enjoy it but what if you have to go in public! You sigh in frustration and grumble under your breath.

Satoru felt guilt wash over him, making his throat tighten up and shame for giving into his sexual desires. How could he be so selfish? You're going to leave him for sure. Thoughts were streaming into his head causing him to spiral, his glasses fogging up and his heart thumping against his chest in panic.

He didn’t even realize tears were streaming down his face, but he ignored them sitting in front of the door hearing your breathing that somewhat calmed him down. “You’re not going to… leave me right..?” He says quietly, sniffling softly. You felt your heart shatter a bit, you’d never want that. Ever.

Silently you open the door and peer down at his glossy cheeks and puffy eyes. You felt awful. But that didn’t excuse him from stealing your panties. He did it every day! And your previous panties weren’t returned so each new one you brought was taken by him. It was insanely frustrating but.. maybe you could’ve come about it a different way.

You sigh as you crouch in front of him, his blue puffy eyes boring into yours. “No, I’d never leave you. I just want you to stop taking my panties because I’m out. Again.” You cup his face in your hands, and he nods his head frantically- you're half surprised he didn't get whiplash, “it won’t happen ever again. I’m so sorry. I’ll return them all right now!”

Before he can get up you throw your arms around him in a somewhat hug since he’s still got his knees to his chest, he returns your hug almost instantly- wrapping his arms around you as he shoves his head on your shoulder. “I love you, ‘toru, okay? I’d never leave you. Especially over something stupid like this.” You reassure softly making his grip on you tighten.

“So…. What do you do with my used panties?” You pull back slightly and his entire face turns red. “U-uh..” he stutters out, “Why don’t you show me, hm?” You put a stray hair behind his ear, and he looks like he’s a second away from exploding.

“O-okay.”

Fuck you really shouldn’t have said that. You find yourself folded in half like a lawn chair and Satoru's swollen cock buried deep inside of you to the hilt. He only pulls out until the tip is left just to slam it back inside of you, hitting your sweet spot deliciously.

He’s got his biceps flexing as he has one hand pinning you in the position and well… the other has your soaked panties on his face as he inhales your scent pathetically. “F-fuck- hah-!” He cries out, “‘m sorry baby- I’m so sorry-ooohhh!!” He gasps out rambling mindlessly, his glossed lips in a constant o shape.

You hitch and moan underneath him, your body felt like it was tingling all over like popping candy was in your bloodstream, your sweet spot being hit over and over again. Was this your 3rd orgasm? or your 5th? You’ve lost count and you never would have thought your nerdy boyfriend was so damn filthy. “I-I’m gonna-!” He whimpers out and fuck you're on the brink of squirting all over the both of you. Again. The sheets are soaked beneath you both and it’s been a couple of hours by now all because Satoru's inhaling your sweet little panties.

“Gonna take it for me like a good girl, huh? Yeah?” he babbles, and you nod your head teary eyed from the sheer amount of pleasure coursing through you. “A-all y-yours ‘toru-! Angh-!!” Before you know it, you’ve soaked your thighs, tummy, his thighs and abdomen. Your eyes roll back, and you feel like you’re on fire, your toes curling deliriously while your eyes roll back and shut. You swear you see the white pearly gates for a good moment. You sob under him and shake as you pathetically grip onto him for some stability.

He pants above you and flips you over. “Wha-more-?” You whimper out and you get your answer as he sinks his swollen cock into you, and he’s balls deep into you again. You grip the pillow beneath you as your walls clench and spasm around his hard, thick cock. He pulls your head up by your hair and shoves your panties in your mouth, “im-sorry- fuck- you wanted me to show you- what I do and-hah- think about-shit-!” Fuck. You think you’re about to pass out at this point. It felt like his cock was ripping your insides apart, you could just feel him. Nothing else. Nothing mattered except the two of you. All you could do was just sit there and take it. “A-and if I..go a bit deeper..and t-thrust up-! I’ll hit your-hah- g spot- again-!” He gurgles into your ear and squeezes your ass cheeks apart to get a better look at his cock in your sweet cunt.

“Shiiiiittt” He whimpers out, thrusting his cock up in need and he fucking laughs when your back arches deeper and you let out a muffled scream. “Found it.” He presses his chest onto your back and wraps his lets arm around your stomach pressing against the lewd bulge in your stomach and his free hand pinches your clit. “hah-! I’m sorry- I’m sorry- im shoorrrrrryyyyy!!” He cries out, “You- wanted this as much as I do- please- please! Please! Anngffhhhh!!” Fuck you couldn’t even find any strength to let out a hum in acknowledgment.

You felt pleasure in so much different places, and you didn’t have anywhere to run. Your clit, his cock deep into you, his arm squishing the bulge in your stomach- fuck it was all too much- your panties in your mouth and your head shoved in the pillow-your body felt half unconscious, but the pleasure was 0h so good and addictive you didn’t want it to stop.

Never in a million years would you have thought your nerdy boyfriend who rambles to you about Digimon or the one that lets you cock warm him while he helps you study or have soft vanilla sex would ever be this filthy. But who were you to complain when you’ve come about God knows how much. 7? 8? At this point your brain felt fuzzy and your body felt every single bit of pleasure coursing through your veins, head to toe like lightning flashing through the sky, the pleasure you were feeling was flashing through your veins deep and sharp. “Baby- love you- love you so much- don’t wanna ever make you upset at me ever again- please- hah- forgive me- please-“ He whimpers and the last thing you feel is his cock releasing thick spurts of cum deep in your womb, and you can barely process it before you’re joining his high and squeezing his cock like you walls wanted to strangle it.

Once your highs are ridden out, he slips his now soft cock out of you and flips you over softly. He takes your panties out of your mouth and presses kisses all over your face, jaw, neck and shoulders. “Are you still with me?” you hazily blink your eyes and adjust to your white-haired boyfriend pressing kisses all over you making a smile tug at your lips. Without saying anything you bring his lips to yours and kiss him softly making him moan softly into the kiss. You push him down with his back against the mattress and he looks up at you with confusion, “You still have energy?” You smirk and take his fogged-up glasses off his face, grinding your soaked pussy against his half hard cock.

You wipe his glasses clean and put them on his face softly, “Now you can see me ruin you this time.” A red blush decorates his cheeks, and he gasps out a breathy moan as you sink onto his once again hard cock, both of your bodies riddled with sweat and sore from your previous intercourse.

His hands find home on your hips as you start bouncing on his cock, slamming your hips down with a lewd wet noise with each slam of your hips, picking up your pace faster; internally smug at how his eyes roll back and shut. You study his body a bit. The way his toes curl and grip at the sheets bellow the both of you, the way his biceps flex and grip your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him sane, the way his abdomen clenches and the way he moans loudly not afraid to show you how good you make him feel.

In reality, Satoru wasn’t keeping it cool at all. He felt like he was going to explode. Incinerate. Into a million pieces. He got nervous whenever he was close to you and now?? He had no choice but to stare into your eyes and he felt so squeamish. His heart going a million miles per hour, honestly... he could handle it before. But whenever you’re on top and staring into his gorgeous blue eyes he can’t handle it. It’s like the first time you both ever met again. His heart flutters at the thought but he’s pulled out of his thoughts when his eyes blink up to focus on you. Fuck your perfect tits bouncing, your ass jiggling from the sheer force of your hips against his. How did you have any stamina left?

You giggle at his unusual quietness and lean down to kiss him, whimpering into his mouth as the two of you kiss harshly, getting messier and messier. Before the both of you knew it you were cumming all over his cock again, squeezing him so tight and he’s filling you up for the nth time tonight. You pull your lips away from his, rocking your hips against his softly. “So, baby, tell me about that new Digimon card you got.” His eyes light up and you softly bounce your hips onto his while he rambles about the amazing new card he scored.

⋆ ✩°｡⋆ 𖦹｡˚ ⋆ ✮ ༺ ⟡ ݁₊ ⊹ ა ✧ ໒ ⊹ ₊ ݁ ݁⟡ ༻ ✮ ⋆༺ ⟡ ݁₊ ⊹ ა ✧ ໒ ⊹ ₊ ݁ ݁⟡ ༻ ✮ ⋆

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[flawseer]

In your last ask, you mentioned misgivings with Book 10's ending, and especially how it pertains to Winter. I absolutely agree, and I know why, but I wanna hear your thoughts on it, too: What's up with Book 10?

The following is a (very long) examination of my personal feelings with regards to the WoF second story arc finale. While it is based on what is in the text, this analysis will be interpretive and fill in blanks with my own thoughts. Keep that in mind.

Hahhhh... okay. Since mentioning it in my last post I’ve gotten several requests to talk about my feelings regarding the second arc finale. There’s probably no way around it then.

If you haven’t read that last post (it was admittedly very long, and so will this one be), I talked briefly about why I didn’t like that part of the story. I have to warn you now, this will likely be the most negative and dour post in the history of this blog. In a few parts it will sound like I hate Wings of Fire, and I want to say now, while I still have the chance, that I don’t. I love this series, thinking about its setting and characters brings me joy.

I also—very emphatically—want to make it clear that I have no ill will against Tui T. Sutherland. I’ve looked around other people’s stuff a bit and there are a huge number of posts wishing violence upon her or threatening her for doing things to her series that people don’t agree with. That is NOT what I am doing here, shit like that is NOT okay! While I will be critical of her choices, I still respect her effort of bringing this vibrant, wonderful world of dragons to all of us.

Also, obligatory last disclaimer: If you liked the finale, that is okay. You are valid for feeling that way. I’m here to share my point of view, not to demand people agree with everything I say. Just be warned that you most likely won’t enjoy what I have to say. If you don’t think you can handle that kind of criticism, this is your guilt-free opportunity to stop reading.

Otherwise, let's get into it.

CW: Discussion of parental abuse, depression, disease, and extreme acts of violence.

In defense of the finale

Before I start to systematically disassemble this narrative and get lost in a quagmire of negativity, let’s talk a bit about the circumstances that brought forth this part of the story. The plot of this arc was a mess from the moment animus magic was unshackled from the restrictions it had in the first arc, and from then on there was no longer any conceivable way to end this story in a clean way. Sutherland had created an invincible, unbeatable, omnipotent villain; he could read minds, see the future with perfect clarity, and anything he could imagine he could conjure into existence at any time with no cost to himself and no drawbacks. She was likely wracking her brain about how to resolve this impossible conundrum. What we got wasn’t good, but I believe nothing could have been. The foundation was rotting and by the fifth book it couldn’t bear the weight of the plot anymore.

The thing about animus magic in arc 2 is that it is so potent, so all-powerful, and so free of restraint that everyone who uses it also HAS to be a simpleton, or they would be able to break the plot immediately and become god. From the moment Darkstalker broke out of that mountain, he could have said “Any and all spells that are cast with the intention to harm me, interfere with my plans, or do something I don’t consent to will not work, from now on until forever”, and he would have instantly won. The strawberry would have fizzled out. The Darkstalker-blocking earrings would not have been created, and no one could have saved the Icewings. On the flipside, Turtle or Anemone could have said “I enchant the concept of animus magic itself to no longer obey Darkstalker”, and his threat would have been neutered. Point is, powers as potent and easy to use as this really need limitations, or they will quickly eat your plot alive.

I don’t envy the situation Sutherland was in at the time at all. If you’re an author, that kind of thing is a nightmare. It really is no wonder she decided to blow up animus magic for good in her next arc, even if I would have preferred it to get more healthy restrictions instead of killing it outright.

The Darkstalker age regression thing

Everyone has talked this part to death already, but if I am to write a thorough analysis of my feelings regarding this finale, I’m going to have to talk about it as well. I’m sorry if I end up repeating a lot of things you’ve already heard.

This final fate of Darkstalker, to have his memories wiped and be reset to an infant, is really uncomfortable. As far as I am aware, though correct me if I’m wrong, Sutherland said in an interview that she didn’t want Darkstalker to die because, in her view, he did not deserve to. We can debate here about the philosophical question of whether anyone is truly deserving of death, and the merits of “justice” and “punishment”, but in general, Wings of Fire did not seem to have any issues killing off its villains prior if they committed suitably terrible acts. That makes this moment stand out as noteworthy.

Who is Darkstalker then--and if we assume villains can be “deserving” and “not deserving” of death--what about him speaks in his favor, or against? The guy had a pretty crappy childhood, coming from a broken home (there is that inadequate parent theme again). He genuinely loved his sister and felt protective of her, and whenever he liked someone he wanted them to be happy and feel affirmed. The thing that Queen Diamond does to his mother is awful and he is justified in hating her for it. He is also portrayed as rather sympathetic in Moon Rising. When he asks Moon to find his scroll for him and not to leave him, he is not manipulating her, he is sincerely begging for her help. He is stuck somewhere underground, trapped in darkness, in a space so tiny that he can’t move. He remains that way for months, lonely and sad. If you just focus on these aspects, it’s easy to understand why he has so many fans who want him to see healthy and happy.

On the flipside, while he is dedicated to the happiness of his friends, he doesn’t always go for the most ethical way to achieve it. He tries to brainwash said friends without their consent whenever they exhibit behaviors he doesn’t like, or when he thinks he knows better and wants to “fix” them. He has very little regard for other people’s autonomy, lies to his loved ones with alarming frequency, and is unhealthily attached to the idea of power. Those things are certainly not good, but they are his character flaws. These are his demons; everyone has them and they make him a person. If this was all there was to it, he might still be a villain, but I’d argue he’d not be wholly irredeemable.

But there are things about him that take him beyond the pale. Things that go beyond the realm of just being misunderstood, or easily excusable.

He is possessive. He wants Clearsight and Fathom for himself, and for them to listen to him primarily. When Indigo makes it clear she doesn’t like him and cautions Fathom against trusting him, he deceives his friends and traps Indigo in a wood carving, just so he can isolate Fathom from his support network and manipulate him easier. He alters Clearsight’s mind to make her more agreeable and stop her from holding him accountable for his actions; while he thinks he loves her, he only loves an idealized version of her that is wholly devoted to and unquestioning of him. This is why, when he later forcibly overwrites Fierceteeth’s existence to recreate her (which is another horrific thing), he tries to excise the parts he finds undesirable to create a perfect version of his lover. But this caricature he has created in his head is not and can never be Clearsight, which frustrates his attempts.

He is vengeful. Not against people who have actually wronged him, like Queen Diamond. That would be questionable, but understandable. What makes this unacceptable is his frequent targeting of innocent people who just happen to be related to the person who wronged him in some esoteric way. He enchants a secret murder knife that kills random Icewings regardless of who they are or what they think about the Queen, just because the one who took his mother from him happened to share their tribe. He hates Turtle and wishes death upon him in Moon Rising just because he is a green Seawing, like Fathom was. And then there is the big one: He tries to kill all the Icewings who are alive in the present day, where Queen Diamond is long dead and none of them have ever even met her. Even his mother, who suffered from Diamond’s actions the most and has the most reason to hate her, is horrified and calls him out on that one.

And lastly, he is sadistic. He revels in torturing those he hates. He forces his father to disembowel himself, while the latter is fully aware and powerless to resist AND the man’s traumatized daughter is watching. Later he sends a magical plague to kill every single living Icewing sans one.

It should be noted that Darkstalker possesses virtually infinite magical power; whatever he declares, with very few exceptions, will happen. Even if he wanted them dead, he had the power to prevent unnecessary suffering. He could have said “Arctic, fall dead instantaneously”, or “Every Icewing will fall asleep and pass away peacefully,” but he didn’t. He wanted them to feel pain and pass away in the most wretched, agonizing ways he could imagine.

So what he chose to do instead is—and I want you to picture this for a moment—Darkstalker sat down, calmly, and said “Henceforth every living Icewing, excepting Prince Winter and those of hybrid blood, will fall ill with an incurable disease. This disease will cause heavy internal bleeding and make its victims cough up blood and waste away for a few days, followed by certain death.”

This spell does not discriminate with regards to who its victims are. The book glosses over the implications, but imagine the ramifications. Young children are notoriously frail, how many newborns got infected and died because of this? How many families were torn apart because they couldn’t get the magic earrings fast enough? Or accidentally got one earring less than there were family members and had to decide who has to die?

Most of the Icewings were physically cured by the earrings, but an experience like that sticks with you for the rest of your life. Somewhere surely, a dragonet watched as his mother put the earring on him and then slowly wasted away because she didn’t have one for herself.

It’s really easy to overlook how horrific this spell is because it isn’t shown or dwelt on. But the trauma, grief, and suffering it caused must have been immeasurable.

And none of those victims have ever even met the person Darkstalker wanted to get revenge on. None of those deaths meant anything to anyone.

The attempted death toll and scale of the calamity here puts even Scarlet to shame. The ones who come closest to it were Queen Battlewinner and Morrowseer with their attempted Rainwing extermination. All three of those died for what they did. Gives you some food for thought for sure.

Peacemaker’s burden

Despite just airing all of his dirty laundry and declaring him an irredeemable villain, I actually do have a lot of sympathy for Darkstalker still. His story is really sad. He was a child born with an amount of power that nobody should possess, and it corrupted him to the point where it destroyed his life before it began. His parents were always fighting and no matter how good his intentions were, he was unable to understand why he couldn’t hold on to his friends and relationship. He kept making mistakes, then made bigger mistakes to fix those, until his hands were covered in blood and he couldn’t stop anymore. My belief is that, after he wakes up in the present and realizes Clearsight is dead, he loses his reason for living and becomes completely lost in his grief.

Therefore, my opinion is that it would have been appropriate for him to die. If not to punish him, then to finally grant him reprieve from all that rage and pain, and let him rest. I think that would have been a dignified end.

But instead he got turned into a baby. ... And then they decided to magically erase his father’s blood from him? I don’t know what it is, but something about that Icewing erasure makes my skin crawl?

The thing that turns this baby twist from weird into highly unsettling is the context. Darkstalker’s mind is erased, then modified into a new person via animus magic. This is the technique a lot of this arc’s villains used to victimize Hailstorm, Queen Ruby, Peril, Kinkajou, Fierceteeth, and Winter. The same technique is now used again, by the heroes, which is a dangerous thing to have your protagonists do if you want them to remain morally upright.

It is also very reckless, because in almost all of these instances, animus mind alteration has been shown to be very unreliable. The spells seem to wear down over time and are susceptible to partial breaking upon encountering certain strong stimuli. Hailstorm—while trapped as Pyrite—seems to retain trace amounts of his former memories, which is why Pyrite is subconsciously drawn to Winter and clings to him all the time. Ruby is able to ignore half of her conditioning because her familial love for her son partially overpowers the magic. Qibli is just straight up able to reason his way out of it.

The thing to note here is that spells of this nature require a very meticulous approach; you can’t half-ass your reprogramming or the victim will just think their way past it. If you alter someone’s mind, the wording of the spell must be ironclad, lest you risk it wearing down over time and even break.

Luckily we have nothing to fear in that regard, because the spell that created Peacemaker was written by a Rainwing with a total of four days of literacy training. No one better mention the name Clearsight to the new baby Nightwing, or next month is going to be rather interesting.

But that’s just speculation on my part. Let’s assume that, somehow, this spell isn’t as unstable as all the others. Somehow Kinkajou threaded all the needles, and masterfully dodged every conceivable pitfall to pen the perfect incantation, despite having been illiterate just a few weeks prior. This one is built to last and Darkstalker is sealed away really thoroughly, for good.

That is still absolutely terrible and morally dubious, because now you have Peacemaker, who for all intents and purposes is a COMPLETELY innocent little kid, saddled with this huge burden of being the certifiable reincarnation of a genocidal ancient wizard. He’s gonna grow up thinking things like “Mommy gets real quiet whenever the topic of the Icewing tragedy is brought up,” and “Why does Auntie Moon look at me like that? One time she accidentally called me a weird name, who is Darkstalker?” “What is this ‘Clearsight’ name my mind-reading friends from the village found in Mommy’s mind?”

In a village that will be full of mind-readers soon, eventually the secret will come out, and Peacemaker is going to learn what was done to him. A huge, messy load of undeserved baggage was forced onto this completely separate, innocent entity. He will be devastated. Whether he then chooses to forgive them for this remains to be seen. To be honest, he would be well within his right not to, and turn resentful.

Poor kid.

Qibli’s callousness

I love Qibli, he is one of my favorite characters. This happens to be his book, and the fact that I fundamentally dislike half of it makes me rather sad. If anything, I hope this tells you that I’m not just hating on it for my personal amusement. I really wanted to like this. I tried to, and I couldn’t.

Qibli is really weird in this one, to be honest. He is suddenly made to be co-dependent on Moonwatcher, fawning over her every third paragraph, saying how much he loves her, how he is an incomplete and dysfunctional wreck without her, how it physically pains him to be apart from her, oh if only the stars would grant his wish and split the mountains apart so that he may fly to his princess, his muse, his goddess of ebony wit. It gets so old.

And it’s not Qibli. He never acted this clingy towards Moonwatcher. It’s more intense than even Winter gets about Moon, and Winter was actually depicted with a crush on her in book 6. Qibli was always just a supportive element, eager to befriend Moon but never desperate, like he is going to keel over if he is separated from his true love five minutes longer. These very frequent love declarations feel so forced coming out of him. It strikes me like it was just written in service of the love triangle. Maybe if we make him confess his love every four seconds readers will overlook the fact that they had no proper romantic build-up.

You might rightly accuse me of bias. I have previously admitted I am fond of Qibli/Winter as a romantic pairing, on the surface this seems like I am just not happy with my pet ship being blocked by Moonwatcher. But I assure you, I am actually pretty flexible and accommodating even towards pairings that contradict my preferences. I have no issues with Winter/Moonwatcher, for example, because the possibility was properly established and they have good romantic chemistry in Winter Turning. In theory, I would have no problem with Qibli/Moonwatcher either if it was ever set up as an interesting romantic dynamic. But to me, it seems like Qibli is written as a good, supportive friend to Moon for four books, only to pivot hard into “Moon moon moon moon moon moon swoon” at the last second, and it just reads to me as obnoxious.

I got distracted. This section is called “Qibli’s callousness”, and I haven’t even talked about the main part.

Qibli and Winter have excellent chemstry together, whether you read it as romantic or platonic—both of these interpretations have merit and are set up. They’re always the highlight of any scene they’re in. Throughout the story arc you get the impression that these two really get on each other’s nerves, but they bond and grow into really strong friends who bicker a lot but have each other’s backs when it counts.

Then there is a scene where Qibli casually tells Winter that he wouldn’t object if someone wanted to mind-control away some of Winter’s more objectionable traits.

This is genuinely a terrible thing to say to your friend. Like, it crosses a line and ceases to be harmless banter; you’re just telling them that there is something you hate about them so much that you wish they were someone else. Winter actually WAS mind-controlled earlier and felt (and proably still feels) guilty about having attacked Qibli in that state. And now Qibli says “Hey, I wouldn’t mind if someone did that to you again! Hue hue!”

It is awful, BUT I don’t necessarily object to Qibli saying this here. Qibli is in the middle of his character arc at this moment, so he is expected to be flawed. He is making a mistake by thoughtlessly telling Winter this horrid thing, and it seems like a believable continuation of his current character track. This is a reasonable development as long as the plot acknowledges that it’s a mistake.

Spoilers: The plot doesn’t acknowledge that it’s a mistake. Qibli never has a scene after where he reflects upon what he said and apologizes to Winter. When Darkstalker has Qibli trapped in his mountain jail and mind-wipes Qibli’s grandfather into a toddler (hey, wait a minute), Qibli gets visibly disturbed. Like, this is so off-putting to him that he gets queasy and Darkstalker hastily changes the spell. That could have been a great way to bring this back. Like in the epilogue, have Qibli track down Winter and tell him about disturbing baby grandpa theater and how he realized that wiping people’s minds is actually messed up and should have never said that to him.

But he doesn’t. He just lets Winter go, allowing him to believe he is broken and needs magical intervention to be tolerable. It leaves me to think that maybe he’s still okay with it, and fantasizing about rewriting his friend’s mind. Great.

Moonwatcher’s character death

You will find as this goes on that, I get the impression that the second half of this book takes all of the wonderful, endearing characters I have learned to love throughout the story and replaces them with really mean, or stupid, or otherwise inaccurate caricatures.

Moonwatcher’s relationship with Darkstalker gets plenty of setup and development in Moon Rising. You get the sense that these two could be great friends if their circumstances were a little different. It does a great job at making you think maybe Darkstalker is just misunderstood; maybe Moon should free him from his predicament.

Then at the end of Escaping Peril comes the emotional gut punch. Darkstalker actually IS a villain. He callously admits to Moonwatcher that he used his magic to make his own father gruesomely disembowel himself. Moonwatcher is horrified and disgusted that he would do that. There is no circumstance in which something like that would ever be okay. She ends the scene awash in tears because the person she thought was her friend is a murderer and a sadist. This is good, that is a natural reaction to what she was just told.

A few hours from there, in Talons of Power, Turtle finds Moon again and she is completely cool with Darkstalker walking free, despite crying her eyes out after feeling so betrayed earlier. That may seem strange, but this is still good because later, Darkstalker’s mind control plot is discovered. This scene was obviously written to set that up, Moon is mind-controlled into forgetting that Darkstalker could do something that morally reprehensible, and thus forgives him. This is also completely in line with his characterization in Legends: Darkstalker. It’s a kind of stunt he would pull to get Clearsight to shut up about him slipping into villainy.

In my earlier post I alluded to a moment where Moon is set to narrative auto-pilot and says something so rampantly off-kilter that it does irreversible, permanent damage to her character. It happens here, in the second half of book 10. Qibli gives Moon the Darkstalker protection earring, and Moon, somehow, says “I’m not being mind-controlled, Darkstalker really is my friend.”

I get what the plot tries to do here. It’s taking this concept of mind-control and adding a nuance, in an attempt to flesh out Darkstalker and give his character depth. He is ready to control everyone in the world, but for Moon, who is his best friend in this era, he wants her to remain herself. Perhaps this is his attempt at attonement for playing with Clearsight’s mind and driving her away from him. It is very touching in a way, viewed in isolation.

Unfortunately, it does not work with the full context of all the books. Because Moon is in auto-pilot mode right now, her main character trait is “Darkstalker=Friend,” so naturally she would speak in support of him. But this revelation has devastating retroactive consequences. The earlier scene that was written with Moon under mind-control is now altered into her having been in her right mind! She is completely okay with Darkstalker’s admittance to cold-blooded torture and evisceration, within hours of being so shocked by it that it made her cry and ready to denounce him. That is such a quick turnaround it’s giving me whiplash. And what’s more it turns Moon from a principled, upstanding girl into a sociopath who casually accepts gruesome torture and murder if it is committed by someone she likes.

Did Sutherland forget about the scene two books ago, where Darkstalker’s actions were so inconceivably horrid for Moon to learn of that she started crying? It baffles me that this made it into the final version. Her saying she was never mind-controlled makes Moon come off as so awful. This torture-excusing lunatic is not the same kind-hearted and insightful character I followed in all the other books.

Kinkajou’s character derailment

The world is a sad place when I have to question the way Kinjajou is written. Fortunately she is mostly fine, despite her having the biggest excuse to act out-of-character since she’s the victim of a mind-altering spell. Her only real moment of “what!?” comes at the end.

I already talked about her role in casting the spell that regresses Darkstalker into an infant. But I didn’t mention how her being the source of it is questionable in itself.

The clue is in the first paragraph of this section: She herself has experienced the effects of invasive mind-alteration. She was cursed by Anemone in the previous book to be in love with Turtle, and kind of half-struggles kind of not with it, it’s really strange. Turtle is appropriately horrified and acts like really awful things are happening, but then it’s mostly played lightly for some reason. My assumption is that Sutherland introduced this plot point, but then realized how uncomfortable this premise really is and tried to downplay it until the story got to a point where it could get done away with.

But I think the takeaway is still supposed to be that this was a horrid thing to do (which it absolutely is), and that Kinkajou will have to spend a lot of time trying to untangle her real emotions from the fake ones the spell created.

The point is: Kinkajou knows first-hand how awful it is to do something like that to another person. Ideally she should never even conceive of the idea to cast a spell like that, but if we’re really set on this Darkstalker baby thing and it has to happen, she should at least be a bit hesitant about it. And afterwards she should struggle with the guilt of having resorted to it. Not celebrate it and be proud, like it’s funny.

The assassination of Winter’s future

Now we come to the part I’ve alluded to previously; the part where all of these threads converge to utterly destroy one character and drive him to the brink of ruin. Let’s talk about Winter.

Prince Winter is the son of Tundra and Prince Narwhal, hatching in the same clutch as his sister Icicle. He spent his formative years being unfavorably compared to said sister—who easily took to traits that Icewing royalty considers desirable—whereas Winter struggled greatly to embody those same ideals. He was just a little too kind, too merciful, too gentle. As a result he often had to endure abuse from his parents, who made him feel like he was defective.

Because he was young and didn’t have any other frame of reference, he embraced this abusive narrative and began to drive himself with a vigor unreasonable for someone of his age. He scraped and cloyed for every bit of credit he could get, obsessing over advancing up the circle rankings in an attempt to “purge” the wrongness out of himself. To make his parents as proud of him as they were of Icicle.

This never worked. He was always seen as the runt, poised to embarrass the family name. Whatever he did, no matter how hard he strived, there was always something he could have done better.

The only real source of love and affirmation in his life was his older brother, Hailstorm. Where everyone else only saw what Winter wasn’t, Hailstorm embraced his brother despite of his “failings” and was openly affectionate with him. When Winter was with him, it was okay to not think about rankings all the time, and just be himself for a bit. I assume Hailstorm fulfilled a similar role for Icicle as well, which is why both of them love him dearly, and Icicle destroys her own life to bring him back.

Winter also has a fascination with scavengers, possibly because they are small and perceived as useless, like he himself is. He likely feels a kinship with them and observes them being craftier and more adept than everyone else sees them. This is therapeutic for him, to see that a thing can have merit even if no one wants to see it.

One day, he and Hailstorm sneak into Skywing territory so Winter can catch a scavenger as a pet. This excursion turns hostile when they are discovered by a roaming Skywing troop and faced with the prospect of capture, possibly execution. In a gambit to save Winter from this fate, Hailstorm mirrors the words of his parents, calling Winter pathetic and useless, so the Skywings will not think of him as a threat and show mercy. His act succeeds in convincing the Skywings, but it also convinces Winter, who does not understand Hailstorm only said these things to save his life. He returns home—believing his brother hated him all along—to face the wrath of his furious family for losing them “the desirable son”.

For all of his life, these themes have repeated themselves and haunted him. “I was born wrong and defective,” “I am unlovable,” “No one wants me.”

A few months after the war ends, Winter is one of the five Icewings enrolled in the newly founded Jade Mountain Academy. Shortly after departing, he unexpectedly returns home, having successfully rescued his older brother and bringing him back. He is made to believe that this erases his mistakes, his mother even pays him a backhanded compliment, an uncharacteristically “nice” gesture. He is promoted to the top of the rankings, finally his parents are proud of him.

But of course it is all a trick. The “adoration” afforded to him was all a ploy. Secretly, his parents abused power and tradition to arrange for Winter’s death. They force him into a lethal trial they intentionally rigged against him, all to finally erase that stain on their family’s honor.

Winter finally realizes the true nature of his parents’ opinion of him. Even when he succeeds, and does everything right, he is still defective, unlovable, and unwanted. He will never be anything else to his family. And so he leaves his homeland, pretending he is dead, resigned to live in hiding forever.

During this time, while at the brink of despair, Winter is able to draw strength from one source: His new friends from the academy. He vocalizes that, for all the abuse he suffered at the hands of his birth family, he fervently believes that THEY would never do anything like that to him. They chose to stuck with him, even when he was awful, and told him he was not hopeless. He was not a mistake; he could be deserving of love.

So naturally, he returns to them; they accept him readily, are willing to be his new surrogate family. When he almost burns to death at a later point, they fear and weep for him. When Qibli sets out to confront his own abusive family, Winter, despite being mind-controlled into a placid potato at the time, feels concerned enough for his friend’s safety to insist to come along (returning the favor of them accompanying him in his time of need in book 7). When Darkstalker’s mind control forces Winter to attack Qibli, he is shown ashamed and guilty of it once the control wears off again.

They bicker and struggle, and make mistakes, they break up but always come back together again. Time and time again the one thing that is always reinforced: When the cards are down, Winter loves his friends, and they love him. They would never intentionally hurt each other, or give up on each other.

I want you to keep in mind how wholesome, and loving, and mutually supportive this ramshackle band of misfits has been portrayed to this point... Because we’re moving on to the arc 2 finale, and it will do everything it can to corrupt all of it and consign Winter to a life of misery.

We arrive at aforementioned scene, where Moonwatcher receives her earring. Just a little bit prior, Winter had learned that Darkstalker unleashed a magical plague onto his people in an attempt to wipe them out. Now here is Moonwatcher, revealing that she is not under any spell, and has aligned herself with this guy willingly, speaking fondly of him as if he was a dear friend who never did any wrong. Winter takes this badly and accidentally breaks a vase; the narrative lingers on this moment and really tries to sell us on how unreasonable Winter’s reaction is, how he is overreacting, but let’s examine that interpretation for a moment.

Moonwatcher doesn’t yet know about the attempted Icewing genocide, but she DOES know about Darkstalker being okay with casting spells to inflict immeasurable torture upon those he hates. WE know that she knows this, so her stance here is already suspect. Yet she goes on to praise Darkstalker and refer to him as a friend. Look at this from Winter’s perspective. This “friend” of Moonwatcher just tried to kill his entire tribe, and he actually succeeded in killing his aunt, Queen Glacier, a person Winter greatly respects. Winter is currently unable to return to his homeland for fear of being branded a traitor. Even if he could return, he knows his obstinate and spiteful family would prevent him from attending the funeral, meaning he is not even afforded the basic dignity of saying farewell to his aunt. The aunt whom Darkstalker murdered by making her vomit her own blood until she withered away in her bed. And here is Moon, absolving the person who did this to Glacier from his appalling actions, despite knowing full well what Darkstalker is capable of and choosing to look away.

I don’t know about you, but I think I can forgive the grieving, emotionally overwhelmed boy for shattering a little pottery after hearing his trusted friend—who held his hand when he was dying—say that the guy who makes people disembowel themselves and wipes out entire countries may be misunderstood and not so bad. I think I would have a similar reaction. In fact, I would never want to talk to her ever again.

There is no way I can read this scene in which Moon doesn’t come off as either an absolute lunatic, or critically stupid and callous. In fact, based on her earlier behavior I half-expect her to get over the news of the attempted Icewing massacre in a couple hours, saying “Eh, it’s kinda bad, but you just have to do these kinds of things sometimes, you know? I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Then there is the part where Qibli makes his off-color comment about how Winter’s brain could really use a good wash. I already went into how it could have worked but didn’t. But with the timing here, we’ve already had Moon spit on their friendship, so as Winter’s other closest friend, it naturally follows that Qibli also craps on his feelings.

Consider the context: Winter comes from an abusive household where his parents forcibly tried to change him away from who he was to purge the “wrongness” from him. When they betray him and he narrowly escapes their attempt on his life, he re-affirms his belief in his friends, and the knowledge that they wouldn’t treat him like that gives him the strength he needs to keep going. But now, Qibli asserts that Winter DOES need to be altered, thereby AGREEING with Winter’s abusive parents, rendering Winter’s affirmation from book 7 erroneous. Qibli WOULD treat him like that if it made Winter less “intolerable”.

Neither Moonwatcher nor Qibli ever make an attempt to repair this rift. Winter is left betrayed and alone.

Stuff happens, and the forces of the Nightwings and Icewings come to blows over Jade Mountain. With his two closest friends having written him off and his support network eroded, Winter relapses into thinking he is worthless, seeks validation in unquestioning patriotism, and realigns himself with his abusive family by throwing himself into the battle. Nobody wants him to, in fact his parents still hate him for it, but whatever. His father dies and his mother blames him for it.

Meanwhile Turtle, Anemone, and Qibli are cooking up a solution to the battle problem. They have the idea to make everyone’s minds connect in a huge empathy wave for a few moments, which I think is a pretty interesting idea for what it’s worth. But then they teleport both armies back to their homes, and the spell sweeps Winter up with them, taking him out of the rest of the finale and bringing him to the Ice Kingdom. The characters say “whoops” but aren’t further concerned with the situation. It’s all a big laugh.

Let me remind you that Winter is currently considered not welcome on Icewing territory. His family, whom he was sent back with, is extremely abusive and vindictive. His friends know this. Said parents have previously arranged for him to be killed, and are still on record as wanting him dead. His friends KNOW this. And now he is alone with them and a gaggle of other royal Icewings who all are extremely pissed off at him for ruining their sacred trial site.

It is very possible that he is being torn apart and mauled by an enraged mob right now. He could be forced into captivity and flayed. Maybe the interim regent is sentencing him to death and getting the rope ready. There is a million different horrible things that could be happening to Winter right now, while he is trapped alone with people who hate him, things his friends would be reasonably able to anticipate. And nobody is doing anything to get him out of there, to suggest bringing him back, even though it would only take a single spoken sentence to do so! They aren’t even concerned!

Then the climax happens, strawberry thing and all, and we get the coup de grâce. After all is said and done, the group decides that Winter is untrustworthy, and that they must protect the secret of Darkstalker’s fate from him, because they fear if he knew he would kill Peacemaker.

Moon, who read Winter’s mind in book 6 and reached out to him about how the “ruthless Icewing warrior” persona in his head is a facade and how she sees he has a gentle and good heart... Moon, who in book 7 finds out about Winter’s secret deal to kill Glory and STILL trusts him, who calls out his bullshit to his face because she KNOWS how kind-hearted Winter is and that he would never resort to murder... Moon who, again, held his hand while he was dying... thinks that the dragon she has reminded of his compassionate nature time and time again would kill an innocent child.

This is disgusting. Moon believing that is so far off the mark with regards to anything this group has embodied or done for any of the last 4 books, that my only conclusion can be that these are different characters. Maybe the Nightwing library collapsed on top of original Moon, and when Darkstalker magiced her back to health she came back wrong or something. I don’t know.

So after all of this, Winter is left alone. He somehow escaped from the Ice Kingdom; luckily there is a timeskip so we can just gloss over the horrible situation he was put in by his friends. He thinks about Jade Mountain. He reflects on everything that happened, how his parents never really loved him... How they hated him so much they tried to kill him... How he despaired, but found solace in his friends who loved him for who he was.... How those friends then betrayed him too and magiced him away... How they didn’t care about what happened to him... And he decides he is done. He won’t bother going back. A few people, probably Sunny, reach out to tell him he is welcome back, but he says “it wouldn’t be fair to other Icewings if an exile took up a bed”. The decision isn’t hard to make, after all there is nothing left for him there. Everyone has written him off, moved on and left him behind.

Kinkajou visits sometimes, tries to stay in touch, but that’s just how she is. Maybe the others sent her to check on whether he’s going to become troublesome. They don’t trust him. Better to keep an eye on him, he might kill the baby.

With nowhere else to go, Winter moves to Sanctuary, a place for rejects like him. I picture him standing there, at the edge of a cliff staring blankly into the distance. He is completely alone; no one wants to go near him or talk to him beyond the bare necessities. He could probably make new friends with the Talons of Peace if he tried, but there is no point. Why should someone like him have friends? It wouldn’t work. They’d just decide he is too inconvenient to be around. Sooner or later they would just tell him to leave anyway. It's better not to try, so he doesn't get hurt again.

And slowly it dawns on him. His parents had been right all along. It was never them, or the others, it was him. He is the problem. The Icewings said it, Qibli said it, Moonwatcher said it. There is just something fundamentally wrong with him.

He is defective. He is unlovable. Nobody wants him. He will never be anything, or have anyone. And so he stands at the cliff, looking over the broken vase fragments of his life... This is who he is. Prince Winter. A mistake.

And quietly, where no one knows or cares, he does the only thing he has left to do... he begins to weep.

As it is written, the tale of Winter is the story of a boy who is told he is wrong for being alive. He closes his ears and tries to keep walking forward, desperate to prove that he is not an error, that he has merit. But this book comes out and it unmistakably says that he doesn’t. He is nothing, and he deserves to have nothing.

And I just cannot accept that.

Why did this have to happen?

I think that the author was really struggling with the ending of this book. I’ve said before how much of a corner she wrote herself into with such an invincible villain. I think she came up with the strawberry idea as a solution to this problem. But as she was writing it, the characters kept fighting her. It was not a natural solution, not a decision the characters—as they were established—would ever make.

So concessions had to be made to force the issue. Established traits had to be bent slightly to make this plot work. The farther she went, the worse it got. The concessions piled up and turned into contrivances. Eventually the characters were no longer acting like themselves. Their bonds got stretched too far and some snapped. It’s a very tragic pitfall that occurs with long-running series.

I think Sutherland must have also been tired. Writing an entire book is a monumental task, and writing 6 connected ones even moreso. She also comes out with these things really quickly. Maybe she was burnt out? Maybe she wanted to be done and her attention lapsed. Maybe that’s why she forgot that Moon knew about the disemboweling. It seems reasonable to believe when you consider that the next story arc would make a relatively clean break from the problems of this arc, especially with regards to the magic system.

But I don’t know what ultimately happened, so I can only speculate. I reiterate, I bear no ill will against Sutherland for writing this. Even if I kind of hate everything about this finale, and very vocally wish it would be different, I don’t want this examination to generate (or reawaken) any hatred towards her, or to attack her personally. I understand the pain of an artist who gets trapped with something for too long and has to find the means, any means, to see it through to the end. I criticize the story, but I could never hate anyone for that.

But for me, I do not consider this half of the book as part of the story. The characters act too unnaturally for it to have happened. So to me, it didn’t. We don’t know what happened, maybe Darkstalker is still out there. Maybe they dealt with him. Maybe what actually happened is my crappy and self-indulgent rewrite of the ending which I will never show to anyone because it would be really embarrassing.

But whatever actually ended up happening, I am sure Winter never ended up at that cliff, pondering how worthless and meaningless his life was. He is currently at Jade Mountain, surrounded by friends who love him, and bickering with Qibli about the correct solution to their advanced calculus assignment that is due tomorrow.

Is there anything left to say?

Probably.

I didn’t talk about Anemone yet. You know, in the epilogue she enchants herself a bracelet that makes her “not be so mean all the time”. I find that creepy. To me it reads as Anemone voluntarily brainwashing herself with magic to erase her negative traits instead of growing past them naturally because she finds them undesirable and wants to work to change for the better. I would ordinarily assume that this is an overreaction on my part, and I’m just reading the scene wrong. But no, we just got through a part where the heroes brainwashing someone is treated as an unequivocal good and worthy of celebration, so I think my reading may actually be spot on. Why are we letting the little kid alter her own brain without supervision? Hello? Tsunami? Someone intervene maybe? This cannot be healthy.

Turtle stands out to me as the one bright spot in all of this. He (and Peril, but she’s mostly out of focus) remain as the only main characters of this arc who don’t have any mind-boggling out-of-character moments or sudden streaks of uncharacteristic callousness. I really like the part where Qibli goes to free Turtle from his captivity and plans to give him an earful about the comically unhelpful messages he’s been sending him. But when Turtle asks if what he did was helpful, Qibli sees how beaten down and exhausted Turtle is, and wordlessly drops his frustration to tell him “Yeah, they were helpful.” That is the true Qibli shining through for a moment, showing that he cares about the well-being of his friends.

Do I hate the pairing of Qibli/Moonwatcher? No. Well, I DO hate how it happened in the book, and how the story tried to assassinate Winter’s character to resolve the love triangle and make it happen. I don’t hate it on principle though. If you are a fan of Qibli/Moonwatcher and want to write fanfics about it, please do! I absolutely encourage you to do that! Maybe you can fix this mess and turn it into something that’s actually properly handled!

Mightyclaws keeps the power that Darkstalker granted him past the finale. That means all the spells that Darkstalker cast are technically still active. Does that mean the Icewings have to wear earrings for the rest of their lives? Do they get sick again if they take them off? Is Peril forever cursed to think of Darkstalker as a cool old uncle and has to somehow reconcile how everyone else thinks of him? How did the Nightwings relinquishing their powers work, do they have to wear the earrings forever too now?

And there is one more thing to mention.

My confession

You may have already intuited this, if you’ve been following the content of my blog. It is very heavily skewed towards the first and second arcs of the series. I would now like to confess something.

When I read the second half of book 10, I found it so disillusioning, Winter’s fate so upsetting... that I put down the series then and there. And I haven’t picked it back up since.

That’s right, I have not read arc 3. I don’t know if that makes me a fake fan. I know pretty much everything that happens in it, the controversial twist at the end, Pyrrhia coming back into the story later, Snowfall getting brainwashed by a piece of jewelry until she cares about a plot that had nothing to do with her or the fate of the Icewings, etc..

It’s not out of malice, or because it’s a new continent. The opposite in fact; I would have greatly prefered a clean break with a new setting—Bug-themed dragons in a slightly more contemporary, developed environment sounds fascinating and full of potential. I don’t hate Pantala or the new characters.

I just... I can’t really do this again. I can’t handle the thought of Pyrrhia coming back post-Darkstalker, with Winter showing up and talking to these guys again like nothing happened, seeming like a different person, joking around with them like his entire character wasn’t dragged through a mountain of manure to make the plot bend a certain way. I think as long as this is the ending that the story is continuing from, seeing that would just make me miserable.

Maybe I will just stay in the parts of the story that I fell in love with. And imagine a version of reality in which Pantala is allowed to exist on its own, where Swordtail was the fourth POV character of arc 3, where Queen Wasp stayed the villain throughout, and Snowfall got her own legends book about how she reformed Icewing society and fixed all the shit that poisoned Winter’s life, so future generations don’t have to suffer through the same stuff he did.

~~~~~

If you’re still with me, thank you for reading this far. I think this is everything I ever thought about the finale of the second story arc, so now I never have to talk about it again. Writing this was difficult. I found it crushing at times. This will probably stand as the only overtly negative post I have ever made on this blog. I love Wings of Fire, and I want to celebrate it. To add to it, not tear it down.

I hope this wasn’t too boring, or painful, or frustrating, or soul-crushing to read through. I’ll see you later, hopefully with a more constructive post.

[gonetoforks]

Yknow, everyone’s assumed B-127 was physically unable to leave sublevel 50, but I don’t think that’s the case.

I think it was a slow decent.

He talks about how “the shift manager up there really doesn’t like to be bothered.” So he believes he’s acquainted with a shift manager above sub-level 50.

He knows how to get out. Orion and Dee weren’t knights in shining armor who freed him from his castle, Bee showed them the exit through the garbage chute, which he talks about like he’s used before.

“Cause I’m just so good at what I do…” It sounds like a lie, but I don’t think he’s imaginative enough to come up with that himself from (the popular hc of) misunderstanding that he was thrown and/or left down there to die or starve. He’s the one who brought energon onto the expedition, his needs are seemingly being met. I think he was told that by people who just wanted him to shut up and go away.

㐃 Additionally, why would he have been scrapped in the first place; For being annoying? Even when Darkwing threw Dee & Orion down there, it was for challenging the discriminatory caste system that he as a cop relied on and actively embarrassing him in the race in front of all of Iacon, not yapping.

㐃㐃Though there’s also the question of “Why would Darkwing say they’ll never see anyone again?” I think he probably had business to do & planned on coming back to get them. Oof. (“I’ll make sure of that,” is future tense, “I will do something,” not, “I have just killed you”)

With the facts that he

Knows how to leave, can leave, and has, we see him leaving sublevel 50 in the movie,

Knows someone in the levels above him or with him (I’ve always wondered who this “shift manager” he mentioned is…) who does not like him leaving or being distracted,-

(though note the validity of his statements are a little bit under question since he “basically has built himself a small crew of Wilsons a la Castaway” but I like to think he’s not always lying to himself to stay sane. I like the bits where he’s the first to run away from the erupting rocks, & where he says “He’s going to kill everyone.” We need to give him more credit you guys)

(Though even if the shift manager is a character he made up for himself, it still implies that he’s given some importance to staying down there) (which is important to my point i’m about to make-)

-In mind. Why didn’t he just leave whenever? Why does he talk about being “down here a long time,” as if he was in Castaway & not just in a ‘how long has my job been here?’ kind of sense?

I think he’s actually, secretly, a very atypical depiction of a hikikomori.

I think about how excited he was to make friends, how most characters other than Optimus find him annoying, & just how similar he acts to a neurodivergent guy who just can’t seem to get conversation right despite loving it, and I think about this one quote from ceicocat;

If you withdraw from society for long enough, your social muscles atrophy. The pressure, shame, and guilt for evading your responsibilities sealing you into your room. You become calcified. Locked into the life of an extreme shut-in. (6:07)

This post also mentions that he seems the most fearful and hesitant of the group when confronted with new situations, which I hadn’t even noticed! (As this post seems more interested in proof and technicalities at first, mb lol) He’s more anxious than he lets on.

What if he wasn’t thrown down there one day? What if it was a slow decent? He senses other bots don’t feel like talking to him, so what’s the big deal with getting demoted? New chance at friends! And you get more chances. Again, and again, and again until you’re at sub-level 40. At least I’ve hit rock bottom, right? Nope, there’s more. Now you’re in sub-level 50 and leaving your house literally requires you to crawl up a hole through hordes of garbage. At least you can do your job. You can do it very well, it staves off the shame you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Crawl through 50 sub-levels of garbage to leave your house when all the wilsons who like you are down here? No thanks!! I’m happy to stay down here and watch garbage burn. Forever. Till the day I die.

Poor Bee, why did I write that, I made myself sad.

I’m just saying, I think it would be really fascinating if, instead of just having a tragic backstory; this version of Bee was like this due to a combination of social struggles and his own weaknesses, choices and interactions! And how interesting it would be for a character easily flanderized as a friendly honeybee to actually be incredibly conflicted about his interactions with other people!

For instance;

What if he’s known for by his coworkers for being very enthusiastic and friendly, but also very hard to find? He takes his work home with him before ditching the office for like a week? And then he comes back like nothing happened!

What if he becomes a scout because he gets to stay hidden and just observe? He won’t have to talk to anyone and he wants to try and parse what it is that makes people act *gesturing vaguely around face* differently around him. It becomes a genuine interest of his like Abed from Community.

Idk… I guess you could say, i think when it comes to B-127… there’s.. MORE THAN MEETS THE EY- *i am yanked offstage by a giant hook.*

[kazzattack]

make-up sex with Dick has been rotting in my mind lately :P

make up sex w/ ex bf!dick grayson… bc if i’ve noticed anything about him? he’s besties with all of his exes. like. every single one of them. he’d try to be particularly close with you because he’s not over you at all. still thinking about you 24/7, still wants to see you, definitely still wants to fuck you, all that good stuff. what’s pissing him off is that you’re sick of him. and because i’m you’re petty, you decide against blocking him just to let him know you’re choosing to see him and ignore him. you read all his stupid ass messages, he can still see your posts, and he knows you’re doing shit to piss him off. because nothing irks his soul more than being ignored, much less ignored by you. luckily enough, nothing’s stopping him from knocking on your door after texting you that he’s “coming back for his hoodie.” because duh, you kept all of those too.

you open the door against your better judgement and it’s obvious he has a few intentions once you get a good look at the flimsy tank top and sweats. “hi,” he smiles to hide the impatience in his voice.

“hi,” you respond with condescension and move to close the door in his face.

“you’re being a dick,” the smile easily fades as he catches the door with a quick hand, “just let me in.”

and against your better judgement, you do.

now he’s snooping around, and quite effectively, finding a way to dig through drawers and piles of clothes even though he’s spotted a hoodie or two out the corner of his eye. come to think of it, he’s interrogating you. asking you about that party from friday, that one guy he saw on your story, anything he can get. hell, he’ll go as far as to flash you a new pair of panties while he’s looking, asking who’re you getting all pretty for? now you’re irritated too, not giving him any of the invasive answers he’s looking for. you two go back and forth for god knows how long, all the way until he’s got you against a wall and muttering fuck you under your breath, followed by a clever remark of I thought you’d never ask.

finally, his hands are back on you. he can finally grab a hold of your face and get his tongue back down your throat after a long ass month of nothing. nothing like you, at least. “you’re such a little shit,” he groans and you laugh at him, letting him wrestle your legs around his torso and carry you to the bed. as if you could have fought against it anyway. he’s depraved of you, already groping your tits and ass after grinding his thigh into your clothed cunt. it’s almost as if he hasn’t fucked since the last time he had you. still feeling a little cruel, you tease, “those other girls just didn’t do it for you, huh?”

“there weren’t any other girls.”

“yeah right,” you force out a giggle to ignore the guilt.

“I’m serious. been waiting on you to cut the bullshit so I could fuck this cunt again.” his hand’s already eased under the waistband of your shorts to circle your clit and you moan right into his ear. “don’t need any other girl when i’ve got a whore right here, just for me, right?”

he sucks a hickey into the underside of your breast before flipping you over, seemingly back to his regular self. you’re easily repositioned face down and ass up, helping him pull your shorts all the way down. fuck, you missed him. the way he palms your ass and forces you against his cock, debating on whether he should really fuck you or just hump you til you’re begging for his cock and he’s coming in his boxers.

“already fucking me back,” he moans from behind you and it’s brought to your attention that you’re the one grinding on his dick through fabric. you can’t bring yourself to be ashamed of it though, keening when the next time you feel him there’s no barrier between you and the tip of his cock is slipping into your pussy. normally he’d be all sensual, rub at your cunt til it’s all messy and leaking before fucking you, but this time around it’s like he has no time for it. he’d rather force the arch in your back further into the mattress and fuck you full, have you whine into the pillows and beg for more of his cum like he knows you want to.

“still want me to get out?” he’s muttering into your ear after pulling your hair, knowing by now you’re too fucked out to give him some smart-ass remark. all you can give him are those whorish moans he hasn’t heard for so long as you cum on his cock for the third time. he’s skipped the theatrics he loves to fuck you deep and give you a good reminder that this is what you broke up with.

[greynatomy]

cindy lou who

alexia putellas x reader

social media + real life (no part two)

face claim - sabrina carpenter

———

liked by taylorswift, harrystyles and 2,648,826 others

yourinstagram made a little something special for the holidays

‘fruitcake’ is out now 🤍

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user AHHHH a christmas album!!!!

user nonsense (christmas version) 👀

taylorswift so proud!

↳ yourinstagram ty mother!

user guys… cindy lou who

—

Alexia was at training when she received a notification on her phone. Pulling it out, she sees a familiar notification. ‘yourinstagram posted a photo’

Clicking on it, she sees your new post. A new album.

“Hey, baby.”

Alexia quickly exits out of the app, putting her phone in her pocket.

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Oh, you know.” Alexia shrugs her shoulders. “Just going through the socials, emails.”

“Oh, okay. Well, you wanna go to this restaurant I’ve always wanted to try?”

“Sure.”

At dinner, Alexia gets another notification. Seeing it, she acts like it was from her manager, excusing herself from the table.

—

liked by taylorswift, shawnmendes and 3,648,738 others

yourinstagram since you guys have blown up ‘fruitcake’ i give to you ‘santa doesn’t know you like i do’ music video! enjoy <3

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user mother is feeding us

user omfg is that shawn fucking mendes??

↳ greynatomy it’s not, but pretend it is

taylorswift on repeat!

↳ yourinstagram 🤍🤍

shawnmendes who’s that handsome fellow?

↳ yourinstagram lyle

↳ user can’t take her seriously

↳ user why am i shipping?

—

Alexia hasn’t had the chance to listen to the album, but from the looks of it, it’s become a hit in just a few hours.

Returning to the table, she sees that the desserts have been brought out.

“What did your manager want?”

“Oh, you know, just some football talk about the game soon.”

All her girlfriend does is nod, going back on her phone.

It’s been a year since Alexia broke up with you, but she couldn’t seem to stop thinking of you. Everywhere she looked, you were there, whether it was your songs or in posters and magazines.

You were everywhere.

You looked so beautiful in the pictures you posted, but she couldn’t help but wonder about that Shawn guy. Who is he to you? Alexia knew she had no right to be jealous, but she couldn’t help it.

Getting back home, her girlfriend was all over her, hoping to get lucky, but she wasn’t in the mood, pushing her away, giving a sorry of an excuse as to why she didn’t want to.

As her girlfriend slept, she stayed in the living room, putting her headphones on.

The first song, she remembers you writing it. The first time you let Alexia listen to it, it ended with you both back in bed. She grinned at the memory.

Getting to the fourth track, she carefully listens to the lyrics, quickly realizing that it was about her and her new relationship.

“Is this how you really feel?” Alexia asks herself.

She had met her now girlfriend a couple of months after the breakup when she went to Ibiza to let loose. She was aware of how quickly she moved on, so caught up in the new relationship.

She decides to sleep on the couch, not being able to bear sleeping next to her girlfriend.

—

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—

It’s been two weeks since Alexia had listened to your new album. In those two weeks, she broke up with her girlfriend, much to her now ex-girlfriend’s pleas.

Alexia was the one to break up with you. No real reason given, just something about needing space. Remembering back to that conversation, Alexia realizes how much hurt she caused you.

Walking around the neighborhood, seeing all the Christmas lights, it reminds her of how the both of you would walk this very same path, looking at all the lights. Christmas has always been your favorite holiday.

Feeling guilty, she scrolls through her contacts, thumb hovering over your name. Clicking on it, she hears the call ring for a bit, some good news that you haven’t blocked her number. Eventually it goes to voicemail.

“Hey, uh, it’s Alexia. Um, I’ve, uh, just been thinking about you lately. I’m walking and seeing all the lights and I remember how it was your favorite thing to do. And, uh, it’s been a year and I know I have a lot to apologize for. So, if you do get this, please call me back… I miss you. Bye.”

[storiesfromafan]

Return - Buck x Reader

A/N: I have posted a story just about every day, so I had to keep it up for today. I return with the last part, which has a happy ending haha.

I've been thinking of doing a full story or a series of one-shots with the reader being one of the crew that works on the planes, and of course paired with Buck haha. See how I go...

Previous Parts: Pt 1 Rumours, Pt 2 MIA

Tag list: @strayrockette @redwitchbitch1

Being a prisoner of war was not something Buck had wanted, but he would take it over death. Though it felt like death at times. Yet it put a lot of things into perspective. What would be common necessaries, were a luxury now. Taking food for granted. Or having a conversation with someone he would avoid or them avoiding him, now something he longed for. Such as a conversation with you.

It was funny how you came to mind a fair bit since he was brought here. And Marge was an afterthought. Buck spent his sleepless nights thinking, and with it he started to realise how he felt for you. How he longed for your smile and company. How he racked his memories of you, trying to recall your eyes, your lips and your warmth. When he did sleep he dreamt of you, those dreams sometimes a reflection on memories together.

Yet guilt crept up on him, slowly eating its way at him. For he should be longing for his fiancé, the women he made a promise to before leaving for this war. And in a way he did, but no were as near as he did of you. The internal battle he was having was taking its toll. Buck felt drained and exhausted, but that was also due to the conditions of living in the camp.

But hope perked up in him. It was the day a bunch of new captured men were brought into camp. Standing around with the few men he had allied with, the call of Bucky caught his ears but he didn’t think much of it. But when it gained more men calling Bucky did hope rise in Buck. Pushing his way to the fence, hearing his friend ask where he was, Buck smiled.

“John Egan. Your two o’clock” he called, Bucky turning around without a second thought. “what took you so long?” Buck's smile widening, relief to see his friend.

Seeing Buck, it gave Bucky not only relief his friend was a live, but a sense they could make it out of here alive. Upon reuniting on the inside together, Buck wasted no time showing Bucky around, explaining it all to him. How he got there, what it’s like, how things were done and how they did things. Bucky was brought in without a second thought, and their time there was hard, exhausting and it messed with his mind, along with every other man there.

There were ups and downs. But one thing that kept them going was the will to get out and back home, along with the mail they could get. Today’s mail came in and to Buck's surprise, he had gotten a letter from Marge. Of course Bucky made a comment, saying Marge in a drawl and small chuckle. Buck forced a small chuckle, not always enjoying his friends jest.

Staring at the letter in his hand, that guilt like led in the pit of his stomach came back. Part of him would rather this letter be from you. In your delicate cursive. Words relaying your thoughts and feelings, your wishes of safety and return. But he wasn’t so lucky. Deciding it was time to see what Marge had to say, Buck opened the envelope and pulled out the few sheets of paper. Taking a seat on the bottom of the bunk, Buck read over the words. With every word, his brow furrows.

The last few sentences are what cleared up this letter, a dear John letter. I’m not sure what to say Buck. Since you’ve left it’s been hard, I’ve been struggling. And I did my best, writing you and holding hope. But the last five months I have been seeing another man, and my affections have grown for him. Please understand and forgive me, I can’t marry you when you return. It finished with wishing him well and to accept her apologies. Enclosed, Marge had put the ring he’d given her.

“What does Marge have to say?” Questioned Bucky with a smile. “How much she misses you and can’t wait till your home?”

Buck sat there quiet for a moment, looking at the ring. And as much as he should be devastated, a part of him was sad, yet he felt relief. That guilt lifting a good amount. Marge had spared him from breaking her heart, by her thinking she’d break his.

“Actually, she said she met someone else and has feelings for them" Buck said calmly. “She apologized and returned the ring". Between his thumb and pointer was the ring, showing it off to the men around him.

The room fell silent. No man knew what to say to that. What could they say? Other then apologise themselves, and tell him there were plenty of fish in the sea? For Buck, there was only one fish he wanted. And she had pushed him away.

“I guess that means you can pursue (Y/N) without any worry or guilt now" Bucky stated, breaking the silence.

Buck's eyes shot to his friend, seeing the knowing smile upon Bucky's face. He wondered what his friend knew exactly. As Buck thought he'd been smart and kept up a good poker face.

Getting up, Bucky crossed the room before taking a seat next to Buck. “You don't think I didn't notice you both getting close back on base? And when the rumours started, she distanced herself. So I figured her affections for you” Bucky stated matter-of-fact. “Then when you came back from talking to her, you looked pretty down. Factor in Marge just dumping you, and you're not as upset as you should be, I know how you feel back (Y/N)”.

Bucky smiled at the surprised face on his friend. Buck was stumped by the words just spoken to him. Amazed that Bucky could read him like he did. Moving to encase the ring in his palm, Buck folded the letter and put it back in the envelop. Followed by the ring, and in his pocket it went.

“She said to forget our talk happened...” Buck said softly.

Clapping Buck on the arm gently, Bucky said “I doubt that. If you'd seen how upset she was after hearing your plane had gone down...” Flashbacks ran across Bucky's mind, of you but also of himself and how you both handled the news.

Now Buck was invested, looking to the man beside him with concern. “H-how was she?”

Bucky sighed. “I was the one to tell her, just as she came out from working on the injured men. She looked so tired, and I...I had to burst her bubble. I could see...how devastated she was. I had to help her take a seat before she fell over".

Buck took a deep breathe, before shakily let it out.

“Also, I had to escort her back to her room too, so she could clean up. I know she cried, and had been for some time...as she found me later” – Bucky deciding to leave out his drinking – “well, I could see that she had been. We spent most of the night talking. I told her so many stories" he chuckled.

Buck softly laughed. “Hopefully nothing embarrassing about me".

Bucky laughed, “all the embarrassing ones".

Silence fell between them both. Various men in the room had either left or were busying themselves, not wanting to intrude on the moment. Buck's mind reeling from knowing that his plane going down, how you thought him dead, had upset you so. His chest hurting at the thought of you crying for him. But he hoped somehow news got back, and you knew he, and Bucky, were alive and were in a camp.

A small smile formed on Buck’s lips. “Why doesn’t that surprise me. You always did like to broadcast my worst moments".

It eased a bit of the sad tension. From there the conversation shifted to other matters. But in the back of Buck’s mind was you. And the renewed fire to get out of this camp and back to base, to see you and tell you everything.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. And you were still doing your part at the base. All the while wondering what happened to both Buck's. At first you were upset loosing them both, for days you were beside yourself over it. Then when you went back to working, you couldn’t help the tears that would come at random times, or when you were patching up and looking after the injured. But everyone understood, for they had been where you were.

Then you had a sliver of hope when there was rumours both Buck’s were in a POW camp. But without any solid proof, you were back to square one. Pilots came and go, either on their own accord or in a box. The amount of death was starting to get to you. Feeling a piece of you chip away with every man that didn’t make it. But you were hanging in the best you could, the need to do your part for the war drilled into you.

Periodically over eighteen months, the nurses that started the rumours warmed up to you, or guilt was eating at them. Trying to get you to join them in town for drinks, or the celebrations of the pilots. And you should have gone, to blow off some steam from all the work you had been doing. But you chose to remain separate from them all. Taking solace in the solitude. And with that reflecting on the happy memories with the two majors. A memory you were fond of was the celebrations where Bucky got up, after Buck trying to keep him in check, to sing and dance.

~~~~~

You laughed at the Major while remaining in the seat next to Buck, who was shaking his head while trying to hide a smile. Bucky was cocky, putting on a show for all. But when he turned his sights on you, you wish you could have made a run for it. Before you knew what was happening, Bucky had crossed back over to you, taking a hold of your hands and pulled you up.

“What are you doing Bucky?” You recall Buck questioning the dark haired male that had a hold of you.

“No pretty young woman should be sitting" Bucky retorted. “So, I’m going to dance with (Y/N). As you’re so true to Marge. Who would be understanding if you danced with a friend. But I’ll do it".

With that Bucky dragged you to the dance floor. In a fluster you recall telling him you were a bad dancer, but he was a good sport. And danced with you none the less. You’d never laughed so much, even when making a mistake. Bucky’s kind and funny words put you at ease. And before you knew it, he had you moving around the dance floor with a small ounce of grace.

You looked over to Buck, you cheeks hurting from the smile on your face. He was watching you both, a small smile upon his face. His eyes shining with warmth and laughter. You rolled your eyes with a chuckle. Which got Buck to softly laugh. You liked his eyes on you, enjoyed being his focus.

“Now, now" tutted Bucky. “I'm your dance partner, focus on me please”. His tone was light and playful.

You turned your focus back to Bucky, who said a quick good before sweeping you around the room some more. The Major was nice and playful, and a part of you could tell he was trying to flirt with you. But you didn't take his advances. And Bucky wasn't too hurt, in fact he knew he had a friend in you from it. The first women to turn his charms down.

Finally getting free of Bucky and his need to be himself. You returned to Buck in a laugh, as you fell into the seat next to him. You were warm from the dancing, and slightly out of breath. Buck looked at you with amusement.

“Don't say a word" you said with a sigh. “I didn't get a choice, Bucky held me captive!”

Buck laughed, his voice tickling your ears by how rough it was. “That's John" was all he said.

“Yes, as I have just learned" you laughed. “Was what Bucky said true? How you don't dance with any women because of your fiancé?”

He nodded. “Yes, she's the one and only".

You felt a little jealous of this woman. A woman who could get a man to be faithful to her, and doing so during a war. You envied her for having a good man like Buck. That was when you started to have a crush on him.

~~~~~

It was a surprise when the number of injured lessened through your doors. And in time you understood why. It looked like the War was coming to an end, which meant soon you'd be home. And all this would be a distant memory. You sighed with that knowledge. And slowly, you and the other nurses began to clean up and pack up what wasn't needed so much.

Yet there was a commotion outside – men calling out names and vehicles -  that grabbed yours and the nurses attention. They took off, while you stayed to finish what you were doing. You had an idea it had to be returning men from the POW camps. The noise outside didn't seem to die down. So once you were done, you decided to see what the fuss was about.

Stepping outside you could see the men crowding around, happy and joyous for those that had made it back. Grateful for more men to be alive then lost out there. Whipping your hands on your apron, you looked around. Part of you hoping to see either or both of the Buck's. And then you spotted one.

He looked relieved, yet exhausted, with faint bruises and cuts. His dark hair was messy from either his hat or the ride back into base. A small amount of comfort coming to you upon seeing Bucky. Yet, that pit in your stomach was back, at no sign of Buck.

As if sensing your gaze, Bucky turned in your direction. Taking a moment for him to register your form from the crowd. A bright smile crossed his devilish face, before he left the men he had been talking too and came right over to you. Without a thought, Bucky pulled you into a tight hug. Which you smiled upon feeling that he was actually there. A few tears rising in your eyes, a tear or two escaping and making their way down your cheeks.

You pulled back and looked over Bucky's face and torso. “You're really back, and in one piece".

He laughed and nodded. “Yeah I am. Should see the other guys".

You laughed, a real laugh in what felt for like forever. “I could imagine". Then you grew quiet, wanting to ask the question that was sitting on your tongue. Was Buck with you?

Bucky looked off to the side, a small humorous smile sliding across his lips. “I think someone wants to say hello...”

Confusion washed over your face at his words. But when he released you, turning you in the direction he had been looking, you got your answer. A couple of meters away was Buck. And he didn't look any different to what you remembered. Minus the exhaustion, need of three balanced meals for a while, and scars on his cheeks. Finally that pit in your stomach filled, finally having him back, you felt relieved.

Having laid eyes on you as Bucky held you at arms length, you both swapping words. The smile on your face warming Buck, glad to know you were glad to see his friend. And this was the moment Buck suddenly didn't know what he would say to you, let alone how you would react to seeing him.

When Bucky noticed him, he smiled before looking back to you. And before Buck knew what was happening, you were facing him. Recognition flashed in your eyes, and then he watched how you seemed to relax. He could tell you were relieved he was back, that they were both back.

Before he could stop himself, Buck took a step forward. Then another and another, slowly at first. Until he couldn't wait any longer, and with a blink he was standing before you. He looked down at you, while you looked up at him, only a ruler size gap between you both. Now up close, Buck noted how pale you looked and tired you seemed. But you were still strong. You just needed a good night sleep, and until the War was officially over, you would have to wait.

Buck cleared his throat. “Hi...” was the best he could start with.

You released the breath you were holding, it coming out shakily. “H-hi...”

All the words he wanted to say, none would make it to his tongue for him to say. So Buck did the only thing he could do. Grabbing your arms, Buck pulled you to him, against him. His arms coming to wrap around you as he held you closely. He had imagined this moment, longed for it. And finally it was real, you before him and him holding you dearly. Resting his cheek against your head, Buck let out a sigh in content. Finally feeling repose, feeling safe.

You were shocked. Not believing Buck was hugging you, holding you tightly like a life line. Buck had never looked at another woman, let one got this close. Yet he had instigated this. Confusion filled you. Unsure what was happening. Maybe he was glad to see a friendly face after what he must have gone through.

“I am so happy to see you" Buck whispered, wanting just you to hear him. “How I have waited for this moment...”

You pulled back, looking at his face with sadness. “Don't say that...don't say what you don't mean...”

Leaning in, Buck pressed his forehead against your own. “I wouldn't have said it, if I didn't mean it...and I meant every word of it (Y/N)”.

Your stomach fluttered at his admission, as well as hearing your name leaving his lips. Lips you wanted so badly to kiss. Even after so much time apart. “W-what about Marge?” You questioned softly.

Buck sighed. Taking a moment to sort through his thoughts before voicing them. “Well...you see, she wrote me while I was...you know. And she has met someone else...so she returned my ring". To prove a point, Buck pulled out the engagement ring. “So, I guess I'm unattached".

As his words, and the ring, sunk in you slowly nodded your head. “Oh...I-I’m so sorry Buck".

He softly groaned hearing his nickname slip from your lips. It was music to his ears, and spurred him on for what was to come. “Don't be, because I can now do this".

Swiftly he moved in, lips capturing your own in a tender, but passionate kiss. Surprised was an understatement. For Major Gale ‘Buck’ Cleven was kissing you, and in front of anyone who looked. Yet, part of you didn't care. You began to relax, eyes closing as you took in that you were kissing the one person you had wanted to see since his plane went down. The person you missed terribly, and spent nights crying for. For the person you prayed for to return to you. And he did.

Reluctantly Buck pulled back, his forehead resting against yours again. He watched as you slowly opened your eyes, a glossed over look in them. When your eyes met his baby blues, he hoped you could see everything he wanted you to know in them. Because he could see it in yours; the joy, longing and contentment.

“Buck...” you said so soft, that he could just hear it. “W-why did you do that?”

He chuckled deeply. “Ain't it obvious?”  you slightly shook your head. “I am crazy about you. Have been for longer then I could admit. I love you (Y/N)”.

Those words, all of them, set your heart soaring. As tears of joy rose in your eyes. This is what you had hoped for upon Buck’s return. You had wanted him to return your feelings, and sweep you off your feet. You got half of your wish. Maybe, if you marry, you'd finally be swept off your feet.

You sighed happily. “I love you so much Gale". And you leant in for another kiss. This one longer then the last. Which neither of you were against. Finally he had come back to you.

[mythmerth]

from my October readings, I’ve collected a few more merlin fic recs for the people…

For favorite long (80k+) fic, I would have to pick another fic by horsecrazy, this time All Things Loved and Lovesick. It’s 90k and GODD these idiots I love them so bad. They’re just trying to take care of farm animals, elbow deep helping animals give birth at 3 AM all the while desperately wanting each other. I screamed a bit when they finally kissed I won’t lie.

For favorite mid length (30k-80k) fic, there were a LOT of contenders (most of my extra recs could’ve fit here) but I would have to pick From Where You Stand by fifty_fifty. The concept there was one I haven’t seen a whole lot (body swapping their way into a magic reveal) which surprises me cause that sounds so merlin-esque??? really loved the chaos brought on by that

For favorite short fic (<30k), I would have to choose Into Perdition by athousandvictories. If there’s one thing I’m a sucker for it’s religious guilt themes, and if there’s a snarky merlin in there too even better. the tension and resolution in this is just Delicious and Merlin is so bold I’m living for it.

And here’s a few more rapid fire October reads that I enjoyed!

An Illusion of Sorts by lordvoldemortsnipple. looove the magician x magic crossover

Chrysalis by i_canz_kill_dragon, a very well done coming of age/personal acceptance story

Tales of Magic by amithia. The coffee shop subtle magic OOO i eat it up, i love the take on Merlin’s magic being just this little instinct.

Awake by corilannam and phoenixacid- this is definitely a great and unique arthur returns scenario, with all the questions and mystery and love involved

Arthur Pendragon VS the World by Ally_Oop. more modern than the last but yet another unique take on Arthur returning, very well done and makes you wonder what the hell is happening

Swans Lost in the Stream of Time by DracoWillHearAboutThis. reincarnation memory returning goodness

I didn’t reread anything in October which is crazy because it’s the first month since May of this year that I haven’t! instead, I will recommend one of my most reread merlin fics: Rule Number Four of which the account has been orphaned. I love the silliness and tension and multi identity aspect of it, just such a good work all around for whenever you want a goofy, modern, powerful merthur duo.

That’s all for October, I’ll be back in a few weeks for my November recs and then soon after that I’ll be doing my 💫yearly merlin fic reading💫 stats (of which are very very unhinged). 2024 has been diabolicalamazing for my merlin readings and can’t wait to share 😁

and if you’re still looking for more recs then check out my other posts ~

<< last month next month >>

[hivemuthur]

What was that? - Ch. 13.

viktorxfemale!OFC mature

friends to lovers, co-workers, sexual tension up to the wazoo, pinning and banter that got me frustrated when I was writing it, attempt at humour, some angst and a slow burn with a happy ending and a classic Viktor for once

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12. | Ch.14. | Ch.15.

word count: 6,9K

tag: #what was that

author’s note: @rennethen as beta reader. This the all-is-lost moment chapter, so tw would be angst, but I promise from now on it will only get better :')

Cross-posted on AO3

—

They kept missing each other for a week. Each of them was too stubborn, too proud, too scared to reach out. Renly had nearly turned nocturnal, convincing herself that she needed something concrete—something ready—before she faced Viktor again. Her guilt gnawed at her, pushing her forward and holding her back in equal measure.

Tonight, though, her newest iteration of the cure would finally be ready. She couldn’t put it off any longer. Steeling herself, she arrived at the lab earlier than usual, intent on finally confronting Viktor.

Only to be met by Jayce.

“Gods, Ren, I haven’t seen you in a week! Are you alright?” he exclaimed, his voice warm and filled with relief as he wrapped her in one of his massive, crushing hugs.

The embrace lingered a beat too long, and it wasn’t until Jayce realised she hadn’t answered that he loosened his grip, noticing her muffled protests.

“Ah, thanks. I might’ve actually needed that,” she huffed, her voice breathy as she smoothed her slightly wrinkled shirt. She gave him a sheepish smile. “I’ve been working nights. Sorry about that.” Definitely just turned out like this, definitely not avoiding Viktor.

Jayce stepped back, his brows knitting together as he scanned her dishevelled appearance. “Are you avoiding Vik?”

Ah, Jayce was smarter than her, of course.

“Not really,” she replied quickly, though her tone betrayed her unease. “It just… turned out like this, honestly. Is he here?” Part of her hoped he was. That she could get all of this off her chest, give him the new medicine, kiss his forehead, and say she was sorry.

“No, he went home early,” Jayce said with a sigh, his expression softening but still clouded with concern. “Ren, I think he feels like shit. You should talk to him.”

“Well, I was planning to,” she said, crossing her arms defensively, “but he’s not here, is he?” Dear Jayce, if he’d only known. Renly knew there was no bad intention underneath it and Jayce probably went through hell that week.

Jayce raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, save that look for later. I’ll leave the lecture for another time. Are you going to head over to see him?”

Renly hesitated, glancing at the stack of notes she’d brought with her. “Yes, definitely. Later.” Her gaze shifted back to him, catching the worry etched across his face. “Are you alright? Everything okay with Mel?”

“Yes, yes,” Jayce replied quickly, though his hand instinctively went to the back of his neck—a telltale sign he was holding something back.

“It’s not about her,” he added after a moment. “I just… got weird news from Caitlyn.”

“Weird meaning…?” Renly prompted, her brow furrowing as her concern deepened.

Jayce hesitated, his lips pressing into a tight line before he asked, “Have you heard anything from the Undercity recently?”

Renly thought for a moment, her mind flipping through recent events. “Uh, now that you mention it, Ekko hasn’t reached out since the last dispatch. Why?”

Jayce’s expression darkened. “Apparently, tensions are growing tighter down there. Caitlyn said they’re planning a diversion to flush out whoever’s been smuggling Shimmer through the gates.”

Renly’s stomach twisted. “Flush them out how, exactly?”

“They want to literally smoke them out. With the Grey.”

Her heart sank. “Oh, Gods.”

Jayce nodded grimly. “It’s reckless and dangerous, but they’re desperate. Caitlyn’s trying to keep the peace, but it’s hard to control the situation from above.”

Renly’s voice rose slightly. “Jayce, did you tell Viktor?”

“Yeah,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. “And he’s worried. He thinks the council will use this as an excuse to come after Hextech next.”

Renly’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do?”

Jayce’s jaw set with determination. “I’m on my way to talk to Mel about it. She might be able to sway the council or at least buy us some time.”

Renly exhaled sharply, her mind racing. “Be careful, Jayce. This could escalate fast.”

“I know.” He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You should talk to Viktor, Ren. He needs you.”

Renly swallowed hard, nodding. “I will.”

Her resolve solidified as she turned back to her work. With shaky hands, she carefully packed the vial of the cure she’d designed specifically for Viktor, enough to last him the next two weeks. She gathered her notes, stacking them neatly into a pile, ensuring they were ready to present to him. Her heart was pounding as she slung her bag over her shoulder and practically bolted out of the lab.

She had to stop herself from outright running to his apartment, though the attempt was futile. Her hurried steps turned into skipping over every other step, her bag clinking faintly with the bottles inside each time she slowed down.

By the time she reached his door, her chest was heaving, her breath short, and her heart felt lodged in her throat. She raised a trembling hand and knocked, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway.

A pause. Silence.

Then, faint footsteps approached, and the door cracked open.

“Renly?” Viktor’s voice was low, almost relieved. He let out a long exhale, as though he’d been holding his breath, as though her knocking on his door was a possibility he hadn’t dared to entertain. His hand rocked slightly on his cane, the hesitation in his posture betraying his uncertainty. For a moment, he seemed torn between pulling her into an embrace or keeping his distance. Finally, he settled on a small beckoning gesture with a tug of his chin.

“Hey, you.” Her voice felt so small, lodged somewhere in her throat. She stepped inside, only to find herself standing awkwardly in the hallway, unsure of what to do with herself.

This same hallway, she realised, was where Viktor would always sweep her into his arms, showering her with kisses whenever they came back to his place together. The absence of that now felt unbearable, a hollow ache settling in her chest.

She glanced at him properly, taking him in. He looked tired—no, beyond tired. Troubled. The crease between his eyebrows was deep and pronounced, etched into his pale features like it had been carved there. The flat itself mirrored his state: slightly messier than she remembered, with cups and scattered notes abandoned on various surfaces. It was a quiet confession that he’d been working endlessly, even here at home.

Renly swallowed hard, forcing herself to look past it all.

For a long, drawn-out moment, neither of them spoke. They just stood there in the dim hallway, their gazes falling to the floor. The silence stretched until it was almost unbearable.

Then, at last, she heard the faint sound of him shifting. And before she could process it, she felt his arms circle around her, pulling her close.

She exhaled shakily, her face tucking into the crook of his neck. He leaned against her fully, his weight pressing into her, his cane now hovering slightly above the floor. His fingers tangled in her hair as though to anchor himself, and she felt his chest expand as he took a long breath, inhaling her scent—a mix of flowers and disinfectant.

In that fragile moment, it felt like he was holding on for dear life.

“You came,” Viktor’s voice was soft, laced with disbelief and relief, as though her presence alone might heal him. He didn’t want to let go. The week had been unbearable. The silence at work was deafening, the emptiness of his flat crushing. Even his coffee tasted too sweet without her there to mock it.

“I... I’ve got something for you,” Renly whispered, shaking her bag gently so the bottles clinked together.

Viktor leaned back, but his arms remained loosely around her, as if afraid she might vanish. His brow furrowed slightly, his expression both tentative and curious. He glanced down at the bag she held out and then peered inside: bottles carefully labelled, a fresh notebook, sterile containers with syringes and needles, bandages, disinfectants, and other small items. He felt his chest tighten—not from his condition, but from the realisation that she hadn’t given up on him.

“Renly, what—” He stopped, unsure how to frame the whirlwind of questions swirling in his mind. What is this? What do you want me to do with it? Why are you doing this after our last fight?

“I’ve worked it out.” Her voice was steady but quiet, as though she feared his reaction. “You’re not going to like it, but this batch should work without a fault. For your breathing,” she added, almost as an afterthought, though it was far from trivial. She bit her lip, her gaze flitting to his face, trying to gauge his response.

Viktor finally let go of her, though reluctantly, and reached into the bag. He pulled out one of the bottles, turning it over in his hands. Each was meticulously labelled with dates, concentrations, and dosages. He glanced at the notebook and saw neat tables with dates and times, spaces for notes, and a carefully outlined regimen.

“Renly,” he began, his voice softer now, almost disbelieving, “did you work around the clock for this?”

“It only took a week,” she replied with a huff, trying to sound casual, but the faint bags under her eyes betrayed her.

Viktor raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by her attempt at nonchalance. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“I… might have to show you how to do the injection,” she admitted, deflecting slightly. “We could start today?”

“If I ask what went wrong, will I get a lecture?” he asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the weight of the moment.

Renly’s face softened, and a knowing smile broke through. “I come prepared.” She reached into her bag again and produced a folder, thick with notes and diagrams documenting every second of the process. She handed it to him with the air of someone ready to argue every point.

Viktor sighed, setting the bag aside as he moved toward the kettle. “Tea first,” he murmured, as though they weren’t standing on the edge of something monumental.

Renly followed him into the kitchen, her fingers fidgeting nervously as she sat down at the small table. “So…” she began, her voice quieter now, “it would seem that I’ve… well, I’ve fucked up.”

Viktor turned to look at her, his expression unreadable, but he said nothing, letting her continue.

“I didn’t take the state of your immune system into account,” she explained, choosing her words carefully. “It was too strong, which is why…” She paused, exhaling slowly before continuing with clinical precision. “Your batch is crafted based on the samples I collected from you over time. Each one has a different concentration, designed to… coax your immune system into functioning properly, rather than attacking the islet cells.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed slightly, his mind working through her explanation. “What does this mean long term?” His tone was measured, though his chest tightened at the prospect of what she was about to say.

Renly met his gaze, her professionalism steadying her nerves. “It means you’d be dependent on it… indefinitely. But there’s a chance it could minimise your symptoms almost entirely.”

“My symptoms?” Viktor asked, his voice dipping slightly, as if he already knew the answer but needed to hear her say it.

“Your breathing affliction,” she clarified, her voice softer now.

For a long moment, Viktor said nothing. He looked down at the bottle still in his hand, running his thumb over the label. The meticulous care she’d poured into this, the endless hours she’d sacrificed—it all spoke volumes.

“Why?” he finally asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Renly’s lips parted, but no words came immediately. She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “Because you deserve better than this.”

Viktor’s gaze lifted to hers, his chest tightening for a different reason now. Longing warred with hesitation in his eyes, but he didn’t dare speak the thought that had lodged itself in his throat: I missed you.

Instead, he walked over to her, leaned in, and kissed her. The angle wasn’t ideal for his spine at the moment, but the sensation of Renly’s lips on his eclipsed any discomfort. At first, she froze, caught off guard, but then she softened into him, slowly rising to stand level with him.

Viktor pulled her flush against him, his hands travelling down to cup her ass as her palms fisted into his shirt. He pushed her gently until she steadied herself against the nearest countertop, breathing into her mouth, “I hated this entire week until now.”

“Viktor, I—” she began, her voice trembling, but she barely managed the words before Viktor captured her lips again in another kiss.

His touch was laced with guilt and remorse, wielded like unspoken words he couldn’t yet form. Every press of his lips, every movement of his hands, was a silent apology—a plea for forgiveness he couldn’t articulate.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against hers, he whispered his confession. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel like… you couldn’t,” Renly replied, her voice soft yet steady. Her eyes searched his face, looking for even a flicker of insincerity, but there was none. His raw vulnerability mirrored her own.

Her gaze shifted briefly to the bag resting on the table, then back to him. “Should we?” she asked quietly, her meaning clear.

Viktor hesitated, reluctant to let the moment shatter. He exhaled slowly, his eyes closing as he nodded.

Renly carried the tea and her bag with her as they moved to the bedroom. She stole glances at the space—messier than she remembered. Viktor had been working, not just in the lab but clearly here too. Sketches of the Hexcore, rune patterns, and scribbled calculations were scattered across the desk and even the nightstand. A faint smell of ink and parchment lingered in the air, mixing with something distinctly him.

She placed the tea on the bedside table, setting her bag down gently on the bed. Viktor eased himself onto the mattress, his posture slightly slouched, his cane set to the side. He looked tired—more so than usual—and she didn’t miss the weight of the week etched across his features.

Renly rummaged through her bag, pulling out the bottle and syringe, the familiarity of the routine grounding her nerves. Her eyes flicked up to him. “May I?” she asked softly, her hands hovering near his belt buckle.

Viktor looked at her for a long moment, his amber eyes holding hers. Then he gave a slow, wordless nod, leaning back slightly to give her access.

Her fingers worked carefully, unbuckling his belt and sliding his trousers down just enough to expose his upper thigh. The act, once clinical, now felt different. Intimate. She couldn’t ignore the quiet vulnerability in the air.

Renly reached for the disinfectant, but before applying it, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his thigh. It was tender, unhurried—a gesture she hadn’t planned but couldn’t stop herself from doing. Viktor watched her silently, his expression unreadable, though something in his gaze softened.

She disinfected the skin with slow, deliberate movements, her touch losing the sterility it once held. When she placed the needle in, Viktor didn’t flinch; he simply observed her, his gaze unwavering, as if her presence was more potent than the act itself.

Once the injection was done, Renly set the syringe aside and carefully massaged the area, her fingertips working lightly over his skin. Viktor’s head tipped back at her touch, his body leaning into the sensation. The tension in his posture seemed to melt away.

Renly finished and wiped her hands before sitting beside him. She reached out, tugging a few stray strands of his hair behind his ear. “How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice soft and laced with concern.

Viktor chuckled softly, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Exposed,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy. “But not like a test subject.”

Renly smiled back. “Would you like to be touched some more? Not like a test subject?”

Viktor’s smirk was faint but teasing, and she laughed, quickly correcting herself. “Not like that, you—” But the words faltered as her thoughts betrayed her, the unspoken desire lingering in the air. She swallowed and shifted the conversation. “Is there any pain I can help you with?”

“My back aches,” he admitted after a moment, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along her hand.

Renly nodded, standing from the bed with quiet determination. She disappeared into the bathroom and returned moments later with a small bottle of oil and a warm, clean washcloth. Without a word, she set them down on the bedside table and began to undress him.

Viktor stayed still, watching her with a quiet curiosity as she moved with purpose. His woollen jumper was first to go, tugged gently over his head. The linen shirt followed, her fingers brushing against his collarbone as she unfastened the buttons and slipped it off his shoulders. She folded the discarded clothes neatly and placed them on a nearby chair.

“Do you want me to take the brace off?” she asked softly, her voice carrying no judgment, only care.

Viktor hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “Yes, please.”

Renly knelt beside him, her fingers carefully working at the leather straps and metal bolts embedded into his back. She undid each one slowly, her touch reverent, her breaths quiet. The closeness brought their faces near, and she lingered at times, her focus entirely on the intricate task. Viktor didn’t look at her, but he felt her presence acutely—the warmth of her skin, the gentle pull of her fingers.

When the brace was finally removed, Renly placed it carefully at the side of the bed. “I’ll clean it later,” she murmured, almost to herself. For now, Viktor was her only priority.

“Lie on your stomach,” she instructed gently.

He obeyed, shifting with measured movements until he was stretched out on the bed. Renly sat beside him, brushing her fingers lightly against the nape of his neck to sweep his hair aside. Viktor shivered at her touch, a quiet exhale escaping his lips.

She pressed the warm washcloth along the line of his spine, letting the heat relax his tense muscles. Slowly, she worked her way down, the cloth tracing the contours of his ribs and the edges of his shoulders. When she reached the bolts embedded in his back, she paused.

“I’m going to clean around these,” she said softly, taking a small bandage and soaking it in disinfectant.

Viktor only hummed in acknowledgment. When she pressed it against one of the bolts, he winced slightly, the sharpness of the sting making him flinch.

“Sorry,” Renly murmured, her hand instinctively resting on his shoulder blade, a silent apology in her touch.

“How do you do this on your own?” she asked after a moment, her voice heavy with quiet concern.

Viktor shrugged under her hand; his response unbothered yet resigned. “I just do.” He always had. Once, he’d let someone else do it for him—a long time ago. There was even a time he allowed Jayce to try, but Jayce’s hands had been too clumsy, too heavy. Now, he managed the basic maintenance himself, convincing himself it was enough—until now.

Renly’s hands moved with careful purpose, her fingers pressing gently into the base of Viktor’s skull. She started with soft pinches, holding the tension in her grip until the tight muscle beneath her fingers gave way, melting slowly like ice under sunlight. He let out a quiet hum, his breathing deep and steady as if she were unearthing a hidden well of relief.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” she murmured, her voice soft but steady, her focus entirely on him.

“It’s perfect,” Viktor replied, his voice muffled by the pillow beneath him.

Her hands moved lower, finding the stress coiled in his shoulders. She worked it slowly, methodically, using her thumbs to knead the tension loose. Gently, she pulled his shoulders upward, coaxing his chest to open as he released a soft, involuntary cough. The sound was small, almost embarrassed, but Renly smiled to herself, glad to see even the subtlest signs of release.

“You carry too much here,” she said gently, her thumbs pushing into the thick knots of muscle. “No wonder you’re so stiff.”

He huffed a breath, the closest he’d come to a laugh. “The weight of genius,” he muttered, his tone dry but laced with affection.

She pressed her thumbs deeper into the dense muscle, her touch firm but never harsh, and the tension slowly began to unravel. Viktor’s breathing grew softer, more rhythmic. As her hands travelled downward, she began to work along the length of his spine. With practiced care, she rolled the fascia beneath her fingers, gliding up and down the delicate column. She paused when she reached the lumbar region, where the tension was the most stubborn, her fingers pausing to gently probe and soothe.

“Here,” she murmured, taking note of the density. “This is the worst spot.”

Viktor only hummed in response, too relaxed to offer anything more.

Renly shifted her approach, gliding the heels of her palms along the muscles flanking his spine. She moved deliberately, tracing the length of his erector spinae, rolling and stretching the stubborn tension as she worked. The sigh that escaped Viktor was deep and unguarded, a sound of pure relief.

“There we go,” she whispered, her palms continuing their gentle, rhythmic motion. “Better?”

He nodded against the pillow, his voice almost a whisper. “Much better.” It felt... odd. To be touched for a clinical reason, but with love. Viktor found himself wondering if he could settle for his life to be this. If he could accept the momentary relief of her hands on him, the fleeting reprieve from pain. Could he make peace with his leg always being numb, his spine forever twisted? Would the ability to breathe freely be enough to outweigh everything else?

But the answer didn’t come.

Renly poured a small amount of scented oil into her hands, rubbing them together to warm it before smoothing her palms across the plane of his back. The aroma—something light and floral—wafted into the air as her hands moved over him, steady and deliberate. Her touch was soft yet firm, grounding him as much as it soothed him.

She began to hum quietly, the melody unrecognisable but comforting. Viktor let out a soft chuckle, the sound breaking the quiet intimacy of the room.

“What?” Renly asked, her hands pausing briefly before continuing their work.

“Nothing,” Viktor murmured, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “You hum like an old woman knitting by the fire.”

Renly gasped in mock offence, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’ll have you know this is a very sophisticated tune.”

“Oh, I can tell,” he replied, his tone teasing but warm. “It’s utterly riveting.”

She pressed her thumbs a little deeper into a particularly tight spot on his back, eliciting a small grunt from him. “Careful,” she warned lightly, “or I might lose my delicate touch.”

Viktor smirked against the pillow, his eyes falling closed as her hands continued their gentle ministrations. “I’ll take my chances.”

Renly shifted her hands under his arm to help him roll onto his side. Viktor grunted softly, his body resisting the change in position, but he let her guide him. Once he was settled, she nestled in front of him, her face close to his.

“Hi,” she said, her voice light but tinged with awkwardness, a small smile playing on her lips.

Viktor raised an eyebrow at her, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Hi yourself,” he replied, his tone soft as his arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer against his chest.

Her hands rested on him instinctively, palms pressed flat against his skin. She began rubbing gentle circles over his chest, her touch soothing. His fingers drifted into her hair, combing through it absentmindedly, his motions slow and tender.

“Have you heard about Zaun?” Viktor asked, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Renly’s hands stilled briefly. “Yes,” she murmured, her tone cautious.

Silence stretched between them for a beat, heavy and tentative. She finally broke it, her voice trembling slightly with conviction. “I’ve been thinking... about going in. About helping Ekko.”

Viktor’s fingers stilled in her hair, his body tensing against hers. He shifted slightly, his gaze darkening. “You can’t,” he said simply, the words sharp and final.

“Viktor,” she whispered, leaning back just enough to meet his eyes. “I have something—something that could counter the Grey. If they actually drop it in Zaun, I have to do something. I can’t just stand by.”

His jaw tightened, and his grip on her waist firmed. “I can’t let you,” he said, his voice low but resolute. His mind churned bitterly, painting a narrative he didn’t dare to voice. How could he support her in something like this? Sending her into danger, knowing he couldn’t protect her—knowing what Zaun might become under the chem-barons’ desperation?

She stared at him, her eyes searching his face for a sign of understanding, of compromise, but he offered none. It was just another grain on the delicate scale of his mind. It teetered in the middle, tilting from one side to the other with each emotion that clouded his heart. Could he settle for this, for her safety at the cost of everything else? And yet, surely he couldn’t. If she went, he would have to be stronger, better. If she went, surely he would have to be more than half a man.

He pulled her closer, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Will you stay?” His words carried layers of unspoken meaning: Will you stay here? Will you stay on the Top Side? Will you stand by me when I make an impossible choice?

Renly didn’t answer with words. She only nodded, her forehead brushing against his chest as she nuzzled into him, her warmth settling against his. Viktor exhaled slowly, his grip on her loosening just enough to rest his palm against the curve of her back.

The silence returned, heavier now, laden with the weight of unspoken fears and half-formed promises. The room seemed to hold its breath with them, the soft rustle of fabric and the faint hum of the city beyond the only sounds.

Eventually, their breathing began to even out, though it still carried an unsteady rhythm, a cadence of unease. Their brows remained furrowed, as if their worries had followed them into this fragile peace. Viktor’s hand brushed against her hair one last time before stilling, and Renly’s fingers idly traced the edge of the bed sheet where it bunched against his ribs.

Sleep came for them slowly, creeping in at the edges of their thoughts, until exhaustion finally overpowered everything left unsaid. They drifted off together, their bodies entwined but their minds restless, painted with doubts they couldn’t voice.

The morning found them clutching each other, and Renly felt as though the crease in her forehead hadn’t relaxed for even a minute during her sleep.

Renly poured them both coffee, the steam rising in the quiet room, mingling with the soft sounds of the morning. They sat close, the warmth between them shared not only through the mugs but in the tender way their fingers brushed against each other, lingering for just a moment too long before pulling away. Words seemed unnecessary as they both sipped in silence, the weight of the night still pressed onto their bodies, a quiet understanding passing between them without needing to be said aloud. Viktor reached for her hand across the table, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, a silent gesture of comfort and connection. But neither of them could completely shake the tension, the uncertainty nagging them like a splinter.

When the time came to part, they stood together, neither rushing to break the moment. Viktor’s hand found the small of her back as they exchanged one final, lingering kiss on the doorstep. “See you later at work,” he murmured, his voice thick with more than just the words. She nodded, her lips pressing into a tight smile. “Later,” she replied softly, her own heart heavy with the same unspoken thoughts. As she stepped away, the door clicking shut behind her, they both walked off in opposite directions, the promise of ‘later’ hanging in the air. But they knew, deep down, they would work through their struggles separately—for now, anyway. The heaviness in their chests weighed them down, both carrying the quiet burden of what was yet to come.

***

After a short routine back in her apartment, Renly made her way to the lab, her mind still clouded with uncertainty. She hoped she might find something—anything—that would help her make sense of it all. Inside, she found Jayce hunched over, deeply focused on the Hexcore runes scattered before him. His brows were furrowed, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Any news?" she asked, her voice laced with quiet concern.

Jayce let out a sharp sigh, pushing a few strands of hair out of his eyes. "The council is steering clear. For now."

"But?" Renly pressed, already sensing the tension in his words.

"The Grey plan is still on the table," Jayce continued, his eyes darkening. "And... now we have Heimerdinger against us."

"What do you mean, against us?" Renly asked, stepping closer to him.

Jayce gestured toward the Hexcore. "He... thinks we should destroy it. He doesn’t believe it’s safe. I really don’t understand—if this could save Viktor, save other people—how he can’t see that."

Renly folded her arms, feeling the weight of her own thoughts pressing down on her chest. "What if he’s right?" she asked quietly.

Jayce scoffed, but there was an edge to his voice. "What do you mean? You can’t seriously be suggesting that Heimerdinger is right. It could change everything. It could save Viktor!"

"Jayce," she interrupted softly, "please listen. He’s seen so much more than we have. He has what? Over two centuries on us? More? Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, when he says he’s already seen this... he means it?"

Jayce’s expression faltered, but he quickly recovered. "I... How is Viktor?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Renly hesitated, her gaze drifting to the floor. "He accepted the cure," she said, her words heavy. "But... his mind is still stirring. I can tell."

Jayce frowned. "Well, what if Heimerdinger is wrong? What if it’s the only way?"

"What if he’s right?" Renly snapped, her frustration bubbling up. "What if he dies? What if it changes him? Is that a price you’re willing to pay just to prove a point?"

"Renly," Jayce said, his voice rising with urgency, "I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to save my friend."

Renly took a step back, her breath shallow. "He can live, Jayce," she said quietly. "Comfortably. A long life. Loved and accepted. Isn’t that enough?"

Jayce stared at her, struggling to reconcile the weight of her words. "How can you know he’ll be comfortable? How can you know it will change him?"

"How can you know it won’t?" Renly’s voice cracked with raw emotion. "Jayce, I’m not asking you to throw away your work. I’m asking you to measure the risk. This isn’t just a procedure you can redo if it goes wrong. If you go through with it, you live with the consequences. And I’m not sure if I—" her voice got lost in her throat, the bitter feeling on her tongue burning her mouth.

"What are you saying, Renly?" Jayce interrupted, his expression softening in concern.

Renly’s chest tightened, her words stumbling over each other as the reality of what she was facing hit her like a wave. She struggled to keep her composure, but the dam broke. "I don’t know, Jayce..." Her voice quivered, and before she knew it, she was breaking down, her body wracked with sobs. "I can’t... I can’t just stand by, and watch Viktor destroy himself, not now, not ever." Her breath hitched as the panic overtook her, her chest tight and her vision blurring with tears.

She felt like screaming, but the scream died somewhere inside her.

Jayce was instantly beside her, his hands hovering around her as he tried to comfort her. "Renly, hey, hey, it’s okay," he said, his voice calm but insistent. "Tell me what to do. What do you need from me?"

Renly managed to lift her trembling hands toward him, clutching onto his shirt as she tried to steady herself. "Okay... okay, I have to..." She gasped, forcing herself to breathe through the tears. "Breathe, Renly. You have to breathe."

"Okay, okay," Jayce said, his voice soft but steady. "Breathe, Renly. I’m here. You’re not alone in this." He stayed with her, letting her take the time she needed to regain control, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

As her breathing slowed, Renly wiped her eyes, her face flushed with the intensity of her breakdown. "I can’t just let him do this, Jayce. I can’t stand by and watch him think that he’s doing this for me. I’ve never told him that he doesn’t need to. He’s perfect the way he is, and I’ve never told him that. And now... I think he believes he has to change for me."

“Renly, he is in pain,” Jayce said softly, holding her in his arms, her body folded against his chest. Even though his argument was intact, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. He missed something, something important in all of this.

"So what!" she snapped, her voice raw and childish in its frustration. "There are ways, Jayce, to ease the pain." Her voice grew weak as she held onto Jayce’s hands, almost crushing his large palms in her grasp. "Have you ever told him? That you love him, that he’s perfect the way he is?"

Jayce hesitated, his throat tightening. "I... I don’t know," he admitted, guilt creeping in.

"I would give him my own leg if it changed anything," Renly whispered, tears brimming again. "But it won’t. As long as he believes there’s something wrong with him, it won’t change a thing. And he will die searching, and I..." Her voice faltered, choking on the enormity of her guilt. I will forever be guilty of this. I will forever be alone in the world without him.

"Ren," Jayce started, his voice softening, trying to soothe her, but before he could continue—

“What is this?” Viktor’s voice sliced through the tension in the room. He stood in the doorway to the lab, his expression tight and unreadable.

"Viktor," Renly gasped, her hands still clutching onto Jayce’s.

“What is this?” He repeated, his tone turning sharper, more demanding.

“Vik, we’re just talking,” Jayce said quickly, his words laced with a hint of nervousness.

"Really?" Viktor’s voice grew colder, sharper still. "Or are you debating what my life should or shouldn’t be, without me being present?" He took a step into the room, his gaze flickering between Jayce and Renly, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

Renly's heart pounded in her chest, and she felt the weight of everything hanging in the balance, unsure how to bridge the gap between her words and the truth they all needed to face. “Viktor, please—”

“I am not a child. Nor do I need to be guided and guarded. Nor do I need other people to tell me what to do with my life,” he said quietly, his eyes glinting in the dark. Anger tore him apart. Anger at her, at Jayce, at himself. Surely, if Renly was allowed to make her own decisions, he should be granted the same right.

“Vik,” Jayce started but was quickly cut off.

“I will ask politely for the both of you to leave,” Viktor’s voice was cold and final, the words biting as they left his mouth.

“Viktor, you can’t be serious,” Jayce pushed back, disbelief edging his voice.

Renly only looked at him, her eyes welling with tears again, her heart sinking with every second that passed. She couldn’t say the words she wanted to. She couldn’t explain why it hurt so much, why it felt like the world was collapsing in on them.

Viktor turned toward her as she stood to leave. “I will see you later.”

She nodded, her lips trembling, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything more. She simply turned away, the sound of Jayce’s scoff echoing in the space between them, followed by the loud thump of the door closing behind them.

Viktor stood still for a moment, his chest tight, and then a long, shaky sigh escaped his lungs. His eyes burned uncontrollably as the weight of his thoughts was pushing him down into the floor. He had measured everything, except for this. Except for Jayce’s anger toward him, except for Renly’s unspoken plea for him to listen. He had to. He had to try before it’s too late. Before Heimerdinger got his hands on the Hexcore and destroyed it. Before the Council turned it into a weapon. Before both he and his work went to dust.

A cruel joke. Finally, he was alone—with his own thoughts. The two things he had desired most, polar opposites of each other. Yet here they were, colliding in the same breath. He had to try, though.

Viktor walked to the centre of the lab; his steps measured but purposeful. He circled the Hexcore, observing it as if searching for any lingering hesitation within himself. There was none. It was so faint, so weak, and he was so ready. All the time he’d spent on this, all the sacrifices, the sleepless nights—it was all finally coming to an end.

Himself, born anew, was within arm’s length.

He sat down, his hand trembling slightly as he ran his fingers along its surface. The energy it emitted tugged at him, magnetic and undeniable. Tentative, almost reverent, his touch felt like brushing against something on the edge of existence—a fleeting spectre of both promise and peril.

Viktor’s hand trembled as it hovered above the Hexcore, a moth courting the flame. The air around it shimmered, thick and pulsating, as though it were alive and watching him in return. For a fleeting moment, his rational mind begged him to stop, to turn away, but the promise of what lay within drowned out reason like a tidal wave. He closed his eyes, steeling himself, and reached into the shifting glow.

The moment his fingers made contact; reality fractured.

It wasn’t pain, not at first. It was an unravelling, as though the fabric of his being was torn apart strand by strand. Threads of thought and self—unravelled in every direction, carried away by currents of something ancient and unrelenting. He saw visions—no, not visions, but glimpses of a thousand possibilities. Each one glimmered like a jewel, just out of reach. He could be whole. He could be more than he was. He could rewrite his limits, ascend beyond the constraints of flesh and frailty.

But every shimmering possibility came with a price. In the periphery of his fractured consciousness, he saw shadows, dark tendrils coiling around the edges of the light. They whispered to him in languages he didn’t know but somehow understood, showing him the cost. His humanity. His mind. His soul. The weight of it all crushed him, bearing down on him like the pressure of the ocean’s deepest trench.

Then the pain struck—blinding, searing, like molten metal coursing through his veins. It was excruciating, a fire that consumed not just his body but his very essence. His mind cracked under the strain, splintering into pieces as the Hexcore took its toll. Somewhere in the chaos, he realised the truth: he couldn’t pay the price. He wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t willing enough.

With a desperate, guttural cry, Viktor wrenched himself free, breaking the connection. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, his body shaking violently as he gasped for air. His vision swam with purples and blacks, the remnants of whatever the Hexcore had done to him. His limbs felt leaden, his chest tight, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw it—a glowing, fluorescent purple vein snaking its way through his leg, vivid and alive.

Terror seized him.

He stared at the vein, his mind racing with the implications of what he had just done. The Hexcore had marked him, changed him in some way he couldn’t yet understand. He curled up on the cold lab floor, trembling, his arms clutching his knees as he tried to slow his ragged breathing.

The price had been too high. And yet, he had paid part of it.

Fear coiled tightly around his chest, sinking its teeth into his heart. For the first time in his life, Viktor wasn’t sure if he had the strength to face what came next.

[bitethedevil]

The Devil's Dinner Party (Raphael x Tav)

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 (Finished)

Link to the fic on AO3

Summary: Tav accepts Raphael’s invitation to a dinner party after she had handed him the Crown of Karsus. None of her companions show up, so it is just her, Raphael, and a bunch of Raphael’s favored clients. Raphael is suspiciously kind to her, but everything might not be as perfect as it seems. (This is only the first chapter, it’s going to be a longer thing)

(AN: This isn’t super edited and it’s the first fic that I’ve ever posted, so bear with me. English isn’t my first language either, so there might be some odd words or weird grammar some places. I am an English major though, so hopefully it shouldn’t be too bad. This fic has just been gnawing on my mind since I started it yesterday. There will be more chapters.)

Tav took a deep breath to calm her nerves and adjusted her dress before stepping into the portal. She arrived in the foyer of the House of Hope in a swirl of embers and smoke. A tiefling servant greeted her politely when she appeared. Tav was ushered into the area where Raphael had brought them in the beginning of their adventure all that time ago. It looked the same, except the table in the center of the room had been switched out with a larger one.

She looked around the room in search of a familiar face. She cursed her companions internally when she noticed that she was the only one of them who had accepted Raphael’s invitation. She had thought that at least Astarion would have jumped at the chance to attend such a fancy event.

However, she was not the only person there. There were at least fifteen other people present who she had no idea who was. None of them devils. At least not as far as Tav could tell. Most likely, they were also favored clients of Raphael.

All the people around her were dressed in opulent clothing and jewelry. Tav felt grateful that she had decided on buying new clothes for the occasion, despite her almost attending in an old dress she had found in the back of her closet.

A drink was placed in her hand by one of the servants. She took a long sip to calm her nerves. She looked around for the one familiar face that she knew for certain would be attending, but the devil she knew was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he was somewhere waiting for the perfect moment for his dramatic entrance. Tav rolled her eyes at the thought and took yet another sip of her drink.

She suddenly noticed that a few of the other guests started looking in her direction. She jumped when she felt a hand being gently placed on her back.

“My, what have we here?” a familiar voice purred.

Raphael came up beside her. He was wearing his usual smug smile and even fancier clothes than she was used to seeing him in.

“I’m glad you came,” he said with a slight bow. “It shows that you have better manners than your dear friends, it seems.”

“So it seems…” Tav said, still feeling slightly bitter about the fact that they did had not shown up. “I apologize on their behalf. I’m sure they had good reasons.”

“I’m sure…” Raphael said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “But no matter. You are here. The guest of honor whose name went on the contract that ensured me the crown. Without you, there would be no celebration tonight.”

“Mm…right…” Tav said quietly while absentmindedly swirling the contents of the glass she was holding.

There it was again. That nauseous feeling of guilt and anxiety that she had also felt when she had handed the Crown of Karsus to him. It had been her name on the contract. It had been her who handed him an artifact that potentially could destroy worlds and gods know what else.

It had been the whole reason that she could not decline his invitation as her friends had. Most of her companions had wanted to turn a blind eye to the idiotic actions of their leader and forget about it. Tav needed to see. Her attendance was a desperate attempt to gain some semblance of control over the situation.

“And if I may be so bold…” Raphael said in a hushed voice, shaking her from her train of thought. “What a precious sight. To see you in proper clothes instead of that ragged armor you wore when we first met. You look wonderful, my dear.”

Tav blinked as she wrestled herself away from the anxious thoughts in her head to return to reality. She dumbly looked down at her dress and then back at Raphael.

“Oh, thank you,” she said and forced a polite smile. “You look nice as well.”

Raphael gave her a smile and briefly squeezed her shoulder before walking to the center of the room to properly welcome his guests and invite them to sit down.

The dinner itself was as one could expect when dining in the House of Hope. There was every kind of food that you could possibly imagine. There were also expensive wines from all corners of the realms. The servants constantly ran back and forth to make sure that no one lacked anything.

To Tav’s great relief, she had been seated beside a talkative stranger, so she did not have to sit through the dinner in silence. The stranger was a young half-elf, who introduced himself as Rolim. Tav could gather that he was a merchant of some sort. He was quite handsome with his sharp elvish features. He had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a bright smile when he talked.

Tav barely got a word in while he was talking, but she found that she did not mind. He talked excitedly about the success of his business and the new mansion he had recently acquired. No doubt with the help of a certain devil, Tav suspected.

The few times Tav turned her attention away from the young man, she noticed Raphael unashamedly studying her from the other end of the table. He did not eat, but simply drank wine while he looked as if he was barely listening to the two people on either side of him who were eagerly speaking to him.

“…Don’t you agree?” Rolim asked her and pulled her attention away from Raphael’s gaze.

“Hm?” she said, having no idea what he was asking her.

“That Baldur’s Gate might be a promising place to expand my business to. That is where you said you were from, yes?” Rolim said with a smile.

“Oh yes, it is,” Tav said with a polite smile. “Certainly. Although I have to admit that I don’t know a whole lot about how it is to run a business in the Gate.”

“I think it could be promising,” Rolim continued cheerfully. “Perhaps I could visit sometime, and you could show me around the city?”

Oh. He was flirting with her, Tav realized.

“Hm, yes,” she said with a forced smile. “Perhaps…May I ask you something, Rolim?”

“Of course!” he said.

Tav leaned a bit closer to him and lowered her voice so that no one else would eavesdrop.

“I hope it’s not rude to ask, but why is it that you were invited here exactly?” she asked.

“Oh,” he spoke in an almost exaggerated hushed voice to match Tav’s. “I can’t really tell you the specifics, but I am a client of Raph’s.”

Tav suppressed a giggle. ‘Raph’? No doubt Raphael hated that.

“Right,” she said. “I thought as much. Just curious.”

Their talk was interrupted by a clinging on glass. Raphael got up from his chair to hold a speech. He started out by thanking those who had attended. Then it turned into a predictably dramatic and theatrical speech about his desire for the crown and his eventual success. He then, surprisingly, also credited the person who had brought him the crown. He spoke warmly of Tav exclusively, completely disregarding her fellow adventurers, much to her discomfort since everyone was staring at her while he did. She forced a smile until it was over.  

She was beyond relieved when it was finally over, and the other guests had stopped staring at her like she was a monkey in a zoo.

“It was you?” Rolim asked once the moment was over. “You defeated the elderbrain? Why didn’t you say? You’re the hero of Baldur’s Gate!”

“It wasn’t just me,” she said a bit too harshly. It annoyed her that her companions had not been credited in Raphael’s speech. “It was me and a whole lot of other people that I could not have done it without.”

“Still, you did it!” Rolim said excitedly. “I’ve heard the bards sing of it even in my corner of Faerûn.”

To Tav’s luck, people were beginning to leave the table. She saw her opportunity to escape the conversation and did not hesitate to take it.

“I’m going to get some air,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Alright, but when you get back, I want to hear all about it!” Rolim called after her.

She walked through the house, desperate to get away from all the noise and curious looks for a moment. She found a balcony. She leaned up against the railing and closed her eyes for a moment while taking deep breaths.

All of it was just too much. She hated it. She shouldn’t have gone. She wasn’t a hero. A hero would not have handed the crown to a bloody devil. Baldur’s Gate might have been saved, but who could say what destruction the future might have in store with such powers in Raphael’s hands?

There was a reason why she had isolated herself after the defeat of the elderbrain. She never attended the events that she had been invited to by the city, because she could not look any of the people there in the eyes while they celebrated her. Her companions. Her friends. They were the real heroes. They had all suffered and overcome so much, even before the whole tadpole business. She might have wasted all of it by making one stupid decision.

She took another deep, shaky breath to calm her nerves and stop the tears that were threatening to fall. The view of the hellscape of Avernus did nothing to calm her. It was disorientating. It was night, but still it looked like it was day over the jagged and desolate red landscape.

“Enjoying the view?”

She jumped and turned around to find Raphael sitting down on one of the chairs behind her.

“You have got to stop scaring the shit out of me,” she said. “It’s getting old, Raphael.”

Raphael chuckled.

“Language,” he chided. “It’s hardly my fault that you are such a nervous little thing.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure your guests miss you,” she said. “I will be back in a moment. I just needed some air. I’m not going to snoop around in your house or anything.”

“I know you wouldn’t dare,” Raphael said smoothly while studying her with a tilted head. “My guests will be fine. No doubt they can fill each other’s ears with mindless chatter instead of mine. Sit.”

He gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the small table beside him.

“It’s fine, really,” she said. “I just needed a moment.”

“Sit,” he ordered again. “Something is clearly on your mind, dear.”

She could hear from his tone that he would not let it go, so she sat down.

Raphael snapped his fingers and a hookah appeared on the table. Tav raised an eyebrow and looked from the hookah to Raphael. They sat in silence for a moment as Raphael prepared it. Despite her restless mind, she could not help being slightly amused at the odd gesture.  

Raphael placed the mouthpiece at the end of the hose between his lips, took a long drag and exhaled the smoke smoothly. Then he offered it to Tav.

“For those pesky nerves of yours.”

“Oh,” Tav said and waved her hand dismissively at the gesture. “I’ve never smoked before.”

“There’s a first for everything, no?” he said. “Indulging once won’t kill you.”

Tav sighed slightly and took the hose of the hookah from his hand. She placed the mouthpiece between her lips and cautiously inhaled the smoke. She started coughing hard as she exhaled.

“Or perhaps it will,” Raphael chuckled as he took it back from her to take another drag.

As her coughing fit subsided, she felt light-headed. However, just as Raphael said, it did also make her feel somewhat more relaxed.

“Now,” Raphael said. “Tell me what it is that troubles you.”

“It’s nothing,” Tav said and shook her head.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said calmly. “I can see it in your eyes. I have my suspicions as to what could be bothering you, of course. Tell me and I promise you, I will not take offense.”

She looked at him. She did not know if was the effect of the wine, the hookah or the almost kind tone of Raphael’s voice that made her want to tell him everything. She wanted to tell him all those things that she had kept to herself and that had eaten away at her insides for months after the defeat of the elderbrain.

“I feel like a failure,” she said, her voice almost breaking at the confession. “We went through so much. Saved so many people back then. And for what? For me to hand over the crown to you. That was my decision…”

There was not as much as a trace of anger on Raphael’s face as she explained. He even looked somewhat sympathetic. He listened attentively while occasionally taking drags from the hookah.

“I saw it in their eyes, you know? I still do,” she said looking out over the balcony with an empty stare. “They didn’t say anything about it, but I know they were disappointed with my decision. I don’t blame them.”

“You are entirely too hard on yourself, mouse,” Raphael said. “You did what you had to do, as a good leader should. They are in no position to judge you.”

“No, they should. They should judge me,” she countered. “The defeat of the elderbrain was a product of their hard work as well. I robbed them of having a say in the final decision. I would never have gotten that far if it had not been for them, and I still spat in their face, and stupidly chose an option that might one day destroy all we fought to save.”

“Do not speak so low of yourself,” Raphael said in an almost angry tone. “It was your right to make that decision. You say that you would not have gotten that far without them, but that is where you are wrong. They would never have gotten that far without you. You made the difficult choices. You took on responsibility when no one else stepped forward.”

“But– “

“No, Tav,” Raphael interrupted.  “I will not stand listening to you speak ill of yourself in such a manner, when you only did what none of your companions had the sense of responsibility to do. They closed their eyes and handed the reins to you when things became unsavory, did they not? Is that not why none of them are present tonight?”

Tav hated what he was saying, but he did have a point. They had once again looked away and left the mess to her. She would also have been lying if she said that it had not been something that had irked her even back then. How they would leave the decisions to her, but still complain about it when they disagreed. She did offer them plenty of opportunities to take her place, but none of them ever stepped forward.

Raphael knew that he had hit a nerve and softened his tone.

“They don’t deserve you,” he said. “I meant what I said in the speech, when I said that you were the one to defeat the elderbrain. Without you, they would have gotten themselves killed long before they could even reach Baldur’s Gate.”

Raphael took one last drag and got up from his seat. He stood in front of her.

“As for my plans with the crown…” he said and extended a hand to her. “Come. I want to show you something.”

She took it and got up from her seat as well.

“You really ought to get back to your guests, Raphael,” she said as she held the crook of his arm as he brought her through the house.

“And neglect my very favorite guest? Nonsense,” he said with a charming smile.

He brought her to his archive. Artifacts were beautifully displayed on pedestals. Raphael brought her to the pedestal in the middle of the archive. She squinted at the paper displayed on the pedestal.

“Is that...?”

“Your contract, yes,” he said. “It still is one of my most precious possessions.”

She looked at her own signature at the bottom of the document. Then she read the sign beside it: ‘A most-cherished client.’  

It was sweet, in a way, that he would display it in such a manner, Tav thought for a brief moment. Then she immediately shook the thought away. This was Raphael, after all. She immediately became aware that she was still holding his arm even though they had stopped. She instinctively let go of it.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asked with curiosity.

“To remind you of our deal, of course,” he said. “You never did read it, did you?”

“It’s in Infernal,” she said with a shrug.

“Perceptive as ever,” Raphael chuckled. “Yes, it is. Though, had you asked, I would gladly have translated it…Would you like me to read it to you?”

She hesitated for a moment. Perhaps, it was better to not know. There was nothing that she could do about it now, after all. Still…she was curious.

“Please,” she said and gestured to it.

Raphael smiled at her before he started reading the first clause in Infernal. It shook her slightly to hear him speak in another language. Infernal being such a harsh and guttural language. Raphael spoke it with ease. Tav found it oddly attractive, which was no doubt an intentional effect that Raphael was well-aware of.

He went through each clause, first in Infernal and then in the common tongue. Tav found herself, not for the first time, lost in the way he spoke and that velvety voice of his. Especially because he made a show of looking at her while he did it. Impressively, he could recite most of the contract by memory.

When he was done, Tav surprisingly found herself more reassured than worried. It did contain all the things that they had agreed on. Raphael would not use the crown to dominate mortals and the crown would stay in the Hells.

“So, as you can see,” he said and gestured to the contract. “There is nothing to worry your pretty head over.”

She glanced at the contract again. She did feel less worried, but she also still felt like there could be something that she was missing.  

“I have never lied to you, Tav,” Raphael said as if he had just read her thoughts. “And I have always dealt fairly with you, have I not?”

“That’s debatable,” Tav said and looked at him. “We did exchange an insanely powerful artifact for a bloody hammer.”

Raphael laughed.

“An insanely powerful artifact that none of you would ever be able to harness the power of, in exchange for a ‘bloody hammer’ that your very survival depended on.”

“Hm,” Tav huffed stubbornly.

“Hm,” Raphael teased and mimicked her huff with an amused smile. “Come. Let us get back to those guests of mine that you seem to be so worried about.”

Raphael gently put his arm around her shoulders to guide her out of the archive. His little touches and his gentleness with her did not go unnoticed by Tav, but she found that she did not mind. Even though she knew better. She should be suspicious. She knew she should, but it was hard when the man was so damn charming about it.

[quinngefail]

hiii! loved your art and saw thoughts for a while now, so i thought i’d share a head canon of mine with you! i’d love to see if you agree (: also i’m going to be talking a slight bit about religion lawrence wise so if you don’t feel comfortable reading this I completely understand! anywho…

lawrence grew up in a not necessarily uber-religious but casually catholic family who cared a lot more about how they looked to the community than their happiness. i feel like he has a lot of catholic guilt and so he had never told his family about his relationship with adam because of fear. adam is unaware of this anxiety in lawrence and to make up for his feelings of shame for not only ultimately being with adam in the first place but putting him in such a position where he’d not know his place in lawrence’s life, he decides to take adam to a family gathering of sorts of his even though he’s incredibly nervous about it. a family member asks who adam is and lawrence says “my friend” or “my business partner” or something along those lines. adam, unaware of the circumstances, is PISSED, so he waits until they get home to talk with him about it. lawrence says that he feels like it’s “too early in the relationship” and “i just figure this relationship would become rocky territory if I ever brought it up.” and adam would say something like “tell that to your secretaries. jesus christ, lar. i’m not a secret. this isn’t an affair so stop acting like it is!” but yeah so they fight about all of that and eventually make up and lawrence explains in further detail his past and they both open up to each other in honest ways. okay so sorry for yapping but i’d just like to add a final point: i absolutely LOVE the fluffiness of your art so much it’s so wonderful!!! but i’ve also been wondering if you’d agree that their relationship would be (at times) painful and toxic because of the age gap and the trauma bond.

okay anywho thanks for reading the yap sesh if you happen to !!

Omfggggg okay I am eating this UP

I've linked to this a few times across posts here and there but these are still my loose ideas for Lar's upbringing and all that, so like. I am nodding to all of this

It would certainly be a good point for him to just open up about his past coz if this relationship is going to work, these sorts of things inevitably have to come out,

Been thinking about this and I could imagine the argument escalating with Adam saying smn to the effect of "Why do you give a shit what they think if they're never gonna fuckin' respect you anyway!! Why are they more important to you than I am!!"

And Lawrence is all "Well I'm sorry I actually care about my family,"

...Which is upsetting enough to Adam for Lawrence to just so callously imply that Adam doesn't give a fuck about his own family (which is a whole mess of complicated feelings for him), but first and foremost he's just like. "And I'm not that to you. Wow, you really know how to make me feel special, Lar. So glad to know I'm not just a another young, hot piece of ass that you fuck for fun :))"

And then it just keeps going downhill from there until they just have to be away from one another for a while

...But yes they would eventually make up, and (Lar especially) would at least start to get into the things in their lives they don't exactly want to talk about so they can further understand one another hrkskgkgk

Like okay I know I draw a lot of romantic and goofy shit with them, but goddd I love thinking about the ups and downs of them working out their rather unconventional relationship (fell deeply in love with the guy I was locked in a death game with, we're both dealing with the horrific physical + mental scars of said death game, we first technically 'met' through sleazy stalking, one of us got shot by the other, we have completely different lives, there's also a 17 year gap between us. But despite all that I literally cannot stop aching and yearning for him, and genuinely want to be there for him coz we're the only people in the world who could ever possibly fully understand what we went through together, oop✌️😗)

It's just. Augh 🤌🤌🤌

Haven't really sat down to work on my headcanon doc in a while, but I've had Much Pondering Time over less than pleasant interactions between them and I WANT TO DRAW AND/OR WRITE MORE OF IT..... I just can't help but get caught up in the cute stuff 😭

But yea AAAAA thank you for all this!! Both the headcanons, and the kind words 🫶☺️ Happy to make content of them, and I'm glad you enjoy it!!

[angelatmidnight1]

I would love to request a bg3 tickle fic if that’s okay and I have two diffrent prompt ideas

The durge is feeling super upset about the whole born to kill thing and had been feeling in the slumps about it, trying to hide it but not very well and someone in camp notices and try’s to cheer the durge up but can’t seem to find a way to make their cold friend smile till they accidentally find out their ticklish

Or

Lae’zel has been seeing Karlach tickle wyll and doesn’t know what it is as someone who’s never been tickled or seen it before. But sees it as a way of weakness so during a training match with tav lae’zel uses her new knowledge on tickling to see if she can finally win a sparing match with tav

I’m sorry if this is to much i understand if you don’t want to do either of these I just appreciate you taking the time to read them 🫶

A Little Starlight

A/N: Hi! I'm sorry this is so late. I know you already posted a fic for a durge reader (which I really liked), but I hope it's okay that I still wanted to do this request? I went with option one with lee!durge and ler!Astarion. I don't think I'm confident in writing for Lae'zel yet. I hope you like it 🧡

Read on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63165595

Pairing- Astarion x The Dark Urge (romantic).

Warnings- Major spoilers for the Dark Urge storyline (Acts 1-2) between them and Astarion. This is also a tickle fic.

WC: 3k.

Dark days have only grown darker the longer Durge resists the urge to kill. Their damned butler returned and demanded that they act accordingly and end the one they love most: Astarion. That was another dark night; no one was hurt, and all they remember was his hand stroking their hair, telling them that he wouldn’t let whatever this was have them. Durge hasn’t been able to face him or any of their other companions since then, fearing that they’d lose control again. They’ve shut everyone else out, but Astarion won’t be turned away. He tries to lift their spirits, and that’s a much easier task when he discovers that they’re ticklish. 

“Are you certain you aren’t hungry?”

Gale called Durge from outside their tent, his voice tinged with concern. Durge felt bad for turning him away; as the unofficial official camp chef, they knew that whatever stew he made was nothing short of delicious. The smell wafted throughout the camp and made their mouth water. But, after the previous night, they couldn’t bring themselves to eat anything. 

Oh, I’m hungry, wizard. But not for food. I’d sooner rip your head off and put it on a spike-

Durge flinched and shook the violent thoughts away. Not now. Now again. They couldn’t have a repeat of last night. The thought alone made their stomach churn. They exhaled a shaky breath and licked their dry lips before saying, “I’m sure, Gale. I don’t have an appetite right now.”

“...Okay. That is not a problem. Though, if my memory serves me well, you said the same this morning. I’ve skipped the occasional meal myself in the pursuit of study, but not two.” Gale hesitated, holding the still warm bowl in his hands. “Are you feeling ill? If not food, I could prepare a medicinal brew for you. The taste is far from ideal, but the effects—”

By the hells, did he ever stop talking? Maybe ripping his tongue out would be more fitting. 

No.

Yes. 

Durge’s head started hurting. A war raged on in their mind and both sides were the losing one. They brought their hands up to rub the sides of their temple, and even that hurt.

“Dammit, I said I don’t want it!” Durge hissed. They weren’t just talking about the food or medicine. “Get away from my tent and leave me alone.”

“A-Alright,” Gale sounded startled and they heard him shuffle backwards. “I apologize for disturbing you. I’ll just leave the bowl here, should you change your mind.”

That impending frustration turned into something heavier once he finally left: guilt. Guilt for snapping at Gale when he only wanted to check on them. Guilt for killing Alfira and leaving Lakrissa heartbroken. Guilt for being entrusted to lead a party to Baldur’s Gate, yet only succeeding in putting them in more danger. 

Durge wasn’t a leader; they were a monster. A monster no better than the mind flayers and twice as dangerous. It’s not who they wanted to be but, like their butler said, their fate was sealed in blood. It was just a matter of time before their urge returned and took over again. 

They laid on their side on their bedroll, knees up to their chest, and cried. Crying was safer than killing and, as long as they stayed in their tent, they couldn’t hurt anyone else. 

Astarion wouldn’t be having any of that though. He wasn’t going to watch his love waste away.

Durge didn’t remember when they’d fallen asleep. They awoke to a shadow looming over the entrance to their tent, and they sat up with a start. “Gale?”

“No, darling. It’s me.” Astarion put his hand over the tent. He could’ve easily unhooked the latch and came in, especially since they usually shared the tent together, but he remembered the state they were in just a night ago. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he also wasn’t looking to be at the wrong end of a blade. “And you can’t go an entire day without eating something. We﹘I, need you strong. May I come in?”

Durge hesitated. The last time they were near Astarion, they tried to kill him. What if it happened again? Their silence prompted him to continue.

“I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you're thinking. I told you that this condition of yours will not have you. But I also can’t let you starve. That would make me a terrible friend, and lover.” Astarion gave a small smirk. “Now, come on, open up. I don’t want to destroy this lock, but I will.”

Durge sighed. Their limbs felt heavy as they got up and approached the tent. They put a hand over the lock and toyed with it, fingers trembling. “Are you sure, Astarion? I don’t want to hurt you..”

“I don’t want you to hurt me either,” Astarion chuckled dryly. “I trust that you won’t, though. And on the off chance you lose control and lunge at me, I’ll just tie you up again.”

The heat rose to their cheeks, contrasting the icy touch of the lock. Finally, they undid the lock and opened the tent.

Astarion stood in his usual camp attire, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and the now cold soup in the other. He clicked his teeth when he saw them. “By the hells, you look terrible. You need to eat. Right now.”

He pushed the bowl into their hand before they could say anything. Durge held it up with both hands. They were primed to protest, just like they did earlier, but their stomach betrayed them and growled. They sighed and plopped down on a cushion to eat. 

“There we are, much better.” Astarion hummed, satisfied. “Gale looked like a kicked puppy when you sent him off. I told him it probably had nothing to do with the food and that he can be annoying.”

Durge looked up in between bites, frowning. “I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He was only trying to help.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” he waved a dismissive hand. “His intentions may have been pure, but after last night, I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t in the mood. I’m just relieved that I didn’t have to pry your hands from around his throat.”

“I’d never hurt him. Never.” Durge felt the burn of fresh tears threatening to fall. “I’d never hurt you, him, or anyone else. I didn’t even mean to kill Alfira! I﹘I﹘”

Their hands shook as a low sob escaped them. Anyone else without sharp hearing probably wouldn’t have heard it. Astarion sat down in front of them and put his hands over theirs, squeezing gently. 

“Darling, that last part was a joke. I admit, it was poorly timed, but please don’t cry.” Comforting others wasn’t Astarion’s forte. No one had comforted him in two centuries, save for his siblings on occasion, but it wasn’t even close to being enough. He sighed heavily, still holding their hands as they cried. After they’d calmed down a little, he tapped the top of their hands with his thumbs. “Look at me, Durge.”

Durge sniffled and obliged, eyes still shining with tears. Astarion cleared his throat. 

“I know that we haven’t been traveling together long. I know that us being…us, is even newer. But I know you, Durge. I’ve looked into the eyes of monsters and killers. Cazador is a killer. He’d kill one’s mind but keep their body intact just enough to be used to lure pretty things back to him. You are not a monster, nor a killer. You’re our leader, and my lover.”

They wanted to believe him. As they looked into those red eyes, they wanted to believe that he saw them, and not what the urge wanted them to be. His grip on their hands tightened. 

“When I said your affliction won’t claim you, I meant that. We’re going to find a way to save you.”

 Durge exhaled a breath that they didn’t know they were holding. They dropped their head so that it was resting against his chest. “Thank you, Astarion. I’m glad I can count on you.”

He awkwardly wound one arm around them, resting his chin on the top of their head. Hugs were still very novel. Warm, sweet, but novel. “Think nothing of it, my dear. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you.”

Durge would’ve smiled if the fear and uncertainty weren’t so heavy on their heart. With his free hand, he reached under their chin and tilted it up. “Now, enough of these tears. What will it take for my darling to smile?”

Tearing you apart. 

Durge cringed a bit and shook their head. “I’m not sure.”

“No? I am open to suggestions.” Astarion, keeping one arm around them, leaned back on the cushions. He pulled them down so that they could lay on top of him. “I could swap the sugar used for coffee with salt. Put it in Wyll’s pack. Our noble hero can’t have his comrades hopped up on something sweet in the morning. That just wouldn’t be right.”

The faintest grin tugged at the corner of their lips. “Don’t do that,” they chastised lightly. “Shadowheart would be furious.”

“All the more reason to do it, love. Who needs caffeine to wake up when rage is a powerful motivator on its own? It’d be a sight to behold.”

Durge pressed their lips together, smirking. “Don’t do it. I mean it.”

“Ugh. You’re tying my hands, but fine. Though, I do think I see the beginnings of a smile..” Astarion smirked up at them. He reached under their chin again and gave it a little tickle. “Come on now, give me a little more.”

Durge brought their chin down with a squeak. Their shoulders seized, and they choked on a giggle. “Aha! Astarion!”

“What? What’s so funny?” He doubled down on his efforts, fingers now gently prodding and skittering down their sides. “Surely the thought of Shadowheart hurling a mug at the poor soul who soured her coffee isn’t amusing to you?”

If Durge was being honest, the thought was a little funny. But that wasn’t why they were giggling. They curled in on themselves, giggling louder. “Nahaha! That tihihickles!”

“Really now?” Astarion feigned surprise, lightly drilling his thumbs just above their hips. “All this time, and I hadn’t the faintest clue that you were ticklish. How dare you keep such a secret from me.”

“H-Hohohow was I s-suppohohosed to-” Durge chased after his hands with their own, squirming and squealing with giggles. “I dihihihdn’t knohohow!”

“Ah, ah, ah. I’m not interested in your excuses,” Astarion chuckled. He easily batted their hands away and rolled them over so that he was on top. Now, their hands were pinned underneath his legs, and he had full reign to tickle. “What I am interested in are these precious little giggles..”

Durge’s eyes widened and they squirmed under his weight. A silly, nervously giddy smile stretched across their face. Astarion returned their grin, cooing. 

“Aw, that smile tells me everything I need to know..”

Their breath hitched when he traced a single finger across their ribs. They recoiled to the side, hands flexing uselessly under his weight. “Love, wahahit!”

“I’m afraid not, dear,” Astarion, still using one finger, prodded at the spaces between the bones, scratching gently. “I’ve got to raise your spirits, and you’ve made it much easier for me.”

“Nohoho!” Durge’s legs kicked out uselessly as they squealed and giggled. For once, the violent voice in their head was silent, drowned out by their laughter. It was liberating to be freed from that voice, even if only for a moment. Instead of worrying about losing control again, they were half-heartedly squirming and trying to dodge Astarion’s nimble fingers. “I feheheheel betteheher!”

“Now now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves..” Astarion chuckled and used both hands to scribble along their ribcage’s bones. “I think I can get an even bigger smile out of you if I tickle, hmm…” 

Durge was thrashing about as he tickled over their ribs, their loud giggling jumping to laughter. But suddenly, he halted his attack, hands ghosting over their torso. They panted, eyes darting from his hands up to his face. His expression was an even mix between playful mischief and undeniable fondness. They arched upwards, giggling in anticipation as he just barely skimmed over their stomach. “Astarion!”

“Hush, love. I’m thinking,” Astarion stroked down their stomach, over their hips, and moved back up their torso. He watched their reactions closely, purposely lingering on spots that especially made them giggle. The closer he got to their underarms, they thrashed more. He grinned knowingly and went to tickle there, but they brought their arms down before he could strike. “Ah, here’s a spot.”

“Nohoho no no!” Durge protested and held their arms as close to their side as possible. “Geheht away from thehehere!”

“Before I discover just how ticklish it is? That won’t be happening, darling.” Astarion shifted so that he was more or less laying on top of them. He tried to wriggle his fingers underneath their arms, but they refused to move them. “Let me in, Durge..~”

They grinned widely, shaking their head. “Nehehever!”

He pressed his head against theirs so he could whisper in their ear. “Durge,” he repeated, purring. “I am going to get under your arms one way or another. Hiding from me won’t help you.”

Durge leaned their head to the side, blushing and laughing. This exposed their neck and gave Astarion another playfully sinister idea. “I wohohn’t let you ihihihn!”

Astarion smirked. He sat up and looked down at him with a soft chuckle. “Gods, you are delicious like this. I could just devour you..”

Before they could respond or turn their head, he nuzzled into the crook of their neck, pressing featherlight kisses into their skin. Durge’s eyes widened and they screamed. They writhed under his weight and cackled, raising their shoulders. “NAHAHA! DOHOHN’T!”

Astarion chuckled against their skin, making them laugh harder. “Adorable,” he mumbled, kissing further down their neck. “My beautiful, bloodthirsty lover. You’ve never sounded so sweet.”

Durge’s cheeks flushed as they kept trying and failing to scrunch up their neck. Every now and then, he’d nibble over where he kissed very gently, so that he didn’t break the skin with his fangs. They were laughing too loudly to hear what he said next. 

“And you’re all mine~.”

With Durge distracted by the ticklish kisses and nibbles, he had no trouble pushing his hands under their arms, scribbling away into the hollows. Durge lurched upwards and threw their head back with laughter. 

“OHOHOHO NOHOHO!”

“Oh yes,” he countered, hands scampering where the ribs met the armpits before gently drilling back into the hollows. “You’re all mine, my sweet. I could listen to you laugh all night.”

And laugh they did. Durge was in stitches as Astarion tickled their neck and armpits. They laughed hard enough to snort, and he ended up joining them in their laughter. 

“That has to be the cutest sound I’ve heard you make,” he snickered. He lifted his head away from their neck and slowed the tickling down to slow, gentle strokes. 

Durge hiccuped, still squeezing their arms against their sides and inadvertently trapping his hands. Their cheeks were beyond flushed and they tried to hide from his mischievous gaze. “It’s nohohohot fuhuhuhnny!” 

“Oh come off, it was adorable,” Astarion flexed his fingers against their armpits, and they shrieked. “And I’d love to hear it again.”

“No, no-” Durge shook their head frantically, but Astarion had already made up his mind. He used his index fingers to prod and scritch more purposefully into their armpits. Durge fell back into hysterics and kicked their legs against the bedroll. They didn’t make the sound he wanted until he regained access to their neck, peppering kisses there and just above their collarbone. They wheezed and snorted not once, but twice. Just when they thought they’d lose their mind, he stopped, laughing into their shoulder. Durge breathed heavily, still trapped under his weight. 

“It’s nohot funny,” they repeated, their would-be pout giving way to another silly grin. Astarion looked down at them and smiled a genuine smile. 

“There’s my love,” he chuckled and cupped their cheek in his hand. “There’s that smile I wanted.”

Durge leaned into his hand and pecked it. “Hmph. I suppose I needed that..”

“That you did. No need to thank me,” Astarion finally climbed off of them and stretched out beside them. “My hands are good at more than just stabbing our enemies.”

They rolled their eyes fondly. In truth, they were feeling a lot better. And they didn’t even have to hurt anyone. They took their position in Astarion’s outstretched arms, allowing him to gather them up and hold them close. They leaned up to kiss his cheek and draped their legs over his. 

Astarion wound his arms around their waist. “Comfortable, darling?” 

“Mm,” Durge nodded slowly and laid their head on their shoulder. He chuckled. 

“Good. Get some rest, you’ve more than earned it.”

For a while, it was quiet, save for the sounds of crickets chirping and the occasional owl call. As they laid in his arms, another urge crept into their mind. Not the violent, dark whispers that they’re used to, but one that was lighter. Mischievous. Playful. 

Astarion did deserve a taste of his own medicine, didn’t he?

Their fingers twitched at the thought, and before they could even second-guess themselves, they struck—quick, darting fingers aiming for his ribs.

They barely made contact before Astarion’s hand snatched their wrist midair.

Durge blinked. “What—”

Astarion turned to them with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator who had just been handed an excuse to pounce. “I wanted to kiss you again, but it seems you’ve other plans.”

Durge gasped and tried to pull their hand back, but it was too late. In a blur of movement, Astarion had them pinned again—this time lying on their stomach, their arms uselessly trapped beneath them. Again. 

“Wahahait! Wait!” Durge tried to make a case only to yelp as he pinched the back of their thigh. They bounced around more as his other hand slid up their shirt and kneaded over their sides. “I wasn’t actually going to-- wahahait!”

“Oh no, no, no, Durge. You clearly still want to play. And I’d be happy to indulge,” Astarion lightly tutted and swiped his nails over their lower back, earning a louder scream. A shiver ran up Durge’s spine as they laughed and tried to roll back over. “Oh dear, another interesting spot?”

It’d be a while before Durge got any rest. The same could’ve been said for most nights they tried to sleep. But tonight, with all of the darkness lurking in their mind, they were grateful they had a little star of their own to see them through the night. 

[crazylittlejester]

honestly, the fandom dismisses wars trauma a little too much. Have you noticed it’s always never brought up in his character studies? And when it is, it’s totally brushed off him and cia had a WEIRDDD age gap. It’s also weird hyrule warriors never acknowledges this. I honestly don’t think it’s gonna be recognized in LU but idk. It’s just weird how quickly the fandom brushed over all that. What’s your opinion? Cuz you have cool opinions lol

Disclaimer: Everything you’re about to read is my opinion and my interpretation of a game. I’m not talking about headcanons (unless otherwise specified), I’m just talking about my experience with the game and everything else. All of this is from MY perspective interacting with the canon material from both Hyrule Warriors and Linked Universe. Also! I am dyslexic, my bad for oddly autocorrected words or weird spelling mistakes

A huge reason I started yapping so much on this blog was because I saw a lot of people either actively disliking Wars, making fucking INSANE comments about his body, overly sexualizing him, or just straight up dismissing him all together and it helped me get over my posting anxiety because it genuinely made me so upset. He’s been my favorite character since only a few posts into LU (i originally liked Twilight better based sheerly on design but it took like only a few posts before that changed), and I love HW Link in general, and I thought it was actually crazy that more people didn’t like him. I’ve written several of my own characters studies on him, some of which I’ve posted, others lay trapped in my old laptop in the form of a full on analysis paper, never to see the light of day

You can send a full grown man to war and he will come back with trauma, imagine what happens when you grab some poor teenager and tell him everything relies on him. Literally forget Cia for a minute, Link as a teenager was taken and shoved into a full on war where his men turned on him and in order to survive, he had to kill. Monsters and hylians alike, it was him or them, and he’s the one who made it out. Not to mention he was constantly running all over the battle field trying to prevent the hylian captains from being defeated, and he most certainly lost many people he cared about just because he couldn’t get there in time. He had to carry around the guilt that this war was started because some sorceress was obsessed with him ON TOP of that

This was said earlier by an anon on a post I reblogged, and I’ve been saying it myself for months but I will say it again: If Warriors had been a girl and been obsessed over that same way, I fucking GUARANTEE you people would be taking it more seriously

I literally just typed in the character name and the game she’s from and that is what google had to say about her. If an older man was described as ‘harboring serious affections’ and having a ‘desire to claim’ a teenage girl I literally don’t think it would’ve been glossed over or ignored like it is

I don’t think nintendo was ever gonna elaborate or really recognize it in the game, they never go super in depth on anything in Zelda games from my experience, and I doubt Jojo will really get into it in LU mainly just because she has so much going on with eight other dudes and potentially two more (based on the header on the linked universe blog)

I saw a lot of characterizations of Warriors and opinions of him that made me so confused and also a bit mad, such that he is a womanizer or a stupid twink (of which he is neither), and that’s a huge reason I started writing fanfiction for this fandom. Firstly to just create more content for my favorite character because I rarely saw any that focused on him, and secondly because I didn’t like some (NOT ALL) of how I was seeing him characterized. (i cannot emphasize enough: NOT ALL people in the fandom characterized him this way, I saw plenty of amazing and beautiful characterizations of Warriors)

I do not think he is a womanizer at all, in fact I fully believe his flirtatious behavior is a defense mechanism. I think his ‘woman problems’ are the fact that he’s afraid of women (especially older women) he doesn’t know or trust, but also that’s just my opinion. And I am genuinely a bit worried that now that people have stopped talking about how they noticed he seemed off a few updates ago and now that they’re saying he’s back to normal that people are going to start reducing him to a stupid dramatic twink again, as if Warriors was not the one who came up with the initial plan to fight Dink and was not the first one to fight him. As if this is not a man who lead a god damn army. As if everything he’s done and everything he is no longer matters because he’s ‘pretty’

anyways I have a lot of thoughts about him in general and im just glad the fandom has been treating him better as of late, but i am a bit worried it’s just gonna go back to how it was

thanks for the ask!! sorry i got a bit carried away 😭

[steppingstar]

Gun x Goo: shed your knuckle velvet (torn on my teeth)

(is this how u post fanfictions on tumblr?? i’ve never done this..)

Goo visits Gun in prison.

“You dick.” is the first thing Goo spits at him when he enters the visiting room, pressing a finger firmly against the glass partition, so close Gun can see the ridges and furrows of the skin of his index finger.

Gun, in his usual manner of answering Goo, rolls his eyes. He’s without his sunglasses now, so Goo can actually see him do it for once, and he has to bite back a smirk at the offended squawk he receives. His eyes don’t leave Goo as the blond sits down in the designated chair, fingers already itching for a cigarette as the other man leans in far closer than he needs to. There’s a glass window separating them, he has no idea why Goo is leaning closer like he’ll somehow be able to reach him.

“You have any idea how long it took for me to get them to let me come visit you?” Goo huffs, crossing his arms, like he’s talking about something as mundane as the weather, like Gun didn’t almost kill him the last time they met. Like nothing has changed between them. And, maybe, nothing has.

“I don’t.” He says dryly in return, and he’d really like to take a drag right now. He always found amusement in the way Goo’s face would scrunch up in disgust at the scent.

“Well, a while!” Goo scowls. “I’m not one to give up, though,” He’s grinning now, the smile stretched wide across his face in a way that Gun thinks makes him look uglier than usual. It’s admittedly his favorite smile on him. “It only took a little bit of bribery to convince them.”

“Bribery?” Gun sighs, straightening up in his chair finally, resting his arms on his knees. “Of course.”

“Yep!” He chirped, still grinning at him. “All on your card, don’t worry.”

“..How the fuck did you get access to my card.”

“The same way I always get access to your things.” He says in a singsongy voice. Gun wishes there wasn’t a glass wall between them so that he could reach over and hit him over the head.

They don’t..talk about. Goo chats his ear off, rambling about whatever new anime he’s been watching, about the new people he’s met, yada yada. Gun, like always, tunes him out, and takes a moment to observe the other man across from him. He seems unfazed, like he walked away from their fight the same man, but Gun knows him better. He’s broken him down and put him back together more times than he can count in their years together, the same way Goo has done for him, and he can recognize the smallest shift in his expression, the way he winces ever so slightly when he moves a certain way.

He’s hurt him. Bad.

Gun can’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction well up within him at the knowledge. He thinks he should feel guilt at the damage he’s caused to his body, but he feels as if this is the most suitable way to leave his final mark on Goo. They’ve always been violent people; it’s why they work so well together. If he thinks hard enough, he can even remember the way Goo’s hand fisted in his hair as he pressed painfully close to him, the taste of blood filling his mouth when he bit Goo’s hard enough to make him gasp and slip his tongue into his mouth like it was yesterday.

The conversation reaches a lull, neither of them speaking for a moment. They simply stare at the wall, stare at each other, Gun’s eyes catching on Goo’s lips and staying there a while.

Gun had always imagined since they had first met how their final meeting would go; his knuckles kissing a bruise into Goo’s unmarked face, his fingers clenched and wrapped tight around his slender neck, squeezing like he was trying to hold onto him, all the way until the warmth, the light, the life he always brought with him drained out of his eyes.

He didn’t expect this, the two of them uncharacteristically silent, gazing at each other through the glass that separates them with a soft look unusual of men like them.

He feels an inexplicable tenderness suddenly. The urge to wrap his arms around Goo and never let go, until their bodies meld into each other and become one. Like they were always meant to be. One in the same, two halves of the same coin.

“I love you.” Gun cannot say.

“Get the hell out of here, Goo,” He drawls instead, leaning back in the uncomfortable metal chair. His lips twitch just barely, the closest thing to a smile he’ll allow himself to direct at the blond.

Goo just laughs, unfazed. “I’ll leave whenever the hell I want to, you bastard.” He shoots back, grinning, eyes glittering mischievously beneath his glasses.

And this, Gun thinks, is the best possible outcome.

[ndrv3expert1]

Why Post Game AUs Hit Different

Hear me out, okay? Post-Game AUs in the sense of Danganronpa hold a special place in my heart. They’re what first brought me into the fandom space, they’re some of the first fics and fanart I made, and yeah, I know it’s kind of weird, but there’s just something about them that I can’t shake.

When I first sat down to write this, I stared at a blank screen for hours. I really wanted to talk about this topic, especially since no one else seems to have tackled it in depth before. But I was stuck. At first, all I could think was, "I want the V3 cast to be happy and alive," and, "I love angst."

However, after re-reading some of my favorite post-game fanfictions and really reflecting on them, I realized there’s so much more to this AU than I initially thought.

Post-game AUs are so compelling because they dive deep into themes like healing, found family, rediscovering happiness, self-identity, and the truth about fame.

These themes are what make the stories emotionally impactful and really connect with readers. They make you think, and they allow the audience to resonate with the characters and the world they inhabit.

For example, when I read about Kaede digging her nails into her neck, desperately trying to pry off the chain that dragged her to her execution—a chain she never actually wore—it makes me stop and think. It makes me feel something.

Or when I read about Maki having nightmares about killing people and being tortured, even though she never actually did. Those moments resonate deeply, and I find myself thinking about them long after I’ve finished reading.

Then there’s Kokichi, atoning for his past mistakes and opening up, allowing himself to be vulnerable. And when I see Ryoma discovering that there are people who genuinely care about him, it hits so hard.

It’s like watching that final, epic battle in a movie that everything’s been building toward. It’s satisfying, and it gives you an ending you can feel content with.

I know a lot of people complain about V3’s open ending, but honestly, if there had been a definitive conclusion, we might not have gotten all the creativity that’s poured into post-game fanfics and fanart. The beauty of that open ending is that it left so much room for fans to craft their own narratives—nothing feels too absurd because there was no ending at all.

And I’m not going to talk about every single post-game fan art or fanfic that’s completely changed my view and perception of post-game, but some of these fics have inspired thoughts that go beyond just the post-game world For example, It’s Just Showbiz got me thinking about the reality TV side of fame and made me start headcanoning Tenko as a trans woman, which I hadn’t considered before.

Here Comes the Sun shifted my perception of Kiyo, showing me a different side of him that I hadn’t thought about in the context of the original story.

The Friends We Used to Know led me to a rabbit hole of exploring platonic Chabahara, which opened my mind to new dynamics between characters.

These fanfics didn’t just change how I think about post-game—they expanded how I view the characters and their potential after the events of the original game.

There are so many vastly different takes on what happened to the V3 cast after the events of the game. (Well, all the casts, but V3 is the most prominent in the post-game space, followed by SDR2.) Some interpretations focus on the survivors struggling with guilt, forced to carry the weight of everything that happened. Others bring back the dead students in different ways—some with injuries reflecting how they died, some as puppets controlled by Team Danganronpa for publicity, and some just living happily together in a one-bedroom apartment.

Some fics depict V3 as the final game, while others frame it as just the beginning of something even bigger. Some characters signed up willingly; others had no idea what they were getting into. Post-game AUs are completely open to interpretation, with no right or wrong answer. Sure, you could say the same for Hope’s Peak, non-despair AUs, or even pre-game stories, but there’s something about post-game that just hits different. Maybe it’s the characters. Maybe it’s the themes. Maybe it’s the perfect balance of angst and healing. I can’t fully explain it—but it works.

Post-game AUs are more than just a way to keep the story going—they’re a way to explore what happens after the cameras stop rolling, after the killing game ends, after the characters are left to pick up the pieces. They allow for healing, for growth, for alternate interpretations that make us rethink everything we thought we knew. And maybe that’s why they hit so hard.

No matter how many versions exist, no matter how different the interpretations may be, post-game AUs will always be special to me. They take everything I love about these characters—their struggles, their resilience, their ability to change—and push it one step further. They remind me why I fell in love with Danganronpa in the first place, and why I keep coming back.

I love post-game aus so much and I can’t wait to see what other incredible stories and art will come from this space, because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that post-game AUs aren’t going anywhere.

[zqnl]

Les Misérables Vol 1, Book 2, Chapter 13: Petit-Gervais

Man I loved this chapter and how it depicted Valjean’s internal turmoil and morality struggle. Particularly, how his guilt and self-directed anger warp his self-perception.

Broke down my thoughts & analysis (under the cut) into four rough sections:

Valjean, post-Myriel

The incident with the 40 sous

Valjean’s (warped) conclusion re: his own morality

The demonisation of the name Jean Valjean

As always, keen to see other interpretations/things I’ve missed 👀👀

Valjean, post-Myriel

We start with Valjean’s initial reaction to Myriel’s clemency:

“He had the indistinct feeling that this priest’s forgiveness was the greatest assault and most tremendous attack he had ever experienced. That if he resisted this clemency the hardening of his heart would be definitive. That if he yielded he would be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the deeds of other men had filled his soul over so many years, a hatred he relished.”

I really enjoyed the violence of this description, and how it illustrates the burden of choice. Before, when all Valjean could do was doubt and steal, he was just an ex-convict, almost devoid of agency because of how drastically prison had altered his worldview. Now, if he continues to doubt and steal after not only being shown great kindness but also being given the means to rise above his station, he would be a worse man than he was before.

But naturally, the effects of nineteen years of prison and a lifetime of poverty before that can’t really be brushed away with one gift of kindness, no matter how awe-inspiring that gift might have been. Not to mention, when someone is truly a better person than you are, being on the receiving end of their kindness can be pretty unpleasant! Oftentimes it throws your imperfections in harsh relief; forgiveness especially evokes guilt and asks for change when you’re still in the throes of anger. Thus: “As too bright a light would have hurt his eyes on emerging from the dark, so the bishop hurt his soul when he came out of that perverse place of darkness called penal servitude.”

(Side note: the bishop is light for obvious moral reasons, but on top of that, the object that triggered Valjean’s illumination were the candlesticks the bishop gave him. So really, Myriel brought both metaphorical and literal light to Jean Valjean. Very cool!)

The incident with the 40 sous

The struggle of moral reform is shown when Valjean does indeed hold onto his old ways for a little longer when robbing Petit-Gervais. This time, however, he’s internalised enough of Myriel’s message that it becomes a real, concrete turning point in his outward actions.

(Another side note: a rudimentary google search told me that Gervais can mean spear, i.e. even the boy’s name points to the incident with the forty sous that finally pierces through Valjean’s hatred, anger, and confusion.)

Valjean’s (warped) conclusion re: his own morality

We can refer to let the scene where Valjean has an out-of-body vision featuring the bishop Myriel and the dangerous ex-convict Jean Valjean for the conclusion Valjean settles on.

During this scene, Hugo depicts Valjean’s consciousness as separate to the two forces he envisions, thus showing us how Valjean is completely lost. He cannot identify with either extreme within him, but he doesn’t know where he falls between them either. To him, his own morality has become an all-or-nothing situation. He compares his vision of his prior self next to the bishop as “Satan by the light of Paradise”, and subsequently sees the bishop’s light vanquish ‘Jean Valjean’.

Ironically, has subconsciously warped Myriel’s previous words to him despite propping him up as a paragon of goodness, or his own personal ideal. Where Myriel had told him that holding onto anger after his experiences was a state to be pitied (not condemned), Valjean now views his previous self with all his (justifiably) negative emotions as monstrous.

It’s a significantly more ✨catholic guilt✨ approach than what Myriel was going for. We see it even in the chapter title, Petit-Gervais. Even though the interaction with Petit-Gervais is brief and the focus of the chapter shifts to Valjean’s repentance after the act, the title still lingers on the boy’s name. It could indicate that to Valjean, his mistreatment of Petit-Gervais (and subsequent guilt) overshadows his change of heart afterwards.

The demonisation of the name Jean Valjean

This self-hatred and warped self-perception is also exemplified in the use of Jean Valjean’s name as a borderline seperate entity to the man himself. I started paying more attention to mentions of his name after reading this post, and there are a couple places in this chapter where we see it becoming the manifestation of his crimes and sins:

“… he felt that he was no more than a ghost. And that standing there before him… was the ghastly convicted felon Jean Valjean.”

“He actually saw this Jean Valjean, this sinister face, before him. He was almost starting to wonder who the man was, and was horrified by him”

“… the bishop grew in stature and brilliance while Jean Valjean shrank and faded. There came a point when he was no more than a shadow. All of a sudden he vanished.”

The man is having an identity crisis! He’s externalising (and almost dissociating from) his crimes and sins, and is now doing what other people will do for the rest of the book — associating his name with every bad action he’s performed, and all the negative connotations associated with the myth of the ex-convict Jean Valjean.