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parfaitblogs · 9 months ago

Note

(totally not based on my day) but a simple request for spencer helping reader out with a bunch of chores bc she's overwhelmed with life and she decides to thank him with like the quote "best head of his life" and he's like "its okay you dont have to do that" and she's responds "but i am anyways"

it will come back ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid helps you when you're (very) overwhelmed, and you might need to return the favour. pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: comfort & smut (18+ mdni) tags: oral (m receiving). praise. established relationship. reader's overwhelmed overstimulated overworked... very enthusiastic head giver!reader. use of honey and angel. they love each other a lot. i love them a lot. i don’t think there’s d/s dynamics but if there are it’s soft dom spencer (nobody’s shocked). word count: 3.1k a/n: thank u sooo much for reading my brain ily i need to give spencer reid head asap. new format/layout for requests sort of its the same as my normal post layout... do we like... i sure freaking hope so. as always lmk if u liked this or even if u didn't but preferably if u did!!

You were exhausted. For three weeks straight, you had been working nonstop, with a wondrous total of eight hours in between shifts. You were hardly sleeping, you had hardly had a social life, hell, you never even had time to enjoy the simple pleasures of an everything shower. You felt groggy, and cramped, and everyday felt like an awful repeat of the last. A nightmare that never ended.

Never mind the fact that you hadn't seen your boyfriend.

Always home too late to be with him in the evenings, and up too early to get coffee with him before your days started. Spencer was so patient with you, regardless. He knew it would end eventually, and he would get his girlfriend back. It was just for the month, was what you would text each other whenever the other began feeling particularly lonely. He didn't even like texting, but the time for a simple phone call wasn't available to you anymore.

And your apartment. Every time you stepped into it you swore a new dirty dish materialised in your sink, or a new pile of clothes sat themselves in your bedroom floor. Which was odd, because you had rotated between the same two outfits for the last eighteen days — your work uniform, or your pyjamas.

You were overwhelmed with it all. Even as your hectic work life came to an end, and you were waking up to the sunlight pouring into your room, instead of an alarm clock while the moon was still up. You were acutely aware of the mess of your apartment, and just the thought of it all left you lying motionless in your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Tears stung your vision as you felt the seconds tick into minutes, and nothing happened. Attempting to will yourself to get up, and yet you simply couldn't. Exhausted beyond belief, with limbs sinking into the mattress and melding to the sheets.

You faintly heard the click of your front door lock, and if you had any more motivation in you, you'd probably get up to double check it was the only other person who had a key to your apartment, and not a burglar. Thankfully, you didn't have to, for Spencer was calling out your name, gently.

Too exhausted to even reply and alert him of where you were, you lay still until he had found you in your bedroom, his bad dropping by the doorway, feet shuffling against the rug.

"Good afternoon," he said, finding a seat on the edge of your bed, hand resting atop your thigh, gentle circles being rubbed into the skin.

"Is it already afternoon?" you asked him, voice quiet.

"Yeah. How long have you been awake in bed?"

"I don't know," you answered, voice awfully small as you felt the thick weight of frustration with yourself blanket over you. "I need to get up. The apartment's a mess."

"It's allowed to be," he said. "You've been doing sixteen hour days."

"Yeah, but I'm not today. I have the day off."

"Your first day off in weeks. I'd be concerned if you'd spent it productively."

You stared at him, unsure if the irritation that settled in your bones was because of his insistence that you not doing a thing was okay, or your exhaustion. Logically, it would be the latter. You did know that, deep down.

Upon seeing your eyes delve into something a little more desperate, he sighed, hand sliding up to your own, gently tugging you up into a seated position. His eyebrows knitted together at your exhausted look, and you could see his brain ticking behind his eyes.

"Do you want to split the tasks?" he finally asked.

"You don't have to," you shrugged your shoulders. "It's my mess."

"Honey, you're already overwhelmed, and all you've done is wake up," he answered, thumb drawing circles on the top of your hand that he still seemed to have clasped within his own. "Let me help."

"It's really gross."

"I've seen mutilated dead bodies."

"I'd argue my kitchen sink is worse."

"Oh would you?" his eyebrows shot up, lips twitching in amusement, that you found solace in, distracting you slightly from your overstimulated mind. "Do you want to have a shower?"

"Yes," you nodded your head, brain ticking over all the personal hygiene tasks you had been neglecting over the past few weeks.

"How about you go shower, I'll start cleaning up, and you come join me when you're feeling better?"

Despite your aversion to anybody but yourself tackling the mess of your apartment, you knew better than to deny Spencer any further — he had set his mind on helping you.

Sighing, you nodded your head in defeat. He had coaxed you up off the bed, gotten you to the bathroom, even found you a fresh set of clothes to wear, and waited with you for the water to warm up. It was really only once he was absolutely sure you had gotten into the shower, did he leave you be, and disappeared from the bathroom.

Eventually, the apartment had been cleaned, with efforts from the both of you getting it to where it now was.

You were a lot less exhausted, and your brain was a lot less fried now that you didn't have a million tasks catalogued within it to get done.

You were lying in your freshly made bed — courtesy of Spencer. Your head on his chest, fidgeting with one of his hands as he used the other to wave around as he rambled about something you were no longer following. It had started as a simple explanation for why you had been so overwhelmed in the first place. Which you had asked as a rhetoric, but didn't have the heart to stop him when he began explaining.

"You're not listening, are you?" he asked, free hand poking your side and emitting an involuntary laugh from you at the feeling.

"I am, I am! I'm just not following anymore."

"Sorry."

"It's okay," you replied, turning and poking your head up to be level with his. "I like hearing you speak, anyways. Doesn't matter if I don't understand."

He only hummed as a response, and the two of you stared at each other for a beat, before you were breaking out into a smile.

"Hi," you chirped.

"Hello," he answered, perhaps a little too amused by your sudden energy. "Would you like something?"

"A kiss?"

"After all that labour I just put in for you?" he mused, but he was already lifting his head to brush his lips against yours, and was most certainly not pulling away when you eagerly connected them properly.

You pulled back after a few moments, searching his face. "Do you want something for all that labour?"

His hand trailed up your spine, fingertips triggering a shiver to run up your back. "What do you have in mind?"

"I could give you the best head of your life."

He was clearly not expecting that as an offer, perhaps because you never had offered such a thing before. It wasn't even something you had talked about, which was bizarre (in your mind), considering he was quite enthusiastic about using his mouth on you.

"You don't need to do that," he shook his head, but with how close your faces were, you could see the instant dilation in his pupils.

"What if I want to?"

"Then that's very nice of you, but my point still stands," he replied.

"Spencer, let me do something in return," your voice was nothing short of a whine, and if he was any less turned on, maybe it wouldn't have made his firm footed denial falter. Maybe you knew that.

"You could do anything but that."

"So a handjob?"

"Or that."

"You're such an awful liar," you huffed. "I can see your pupils dilating. I know you're turned on by the thought of it."

"It could just be because I'm looking at you," he answered, voice hoarse, no doubt from the arousal he was attempting to deny was there. "Romantic attraction triggers the same response in our hormones."

"But it's not."

He fell silent for a few moments, before he allowed his resolve to slip, shaking his head in agreement with you. "No. It's not."

"See! It's okay if you want it. I'm quite literally offering myself to you," you spouted.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he exhaled through his nose, words coming out through almost gritted teeth. "That's not a sentence you should be saying."

"Why not?"

His only response was to say your name chidingly, and when he reopened his eyes, he was met with the shit-eating grin on your face.

"Brat," he mumbled, lips seeking yours once again.

"Who gives really good head," you hummed against his mouth. "And would really love to show you."

"If you're insisting—"

"Which I am," you quickly interjected, staring back at him as yet another amused smile stretched across his lips. Then, he was nodding his head, and you were quite cheerfully kissing him all over again.

It wasn't that you kissed him with much fever at all — in fact, you were melting into his lips with a gentle hum. It was simply that he was kissing you back with a desperation you should be accustomed to. You weren't.

Every kiss you received from him always felt like he was chipping away at your soul, claiming a piece of it. Maybe he was.

You mewled when his teeth nipped at your lower lip, and he was quick to take the opportunity of slipping his tongue into your mouth. Though, alerted by his sudden control over the situation between you two, you reluctantly pulled your face away from his before it could go much further.

"Excuse me," he breathed out, scoldingly, only to be met with your hundredth grin of the day as you descended down his body. He'd take it — you smiling, albeit cockily, was much more rewarding than the concerned look you had been sporting for the majority of the afternoon.

"I don't do this very often," you told him as you lifted your gaze to his, absentmindedly tugging his pants down his legs.

"I hope not. You've never done it for me, and we've been together for quite a while."

"You know what I mean," you grumbled, and he was forced to poke his tongue into the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.

"Is this comfortable for you?" he then asked, having noticed your constant adjustments of your positioning between his legs. From nerves or comfortability, he didn't know.

"Um. I guess so," you replied. "I've never done it lying down."

"We can do it however you prefer to do it, angel."

"Oh. Okay. Cool," you mumbled, sitting up straight and grabbing his hands within your own, tugging him over towards the edge of the bed.

You sank to your knees on the rug, tapping his knees with your hands to part them so you could situate yourself comfortably between them.

You were a vision if he'd ever seen one, and you weren't even doing anything. Perhaps you had noticed the effect you had on him, or maybe you were just largely enthusiastic about doing something for him, and only him.

Your tongue darted out to lick your lips, eyes flickering up to meet his face, and if this was the last sight he saw before he died, he would have no complaints.

"Have you ever gotten head before?" you mumbled, eyes fixated on him as your hands trailed up the sides of his thighs, resting at the waistband of his boxers.

"Yes."

"Okay," you whispered, quietly, tapping his hips so he could lift them, and you rolled his boxers down his skin.

"Okay?" he parroted.

"Okay," you confirmed with a nod of your head. "I just wanted to know if this is going to be completely new for you or not."

As you spoke, your fingertips dragged along his inner thighs, lips following soon after, kissing up the skin.

"I don't think that's going to matter, honey," he answered, voice breathless.

You smiled, not needing to ask what he meant. You lifted your head back up, studying his face. He gave you a nod, a silent confirmation to allow you to go further, and you took a beat to compose yourself. It's not like he would be mad at you if it sucked, but you had had a far too awful day to not do something good.

You hadn't done this in a while, it was true. So your hesitance came more from your brain figuring out what it actually needed to do, than your insecurities (they were there too).

Insecurities that melted away within an instant, for Spencer's thighs tensed beneath your hands that were now holding them apart the second your lips made contact with his cock, and through your lashes you could see his head tipping back.

Your cheeks warmed at how easy it was to get him to respond, and you wondered if the satisfaction settled in your chest was anything similar to how he felt when he did this to you.

You started hesitant. Gentle kitten licks at his tip that probably shouldn't have been garnering such a large reaction from him. But it was, and you had to preoccupy your mouth to keep the smug smile off of it.

Wrapping your lips around the head, he lets out the breathiest moan you think you've ever heard come from him, and your mind goes hazy. Newfound blind confidence wills you to take more of him in your mouth, and it's a quiet 'Fuck' that compels you even further.

In hindsight, he knew he'd enjoy it. It was you after all. He knew from the world shattering arousal that the simple sight of you on your knees was. He had, in a few short seconds, mentally prepared to enjoy this.

But not this much, and certainly not this quickly.

"I've been too selfless," he muttered as you lifted your head back up, tongue licking a stripe up the underside of him as you did. When you met his gaze in question, he added, "I mean never asking you for this. I should've."

You hummed as a response (it was all you really could do), and the gentle vibrations shot heat throughout his body. A shuddering moan rocked through his body, and if not for your quick response time in pushing his hips down, they would've knocked against your face when he bucked them up.

You hollowed your cheeks, lowering your head back down, and emitting the loveliest of moans from Spencer, whose hand found its way to your hair. Upon the lack of your protests, he made a loose ponytail with his fist, gently tugging on it upwards so you could lift your head.

You flattened your tongue on your ascend, successfully making his already weak grip on your hair go slack, within only seconds of him having grabbed it. Swirling your tongue around the tip of his cock, his hips bucked up again, and you flinched.

"Jesus—fuck, sorry, honey," he rasped, though his guilt was quick to dissipate as he saw your thumbs up against his thigh. Your movements weren't hesitant, anymore. Just slow. Tortuously slow. "Can I..." he trailed off, seemingly becoming unsure of what it was he was asking of you within seconds, but the retightening of his hand in your hair gave you all you needed to know.

You nodded your head the best you could, and he mumbled a quiet 'thank you', allowing you to set a base pace, before taking over.

"So good. Jesus Christ, angel. Where did you learn this? Don't answer that. Don't tell me. Shit."

His rambling was sharp sentences, that didn't really sound like they belonged together, and certainly didn't sound like they should be coming out of his mouth. They weren't the most articulately structured phrases he's ever come up with. A thought that comforted you, because you were doing that to him.

"Fuck," he breathed out, once more, and you came to the mental conclusion you've never heard him swear so much in his life. The thought made your stomach flip.

Fingers dug into your scalp, though not too harshly to hurt. In fact, you were letting out a quiet moan of your own at the feeling, hips wiggling. Even in his state, Spencer noticed, and he smiled.

"You—ah—okay, angel?" he asked you, and you relished in the fact that he couldn't get out sentences without moaning.

Your response was yet another hum, and he was bucking his hips. Again.

You knew he was close for a multitude of reasons; the fact that he had quickened his gentle-turned-firm guidance of your head, his fingers tugging on your hair a little harsher than before, and the ever so lovely, "Jesus Christ—please—oh," leaving his lips, breathlessly.

It was a few more moments of that, before the fingers in your hair went impossibly tight, and the muscles in his thighs locked beneath your hands.

The fact you had never discussed doing this, meant neither of you knew the other's stance on what to do. Thankfully, Spencer was rendered so frenzied that he couldn't do anything.

It was a sickeningly lovely sight; you pulling back and swallowing, some of his come painting your bottom lip. His fingers twitched, before they dropped back to the mattress on either side of his body, his chest heaving just as much as your own.

Lightheaded, you slowly brought yourself back up to your feet, and Spencer's arms were quick to wrap around the backs of your thighs, pulling you into him.

"Best head of your life?" you asked, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"By a mile," he replied.

"Just one mile?"

"Maybe two."

Shooting him a glare, you huffed, and he laughed. "You're never getting head again, then."

He nipped your lower lip. "Okay."

"I'm putting my foot down," you retorted, disliking his lack of belief in your words. "Never again."

"I believe that."

"You should."

"Oh, I do," he hummed, sarcasm in his words making you frown. "Are your knees okay?"

If his goal was to distract you, he succeeded, for your eyes were instantly dropping to your knees, indents from the threads of the rug evident.

"They're okay," you confirmed, squirming as his thumbs rubbed circles into the skin on your thighs.

"Tell me if they're not," he instructed, and you nodded. He stood up, hands sliding up to your waist. "Shower?"

"Shower," you confirmed with a nod, despite the fact that you had showered only a few hours prior. "Can we watch a movie after?"

"Yes."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

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foreveia · 5 months ago

Text

the leaders’ pact ⤨ sakusa kiyoomi

⨭ genre; college!au, friends-with-benefits to lovers

⨭ pairing; sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 12.7k

⨭ description; as it turns out, you and sakusa are the only people who truly understand just how much stress it is to run a student government, and well… you two find a way to blow off steam.

⨭ warnings; a lot of suggestive content, no graphic stuff tho sorry to disappoint this is Not smut, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i've decided sakusa is officially the most difficult person i've ever written abt which means y'all r gonna have to suffer through some horrible fics before i finally figure out the secret to kiyoomi. in the meantime, until i get to the level of being able to write him to my satisfaction, enjoy this part 2 of the asu trilogy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'don't wake me up' by mercer henderson

one.

Furudate University is, in one word, loud.

It’s one of its biggest charms, really—there’s something oddly comforting about being one in a crowd of thousands, about the constant hum of a campus that never fully sleeps. The lively debates over coffee-stained notes, the skateboarders who tempt fate on the cobblestone paths lining the central road, the professors who could be world-class researchers but still have to remind students to submit assignments in PDF format and not screenshots—it’s chaotic, it’s exhausting, and despite everything, you love it here.

That being said, at 1:47 AM, when you’re still in the ASU office drowning in a sea of unread emails and budget spreadsheets, you think maybe—just maybe—you should have picked a smaller school. One with fewer students. Fewer problems. Fewer reasons for you to be awake at this ungodly hour, questioning every life choice that led you here.

Because you’re the ASU president, and behind the lofty title is an overworked, drained, pitiful student who is really at her wits end, shoulder-deep in stupid complaints about the dining halls and unreasonable requests from faculty and alumni. And at this current moment in time, you’re stressed out about an event more than a month away, but already causing you significant problems in your life: the annual Spring Festival.

It’s a week-long ordeal, ending with a massive fundraiser gala that’s all dazzling lights and delicate floral arrangements; you spend half the budget on catering and the other half praying the student performers don’t ruin the atmosphere with an impromptu drum solo. It’s supposed to be the ASU’s shining achievement—proof that this student government is more than a glorified complaint department.

But right now? Right now, it’s a logistical nightmare.

And sitting across from you, flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading Terms & Conditions, is the only other person suffering through this hell with you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, ASU’s executive vice president.

Sakusa, who has been in this office with you for hours, sifting through the same mountain of paperwork, answering the same stupid emails, keeping everything in order with his obsessive attention to detail.

Sakusa, who somehow manages to look completely fine while doing all of this.

You have personally descended into full goblin mode. You’re hunched over your desk, hair slipping out of your bun, posture absolutely horrendous. There is a growing stack of empty coffee cups by your desktop and a pad of post-its covered with scribbled reminders and notes; your workspace is as much of a mess as you are right now. Sakusa, meanwhile, is sitting up straight, scrolling through his tablet with an air of absolute indifference, looking like he could walk out of here and into a corporate meeting without breaking a sweat.

You hate him a little bit for that.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.

“It is,” Sakusa agrees. “But that’s not new information.”

You glare at him. “Okay, but if one more person asks if we can move the gala to a rooftop venue, I might actually lose my mind.”

“They want a rooftop?” he asks, flipping to another page. “In April? In a city where it rained last year?”

“Apparently, ‘the ambiance would be breathtaking.’”

Sakusa stares at you. “The litigation would be breathtaking.”

“Right?” You throw up your hands. “I give it an hour before someone drinks too much and falls off the side.”

“Or before you push them.”

“...I’m not saying I would, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t.”

He hums, unimpressed, before pushing a document across the desk toward you. “Facility contracts,” he says. “Pick a venue so I can start drafting agreements.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against the table. “I can’t make any more decisions tonight.”

“Tough.”

“I physically cannot. I am a husk of a person.”

“Then drink some water.”

You lift your head just enough to frown at him. “Did you just tell me to hydrate? That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Fuck that. I need wine or something,” you huff, annoyed.

Sakusa doesn’t even blink. “Then go get some.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “...That sounded suspiciously close to permission.”

“I’m not your parent.” He finally looks up from his tablet, arching a brow. “You’re an adult. If you want to drink yourself into oblivion because of a student event, that’s on you.”

That’s all the encouragement you need.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the office couch, the wine bottle freshly uncorked between you. Sakusa had taken exactly one look at the cup you found in the ASU storage cabinet (which had definitely been used for some underclassmen’s illicit party at some point) before deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.

Fine by you.

You take a long sip before passing it back, watching as Sakusa tilts the bottle back with far less hesitation than you expected. You almost comment on it, but then again—if anyone needs to drink, it’s him.

The office is dimly lit, the overhead lights flicked off in favor of the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The exhaustion weighs heavy in the air, mingling with the soft clink of glass and the low rustle of Sakusa flipping a page in his binder.

For a while, there’s just silence.

Comfortable, in a way.

And maybe that’s why, when you finally tilt your head back against the couch, wine warm in your veins and pink in the cheeks, you finally break it. “This job is killing me,” you mutter.

Sakusa exhales, rubbing his temple. “Join the club.”

“You’re the only other person who gets it,” you murmur, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone else just sees the power trip. They don’t see the fucking bureaucracy, the politics, the alumni breathing down our necks. I swear to God, if one more administrator calls me ‘sweetie’—”

“They don’t respect us,” Sakusa says simply. “They never will.”

The words sit heavy between you. It’s the truth, the unspoken reality of student government. You have influence, sure. Responsibility, absolutely. But at the end of the day, you’re just placeholders—students playing pretend at running an institution that will outlive you by centuries.

And it’s exhausting.

Your eyes flicker to Sakusa. The furrow of his brows, the tight set of his jaw. He’s exhausted too.

You shift slightly, your knee brushing against his. He doesn’t move away.

The warmth of the wine lingers, but it’s not enough to explain the heat creeping up your neck. You tell yourself it’s just the exhaustion—just the absurdity of being awake at nearly 2 AM, drowning in bureaucratic bullshit with the only person who understands. But when you glance at him again, catching the way his fingers press absently into the label of the bottle, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on the floor for a second longer than necessary before meeting yours…

Something flips in your stomach.

A mistake, your brain whispers. A complication waiting to happen. You have to work with him. See him every day. Endure another semester of late nights in this very office, drowning in deadlines and bad coffee and biting remarks that somehow still feel like companionship. You don’t even want to think about what happens if this goes wrong.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your breath catches. You can hear it, the quiet sound in the stillness of the office. Your heart is an unsteady drumbeat in your chest, something traitorous stirring beneath your ribs. His gaze flickers—down, then up—his throat bobbing in a quiet swallow.

Then he moves.

His lips meet yours, firm and deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the sharp edge of tension snapping between you, unraveling all at once.

You don’t think. You just react, your fingers threading into his dark hair as he pulls you closer. The empty wine bottle slips from your grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the couch cushions, but you barely notice.

He’s warm. Solid. His hands don’t just grip your waist—they press, anchor, claim. A slow, deliberate pull, like he wants you here, exactly here. There’s something controlled about the way he moves, like he’s holding back, like he’s measuring every touch, every breath.

It makes your skin burn.

You shift, legs draping over his lap, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips as you tug him closer. When your hips roll against his experimentally, his breath stutters—a sharp inhale, his fingers flexing against your sides. The sound sends something electric through you, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and spreads outward, curling hot in your chest.

Your breath is ragged when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes dark and unreadable. He stares at you for a moment, something flickering across his expression—something unspoken, something dangerous.

“We shouldn’t—” he starts, voice hoarse.

You cut him off with another kiss, hands sliding under his shirt, nails skimming lightly over the firm plane of his stomach. He exhales sharply against your mouth, grip tightening—not just on your waist now, but your hips, your thighs, the fabric of your sweater bunched between his fingers like he’s trying to ground himself.

Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is reckless, a mistake in the making.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like one.

Right now, you just need this.

And judging by the way Sakusa exhales, tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail along his jaw, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, so does he.

two.

You wake up to warmth.

The blankets are too heavy, too soft; the pillow beneath your head isn’t yours, and the mattress is firmer than what you’re used to. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent, crisp and clean, and for a few blissful seconds, none of this sets off any alarm bells.

Then you shift.

And your leg brushes against something—someone.

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.

Sakusa is lying beside you, still half-asleep.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your brain kicks into overdrive, panic slamming into you at full force.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t blink—like maybe if you stay perfectly still, reality will reset itself and you’ll wake up in your own bed, like none of this ever happened.

You rub your eyes. Nope. No, you’re still here. In Sakusa’s bed.

Last night comes rushing back in fragments.

The office, the spreadsheets, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on you both. The frustration, the exhaustion, the bottle of wine. The way his voice had dipped lower, the sharp inhale when your fingers slipped beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you—deliberate, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

And, apparently, didn’t.

Your face burns.

You can’t do this. You need to get out of here. Right now.

Very, very carefully, you begin to inch toward the edge of the bed. If you can just get up without waking him, you can grab your clothes, sneak out, and pretend this never happened—

“You’re awake,” Sakusa mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You freeze.

His eyes are barely open, but there’s enough clarity in them to tell you that he’s fully aware of the situation. He blinks slowly, processing, before exhaling and rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, there’s silence.

You should say something. Address the elephant in the room. Acknowledge that, somehow, you and Sakusa Kiyoomi—the only other person in ASU who understands your suffering, who you bicker with more than you talk, who is supposed to be your goddamn vice president and right-hand man—woke up in the same bed.

Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“This is bad.”

Sakusa lets out a quiet, barely-there groan and turns his head slightly toward you. “I was hoping it was a dream.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

Another silence. Neither of you move.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, but now that the initial panic is fading, your brain starts working through the situation. Rationalizing.

You and Sakusa don’t even like each other. Okay, that’s not entirely true, but your dynamic has always been built on mutual endurance, on suffering together in the trenches of student government. Exchanging exhausted sighs over idiotic administrative emails and bitter remarks over ridiculous student requests.

This wasn’t… feelings.

It was stress. Overwork. Too much responsibility and not enough outlets to relieve it.

You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around yourself. “Look, let’s just… not freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life.”

“I always look like that.”

Okay, fair point. Still, you don’t miss the way his fingers are curled slightly into the sheets, tension lingering in his posture.

You take a deep breath. “Last night was a mistake.”

Sakusa’s gaze flickers to you. “Obviously.”

Something about the way he says it irritates you. You roll your eyes. “Wow, again with the rudeness.”

“I just mean it was inevitable,” he exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.

You blink. “Wait, you think this was inevitable too?”

He gives you a flat look. “We spend too many hours locked in an office together. We argue constantly. We both hate our jobs but are too stubborn to quit. We drink after meetings. Statistically speaking, this was bound to happen.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

You pause. Something about that statement makes something in your chest loosen just slightly.

He’s right. This isn’t romantic. It’s not complicated. It’s not some star-crossed bullshit.

It’s just stress.

And you can work with that.

A thought occurs to you, a ridiculous, stupid, reckless thought, and before you can second-guess yourself, you say it out loud.

“We could do it again.”

Sakusa’s entire body stills. His dark eyes snap to yours.

“Not right now. I just mean…” You keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to stay composed as you shrug. “I mean, think about it. We’re both overworked. We don’t have time for relationships. This was just a way to let off some steam, right? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Sakusa watches you carefully, expression unreadable. “You’re saying—”

“No feelings. No complications. Just stress relief.”

His brows furrow slightly.

You lift your hands, palms up. “I’m just being practical. We both clearly need an outlet, and this was… effective.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “Unless you regret it?”

Sakusa exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before glancing away. “No.”

There’s something in his voice—something almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something. You decide not to dwell on it.

Instead, you grin, ignoring the way your heart picks up slightly at his answer. “So? Agreed?”

Sakusa’s jaw tenses. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark and considering.

Then, finally, he exhales. “…Agreed.”

You clap your hands together. “Great. Now, where the hell are my clothes?”

As you slip out of bed and start gathering your things, Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye. His expression is neutral, unreadable. Outwardly, he looks composed, unaffected.

But inside, something is twisting in his chest.

This is good. Logical. You’re too busy for anything more. He doesn’t do attachments. This is supposed to be simple.

So why does he already feel like he’s in trouble?

three.

For the first week, you and Sakusa keep it lowkey.

It’s surprisingly easy. Between the endless meetings, the flood of emails, and the general chaos of festival planning, no one seems to notice that anything has changed. You and Sakusa don’t act any differently—at least, not in ways that anyone would immediately pick up on. You still bicker, still throw exasperated looks across the office, still exchange sarcastic remarks whenever an administrator sends a particularly idiotic request.

But there are differences. Subtle ones.

The way his hand lingers on your back a second too long when he brushes past you. The way you glance at him when no one else is looking, catching the momentary flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The way your fingers graze when he hands you a folder during a meeting, a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt up your spine.

Still, you’re both careful. No one knows. And it stays that way—until a week later.

It’s late.

Too late for anyone to still be in the ASU office, but here you are, wrapping up an executive board meeting that somehow stretched two hours past its scheduled end. The festival is fast approaching, and the stress is at an all-time high. The VP of Finance, Futakuchi, keeps sighing loudly; Ushijima, the sustainability representative, looks entirely unbothered, and Kiyoko, the VP of campus affairs, has the expression of someone who desperately needs sleep but knows she won’t get any. Even the internal VP, Aone, who’s usually silent and stoic, rubs a hand over his face in a rare display of frustration.

The exhaustion in the room is palpable.

But eventually, mercifully, the meeting ends.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans, stretching out his arms. “I swear, if I get one more email about the catering, I’m deleting my inbox.”

“You can’t do that,” Kiyoko mutters, but she sounds just as tired.

“I can and I will.”

Ushijima nods thoughtfully. “That is not an efficient way to handle the problem.”

“Whatever, man.” Futakuchi waves him off. “I’m going home before I start throwing chairs.”

The rest of the exec board follows suit, shuffling out one by one. Within minutes, the office is empty—except for you and Sakusa.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts his laptop, methodically gathering his things. But you know him well enough by now to catch the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers flex against the strap of his bag. He’s tired, too.

And yet, he lingers.

Your heart is already hammering in your chest before you even fully process what you’re about to do.

You wait until the last footsteps fade down the hallway before stepping closer.

“Sakusa,” you murmur.

He looks up, expression unreadable, but you catch the flicker of something in his dark eyes before he schools his face into neutrality. “What?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie, pull him toward you, and kiss him.

He exhales sharply against your lips, but he doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch, and then he’s pushing you back, guiding you without breaking the kiss.

You barely register the click of the storage closet door as it shuts behind you.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not every night. Not every meeting. But often enough.

Enough that you start slipping into supply rooms and empty hallways whenever you get the chance. Enough that you stop pretending it’s just a fluke, stop pretending it’s just a one-time mistake. Enough that you start looking for excuses to stay behind after meetings, just to see if he’ll do the same.

The stress of festival planning only gets worse as the days tick down, but somehow, you feel... lighter. And unfortunately, you’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says one afternoon, arms crossed as he leans against the table. “What’s up with you?”

You blink at him over your laptop. “What?”

“You.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re… less miserable.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“I’m serious.” He narrows his eyes, studying you. “A week ago, you were two stress-induced breakdowns away from setting the office on fire. Now you’re—” He squints. “Weirdly calm.”

You scoff, looking back at your screen. “Maybe I just got better at coping.”

Futakuchi snorts. “Sure. And Aone’s secretly a stand-up comedian.”

Across the room, Aone looks up from his notes, blinks, then goes back to writing.

Meanwhile, Ushijima watches you with mild curiosity. “It is true that you seem less fatigued.”

“Maybe she’s just sleeping more,” Kiyoko suggests.

Futakuchi smirks. “Or maybe she’s not sleeping.”

You choke on your coffee, the burn in your nose causing you to cough. Kiyoko swiftly hands you a tissue from her desk and sighs. “Kenji, please.”

“I’m just saying,” Futakuchi says innocently, shrugging. “She’s been spending a lot of extra time here after meetings. And so has Sakusa.”

You feel your pulse spike, but you force yourself to roll your eyes. “We’re working.”

“Sure you are.” Futakuchi hums. “Just seems interesting, is all.”

Ushijima nods, ever serious. “You and Sakusa have been in close proximity more frequently.”

You school your expression into neutrality, ignoring the way your face warms. “Noted.”

Futakuchi snickers. “That wasn’t a no.”

You pretend not to hear him.

Across the office, Sakusa is focused on his laptop, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. But when you glance at him, just for a second, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

A silent acknowledgement.

A secret you both share, that’s meant for you two alone.

four.

At first, nothing really changes.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The routine remains the same. Meetings, long nights in the ASU office, the occasional stolen moment in a storage room when stress becomes too much. You and Sakusa still pretend like this is nothing more than convenience—like it’s just stress relief, like it doesn’t bleed into the rest of your lives.

Except it does.

It starts small. You realize one day, midway through a meeting, that Sakusa’s been sitting closer to you lately. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, close enough that you can pick up the faint scent of his detergent. Close enough that when you pass him a folder, his fingers linger just a second too long against yours.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

But then, the conversations change.

It happens one night in the office.

You’re both buried under paperwork, exhausted but determined to finalize the last of the festival logistics. It’s late—past midnight, the campus outside empty and still. The only light in the room comes from your desk lamps, throwing soft, golden pools across the stacks of documents between you. The air smells like old paper and Sakusa’s coffee, a little burnt because he never times it right.

The quiet is comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of his laptop keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t ASU president,” he clarifies. “If you had never run for office.”

You pause, pen hovering over the paper. The thought has never really occurred to you. Student government has consumed your life for so long that the idea of not being in this position feels foreign.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I’d have more time to actually enjoy college.”

Sakusa hums, his gaze flickering to you. “So you don’t enjoy it now?”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just… exhausting. I feel like I’m constantly putting out fires. Like I’m carrying this huge weight, and if I mess up, everything will fall apart.”

For a moment, Sakusa doesn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, he says, “I get that.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“Volleyball is kind of the same,” he continues, eyes still on his laptop screen. “I love it. But sometimes, it’s a lot. The pressure, the expectations. Some days, I wonder if I’d still play if I didn’t have to.”

You study him for a moment—the tension in his posture, the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. It’s rare for Sakusa to talk about himself like this.

Impulsively, you say, “I could come to one of your games.”

His fingers still. He finally looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. “Why?”

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Because. You put up with all my ASU crap. I can support you, too.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhales and looks back at his screen.

“If you want,” he mutters.

But you see the way his ears turn pink.

After that, the changes keep coming.

One night, you fall asleep in Sakusa’s dorm.

It’s not on purpose.

You were both exhausted, drained from another grueling meeting that had stretched far too late. The weight of festival logistics, last-minute approvals, and endless emails had pressed down on you until neither of you could keep your eyes open. What was supposed to be a brief pause—a moment to catch your breath before making the trek back to your dorm—turned into you lying there, too tired to move.

You’d meant to get up. You really had.

But then Sakusa had tugged the blanket over you with an almost reluctant kind of care, his movements cautious, deliberate. His arm had settled around your waist, warm and steady, like he’d done it without thinking; his breathing had evened out against the back of your neck, deep and slow, and suddenly, the thought of moving felt impossible.

You don’t remember falling asleep—only that the next thing you know, soft morning light is filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, you forget where you are. The sheets smell like him—clean, crisp, something faintly citrusy beneath it all. The kind of scent that lingers, that sticks to your skin in ways you can’t quite shake.

You should get up. You should leave before this gets any weirder.

But then Sakusa shifts beside you, his grip tightening, just for a second. His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

“Go back to sleep.”

And, for some reason, you do.

The lingering turns into something more.

You start walking back to your dorms together after meetings, shoulders brushing in the cold night air. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you acknowledge the way Sakusa always seems to fall into step beside you, how his hands slip into his pockets but his body angles just slightly toward yours.

The touches that used to be quick, fleeting, become longer. His hand stays on your lower back when he passes by, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt. When you both reach for the same document, his fingers brush against yours, and he doesn’t pull away as fast as he used to.

It’s not just the physicality that changes.

He starts noticing things about you—things no one else does.

Like how he always makes sure there’s an extra bottle of water on your desk because he knows you forget to stay hydrated when you’re stressed. How he starts bringing you food when you work late, tossing it onto your desk without a word. Eat, he mutters, barely meeting your eyes. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.

And then there’s the morning after another late night in his bed.

You wake up groggy, the lingering warmth of sleep making you slow to realize that Sakusa isn’t next to you anymore. The room smells like coffee, and when you push yourself up onto your elbows, you see him standing by the tiny dorm kitchen, placing two plates of food on the counter.

You blink at him sleepily, confused. “Did you make extra on purpose?”

He doesn’t look at you as he plates the food, but you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

“You’re already here,” he says simply.

That’s all he says.

But when he sets the plate in front of you, something warm settles in your chest.

The first game you go to, Sakusa plays like his life depends on it.

You hadn’t planned on sitting so close to the court, but one of his teammates had insisted, ushering you into a seat with a too-knowing smirk. The energy in the gym is electric, the air thick with anticipation. You’ve never really watched him play before—not like this.

He’s already on the court when you spot him, stretching near the net. His head turns slightly, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something. His eyes pass over you once, then snap back.

For just a second, he falters.

It’s quick—so quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. The moment his gaze locks onto yours, his fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening.

Then, he exhales. Rolls his shoulders back. Locks in.

You’ve never seen him play like this before. Focused, sharp, completely in control. His serves are ruthless, each one hitting its mark with unwavering precision. Every spike is calculated, every movement fluid. The intensity radiating off him is almost palpable.

His team wins, of course.

Afterward, you wait for him outside the locker room, arms crossed, watching as players filter out one by one. When he steps out, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and his bag slung over one shoulder, he stops the moment he sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you play that well just because I was watching?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sakusa scoffs, rolling his eyes.

But his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

You grin. “You totally did.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

And when you both walk back to your dorms later, shoulders brushing, his fingers graze yours before he pulls away too quickly.

You pretend not to notice.

That night, after another round of pretending this is just stress relief, neither of you move when it’s over.

You’re lying on his bed, your head turned slightly toward him, watching the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your skin. The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of students passing by outside and the rhythmic hum of the dorm heater kicking on.

You could get up. You should get up.

But instead, you speak.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” you murmur.

Sakusa doesn’t open his eyes. “What?”

“This,” you say, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to do this.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, just for a second. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

You swallow. “So why do we?”

Sakusa finally opens his eyes, looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something there—something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken yet unmistakably there.

You expect him to dodge the question, to brush it off the way he usually does. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you.

And you realize, in that moment, that you don’t really want to hear his answer.

You just want him to keep looking at you like that.

five.

A week before the festival, the networking event is in full swing. The banquet hall is filled with students, alumni, and faculty—mingling, exchanging business cards, and making polite conversation over expensive hors d’oeuvres. The hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of polite laughter—all of it blends into a constant, low-level buzz, the kind that starts to wear on you after the first hour.

And it has been an hour. An exhausting one.

You’ve spent most of it bouncing between conversations, smiling until your cheeks ache, engaging with donors who are all too eager to talk about their latest ventures. It’s tedious, but necessary. Part of the job. You, as much as you sometimes wish you weren’t, are the face of the ASU, and that means standing here, playing nice, keeping people happy.

Across the room, Sakusa is lurking near the back, a glass of water in his hand, his expression unreadable. He never cared for these kinds of events, and you’re not sure why he bothers attending in the first place. Maybe because you’re here. Maybe because it’d be more suspicious if he didn’t. Either way, he’s kept his distance all night, watching the room with the sharp, observant eyes you know so well.

You’re halfway through an exhausting conversation with a donor when someone sidles up beside you, close enough that the scent of his cologne—something expensive, overly strong—settles in the air between you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough self-assurance to set you on edge. “You look good tonight.”

You barely remember his name—Terushima, maybe? Some business major, someone who always carries himself like he’s the most interesting person in the room. He’s charming, in that forced, calculated way, and it’s clear he expects the same back.

You force a polite smile, instinctively taking a step back. “Thanks,” you say evenly. “Are you enjoying the event?”

He barely acknowledges your words. His eyes linger. It’s not overtly inappropriate, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—”

Before he can finish, a hand lands on the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You glance up just in time to see Sakusa step in beside you, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakably possessive. His fingers flex slightly against your waist—not hard, not urgent, but firm enough to ground you.

The guy’s smirk falters.

“Oh,” he says, glancing between you and Sakusa, processing. “Didn’t realize you were… with someone.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The air around him shifts, a quiet warning woven into the sharpness of his gaze.

The guy clears his throat, mutters something about catching up later, and disappears into the crowd.

Sakusa’s hand doesn’t move.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.

He exhales sharply, finally letting go. “He was annoying.”

You bite back a smile. “You’re grumpy.”

He gives you a look—flat, unimpressed—but there’s something unreadable in his expression, something tense, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You don’t think much of it. Not until later.

That night, everything feels different.

Sakusa’s touch is rougher than usual. Not careless, not cruel—just… more. Harder. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingers pressing deep into your skin, like he’s trying to anchor himself. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, laced with something unspoken, something desperate. Like something inside him has snapped, like he needs to prove something—not to you, but to himself.

You notice immediately.

The way he pushes you back onto the mattress, the way his body moves against yours, the way his lips chase yours with a kind of urgency you’re not used to—it’s different. There’s a tension in him that wasn’t there before, a weight behind his touch that makes your breath hitch. It’s not impatience, not exactly. It’s more like restraint fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

When he settles between your legs, when he pulls you against him like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers, you smirk against his lips.

“Someone’s in a mood,” you murmur, voice teasing, but there’s an underlying curiosity there too. A question you don’t quite ask.

He exhales sharply against your neck, a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts your chin up, kisses you harder, swallowing whatever words might have come next. And just like that, the conversation ends.

You don’t tease him after that.

Later, long after the room has gone quiet again, your breath is still uneven, your body still humming in the aftershocks of it all. The warmth of his skin lingers against yours, the feeling of his touch still imprinted in every place he’s been.

You expect him to roll away like he usually does—to shift onto his side, to put that familiar distance between you. Sakusa isn’t distant, not in the way that people assume, but he’s careful. Careful with his space, with his touch, with how much of himself he lets you see.

But tonight is different.

Instead of moving away, he stays close. One arm draped loosely over your waist, his fingers resting against your skin. His breathing is slow, deep, steady. When you shift slightly, his grip flexes—just barely, just enough to keep you there.

You blink, caught off guard.

Sakusa is guarded, meticulous, composed. He doesn’t do things without reason, doesn’t let his guard slip without meaning to. And yet, right now, he’s letting himself be close. Letting himself stay.

You watch him for a moment. His curls are messier than usual, some strands falling over his forehead. In the dim glow of the night, his features are softer, more open than they usually are. There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded, still half-lost in the haze of sleep—that makes something tighten in your chest.

Without thinking, you reach up, brushing the hair away from his face.

Sakusa’s eyes flutter open.

You freeze. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he exhales, his eyes slipping shut again.

You take that as permission.

Your fingers move again, slower this time, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, his shoulders relaxing beneath your touch. You don’t think he even realizes it, the way he melts into the warmth of your palm, the way his body unconsciously shifts closer.

A strange warmth settles in your chest. Something soft. Something quiet.

The urge to be closer to him—to feel more of him—creeps in before you can think better of it. And so you don’t think. You just act, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

Sakusa’s eyes snap open again.

He stares at you, startled, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“What?” you ask, amused. “I can’t kiss you?”

His brows furrow, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, “You never have before.”

The words sit heavy between you.

You blink, lips parting slightly. You don’t know why his voice sounds like that—soft, careful, like he’s treading over unfamiliar ground. You don’t know why it makes your heartbeat stutter, why it makes your chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

You swallow. “Did you… not like it?”

A beat of silence. Then, just as quiet: “No.”

Your breath catches.

He exhales, turning his face slightly into the pillow, but not before you catch the faintest hint of red blooming across the tops of his ears.

So you take a chance, leaning in again—this time pressing a softer kiss against his temple, then another against the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

And when you settle back down beside him, his fingers find yours, hesitant but deliberate.

Neither of you say anything.

You don’t need to.

six.

Sakusa isn’t paying attention at first.

He’s in the ASU office, sorting through the last of the Spring Festival budget reports while the others talk idly around him. The voices blend into the usual hum of conversation—background noise, nothing worth listening to. At least, not until he hears your name.

That’s what makes his focus shift, what makes his fingers still slightly on the paper in his hands. His head doesn’t lift, his posture doesn’t change, but his ears tune in before he can stop himself.

“Are you guys dating?”

Kiyoko’s voice. Calm. Casual. A simple question, but one that makes his grip tighten around the page in his hands before he even knows why.

There’s a pause—just long enough for something to stir uneasily in his chest.

Then you laugh.

“Oh, no,” you say, amused. “It’s not like that.”

His stomach drops.

The feeling is sharp, unexpected. Foreign.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like you’ve ever talked about this. It’s not like there’s anything to talk about. You both agreed—no feelings, no complications. Just stress relief.

Still, the way you say it—so easily, so effortlessly—it makes his throat tighten.

Not like that.

Not even close.

Sakusa forces himself to breathe, shifting slightly in his seat as he stares at the document in front of him. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to let it go, to shake off the strange weight settling over his chest. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The festival is next week. His schedule is packed. He doesn’t have time to dwell on things that shouldn’t even be a problem in the first place.

But for the first time in weeks, his brain refuses to cooperate.

The conversation continues around him, but it’s as if everything has dulled—like the words are passing through a filter, muffled and distant. All he hears is your voice. The casual certainty in your tone. The way you’d dismissed the thought so easily, like it wasn’t even worth considering.

Like the idea of being with him was ridiculous.

He exhales slowly, his grip on the budget report tightening until the edges of the paper crumple under his fingers. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease his hold, just stares down at the page as if forcing himself to refocus will make the feeling go away.

It doesn’t.

It lingers.

All through the rest of the meeting, as he signs off on expenses and finalizes last-minute festival details. As you talk to him like nothing has changed—like he’s still the same Sakusa you’ve always known, the one you don’t have to think twice about, the one who isn’t even worth a second glance.

By the time the meeting ends, he feels restless.

Then, later, you invite him to a party.

It’s casual—one of your friends is hosting, nothing too fancy, just a small gathering with drinks and music. The kind of thing you don’t usually ask him to go to.

“Come with me,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow as you both leave the office. “You never go out.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have time.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Sakusa, for once in your life, stop being responsible and just come have fun.”

But he shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”

You stop walking. Turn to face him.

“Why?”

The question is simple. Easy. You’re not even upset—not really. Just confused. Because he never used to turn you down before.

He hesitates.

He could lie. Say he’s busy, that he has too much work to do, that he’s too tired.

But that’s not the real reason.

The real reason is this: if he goes, he can’t pretend it’s not real anymore.

He can’t keep pretending this is just stress relief. That it doesn’t mean anything. That he doesn’t want more than what you’re willing to give.

Because if he goes, he’ll see you in a setting where you’re not just the ASU president, not just the person who collapses into his bed after long meetings, not just the person who understands him better than anyone else.

You’ll be you. Loud, laughing, electric.

And he’ll look at you, and he’ll want. And he can’t afford that, not when he already knows how this ends.

So instead, he meets your gaze and says, “I just don’t feel like it.”

Something flickers across your expression. It’s quick—so quick that if he wasn’t looking at you so closely, he might’ve missed it.

But he doesn’t.

He sees the brief drop of your shoulders, the slight shift in your posture. You don’t push. You don’t ask again.

You just nod once, tight and short, and say, “Okay. Whatever.”

And then you turn and walk away, sparing only a quick glance over your shoulder.

The moment you’re gone, Sakusa exhales, running a hand down his face. He tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wanted. That this is better.

But he feels like shit. His head hurts. He feels like he can’t breathe.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Sakusa wonders if he just made a mistake.

seven.

Sakusa starts pulling away first.

It’s subtle in the beginning. Little things.

You don’t notice it immediately—not with how chaotic the week leading up to the Spring Festival is, how much there is to do, how many fires there are to put out. The days are long, packed with meetings, last-minute approvals, and problem-solving. You’re too busy running from one crisis to another to really stop and think about it.

But then it starts becoming undeniable.

He stops lingering after meetings. Stops staying late in the office with you. Stops brushing his fingers against yours when he hands you documents, stops nudging your knee under the conference table, stops looking at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

And, most noticeably, he stops touching you.

That’s when it really sinks in.

Because you had started to grow used to it—the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way he’d reach for you without thinking, the way he used to pull you into his side when no one was around. It had become second nature, a quiet, unspoken thing between you.

You had never questioned it before, had never asked what it meant, because you didn’t think you had to.

But now? Now it’s like none of it ever happened. And you, despite all your reasoning, don’t understand why.

At first, you try to be patient. Try to tell yourself it’s just stress, that he’s just overwhelmed with work, that once the festival is over, things will go back to normal.

But then another day passes.

And another.

And suddenly, you can’t ignore it anymore.

The shift between you is undeniable. It’s in the way he moves around you now—distant, calculated, careful. In the way he answers you with clipped, impersonal responses. In the way he keeps space between you, never standing too close, never reaching for you like he used to.

You wait for him to snap out of it.

He doesn’t.

And when another day ends with nothing—no lingering glances, no easy, familiar touch, no warmth—you start to wonder if you imagined it all. If it had only ever been real for you.

So the night before the festival, you finally snap.

The office is empty, save for the two of you. The exec board has long since gone home, leaving behind stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and the heavy silence between you.

Sakusa is seated across from you, scrolling through his tablet, looking as calm and composed as ever. You, on the other hand, are vibrating with frustration.

You don’t know how to bring it up. You don’t know how to phrase it, how to put into words the mounting tension, the frustration, the confusion—the gnawing ache in your chest that has been growing with every passing day.

So you wait. You tell yourself you’ll wait for him to say something, to acknowledge the change between you, to explain why things feel so different now.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his tablet, grabs his bag, and stands up—just like that, like nothing is wrong, like he hasn’t been slowly pushing you away without a single explanation.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

“That’s it?” you blurt out.

Sakusa pauses, glancing at you with a frown. “What?”

“That’s it?” You stand, crossing your arms. “You’re just gonna leave?”

He exhales, clearly exhausted. “It’s late.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Silence.

He looks at you, expression carefully blank, and for the first time, you realize how much that pisses you off. How much you hate that unreadable look, how much you hate that he’s acting like he doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about.

Your stomach twists. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t… like I don’t exist.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” You take a step forward, your pulse racing. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “What the hell, Sakusa?”

He stays silent, staring at you.

You shake your head, frustration mounting. “You know what? Fine. If something’s wrong, just say it. If I did something, just tell me. But don’t—” Your throat tightens. “Don’t just shut me out.”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before you can place it.

Then, he says, “You’re overthinking it.”

You blink.

And then, you laugh—sharp, bitter. “Oh, I’m overthinking it?”

“Yes.” His voice is calm, infuriatingly so. “It was never meant to mean anything, remember?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Something cold settles in your stomach. You stare at him, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

He doesn’t even flinch as he says it, doesn’t even hesitate. Just looks at you like this is nothing, like the past few weeks have been nothing, like the way he used to kiss you like he needed it, like the way he held you close at night, like none of it mattered.

Like you don’t matter.

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Right,” you say quietly. “I forgot. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending things don’t matter.”

Sakusa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You should really leave. You should walk away before you say something you can’t take back. But you can’t—not yet.

So instead, you inhale sharply and take one last shot, your voice softer now. “Did any of it mean anything to you?”

Sakusa’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. His posture is rigid, his face unreadable. But he doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything you need to know.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. “Okay, then. If it doesn’t mean anything, then let’s just stop.”

Something shifts in his expression—something small, something almost imperceptible. But you don’t wait to figure out what it is.

You turn before he can say anything else, before he can twist the knife even further, before you can say something you’ll regret.

You’re the one who walks away.

This time, you don’t look back.

eight.

You pretend everything is normal.

Meetings are professional. Efficient. Painfully, excruciatingly polite.

Sakusa hands you reports with a clipped, “Here.” His voice is devoid of warmth, of the quiet familiarity that used to live there. You take them without glancing up, without acknowledging the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the impulse to linger. When you slide budget breakdowns across the table, you’re careful—so careful—not to let your fingers brush his, even by accident.

Once, you might have laughed together at the absurdity of this project, whispering half-serious bets about which department head would crack under the stress first. Once, you might have stayed late in the ASU office, shoulders brushing as you worked through spreadsheets in the dim glow of your laptop screens, stealing moments of shared exhaustion, shared silence, shared something.

Now, there’s nothing.

Now, there’s only distance.

It kills him.

At first, he thought this would be easier. That shutting you out would make it hurt less when you eventually drifted away. That if he built a wall between you first, he wouldn’t have to watch you build one later. He thought he was protecting himself.

But this—this is so much worse.

Because you’re still here, but you’re not his anymore.

And it’s all his fault.

You distract yourself with the festival. There’s no time to dwell on things that don’t matter, you tell yourself. Vendors need coordinating. Performers need confirming. Alumni need charming. A hundred little details claw at your attention, demanding focus, pulling you away from thoughts that ache too much to touch.

You throw yourself into the work like it’s a lifeline, like drowning in logistics and schedules will somehow silence the restless thoughts that gnaw at the edges of your mind. If you keep moving, if you keep planning, if you keep pushing forward, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t feel the weight of what’s missing.

And yet, the stress is worse now.

Because Sakusa used to help carry it.

He used to take half the burden without being asked. Without expectation. Just because he could, because he wanted to. Because he used to look at you and see someone worth helping.

Now, the weight is suffocating.

You feel it in the silence of the ASU office late at night, the way the empty chair beside you seems colder than before. You feel it in the exhaustion that clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. You feel it in the dull ache that settles in your chest every morning, never quite fading, never quite leaving you alone.

But worst of all, you feel it every time you see him.

He looks fine. Composed, indifferent, the same as always.

It infuriates you.

Because really, how dare he? How dare he act like nothing happened, like nothing changed? Like you weren’t tangled up in his sheets just days ago, like he wasn’t tracing circles against your skin in the quiet hours before dawn, like he wasn’t the one who pulled away first?

How dare he pretend you never meant anything, when he was the one who made you feel like you did?

You hate him for it. You hate him for leaving, for walking away.

But more than anything, you hate that deep down, under your hurt, you don’t hate him. Not even a little bit. Not really at all.

Sakusa is miserable.

Volleyball used to be his escape. His sanctuary. The only thing that made sense.

But now, even that feels wrong.

Because before every match, before every practice, he used to look for you in the stands. It wasn’t even conscious—just instinct, muscle memory. A habit woven into his routine, as natural as breathing.

He knew you didn’t come to every game. But you did, a lot. Sometimes he’d glance up and catch you pretending not to watch him too closely, pretending not to care, even as your gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he’d meet your eyes, and you’d smirk, and he’d know—know that later, when the dust settled, you’d have some sharp-witted comment about his form, his plays, his post-game interviews.

But now, he looks, and you’re never there.

It fucking sucks. It ruins his whole routine.

It starts to show, too. His blocks are sloppy. His serves lack precision. His reactions are just a half-second too slow, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way the ball doesn’t quite connect the way it should, in the way the court doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And his teammates notice.

“You good, man?” Bokuto asks one afternoon, frowning after another off-target spike.

Sakusa exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though,” Hinata says, watching him carefully. “You’ve been playing like shit.”

Sakusa glares. “I’m not—”

“Ya are,” Atsumu cuts in, arms crossed. “And it’s not just yer game. You’ve been miserable for weeks. If somethin’s wrong, deal with it.”

Sakusa clenches his jaw. Says nothing.

Because what is there to say? That he’s miserable because of you? That he’s the one who ruined everything? That he made this choice, and now he has to live with it? That he doesn’t even know if you’d forgive him, even if he tried to fix it? That the only person who could make him feel like himself again is the one person who won’t even look at him anymore?

No.

He can’t say any of that.

So instead, he just exhales, picks up the ball, and mutters, “Let’s run it again,” and pretends like everything isn’t falling apart.

nine.

The festival, despite everything, begins.

It should be thrilling. It should feel like a triumph, the culmination of months of relentless work, late nights spent hunched over planning documents, and a hundred tiny decisions that should have amounted to something seamless, something grand.

Instead, it feels like hell.

Everything that can go wrong does. Vendors arrive late, throwing the entire setup into disarray, their excuses flimsy and their apologies meaningless when the delay sends a ripple effect of chaos through the carefully arranged schedule. The sound system glitches in the middle of the first student performance, transforming the singer’s voice into a garbled mess of static before cutting out entirely, leaving behind a stunned silence. Booths sit empty, their intended attendants missing due to some logistical oversight—some failure of coordination that has faculty members exchanging exasperated looks, their whispers dripping with disapproval.

You are drowning.

By the second day, you are running on caffeine, frustration, and the sheer willpower not to completely unravel. Your feet ache from hours of pacing across campus, your temples throb from the unrelenting onslaught of problems, and your patience—already stretched thin—is now nonexistent. The pressure is suffocating, bearing down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry alone.

And Sakusa?

He is just as miserable.

You see it in the rigidity of his posture, in the way his fingers curl into fists whenever another problem arises, in the exhaustion darkening his gaze. He moves through the chaos with his usual efficiency—quiet, methodical, unreadable—but you know him. You know him better than anyone.

And you know he is barely holding it together.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you mention how your interactions have been reduced to clipped exchanges, words stripped of warmth, spoken with as much distance as possible. Neither of you admit that this week—this godforsaken week—has been unbearable without the other.

Unfortunately, your executive board notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi announces, arms crossed as he surveys the two of you like a detective piecing together a crime scene. “Something is wrong.”

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, flipping through the latest stack of vendor complaints. The words blur slightly, but you refuse to let anyone see just how exhausted you are.

“I’m not,” he insists, undeterred. He gestures between you and Sakusa, who is seated across the room, fingers flying over his keyboard as he types with a level of aggression usually reserved for his worst enemies. “You guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual.”

“We’re fine,” you snap.

Kiyoko adjusts her glasses, her sharp gaze cutting through your defenses. “You haven’t smiled in days. You’re constantly on edge. And Sakusa—” she tilts her head towards him, “—hasn’t insulted Futakuchi even once today.”

“That’s actually a huge red flag,” Futakuchi adds helpfully.

Ushijima, ever serious, nods in agreement. “The dynamic of the team has shifted.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Can you all not? We have actual work to do.”

Aone, silent until now, observes the two of you with his usual quiet intensity. Then, after a painfully long beat, he gives a single, solemn nod. “Tension,” he murmurs.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

Futakuchi’s smirk is infuriating. “See? Even Aone notices.”

You don’t bother responding. You don’t even have the energy to argue. Instead, you gather your paperwork, shove your laptop into your bag, and storm out.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you’d see Sakusa watching you leave.

You hit your breaking point halfway through the week.

It happens during the alumni networking fair—the crown jewel of the festival, the event that was supposed to impress donors, alumni, and potential sponsors. The one you poured every ounce of your energy into perfecting, sculpting each detail with the precision of a master craftsman.

Instead, it crumbles.

A venue miscommunication leads to seating chaos, leaving guests aimlessly wandering, confused and increasingly irritated. The guest speaker’s flight is delayed, the catering company—despite weeks of prior confirmation—chooses now to re-verify their payment processing, and as if fate itself is conspiring against you, an administrator corners you minutes before the event, droning about “expectations for student leadership” and how “this level of disorganization reflects poorly.”

You can’t do this.

You feel it building—the pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything going wrong all at once. Your chest tightens, your vision blurs at the edges, and for the first time all week, you recognize a terrifying truth:

You cannot do this alone.

Then, before you can completely shatter, Sakusa steps in.

One moment, you are teetering, barely keeping yourself upright. The next, he is there.

He moves swiftly, seamlessly, fixing problems before you can even register them. He handles the seating issue with a few clipped instructions. He calls the speaker’s team, negotiating a workaround before you can even reach for your phone. He takes charge of the caterers, shutting down their nonsense with two curt sentences and a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

He moves through the chaos with the same unshakable precision he always has—calm, efficient, controlled. He has always been good under pressure, but this is different. This is not just problem-solving. This is something else.

And it hits you all at once: you miss him.

Not just the arrangement. Not just the late nights, the convenience, the way his touch had always lingered longer than necessary.

Him.

The way he always knew—knew exactly when you were on the verge of unraveling. The way he kept things from falling apart, even when you felt like you were. The way he understood you—truly, deeply, in a way no one else ever had.

And it is terrifying, because it is not just missing him. It’s needing him.

Sakusa realizes it too.

Not just that he still wants you, not just that ignoring you has made this entire week unbearable. Those things were obvious. What he realizes now is that none of this—none of the work, none of the stress—was ever what exhausted him.

It was pretending. Pretending he didn’t care. Pretending it was just an arrangement. Pretending he didn’t—

Well.

Pretending he didn’t love you.

And now, watching you—watching the way your shoulders finally loosen as you let him help, watching the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable when you look at him—he knows it is too late.

He’s in too deep. He’s always been in too deep.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even care anymore. He misses you too much to care.

ten.

It’s as if the universe has finally gotten its act together.

For once, everything aligns. As if things have finally conspired in your favor, the remainder of the festival unfolds with an almost unsettling ease. No vendor catastrophes, no logistical nightmares, no alumni with their impossible demands.

Thursday slips into Friday, Friday into Saturday morning, each day a seamless rhythm of events ticking by without incident. Your executive board exhales in collective relief, tension unspooling from their shoulders. Your own pulse, which has been a metronome of stress all week, finally settles into something resembling normalcy. You even manage to sleep—five full hours, a luxury that feels like an eternity compared to the restless snatches of rest you’ve been surviving on.

And now, the final night is here.

The Spring Gala. The grand finale. The last orchestration of the festival—a beast of an event that had consumed endless planning meetings, countless revisions, and more compromises than you’d care to admit. And yet, somehow, impossibly, everything is running smoothly.

The ballroom glows with golden light, strands of soft illumination draped elegantly across the ceiling, casting a warm haze over the room. Candlelight flickers along the tables, their delicate floral arrangements arranged with meticulous care, petals unfurling under the glow like they, too, are basking in the perfection of the night. The gentle hum of a live string quartet weaves through the space, their melody twining through laughter and the quiet clink of champagne glasses. Students and faculty glide through the room in their finest attire, the men crisp in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and satins, everyone engaged in the carefully curated illusion that deadlines and responsibilities don’t exist beyond these gilded walls.

Everything is perfect.

And yet, your focus narrows to one thing.

Him.

Sakusa looks good. Too good.

The sharp lines of his black suit mold effortlessly to his frame, the dark fabric absorbing the ambient light, making him appear even more striking. His curls are tousled, just slightly, as though he had run a hand through them absentmindedly before walking in. He stands with practiced ease, scanning the room with the same sharp, unreadable expression he always wears—one that betrays nothing, yet you’ve always found yourself trying to decipher. And it’s infuriating, because you’ve spent the entire week meticulously avoiding the gravitational pull he seems to exert, trying not to let your eyes linger too long, trying not to remember the weight of everything unsaid between you.

But right now? Right now, he’s making it impossible.

Especially when his gaze finally lands on you.

It’s just a flicker—a second’s pause, a shift in his expression so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t already attuned to him. But you see it. The way his dark eyes sweep over you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The way something unreadable flickers in his gaze before he schools his features into careful neutrality.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to move, bridging the space between you with a measured ease you don’t quite feel. Every step feels deliberate, a careful choreography masking the unease curling in your stomach.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you say, tilting your head slightly, voice lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

Sakusa’s brow lifts—just barely, the movement almost imperceptible—but you catch it. “I planned half of this.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself in the face of his presence. “Yeah, but you hate these things.”

He exhales, his gaze sweeping over the grand spectacle around you as if only now acknowledging the elaborate display—the glittering chandeliers, the swirl of expensive fabric, the low hum of conversation filling the air like static. “Figured it would be suspicious if the EVP didn’t make an appearance.”

“Mhm.” You hesitate, just for a beat, before speaking again. “So… where’s your date?”

His eyes snap back to yours, something sharp and immediate in the way he looks at you, like the question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Your date,” you repeat, forcing nonchalance into your tone even as your pulse betrays you, drumming against your skin. “Someone as charming as you must have one, right?”

Sakusa’s expression flattens, unreadable yet telling in ways you don’t have the words for. “No.”

The single syllable lands heavier than it should. You had expected a different answer—assumed he would have someone by his side, someone who had effortlessly captured his attention in the time you had spent pushing him away. And yet, here he stands. Alone.

You don’t know why that realization makes your heart stutter.

“Well,” Sakusa says, his exhale quieter this time. “Neither did you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His gaze remains steady. “You didn’t bring a date either.”

“Yeah, because I was working.” You scoff, deflecting without hesitation.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that makes you feel like he’s seeing more than you intend to show. “Still.”

It’s just a single word, but it lingers, curling around you like an unspoken challenge, seeping beneath your skin, sparking something warm and restless in your chest.

Before you can unpack it, before you can shield yourself from whatever this is, he speaks again.

“Dance with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

Sakusa sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, like he hates what he’s about to say. “Dance with me,” he repeats, softer this time. “Since neither of us brought dates.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, trying to decipher the layers of meaning beneath the words.

Sakusa Kiyoomi—who loathes social events, who avoids unnecessary physical contact, who has spent the entire night lingering at the edges of the room—is standing here, asking you to dance.

And for some reason, against all logic, you say, “Okay.”

The music shifts into something slow, something delicate, a melody spun from soft strings and quiet longing. It doesn’t demand anything extravagant, only movement, only presence.

You expect him to be tense, awkward, but when his hand finds your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your dress with a touch more certain than you anticipated, there is no hesitation. His other hand finds yours, warm and sure, his grip anchoring. His movements are smooth, practiced, betraying a familiarity with this kind of closeness that feels at odds with the person you thought you knew.

You, however, are acutely aware of everything.

The warmth of his palm burning through the layers between you. The faint press of his fingertips against your lower back, light yet possessive. The scent of his cologne—crisp, clean, laced with bergamot and something deeper, something uniquely him.

And then there’s his gaze, dark and unreadable, flickering down to meet yours, searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

It’s too much.

And suddenly, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, quiet, hesitant, but real.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Sakusa blinks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “For what?”

You inhale, fingers curling against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the press of fabric and muscle beneath your touch. “For how things have been. For the way I acted. For… shutting you out. I really did miss you, you know.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I missed you too.”

Something in your chest loosens, a tether unspooling, unraveling the knots that had been holding you in place. But before you can fully breathe it in, before you can settle into the tentative relief of it, he continues.

“I just… couldn’t pretend anymore.”

You frown, caught on the way his voice shifts, the way something raw bleeds into his words. “Pretend what?”

Sakusa hesitates. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, his grip shifting as if trying to hold onto something unseen. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, like he’s forcing the words out before he loses the nerve to say them.

“That I didn’t care about you.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter, weightier—“That I didn’t… want more.”

The world tilts.

Your breath catches, your pulse tripping over itself, something dangerous and inevitable clawing its way up your throat.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. It’s like when you first kissed him in the office so many weeks ago: you, despite everything, just move—heedless, reckless, drawn forward by something deeper than reason.

Your lips find his in a collision of heat and longing, tentative at first—a question whispered in the language of touch, of all the words left unsaid, of all the moments spent waiting, wanting.

For a single, breathless heartbeat, the world hangs in stillness. A hesitation. A precipice. Then Sakusa exhales, a sharp, punched-out sound like he’s just had the wind knocked from his lungs, and something in him snaps like a wire pulled too taut for too long.

His grip tightens at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. His other hand finds the back of your neck, calloused fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just so as he deepens the kiss—no longer a question, but an answer.

The world outside of this moment ceases to exist. The only thing real is the warmth of his mouth against yours, the steady, insistent press of his body, the scent of him—his detergent, his cologne. He tastes like something intoxicating, something you want to drown in.

Sakusa kisses you like he needs to remember this very feeling, like this time away from you has been centuries rather than days—like he’s tracing the shape of your lips into the fabric of his being, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he so much as loosens his hold. There’s something achingly restrained in the way he moves, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—for far longer than he’s willing to admit.

And the thing is, you don’t want to let go.

Not now.

Not ever again.

eleven.

The final night of the festival is winding down, and the fundraiser gala is drawing to a close. The speeches are about to begin. The crowd falls into a hush, the hum of conversation quieting as attention shifts to the podium.

You grip the podium, clear your throat, and begin your speech. It's the usual stuff—thank-yous to the faculty, acknowledgements of the hard work that went into the festival, and a few light jokes to keep the atmosphere warm.

And through it all, he's there.

You feel Sakusa before you see him, his presence quietly grounding you. His hand brushes against yours just as you step up to the stage, a small, subtle touch that sends a wave of calm through you. It’s enough to settle your nerves, even if just a little.

The speech goes on. You focus, but in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the quiet weight of him standing beside you, unmoving but unwavering, just like always. Then, under the podium, his fingers curl around yours. The touch is light, hidden from the crowd, but it’s there.

Your breath hitches for a moment, but you keep going, squeezing his hand once in quiet reassurance. You keep speaking, maintaining your composure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Futakuchi freeze. His eyes flicker to your joined hands, and you catch the brief, silent exchange between him and Aone. Futakuchi’s soft exhale is followed by a rustling of bills, Aone accepting his twenty-dollar winnings without a word.

Across the room, Kiyoko watches with a knowing smile, her gaze flicking between you and Sakusa.

When the speech ends, the applause fills the room, warm and inviting. You turn slightly, feeling Sakusa’s hand slip away, but before it fully retreats, his pinky brushes against yours for just a moment longer than necessary. Your heart stumbles again.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans the second you step offstage. He throws up his hands in exaggerated relief. “Do you have any idea how painful it’s been watching you two not be together?”

You blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Kiyoko hums, setting her drink down. “He’s right.”

Ushijima offers a solemn nod. “It was inevitable.”

“You guys knew?” Sakusa asks, furrowing his brow.

Futakuchi scoffs. “Obviously. Everyone knew.” He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “You two always fit together, even before you realized it yourselves.”

Aone gives a single, affirming nod.

Kiyoko just shrugs. “You just took your time getting there.”

You glance at Sakusa, and to your surprise, he doesn’t seem annoyed. He’s not irritated—just thoughtful. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he exhales quietly. “Yeah. We did.”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment.

The gala lights shimmer above you, casting a warm glow over the ballroom. The noise of the crowd rises around you—the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, the soft notes of a song playing from the dance floor. The air smells of champagne and wax from the flickering candles, mingling with the floral arrangements around the room. But none of it feels overwhelming. Not with him beside you.

Sakusa stands next to you, solid and constant, just like he always has been. You glance at him again, noticing how the light hits his sharp features, how his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. He exhales slowly, and then shifts just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours—a small, silent reassurance.

The conversations around you—Futakuchi’s exasperated muttering, Kiyoko’s quiet amusement, Aone’s rare nods of agreement—become distant, secondary. In this moment, it doesn’t matter. Because here, with him beside you, you realize one thing.

You don’t have to hide. There’s no more second-guessing, no more wondering.

No more pretending.

You are here, beside him. And he’s here, beside you.

Sakusa exhales again, barely audible over the music. His fingers brush against yours once more—nothing more than a whisper of a touch. But the warmth it brings lingers in your chest, steady and real.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

The night goes on—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the celebration. The festival is over, the gala winding down, the world moving forward as it always does.

But for now, in this moment, standing next to him, you know something for sure.

You don’t have to walk alone anymore.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

⨭ closing notes; special thanks to @megapteraurelia for beta reading!! veryyyy meh abt this one so far but who knows lol. ngl i'm not a sakusa girl so i hope i did him justice if u guys have any suggestions for improvement pls let me know!!! btw i am working on smth lowk crazy so i may not have a new fic for a hot sec but when im back it'll be w smth SPECIAL

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eviesaurusrex · 2 months ago

Text

"I am here." | B. Sorrengail

Brennan Sorrengail x Riorson!Reader

summary: Brennan knows she can handle herself and keep herself nurtured—but why should she if he can easily take care of her?

word count: 1.8k

warnings: pure fluff, reader is described as being independent and doesn’t accept any help at all, acts of services as a love language, Brennan is a softie, reader has the cold, cooking, short mention of clairvoyant abilities as a signet, mention of a not ideal childhood

author’s note: This idea came to life thanks to this post from @theseinfernalangels Thank you for the inspiration! <3 The dividers are made by @enchanthings-a

dragon name—Mór-ríoghan | Mór

Ever since they had first met in front of the parapet, Brennan Sorrengail had known.

He had known how hard he would fall for her—already happening after one glance from her and the slight tip of her lips despite the situation they soon had faced. It had gotten worse over the course of the following passing weeks until he hadn’t held back any longer. Not after they both had survived Threshing with a bonded dragon as their prize—and a few new scars as proof of their overcoming.

Even then, YN had been independent to a fault, only ever letting go of it when they flew formations. It was no surprise to him when she was named Section Leader and Wing Leader and continued on with her career after their graduation. Not with that signet of hers. Brennan still felt guilt gnawing at him in moments of retrospection, knowing she must have known of the day of his presumed death before he had even left for the battle. The guilt turned all-consuming every time she woke crying in the depth of night, startled by yet another nightmare of his death, her hands grasping for his body and clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

He did not mind, obviously. Those rare moments of helplessness, of being unable to hold herself together… Brennan did not relish in them, of course not, but he felt needed in a way she rarely expressed because YN wasn’t the type of woman who needed anyone. And yet, she had confessed her love to him all those years ago and had waited for him despite not knowing for certain if he would ever come back to her.

He had only left Riorson House for not more than an hour. He had headed to the market in the early morning after waking up to a coughing and wheezing YN; her body flushed with a fever, her cheeks warm to the touch. Brennan hadn’t imagined for her to wake up in the next couple of hours, not with the cold running havoc within her body after the last patrol she flew, but he was proven differently when he closed the door behind him, a pack of vegetables and herbs resting comfortably in the crook of his arm.

The clatter of knives, pots, and plates traveled through the hallway, and his eyes landed on Xaden, Violet, and Garrick standing on the threshold of the sunlit kitchen, watching something or someone. “Is Bodhi trying to bake again?” His question made them turn their heads one at a time before his sister looked back again, her forehead furrowed. “Not particularly…?”

Relief flooded the eldest Sorrengail because that disaster was something neither of them needed another time, especially if it involved fire and smoke poisoning again.

But the relief was short-lived when the familiar cough was heard between pots clattering and a mumbled swear. He was quick and stepped next to his friends, eyes raking over the kitchen, and found YN within a heartbeat, wrapped in her favorite blanket that dragged across the floor like a train behind her, her nose obviously being through a lot since he had left her in bed this morning.

“I offered to help, but…,” Garrick started and trailed off. “You know how she is,” Xaden ended the sentence with a grumble, obviously not fond of his older sister dragging herself around in such a state, arms crossed in front of his chest. Violet nudged Brennan softly. “I tried to get her back to bed, offered some of that tea Mira brought, but all she did was grumbling and mumbling No. She’s so much like you.” The last part was directed at Xaden hovering in her back, and he only rolled his eyes at that. “Well, they do share blood. And Fen wasn’t the most present father.” Garrick’s comment made Brennan’s heart clench just like every time YN had told him about her childhood and growing up as the firstborn Riorson—and not being the boy that was demanded by some ludicrous wedding contract.

Xaden stared at him, almost unblinking, and Brennan cocked a brow in return before pushing through the small group and nudging them back into the hallway. “Stop hovering and let me do my job, all right?” The other Riorson huffed at that, but Violet was quick to take his arm and lead him away, distracting him from wanting to beat Brennan up again. The Sorrengail didn’t need another one of his beatings, not when YN was still trying to cook herself a meal despite him being able to do it just fine for her.

With a soft sigh, he stepped into the kitchen and placed his purchase on the countertop, rounding the island with slow, measured steps in order not to startle her. His eyes raked over her form, taking in her slumped posture, the shake of her shoulders every time another cough rattled her tired body, her voice barely audible when she softly spoke to her dragon.

“I am as bright as day, Mór. I can make me some bloody soup without passing out.”

But Brennan didn’t believe that for one second, so his hands got a gentle hold of her shoulders, his thumbs caressing the soft fabric of her blanket. She didn’t even flinch, probably already anticipating him because they certainly weren’t quite when they had watched her rummaging in here, trying to cook something.

“Why aren’t you in bed, darling? Where you belong with that cold, might I add?” His voice was soft, and Brennan pressed a gentle kiss on the curve between shoulder and neck, feeling the heat of her body warring against the cold on his skin. A raspy groan was heard from her while she tried to hold onto the knife in her hand, which slightly shook with every cough. “Not you as well,” YN mumbled with a frown thrown his way across her shoulder, but his hand closing softly around the knife handle made her pause. “Love, I have every right to be concerned for your wellbeing. Let me help.” The Sorrengail tried to be as gentle and soft as possible, trying to coax her into finally letting him step up and help her for once, but the suspicion in her eyes wouldn’t vanish.

“Why would I let you cook when I am clearly capable of doing it myself? I’m not dying, Brennan, I am just sick. It's barely worth mentioning.” YN tried to cut through the first carrot she had found in the pantry but was forced to stop when another bone-rattling cough wracked her body, her fingers grasping for purchase at the edge of the wooden countertop. Brennan was right there, wrapping his arms supportively around her shaking and softly swaying body, holding her upright and steady. “Why would you need to cook yourself when I’m here, offering my help? You don’t have to do everything on your own, my love. Not anymore, at least. I am here, and I am here to stay and to help whenever and wherever I can if you’d just allow it.”

He wasn’t sure if the eldest Riorson even knew how useless he sometimes felt in the wake of her independence. Yes, Brennan was drawn to it—unmistakably so—but he needed to do things for her. He had started sorting their clothes and handling their leathers; he mended her boots as soon as the sole was thinning, and washed her hair after a particularly long day when she was too tired to even mutter a single word. Most things he did for her were quiet ones, ones she wouldn’t suspect, but Brennan wanted to do more.

So much more.

After a childhood where she had to raise not only herself but her brother as well, she deserved nothing less, in his opinion.

Slowly turning in his arms, YN looked up at him, brows still furrowed in uncertainty, eyes still holding that suspicious gleam he had grown to love just as well over the years. His fingers gently pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, still tangled from the restless sleep, watching her analyzing his plea. “You can command me around to your heart’s content, Major Riorson,” he teased quietly, a smirk playing across his lips and a soft laugh escaping him when he felt her hitting his shoulder without force. “You know how to cook the chicken soup my grandmother used to make?” Skepticism laced YN’s words, and Brennan couldn’t hold back but tap the tip of her nose with one of his fingers. “I’m sure I can learn while doing it.”

Huffing at his lack of experience, the Riorson allowed him to lead her to the chair right at the vast kitchen island in the middle of the room, eyeing the vegetables and herbs he had brought from the market scrutinizingly. “You could’ve chosen a better-looking thyme.” Brennan smiled brightly at the comment while washing his hands and returning to the carrots waiting to be diced, a kettle now starting to boil next to him. “Don’t be a grump, my love,” the man smiled across his shoulder, grinning to himself at the roll of her eyes but the smile tucking at her lips.

“We are getting somewhere, Marbh,” he chuckled down their bond and felt his dragon huff in relief in the back of his mind. “Finally. Mór would not let me sleep in peace because she is worried for YN. I will let her know.”

Humming while he chopped the vegetables, YN lectured him with soft words and an even softer tone, and he felt her gaze on the back of his neck, letting pleasant goosebumps erupt on his body and a pleased shiver run across his back. It felt good doing this for her—more than good.

When the water boiled, the Sorrengail grabbed a mug and steeped some tea, placing it right in front of her folded hands, and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. “Do you need sugar? Honey?” Her eyes softened even more when YN looked up at him then, and without thinking, let one of her hands raise and cup his cheek lovingly. “Honey, please,” she whispered raspily, smiling gently when Brennan got a hold of her wrist and kissed the palm of her hand, quickly returning with the small jar of gathered honey from the bees right outside the city. “Thank you.”

The words fell so softly from her lips, the copper-haired giant almost could’ve missed them if he wasn’t so tuned in on YN after the years they had spent together. “You will never have to thank me for anything, my love. This will always come freely.” Another kiss was pressed to her head before he returned to the preparation of her soup, and while he chopped and sliced and diced, YN told him step for step what he had to do next, watching him with the unwavering warmth spreading inside her body that certainly wasn’t the making of the tea cupped by her hands.

Thank you so much for reading my silly little fanfiction! Please consider leaving a like, a comment, and a reblog—it would mean the world to me <3

#brennan sorrengail #brennan sorrengail x reader #brennan sorrengail x riorson!reader #brennan x reader #brennan x riorson!reader #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing fluff #fourth wing x riorson!reader #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing fic #fourth wing fanfiction #brennan sorrengail fic #brennan sorrengail fanfic #brennan sorrengail fanfiction #brennan sorrengail fluff

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thunderbolt-ing · 18 days ago

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Three Roommates and a Loft

The One With The Facebook Post: Three superheroes, one spare room, zero normal applicants until you showed up. They just want someone normal and you just want to avoid sleeping on the streets.

Warnings: none, this is something lighthearted and silly. A little break from my other fic which I’m still writing and got distracted so I wrote this instead. Dont look into the timeline or the plot too closely, you’ll get a headache.

A/N: This could totally be a multi-part mini series if you guys want! I just wanted to write something silly for once since my other pre-written fics are a little too………… heavy. Eventual Bucky x reader too bc we love slow burns around here!!!!! Sorry if the format is weird, I’m posting from my phone instead of my laptop. Definitely inspired by New Girl bc I was watching it the other day and was like ‘Mr krabsssss I have an ideaaaaaa.’ I’m posting this at 2 am so sorry for the errors

Word count: 2.4K

You were royally and abysmally fucked.

Your now-ex-boyfriend, a lying, cheating bastard who crawled out of hell itself, had not only obliterated your heart but also had the audacity to demand you move out of the apartment. The icing on top of this hellish cake? He had given you a week to move. A whole seven days to pack up your life and start all over again in a city that was too expensive for drastic lifestyle changes.

So now, in your last-ditch attempt to make sure you didn’t end up on the streets, you’d joined every roommate-hunting Facebook group known to mankind. Twenty-five groups, to be exact. Some of them were sketchy, some of them full of sex bots, and one required a $10 CashApp payment to someone with a cashtag of ��$trishywablicky’ for “exclusive access to verified, scam-free listings”. You didn’t even care at this point, you paid the ten dollars.

As you scrolled through a new and very expensive Facebook group one evening, you saw a post from someone named Sammy W.

Room available in sunny Brooklyn loft! Shared with two other roommates. Big space, open floor plan, private room, good vibes. Open to both men and women. DM if interested.

The post had one blurry photo of the said loft: a sensibly furnished living room with exposed brick (a win), a bike mounted on the wall (very hipster), and in the corner of the living room, partially cut off from the photo was what looked like Captain America’s shield (what the hell?).

You squinted at the photo and zoomed in.

Could’ve been a replica. Maybe they liked cosplay. Or maybe they were part of that weird half of New York who liked the Avengers instead of finding them to be a living insurance nightmare.

Still, the post was intriguing enough to warrant a deep dive into Sammy W. Immediately, you channeled your inner FBI agent and began examining the profile.

The banner photo? An off-center shot of the Washington Monument. The profile picture? The classic, faceless Facebook default that seemed to say, ‘I don’t use this often.’ There were no tagged photos, no friends list visible, but there was one curious detail. You found a single reposted music video of Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’. The caption?

I know that’s right 💅🏾.

You let out a small chuckle at your screen. That somehow told you everything and nothing about who Sammy W. was.

Combining all the facts, you figured that it was worth the shot. Beggars can’t be choosers, and at this point, you were desperate. The listing seemed normal, besides the cryptic profile of Sammy W, the rent was shockingly reasonable, and on top of that, the loft looked clean.

So you sent a message.

Hi Sammy! I’m super interested in this room. Is it still available by any chance?

You tried not to sound eager, but to no avail.

Within ten minutes, they answered.

Hey! We’re wrapping up interviews actually, but I can squeeze you in tomorrow. Think you can come by?

You stared at your screen and waited a few minutes so you didn’t look desperate.

Yeah, I can come by tomorrow! What time?

A minute later, Sammy W. replied with the time and a pinned location of the Brooklyn loft.

Then it hit you.

You were really about to meet three random people from the internet in an unfamiliar loft in Brooklyn. Totally safe and definitely not the beginning of a true crime documentary.

But, it could be worse.

You could be sleeping on the streets come next Monday.

—

The following day, you made your way to the address Sammy W. had sent you armed with your tote bag, a vague sense of optimism, and the kind of nerves usually reserved for first dates or tax season. You were trying to stay calm, but truthfully, you were about to meet three complete strangers from the internet with the very real possibility of living with them. If that didn’t earn a little justified anxiety, what did?

You’d dressed up like you were headed for a job interview at some startup. You went for a polished but approachable look with a crisp white button-down shirt and straight-leg jeans that fit you just right. You even brought a copy of your resume in case they wanted to verify that you were, in fact, a functioning adult with a good credit score.

The neighborhood was… quiet. Suspiciously quiet for Brooklyn. There was no honking, no wailing police sirens, and not even the distant tune of a saxophone busker. It was just tree-lined streets, brownstones with flower boxes, and the faint smell of baked goods from a bakery nearby. You wondered if you were being pranked or if you somehow ended up in The Truman Show.

There were no immediate red flags. The building even matched the photo Sammy W. had sent. It was a tall, industrial-style building with big steel-framed windows and ivy creeping up the brick. It looked like the kind of place millennials fantasized about living in: artsy, slightly weathered, and just hip enough to feel kind of cool. And of course, the loft was on the top floor because nothing says fresh start like a four-story walk-up with no elevator.

By the time you reached the top floor, you were regretting every life choice that led you to this moment. You paused outside the door of unit 4D, trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like someone who couldn’t climb up four flights of stairs without dying.

You raised your fist to knock. Then you lowered it, then raised it again.

Maybe you should leave. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe you—

Fuck it.

You knocked. Three sharp raps that sounded more confident than you actually were.

There was a pause, followed by the sound of footsteps and what had to be at least four different locks being unlatched in slow, dramatic succession.

The door creaked open just a few inches, revealing a man with permanently furrowed brows and the kind of deadpan stare that suggested he didn’t enjoy surprises… or joy in general.

“Yes?” he grumbled like you were inconveniencing him for knocking on the door.

“Hi!” you greeted in your friendliest tone. “I’m looking for Sammy? I’m here for the interview, you know, for the spare room.”

The man blinked at you, clearly unimpressed by your enthusiasm, then let out a long, exhausted sigh. “...One second,” he muttered, and promptly shut the door in your face.

You stood there awkwardly, debating whether or not you should make a run for it. The man’s stare had unnerved you even more, and you felt a weird sense of deja vu, like you’d seen him somewhere before.

This is fine, everything is fine.

From the hallway, you could hear three muffled voices erupt into a not-so-muffled argument behind the door.

“Sam, you said you took the ad down!”

“Ok… so I was going to, but tenth time’s the charm. I mean, she seems normal, did she look normal?”

“I hate you.”

“It’s third time’s the charm, and we passed that nine applicants ago.”

“Okay, you know what, Steve—”

The door flew open again, cutting the argument short.

The broody man was back with the same frown and slouch, but now with the resigned energy of someone who knew he was about to regret everything.

“...Come in.”

The door swung open wider this time, and you took an involuntary step back as three incredibly familiar faces came into view. You had to blink several times and let your brain process what was in front of you to make sure you weren’t hallucinating from stress and sleep deprivation.

Standing before you, in the flesh, were three of the most recognizable faces on the planet.

Sammy W., who was actually Sam Wilson, was grinning at you like this whole thing was completely normal. Steve Rogers, the actual Captain America, stood beside him, tall, broad, and somehow even more handsome in person. And then there was the door opener himself: Bucky Barnes, the literal Winter Soldier, looking like he hadn’t smiled since the beginning of time.

You stared at them, and they stared back.

Life couldn’t get any fucking weirder.

—

They led you into the living room with the awkward formality of people trying to act like this was totally normal. You were gently directed toward a cozy armchair while the three of them squeezed onto the couch across from you. It was clearly not built to host two super soldiers and an equally buff guy.

Sam sat in the middle, grinning like this was already going well. Steve looked like he was conducting a mental background check. And Bucky looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You clasped your hands in your lap and tried to keep your voice steady.

“So… this isn’t a joke, right?” you blurted out, cutting through the silence before your anxiety could spiral any further. You subtly scanned the room for cameras to make sure you weren’t in some prank show. When you didn’t find any, you wearily settled into the plush seat.

Sam chuckled, holding his arms up in mock surrender. “Nope, not a joke. We just really need a roommate.” His voice was calm and diplomatic, as if he was used to defusing tense situations.

Your brows knit together. “Don’t you all live in that compound upstate? The one with the private gates and robots or… whatever?”

Your knowledge of superhero logistics was limited at best. You hardly kept up with the group, or hadn’t, really, since the Hulk threw your car at an alien and missed back in 2012. You harbored some sort of grudge ever since, but you weren’t going to say that out loud. This was definitely not the right crowd to mention that little tidbit.

“Oh, I’m actually not an Avenger,” Sam replied casually. “Never signed the papers, so no compound for me.”

“I’m not involved in that mess,” Bucky muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest and his eyes narrowed like the very idea offended him personally.

“I like to keep my work and personal life separate,” Steve added, offering a polite, PR-ready smile that seemed to indicate that he’d answered that same question before.

You sighed and slowly shook your head. “Right… this is turning out to be a really weird episode of Friends,” you muttered, your brows furrowing harder than ever.

Steve perked up immediately. “Oh, I like that show,” he said with a pleased nod as if he’d just passed some kind of modern pop culture test.

Sam gave Steve a look before clasping his hands together and leaning forward like some sort of talk show host.

“So, tell us about yourself!” he said brightly. “And sorry for the, uh, awkward introduction. We’re just surprised that you’re… normal. That’s not something we get a lot around here.”

“Assuming she is normal,” Bucky muttered under his breath, eyes flicking sideways toward Sam without bothering to hide his skepticism.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You couldn’t even be mad, he was understandably a deeply distrusting person. Bucky had the right to be a little paranoid given his very public and very traumatic history. You respected it and kind of understood it, too.

So, choosing grace over sarcasm, you let the jab slide and gave your name instead.

“I’m twenty-nine,” you began as you eased into the speech you’d rehearsed in front of your bathroom mirror. “I’m a kindergarten teacher, which means I have the patience of a saint, can function with little to no sleep, and have an unholy collection of stickers.”

Sam laughed softly, nodding like he was already impressed. Steve looked intrigued, the kind of polite interest that said he would probably ask follow-up questions later. Even Bucky’s expression softened just a fraction, though it might’ve just been a twitch.

“I work early, so I’m usually in bed by ten,” you continued. “So, no parties, no loud music, and I won’t be stomping around at two in the morning in heels. I’m clean, I’m quiet, and I always replace the toilet paper roll.”

That earned you a barely-there smirk from Bucky, and you considered that a small victory.

“Oh, and my credit score is a 760, if that’s relevant,” you added with a shrug. “Also, I mind my own business, so if any of you accidentally say something classified, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything.”

Sam’s mouth hung open slightly, clearly impressed, before he turned to Steve and Bucky with an exaggerated sense of ceremony.

“Gentlemen… in the kitchen please,” Sam said, solemn as a judge, then gestured for the men to join him in the kitchen.

Without waiting for a response, he stood and headed toward the kitchen like this was an official government matter. Steve followed, casting you a small smile as he passed. Bucky got up last, glancing at you one more time with that suspicious glare of his before disappearing around the corner with the others.

You sat frozen in your seat, perched on the edge stiffly like you were afraid it might suddenly eject you if you moved even the smallest muscle. You tried very hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation happening in the kitchen, but in your defense, they weren’t exactly being subtle. For a trio of highly trained operatives, they sucked at being quiet.

“Come on, see? I told you this was gonna be good,” Sam’s voice drifted into the living room, his tone smug and triumphant.

There was a small pause, then Steve replied, reluctant but honest. “Okay, fine. She’s… she’s a saint compared to the others.”

You weren’t sure who the others were, but based on their tone, you could deduce that they’d previously interviewed absolute disasters.

Then, Bucky chimed in, his voice low and deadpan. “As long as she doesn’t set anything on fire or talk to me before seven a.m, I don’t care.”

“The bar is on the ground,” Sam tsked in mock exasperation, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Like, six feet under.”

Steve let out a quiet chuckle. “Really is.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “What? I get to keep my nine hundred dollar rent.” He said flatly, as if that settled everything.

From the living room, you sat perfectly still, heart thudding loudly in your chest as their footsteps drew closer. You quickly straightened your posture and offered a polite, practiced smile the moment they reappeared. You tried to look like you weren’t desperately hoping they’d say yes.

They piled back onto the couch, settling into the same spots as before. This time, Steve was the one who broke the silence. He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees and gave you an earnest smile.

“All right,” he said. “When can you move in?”

—————————————————————————————

End notes:

Hey girl! Whatcha doin? Hey girl! Where you goin?

Who’s that girl?

(Who’s that girl!)

Who’s that girl?

It’s Y/N.

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bamsara · 1 year ago

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I dont know if it was intentional but I love that Narinder when he sees Lamb throwing up he turns gentle and pushes their wool and ears back so they dont get stained with vomit and for some reason it reminded me of how when Nari was throwing up too after the nightmare he had when they were on route to fight Leshy, Lambert helped him with camellias for the nausea.

Ahh, parallels. I think.

IM SO GLAD YOU POINTED THAT OUT allow me to ramble for just a moment.

Narinder was trapped in the Afterlife for over 1000 years, with little social skills and plagued by wishing for vengeance and his only company being two kittens who become disciples under his rule. He has terrible social skills, if not lacking them entirely.

(I would argue that Aym and Baal also have horrific nonexistent social skills, so those three cat's can't really help each other communicate properly to anyone else outside themselves.)

It can be argued that since The One Who Waits had other vessels to pass time and try to kill /annoy his siblings before the prophesized Lamb arrival, that he would have developed them a little bit more, but I would argue that the power balance would have been oodles more severe since the vessels weren't the promised one. He didn't need them, so if they no longer were of service or disobeyed him, he got rid of them. Whether just sending them out or killing them, any how.

Lamb, however, knows they are the last Lamb, the prophesized liberator of The One Who Waits, and therefore his only option. They knew that they were his only reasonable way out of there (whether they asked for it or not) so they were oodles more comfortable than how a professional relationship would have been.

So they asked questions, bothered him, played and ran around him. Complained and vented to him. Yapped and yapped. What is he gonna do? Kill them? Find a new vessel? He can't. "You're as trapped into this prophecy as much as I am, so let's be friends"

Example parts from Chapter 3:

The power balance equalizes because Lamb did not see his presence a God, but rather a fellow prisoner and victim of fate. Rude and demanding, but in the same chains as they were. 'My lord' was simply formalities at first.

This puts Narinder / The One Who Waits in social situations he hasn't been in (or hardly been in) in over a thousand years, and frankly, he had no idea how to navigate them:

Example from Chapter 5:

The God of Death has not needed to comfort or 'be there' for someone in a long, long time. The Lamb's presence is what forces him to try, even if his first attempt aren't perfect. So in that same chapter, he'll ask them a question to distract them. Conversation. Like how they do it.

While I won't post a screenshot of everytime this happens in written format (not including the dreams/memories/flashbacks that haven't been posted yet)-

The One Who Waits is pushed outside of his bubble when it comes to socializing in a way that isn't just 'God-to-Lowly-Vessal' format. He has to talk to them like a person, because he's being talked to like a person, not a god on a pedestal.

Obviously after the final battle and betrayal (to both of them, otherwise known as the Grand Miscommunication) this means nothing for a while as tempers are still high and feelings are hurt. But overtime, this returns, and can show in small ways (ways that may not seem like comfort but is certainly an attempt) like just in Chapter 18:

Trying to bring them an 'offering' (breakfast) mirroring other times the Lamb has done the same for him:

Crudely offering to replace something they are upset at losing/later offering reassurance abet in a curt way:

And what you mentioned: earlier when the Lamb is throwing up, narration shows they're having trouble with keeping their wool, cloak, bell, ect all back at the same time. He can see that. He has a mental boiling pot explosion over the fact that helping them is even a want that he has after the denial crisis he's experiencing where the only answer a minute ago seemed like he needed to kill them, and he chose comfort.

It is intentional. Narinder is learning how to show care, and allowing himself to show care. Slowly, and not perfect, but learning.

#trod au #the rehabilitation of death #ramble #long post #apologies for the spew of words #there are other small instances in the fic outside of chapter 18 where he shows a little #but it's going to just get more and more noticable from this point on #with a lot of his behaviors he honestly needs to be smacked with a rock (deuragatory) /j #but the lamb does not take his shit and doesn't react in explosive anger #a 'be kind but take no shit' kind of vibe that has narinder put in a spot where he has to actively choose #whether the consequences of his actions is something he really wants or if he Wants Something Else

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niuttuc · 3 months ago

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Weird Magic: the Gathering effects: Fourth edition

Starting last year, and on three separate occasions, I've ran polling games listing weird magic the gathering card effects among which hid one fake one, to see how easy it was to figure out. It's time for another!

Like previous instances, this is intended for people who aren't experts at magic and would recognize all the cards instantly, more as entertainment for people outside the game, but I've been told it also works for plenty of actual magic players. There are certainly effects there I didn't know existed in specific before pulling this poll together.

As last time, only the current text of effects is used, not necessarily the one printed on the card. Limited to cards that exist in paper, and are legal to play in at least some tournament formats. Though I did expand in previous polls to text that's part of keyword rules or that's part of the current reminder text on at least one card, and that might apply here as well.

This time some of the cards are less obscure, but I wanted to include them because they're flavorful bits of text. Without further ado...

I will give one bit of context for people who don't play the game at all: your library is what your deck of cards is called while a game is going.

EDIT: the poll is over, time to add the solution under the cut on this message! It is also available in a reblog here, if you prefer that.

First, the Correct answer, and then the rest by order of voting percentage.

Whenever this creature becomes goaded, it fights up to one target creature (35.4%)

This first answer was the correct one, as was recognized by the majority (most of which, I assume, are Magic players who recognized the rest.) It was written as something that makes flavorful sense, and inspired by both Goad and the old mechanic of Provoke using similar meanings. Provoke later evolved into Fighting.

As mentioned, I like this effect, I ended up making a custom card with that mechanic while waiting for the poll to be over, though the wording is slightly different and that won't be in this post.

This creature isn't a creature (17.5%)

This text doesn't appear printed on any card, but it is the current text of Weeping Angel from the Doctor Who set following a templating update of cards to avoid using their own name to refer to themselves, except for legends. Of course, within larger context. I've seen some people guess Gods from Theros as the source of this text, but since they're all legendary, they use their own names still, or a shortened version rather.

This is such a nonsensical line to be on a card that I knew it needed an inclusion here.

Put a +1/+2 counter on target creature. (10.7%)

In the early days of magic, stats-buffing (or stats-reducing) counters weren't relegated to mere +1/+1 and -1/-1 counters. There were some +2/+2, -0/-1, +0/+1 counters and more, and when they mixed it made tracking the size of a creature with them a nightmare, so they stopped doing that. During that time, exactly ONE card, Armor Thrull, was created that put a +1/+2 counters on a creature. Neat and also weird!

Redistribute any number of players’ life totals. (9.1%)

A very unique effect, Reverse the Sands is rarely worth the inclusion in any deck, but it is quite impactful. Printed in a game before commander hit big, expecting two players most of the time, it wasn't that different from other life swapping effects, but with Multiplayer becoming such a big part of the game nowadays, it's fun to have around.

Your devotion to each color and each combination of colors is increased by one. (7.5%)

Devotion is a mechanic found in the ancient greek mythology setting of Theros within magic, caring how deeply you commit yourself to any given colors by encouraging you to play harder-to-cast permanents of that color. In the latest return to Theros, there is one card, Altar of the Pantheon, that has a weird effect of artificially altering your devotion without any cost shenanigans.

If this creature would be destroyed, regenerate it. (5.8%)

Mossbridge Troll has a unique effect of just ALWAYS regenerating for free whenever it would be destroyed, be it by damage or destroy effects. In practice, it's mostly a fancy version of indestructible.

It also allows me to mention Mossbridge Troll from Shadowmoor is the creature associated with Mosswort Bridge from Lorwyn. Each of the five original Hideaway lands in Lorwyn had an associated "awakened" creature in Shadowmoor! Not the most obscure fact, but neat to know about.

Other creatures are Food (3.9%)

A delightfully flavorful (well, except for all the salt) piece of rules text from Ygra here. Everything is Food for the Eater of All.

1/1 named Legitimate Businessperson. (2.9%)

Witness Protection is a pretty normal design, but changing the name of the creature is a really neat touch that just adds a bit of flavor and makes it a card dear to many. It's funny how a small change like that can make a boring common into a card many remember for years to come. It even made its way into the "core" experience of the game through the Foundations expansion later on!

You draw cards from the bottom of your library rather than the top. (2.6%)

Another appearance from Doctor Who, this time with River Song, who has an ability that is pretty flavorful, but in practice doesn't do much, since the cards at the bottom of your library are just as random as the ones on the top. Or are they? It's marginally easier to set up the bottom of your deck than the top of it, and to create loops with that and cards that put stuff back onto the bottom of your deck from your graveyard.

Unfortunately, that easily devolves back into infinite extra turns, which is very flavorful for a time traveler, but generally frowned upon in more social environments.

Whenever another creature you control dies, investigate. (1.9%)

This one isn't that weird, but I wanted to include it for just how flavorful it is to investigate the murder of your creatures. Except of course you're likely the one to be doing the murdering for all those sweet clues. Oops?

This effect does not specify nontoken creatures, which means it's actually quite easy to make bucketloads of clues with it. Or an infinity, if you turn your clues into creatures themselves, so be wary of that because it's easy to end up in an infinite loop you can't stop, which causes the game to end in a draw, drowned in clues.

Protection from everything (1.6%)

Protection from everything has appeared on a few cards, but the most iconic (though not the most played, that'd be Teferi's Protection), is Progenitus, the first to feature it. A giant creature that's almost impossible to cast and can't be cheated into play from the graveyard, Progenitus has impressed many a player!

Unfortunately, it's both clunky to actually use and not immune to everything. While EVERYTHING does mean everything, Protection has a relatively narrow definition in the game rules, and Magic is a game where very specific rules matter. Getting rid of a Progenitus is difficult, but far from impossible. Any effect that blankets destroys or exiles all creatures will remove it just as easily as everything else.

Venture into the dungeon. (1%)

Venture into the Dungeon was one of the main mechanics for the first D&D set Magic has done, Adventures in the Forgotten Realms. They revisited it later on in the second with a slight variation. While flavorful, the mechanic involved a lot of extra baggage involving having three extra Dungeon cards to pick from each with several abilities and to plan a trip through them and... It ended up seeing just a little bit of play, and not being the designers' best work, even if it had a LOT of flavor.

Thank you for participating and reading through all this! See you in the fifth edition if I ever put it together!

#mtg #magic #the gathering #polls #tcg #game design #not really #a few iconic cards in there #but it's also for non-magic players to see some of the weird stuff #Honestly I kinda want to make a custom card out of the fake one #Maybe once the poll is over #someone remind me

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fr0stf4ll · 25 days ago

Text

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 21

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5.7k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; Hello everyone ! What's up ? Here is the new chapter hehe hope that you will enjoy it, it's war and it's much darker than usual ! Either way see you soon !!!

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While the High Lords gathered again in council—voicing plans, drawing borders, debating how to proceed—you had already begun.

There had been no ceremony. No formal decree placing the burden on your shoulders. But the moment war returned to Prythian, the weight of leadership found you.

Because they trusted you.

Because you knew what to do.

You had not fought in the last two wars. The Cauldron’s destruction and Hybern’s fall had happened while you were across the sea, in faraway lands where the stars were different and pain wore unfamiliar faces. But that didn’t mean you hadn’t seen war. You had tended to battlefields choked in ash and blood. Had screamed over wounded soldiers while enemy horns still blew in the distance. Had wrapped yourself in healer’s robes that smelled of iron and rot and clung to your skin like a second, cursed layer.

You hated war.

But you understood it.

And now, it was here.

The healer’s camp was rising fast—just a few miles behind the front line where Winter and Day were already locked in skirmishes with Koshiev’s first wave. The scent of cold pine from Winter’s edges mixed with the mineral tang of cracked stone and blood. White tents fluttered in the wind, ropes anchoring them against the rush of messengers and supplies. Ward lines had already been carved into the frozen earth by Dawn Court mages—barriers to keep out wild magic and corrupted air.

You stood in the center of it all, barked orders flowing from your mouth without hesitation. Assignments. Triage formations. Inventory checks. You moved with your sleeves rolled to your elbows and a thin smudge of soot on your cheek. No glamour. No grace.

Just the quiet, practiced command of someone who knew exactly how to keep people alive.

You hadn’t seen Azriel in hours.

He had left before dawn, shadows coiled tight, heading toward a newly forming reconnaissance post along the northern edge of the mountains. But even now, as you stalked between tent rows, checking for weaknesses in the shielding wards, you reached for the bond.

Are you safe?

No answer yet.

Az, you tried again, gentler. Talk to me.

Still nothing.

You pushed the worry down. Forced your hands to keep working.

The news from the front was grim. Winter’s line had bent but not broken—yet. Kalias’s forces were strong but outnumbered. Day had pushed in with their elite firecasters, but it wasn’t enough. Koshiev’s creatures weren’t just soldiers. They were nightmares with no rules, no blood, no soul. And worst of all—they multiplied.

All courts would be needed soon. Every ounce of power. Every blade, every spell. Every hand.

Including yours.

Elira jogged up beside you, her braid wild and armor already streaked with dust. “We’re short two crates of blood-root poultice,” she reported. “And Mira says the third tent’s warding is fluctuating—probably due to that crack in the shielding line from earlier.”

You nodded. “Have Theylan reinforce the tent wards and get a courier to Day’s supply wagons. Tell Mira to prep a shadow-safe triage zone. Just in case.”

Elira didn’t question the order. She ran.

The camp was quiet.

Not with peace, but with anticipation. A silence that pressed down like a storm waiting to break.

They stood in front of you—rows of healers in varying uniforms and colors, pulled from every court. Some wore finely-stitched robes of trained mastery. Others were volunteers, barely trained, still trembling beneath their armor. The head healers from each court flanked the edges, arms crossed, their expressions grim and expectant.

You stood on the rise just above them, wind tugging gently at your coat, eyes scanning the sea of faces.

No one spoke.

You took one breath. Then another.

And began.

“This is not the first war Prythian has seen. But it may be the last.”

The words echoed across the camp, cutting the wind clean.

“We are not soldiers. We do not wield blades, or lead charges, or set the sky alight with power. But make no mistake—we are the last barrier between survival and death.”

You let that sink in. Faces shifted. Straightened.

“We are the difference between a soldier going home… or not. Between fear and hope. Between despair and dignity.”

Your eyes swept over them.

“Some of you are experienced. You’ve done this before. You know what it’s like to have blood under your nails and someone screaming in your arms. Others… this will be your first time.”

You didn’t soften the words. You wouldn’t insult them with lies.

“You will see things you’re not prepared for. You will have to act when you’re terrified. And you will fail. Sometimes. But you will get back up. And you will keep going. Because that’s what we do.”

You paused, letting the silence settle.

“We are healers. And in this war, we will be the ones holding the line after the swords have fallen.”

A few heads bowed. Some lifted higher.

You continued, voice steady.

“Field healers—you’ll move with the battalions. Stay behind the front lines, but close enough to extract the wounded. Do not overextend. If you go down, that’s one more soldier who won’t make it back.”

“Stationed healers—work in shifts. Exhaustion kills more people than wounds do. Maintain the wards. Sanitize everything. No exceptions.”

“Beginner volunteers—you are not expendable. You’ll stay within the rear perimeter, aiding the senior staff. Watch. Learn. Prepare to step in when we fall.”

You let your gaze rest on each court’s representatives.

“Work together. No court lines. No territory pride. We fall, Prythian falls. It’s that simple.”

Then, more softly, “And take care of each other.”

The wind carried your words out to the camp.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then heads nodded, quiet murmurs passed through the rows, and slowly—one by one—they began to disperse.

The camp had emptied slowly, one healer at a time, until only wind and silence remained. You stood at the edge of the central tent, the weight of the speech still clinging to your shoulders like a wet cloak. You’d done it. You’d held the line. For now.

You exhaled, slow and quiet, stepping out into the cold air.

And before you could take another breath, someone grabbed your hand.

Firm. Warm.

You barely registered the blur of shadows before you were pulled away from the tent, tucked between two supply wagons hidden by hanging tarps and crates of medical stock.

“Azriel—” you began, startled.

But he said nothing.

He just held you.

Arms wrapped tight around you, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in like it might be the last time. And maybe, for him, it already felt like it was.

You didn’t speak. Just stood still as his arms locked around your waist, grounding him, tethering him.

Because through his eyes, you were someone else today.

Not just the mate he loved. Not the quiet, steady presence who returned home late with herbs still in your sleeves, smiling softly.

No.

You were war now.

Dressed in healer’s leathers, your expression hard and drawn, your eyes darker than usual—shadowed not by fatigue, but by responsibility. You had stood before your army of white-robed medics like Rhysand did before soldiers. A ruler. A guide. Someone who knew what needed to be done, no matter the cost.

And that terrified him.

If he could have left you in Velaris, locked you in your shared home and surrounded you in layers of safety, he would have.

If he could have taken you far away—beyond the continent, beyond Prythian—he would have flown you there himself.

If he could have stayed by your side every second of every day, watching, guarding, keeping you from even a breath of danger—he would have never let go of your hand again.

But he couldn’t do any of that.

And for the first time in centuries, Azriel was truly, deeply afraid.

He had faced death before—welcomed it, even. But now, the idea of loss wasn’t about him. It was about you. About the ring you wore. About your laugh in the halls of your home. About the way you curled into his chest each night and whispered promises for a future neither of you dared to speak aloud in daylight.

He had asked you, days ago, to show him the vision.

Elain’s vision.

The one you had tried to keep to yourself.

At first, you refused.

You had shaken your head, eyes stormed with something unspeakable, telling him it was better not to know. And Azriel had accepted it. He hadn’t pressed.

But you knew.

You knew that somewhere in him, he needed to see it.

And when you finally showed him—when you shared that memory with him under the moonlight in your home—you had spent the entire night afterward wrapped together in silence. No words. Just warmth. Just the bond. Just the sound of his heart beating under your ear.

It had nearly broken him.

Because now he couldn’t walk through a room without wondering if it would be the last time he saw you in it. Couldn’t touch the door of your bedroom without thinking of what it meant. Of what your home truly was to him.

Azriel had loved his brother. He loved Feyre with a loyalty no bloodline could break.

But this—

Their gift.

This was cruel.

Because what if fate’s promise held true?

What if the only sanctuary you’d ever shared became your mausoleum?

The place where your children should have laughed.

The place where he should have held you through your last pregnancy, and then your last gray hair, and then your last breath—but not like this. Not soon.

Azriel came back to himself when your hands found his face—when the cool press of your wedding ring met his cheek and sent a shiver through him so sharp, it felt like a breath of winter wind through his ribs.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

His golden eyes opened slowly, and the storm behind them flickered with something raw.

“I know…” he said softly, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, Az.” You gave him a tired, aching smile—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for loving me.”

His arms tightened around you, one hand curling into your hair, the other pressing into your lower back like he could hold you through the coming days just by pulling you close enough.

“I’m just so scared…” His forehead dropped to yours. His voice was barely audible, but it trembled with the force of what he didn’t say.

“Me too, love,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

You kissed—slowly, tenderly, like a promise wrapped in a farewell. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just real.

Your hands slid up to cradle his jaw as you pulled back just far enough to breathe.

“Please be safe,” you whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “Please don’t do anything reckless, Azriel. Don’t sacrifice yourself. Be careful. Please. I beg you.”

He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. Like you were light and sky and warmth and everything worth surviving for.

“I should be the one saying that to you, my love.”

You gave a shaky laugh, kissed him again—softer this time.

“I’ll be waiting for you here,” you said, placing your hand against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. “But I’ll always, always be here, Az.”

Your fingers curled, pressing gently against his heart.

And he covered your hand with his.

“I need to go,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I’ll see you later.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You smiled through the burn rising in your eyes.

“I love you, Azriel.”

One last kiss. Long. Wordless. Trembling with everything you both couldn’t say.

And then—

He stepped back.

And vanished into shadow.

The emptiness that followed wasn’t just physical. It was like something vital had been pulled from your chest. Your heart beat quieter without him near.

This was war.

A war against a death god.

And you knew—deep in your bones—that anything could happen now.

The tent was no longer quiet.

By the time you returned, the healer’s ward was already filling—low moans, hushed voices, the rustle of canvas and armor echoing beneath the enchanted lighting. The scent of blood and antiseptic clung to the air. Winter and Day soldiers lay on cots or mats, some wrapped in early bandages, others awaiting triage.

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved with the ease of someone who’d done this too many times to count, rolling your sleeves back up, scanning injuries, checking for critical signs. Elira met your eye with a quick nod as she finished stitching a leg wound nearby.

And then—

You noticed him.

A young Illyrian male standing just inside the tent’s entrance, eyes wide, shoulders tense, wings twitching slightly at his back. He wore light leathers and bore the faint shimmer of four green siphons—freshly earned. His sword was sheathed, his posture not quite relaxed, but trying.

He stepped toward you quickly and bowed. Deeply.

You raised an eyebrow. “And who are you, boy?”

He straightened a little too fast. “Ather, my lady… I mean, Y/N—I was… I was assigned to stay with you. To protect you.”

He winced like the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“I don’t mean to say that you’re unable to protect yourself—I know you are—it’s just… these are the orders I received. From General Cassian.”

You blinked once, then smirked.

Reaching out, you clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder. He stiffened beneath your touch, wings twitching again.

“Get some confidence, Ather,” you said, voice even but not unkind. “You won the Blood Rite and earned your siphons. You think they’d assign you to me if you weren’t worth something?”

His mouth opened slightly in surprise.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” you added dryly. “But this is war. And even if you aren’t standing on the battlefield with the others, make no mistake—this is my front line. And I expect you to treat it that way.”

Ather swallowed. Then stood straighter, pulling his wings in tight.

“Y—yes, my lady.”

You arched a brow.

“And keep the formalities for your general. I’m not Cassian. Call me Y/N.”

He nodded, face flushing slightly. “Yes… Y/N.”

You gave a faint, approving nod, already moving toward the next cot, where another healer was struggling with a chest wound. “Good. Now grab gloves and help Elira with the prep table. We’ve got work to do.”

Ather followed close behind as you made your way to the first table.

The tent was a battlefield in its own right—an organized mess, every cot filled, every healer moving like a piece of some frantic, well-oiled machine. There was a rhythm to it, one cot cleared, another filled. Bandages soaked through and replaced before the blood dried. Hands never idle. No time to hesitate. No room for mistakes.

You barely stopped walking as you began issuing orders. “Elira, get the bloodroot paste to Section B—head wound on cot twelve. Mira, I need fresh ward lines traced around the eastern perimeter, too many fractures in the shielding. Sylwen—double-check our poultice stock. We’re burning through it faster than expected.”

You paused at a table near the center.

The moment you saw him, you knew it was bad.

A Dawn Court warrior—barely conscious, his skin slick with sweat, blood pooled beneath his ribcage and leg. Deep lacerations, some down to bone, others... gaping. His tunic had long since been cut away, revealing claw-like tears across his chest and stomach. His breathing came in shallow rasps, and he was seizing slightly, his limbs spasming against the cot.

You moved fast, sleeves already rolled, hands glowing with the faint shimmer of healing focus. “He's crashing. We need to close the abdominal tear before he bleeds out.”

You snapped your fingers. “Ather—make yourself useful and hold him still.”

He jumped, rushing to the other side of the cot. His hands hovered for a second too long.

The warrior bucked violently.

You nearly screamed. “I said keep him still!”

Ather startled but slammed his hands down, pinning the warrior's shoulders. His eyes wide, focused now.

And if he’d dared to close them in that moment, he would’ve sworn he heard Cassian’s voice—Cassian’s authority—in your tone. That same raw edge. That same absolute command that didn't ask, but ordered.

You weren’t a front-line general. But here?

Here you were one.

The only one.

You worked fast—threading together muscle with magic, applying pressure spells, stitching layers that no blade could ever reach. The warrior moaned, head thrashing.

“Just a little more,” you murmured, hands steady. “Hold him, Ather—don’t let go, no matter what.”

Seconds passed like minutes.

Minutes like hours.

And hours like days.

Between screams and the metallic scent of blood, you could hear the frontlines burning. Distant, but not far. Explosions of power. The eerie wail of creatures that didn’t belong in this world—sounds that scraped against bone.

The wounds were changing, too. The warriors that arrived looked like they’d been clawed open by death itself. Eyes wide with terror. Some couldn’t even speak. Others begged you not to let them go back.

Your jaw clenched as you moved to the next patient.

Dammit.

Was this what Finn had seen in his final days?

Your hands didn’t stop.

But the thought lingered.

Are we going to win?

You didn’t have the answer…

The hours blurred.

Time lost meaning between the blood, the screams, and the never-ending arrival of new wounded. Healers moved like ghosts—silent, fast, leaving trails of red and magic behind them. And through it all, you stood at the center, a fixed point in the storm.

Every time the tent’s flap opened, your breath hitched.

You looked.

And every time, some part of you prayed.

Please, not Feyre. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not Mor. Not Nesta. Not Thesan. Not Azriel.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You knew every soul that passed through your hands deserved your prayers. But you couldn’t stop the relief—the guilt-tinged exhale—when it wasn’t one of them.

When it wasn’t him.

Still, you kept moving. Kept healing. Kept leading.

At some point, Ather had stopped trailing you like a shadow. You’d stopped noticing exactly when. He had begun helping—quietly, steadily—moving supplies, holding pressure, assisting other healers. Close, but no longer hovering over your shoulder like he feared you'd vanish if he blinked.

Still, you caught him lingering now and then, eyes flicking back to you too often.

You didn’t even pause your stitching when you muttered, “Make yourself busy, Ather. You’re disturbing me more than anything hovering like that.”

“But—”

“No but. I’m sure Elira could use help hauling supply crates.”

He faltered, uncertain.

Before he could answer, Elira snatched him by the elbow. “Come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No one’s going to jump at her throat in the next fifteen minutes.”

You allowed a small smile to slip through as they vanished behind the warded flap.

You didn’t even hear Teylan approach until he was at your side, voice low and calm. “It’s slowing. You should rest for a bit. Tonight’s going to be worse. You need to be ready.”

You exhaled, long and weary. “You’re right. But if anything changes, wake me.”

He nodded, watching as you made your way toward the corner of the tent. You sank into a wooden chair, back stiff, arms crossed over your chest.

“I meant rest on a bed, Y/N,” Teylan said dryly. “One that doesn’t creak like it’s older than Prythian.”

You closed your eyes. “You already know I’m not leaving. Go do your job and let me sleep.”

He sighed, quiet resignation in every breath, but turned without arguing.

Later, when Ather returned, mud on his boots and blood on his forearm, Teylan gestured toward you.

“You should rest too, kid. Tonight’s going to be long.”

Ather nodded, but his eyes were on you—still and silent in your chair, arms folded like wings, head tilted just enough to show the curve of exhaustion on your face. You didn’t look asleep.

You looked like a statue.

Not crumbling, not wounded—just enduring.

A silent guardian holding the whole tent together by the sheer weight of your presence.

And so Ather sat on the ground beside you, back against the canvas, his siphons dim, hands resting in his lap.

Like a soldier next to a queen.

Like a believer at the feet of a goddess.

Night fell quickly.

One blink, and the pale glow of the warded healer’s tents was all that lit the field.

The fight had ended—for now.

You only knew it because the wounded had stopped pouring in long enough for your hands to stop shaking. The frontlines had held, barely. You’d heard from several warriors—some feverish, some lucid enough to still tremble—that the creatures were unlike anything they’d ever faced. Restless. Vicious. Mindless. As if they’d been created only to move, to rip through flesh and bone until nothing was left.

But even they had their limits.

And so the tide pulled back.

Azriel had sent word to you through the bond. I’m fine. Just that.

You’d felt it when he said it—meant it—and the grip around your lungs finally loosened. Others had checked in as well. Rhys. Cassian. Feyre. Mor. Thesan.

They were alive.

And for the first time since Azriel vanished into shadow, you could breathe again.

You’d begged him, silently through the bond, to rest after the debriefing. Just for a few hours. Just to let his body recover. But he had ignored you—completely, maddeningly ignored you—and you felt the moment he turned toward the camp instead.

He’s coming.

Because of course he was.

Because he was Azriel.

The wounded began to arrive in full.

Not the lightly injured ones—the ones treated by volunteers and beginner healers, wrapped and sent to recover.

No.

Yours.

The ones that looked like death itself had clawed them apart.

The first warrior was screaming so loud his voice cracked and turned to silence. A massive gash had torn down his back, ribs visible with every strained breath. Another was carried in missing both legs—burned black up to the thigh, the flesh hissing with rot that hadn't even had time to set properly.

And then there was him.

You didn’t know his name—didn’t need to.

The male was barely conscious, blood slicking his entire body, and half his face—

Gone.

Burned or melted or clawed, you couldn’t tell. The skin was missing from the left side entirely, leaving muscle, sinew, and exposed teeth where his cheek should have been.

Elira had made it halfway to the cot before she turned and ran behind the tent to empty her stomach.

The scream that followed was not the warrior’s—it was one of your junior healers, who dropped a bowl of antiseptic and stumbled backward with wide, horrified eyes.

You turned on her, your voice like ice.

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Out. If you can’t stomach the sight of what war brings, you have no place in this tent.”

She flinched. Then bolted.

You didn’t watch her go. You didn’t have time to feel guilty. You moved to the warrior, gloved hands already glowing, already assessing what could be done, already speaking to Mira—who, to her credit, stayed standing, though she was ghost-pale.

“Clamp that artery—there. No, the other one. Yes. Hold it. We’re going to need a skin stabilization spell until the regrowth solution arrives from Day.”

You looked up briefly. “Elira,” you called sharply without turning. “If you're finished vomiting, I need you back now.”

A groan from the other side of the tent confirmed she was crawling her way upright.

There was no time. No room for weakness. Not now.

Every scream from the cots blended into the next. The moans. The gasps. The silence of the ones who didn’t make it.

You stood over the cot, looking down at the warrior.

His chest barely rose and fell, eyes half-lidded, glazed. Blood soaked through the hastily tied bandages at his side, pooling under him, dark and steady. His leg was gone—torn clean above the knee—and the healing magic you’d poured into him had only been enough to dull the agony, not stop the inevitable.

“There’s nothing we can do,” you said, your voice low but firm. “It’s already too late. We don’t have the time to save him.”

Behind you, Ather stood still, frozen. His mouth opened, then shut again. Finally, he whispered, “Can’t you even try? He must have a family… people waiting for him. Can’t you—”

You turned to him slowly, exhaustion and clarity sharp in your eyes.

“Look at him, Ather.”

He did.

“He can’t even keep his eyes open. His body’s already slipping away—he’s lost too much blood, and the trauma is beyond what any of us can repair in time. He’s not conscious anymore. I already gave him peace, eased the pain. But I can’t bring him back. Not without burning through what’s left of my strength.”

You drew in a tight breath, steadying your voice, not for your sake—but for his.

“And look around you.” You gestured at the dozens of cots, the groaning wounded, the frantic pace of your fellow healers. “We are surrounded by dying people. If I waste the last of my magic trying to save one life already fading, then four or five others—people I could save—will die before I can get to them.”

Ather’s eyes darkened, jaw clenched, throat tight with unspoken grief. You stepped closer, your voice soft but unyielding.

“This is war, Ather. He fought for what he believed in. He died like a warrior. Do not pity him. That would only make his sacrifice meaningless.”

“I’m sorry…” he breathed, barely able to meet your eyes.

You placed your hand gently on his shoulder, the gesture firm and grounding.

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s always hard the first time. And the times after that too.”

You squeezed his shoulder once before stepping back.

“Let’s go. We still have work to do.”

You barely took two steps when you heard her.

“Y/N! I need your help here!” Lila’s voice tore across the tent, panic sharp in her usually even tone.

You ran.

The moment you reached her, you understood why.

The male on the cot was massive, one of the front-line warriors—probably Illyrian by the faint curve of his wings, but it was hard to tell under all the blood. He convulsed violently, mouth open in a silent scream, limbs thrashing so hard the cot legs dragged against the ground.

Deep gashes ran across his chest and abdomen, torn open like something had clawed straight through armor and flesh. His side was bleeding too fast, the skin around the wound pulsing, too raw, too red.

“Shit,” you breathed, already moving.

“Hold him down!” you barked, and Ather rushed to your side without hesitation. He and another healer grabbed the warrior’s limbs, pinning him with every ounce of strength they had.

“He’s tearing his stitches,” Lila said, breathless. “Every time I try to stop the bleeding, he thrashes again. I can’t keep the pressure.”

You grabbed gauze and antiseptic, pressing hard into the wound, ignoring the blood that splattered your sleeves.

“He’s in shock—his body’s trying to shut down. We need to stop the bleeding now or we lose him.”

You looked to Lila. “Give him ten drops of mountain bell tonic. It’ll slow the adrenaline spike. Once he stills, I’ll stitch and seal.”

She moved immediately, hands no longer trembling.

The warrior bucked again, and you nearly lost your grip.

“Ather!” you snapped. “Hold him. I need him still.”

“I am trying—”

“Try harder!”

Your voice cut through the chaos, hard and fast, and for a second, the tent went silent. Ather's back straightened, his arms locking tight around the warrior’s shoulders.

You weren’t on the battlefield with the warriors.

But here?

You were a general.

You worked quickly. Gauze. Thread. Needle. Magic humming quietly through your fingertips—not a spell, not a cure, just enough to hold the pieces together.

Every second mattered.

And outside, the battle still raged—distant screams, strange cries echoing through the hills, the kind that didn’t sound fully human. The kind that made your blood turn to ice.

You didn’t look away from your patient.

But the thought echoed somewhere deep inside you.

Dammit.

Are we going to win?

You tied the last knot with a flick of your wrist. The bleeding slowed.

The warrior stilled.

Lila exhaled, slumping slightly beside you. “You got him,” she whispered.

“No,” you said. “We bought him time. That’s all.”

But your hands were steady. You didn’t let them shake.

You looked up to find Ather watching you—not afraid, but something close to reverent. Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“Stop staring,” you said softly. “Go grab fresh bandages.”

“Yes, Y/N.”

And he ran.

You turned to the next cot without pause.

Because this was war.

And there were more lives to save.

The warrior’s convulsions had stopped. His breathing had evened. You exhaled slowly, lowering your blood-slicked hands from his chest, and gave a faint nod to Lila. She stepped back, relief softening her features just slightly.

You turned to grab the salve kit behind you, ready to finish cleaning and sealing the edges of his wounds.

You didn’t even hear them come in.

But they were there—Azriel, Cassian, and Mor, stepping into the tent in search of you. You felt them before you saw them. Azriel’s heartbeat, once familiar and steady, stilled for just a second. Cassian’s body tensed like a coiled blade. Mor’s breath caught behind her te

And your own body—

Froze.

Your spine stiffened, your hand hovering mid-air. You didn’t need to look to know.

You’d felt it before.

The cold rush of knowing—ancient and visceral—sank into your spine like a blade of ice. That same crawling sensation you’d felt on the continent, that moment at sea with Azriel.

Koeshiev.

You had only enough time to hear the unnatural rasp of Ather’s sword being ripped from its sheath—not by him.

Azriel’s heart slammed against yours through the bond.

Y/N—

Lila’s eyes went wide.

But you—

You were faster.

You spun. Pivoted hard. Grabbed the warrior by the arm and yanked him off balance with brutal precision. His body jerked mid-lunge, and you twisted, shoving your palm into his chest.

There was a beat.

A breath.

And then—

Silence.

The man’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

A horrible stillness clung to the tent as blood spilled across the canvas underfoot. You stood above him, breathing hard, your hand still raised, your glove darkened.

You wiped the side of your face, a crimson smear marking your cheek.

“I didn’t think this would happen this soon,” you muttered, the words more breath than voice. “Fuck.”

You turned.

All eyes were on you.

Cassian. Mor. Lila. Ather. Azriel—his shadows writhing like smoke and storm across the floor. Everyone stared like the air had been sucked from the tent.

Even the wounded were silent.

You stepped forward, calm as steel.

“This isn’t just a war of blade and blood,” you said. “This is infiltration. Corruption. Whatever Koeshiev has sent into Prythian, it’s already here. And this—” you gestured to the body on the ground, “—is only the beginning.”

You looked at the healers, your voice low, but resonant.

“From this moment on, if anyone acts strangely—zones out, speaks in riddles, loses time—you report it immediately. I don’t care if it’s your mentor, your commander, or your closest friend.”

You didn’t need to explain what had happened.

They had seen.

“Do not hesitate. Do not second-guess. Because the next time, you might not get the chance to act.”

You swept your gaze across the tent one final time.

“This is war,” you said. “And war doesn’t give second chances.”

No one spoke.

Then Lila, quietly, “Is it going to happen again?”

You looked her in the eye. The truth sat like a knife on your tongue.

“Yes.”

Azriel was the first to reach you, already stepping past the others with shadows still curling at his heels. His eyes swept over your face, your arms, your hands—checking for wounds, for blood that wasn’t yours. His gaze was clinical, protective, frantic beneath the surface.

Cassian arrived next, brows furrowed. “Are you alright? What the fuck happened in here?”

Azriel didn’t speak. He was still looking, like if he could just see deep enough, he’d figure out if something inside you had cracked.

Mor hovered nearby, her golden eyes unreadable, flickering between the body on the ground and your blood-streaked face.

“I’m fine,” you answered hoarsely. “It wasn’t him anymore. It was already too late.”

Cassian glanced at the corpse. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t flinch. You just looked up at him.

“Don’t be surprised, Cass,” you said, voice steady. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. If we’re dead, the warriors die too. Take out the healers, and the front lines bleed out behind us. Koeshiev doesn’t just want to fight—he wants to rot us from the inside.”

You turned sharply, finding Ather and Lila frozen near the edge of the tent, still wide-eyed.

“You two—” your voice cracked through the tension like lightning, “—the instructions are clear. Go through every single person in this tent. If anyone seems off, anything, I don’t care how small—you call for me. Immediately.”

They both nodded.

Lila was pale but focused.

Ather still looked shell-shocked.

You turned, reached for Azriel’s hand, and without a word, pulled him out of the tent with you.

The air outside was colder now. Sharper. The moon was high above, casting pale light on the fields and distant fire-lit hills. Your fingers didn’t loosen their grip on his.

Inside, the others were still frozen around the aftermath.

And Ather—

He looked down at the body. At the blood slowly drying into the floor. At the hollow cavity of a man who had stood just minutes ago.

“How…” Ather breathed, barely able to speak. “How did she—”

Lila didn’t blink. “She made all his internal organs explode, that’s how...” she said simply, quietly.

Ather’s stomach flipped.

But he didn’t look away.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom @ly--canthrope @xlosttdreamss @phoenix666stuff @runningoncoffeeandchaos @zanaorian @prettty-thing @wxveysun @aslut4percyjackson @ailoda @byteme05 @elisabethch82 @eatsleepreadance1 @rainy-day-lady @breademoji @zuhashah-09 @quiettuba @magicaldragonlady @ajxsquish @hibye02 @am-riel @thorins-queen-of-erebor@casiiopea2

#azriel fic #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar fanart #acotar #rhysand #azriel acotar #cassian #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #elain #feyre

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ninadove · 2 months ago

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You loved it last year, and so did we… Sentitwin Week is back for its 2025 edition! From July 1st to July 7th, join us in celebrating the best cousins/twins to ever grace our screens. And kicking some evil adults in the face. Possibly. 💚💜🧡

Useful information and full list of prompts under the cut!

What counts as a submission?

Anything and everything! Fics, art, web weaves, AMVs, cosplays, music, unsettling minimalistic plays about your family’s twisted history, all formats are your friends. You are also free to explore the themes and ratings of your choosing — just make sure to tag your content appropriately, so the event remains safe and fun for everyone!

Tell us about the prompts!

To spark your creativity, we have selected three words and one quote for each day. Feel free to incorporate as many of these into your pieces as you want, to combine and rearrange them, or even to discard them entirely!

DAY 1: “I’m really sorry I didn’t go to your dad’s funeral.” // birth · death · snap

DAY 2: “Is this really what you want?” // roots · ties · fracture

DAY 3: “These two are so fond of each other.” // love · resentment · separation

DAY 4: “Can I trust you?” // rings · brooch · choker

DAY 5: “I don’t see how there could be a better version of you.” // dream · nightmare · memory

DAY 6: “We have everything we need to be happy!” // chains · freedom · choice

DAY 7: “The Miraculous child did not understand.” // myth · fairy tale · story teller

BONUS: “You mustn’t have many friends, acting the way you do!” // strikeback · red moon · once upon a time

… or, if you haven’t had a chance to participate last year — why not try some of our 2024 prompts?

I’m not sure I can cover all prompts, or that I can post in time. Can I still participate?

Of course! Post whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want. After all, we don’t have your amok.

Sounds great! Where do I start?

Just upload your work and make sure to use the right tags so we can easily find it!

For Tumblr: #sentitwin week and #sentitwin week 2025

For AO3: Sentitwin Week (Miraculous Ladybug) and Sentitwin Week 2025 (Miraculous Ladybug)

You are, of course, free to post your contributions on other platforms — we may not see them there, so shoot me a message if you’d like me to share the link.

Acknowledgements:

A huge thank you to:

@bittersweetresilience, who masterfully organised the event last year!

@bittersweetresilience, again, for sharing its Canva template with me and saving me a lot of trouble 🥹

My lovely friends, for their prompt suggestions: @trishacollins, @faiirygrahamdevanily, @neoncherryblossom and @bittersweetresilience (once more)

The entire Anarchist Gang server, especially @hartwign, for their unfaltering kindness and support! 💜🦚

#miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #chat noir #felix graham de vanily #argos #senticousins #sentitwins #sentitwin week #sentitwin week 2025

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dreadnotau · 1 month ago

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Dread Not Act 1 has finally concluded and with it, sadly, so does my formal creation of the AU. This is the end, and my goodbye to a story that’s defined the last five years of my life.

TL;DR: Thank you for reading, thank you for engaging, and I hope to see you again on the road ahead, whether through Deltarune or otherwise.

Why Quit?

It’s pretty well-known to the people that’ve been following this AU for a long time now, that my motivation for working on it has had its ups and downs. Mostly downs. I want to emphasise that this isn’t a hasty decision, I’ve been mulling over and trying to find other avenues for a while, but suffice to say the pros of continuing are few and far between when compared to the cons. For one, my working pace is horrendous and my drive is lacking, with the pace I’ve had these years Dread Not Act 4 would finish in, like, 2040. I don’t think anyone wants that, least of all me. Even if I turned the story into a fic rather than a comic, or simplified the story to the point it could be told in only a few comic pages, I feel like I’d still just hate working on it, not to mention it’d be a disservice to that original vision I had so long ago.

If you’d indulge me in a bit of needless self-psychoanalysis, Dread Not as a story has been a sort of mythologized retelling of my own adolescence without me even knowing it. To put it simply, when I was first writing it, it meant a lot to me, because it was an externalization of my constant inner conflict, the conflict between conformity and weirdness, femininity and authenticity, masculinity and powerlessness. I had a lot of jumbled up feelings about myself and my place in the world and Dread Not gave me a good outlet to explore and externalise it all, but... I’m turning 22 this year, I’m well on my way to finally get prescribed HRT, I’ve physically and mentally grown up, and this story no longer reflects the parts of me it used to. I think that’s the biggest reason why working on it has been so unfulfilling for me.

On the more technical side of things, my general artstyle has changed a lot (as I’m sure you’ve noticed) and so have my mediums of expression. I still love comics and will probably make more going forward, but not in this format. Not of this scale. Not alone, at least. Dread Not was a technicality NIGHTMARE to organise for my brain riddled with executive dysfunction, but I don’t want to paint it as a net negative. This project has taught me so much, not just about myself, but about how to work and create and tell stories, and put myself out there. It’s not an over-exaggeration to say it’s defined the last 5 years of my life because this story is how I met my best friend who I don’t know where I would be without. Whenever I’d do anything for school, I’d compare it on a technical and emotional level to Dread Not because it’s essentially been my golden standard of passion and discipline. It’s how I started actually posting my art online, like, AT ALL, and getting over my fear of people and being perceived. It’s how I’ve met all the wonderful people who joined its discord server who I’d consider good friends and I’m unspeakably grateful I met them all, and also... it’s taught me more than I ever asked for about the unstoppable force that is the human spirit and the immovable object that is time restriction. If I had like 5 clones of myself, by god would this have been easier.

But, cloning magic doesn’t exist yet and I can’t push myself any longer. I want to start new projects, actual original ones with my own characters instead of AUs, and I want to be unburdened from self-imposed deadlines and standards. I’m no longer the kid who could draw 3 fully coloured comic pages in like 2 weeks out of sheer will and school procrastination alone, and I’ll try to make my future projects reflect that both in skill and maturity. I think, what I’m trying to say the most is, I’ve outgrown Dread Not. I’m sure a lot of you have, too. It was a story born from my teenage angst and it had a pre-planned happy ending, it was always meant to. The only problem is, I reached that ending before the comic did, and my motivation to tell this story has dropped to an all-time low.

This doesn’t HAVE to be the end though.

What could have been

I know what it’s like to be really invested in something, and have the author just give up on the project halfway through, often even sooner than half. The untied loose ends, the disappointment, the tension of the story never released... Exactly because I know what that’s like, I’m really sorry, and I hope the ending of Act 1 and this post at least brings a little bit of closure on that front. If you want to know what the future acts WOULD have been about, you’re in luck. Since I’m leaving the AU anyway, I might as well document all my ideas for it so at least SOME version of it completed exists in the heads of people who care.

Not just writing it out for the sake of itself, but also if anyone wants to continue the AU themselves, they’re free to. I consider this whole concept up for grabs now, if you want to carry on based on the notes I leave here, or if you want to spin it in a completely different direction, or make your OC the president of the world, go for it! Alongside this post, I’ve made a dedicated Dread Not Neocities site, where I’ve compiled all the pages of ACT 1 and included my author commentary that is excruciatingly long, that I suggest you do not read every entry of unless you really, REALLY want to read all of my unhinged rambling about the creation process and the character beats I was conveying. I’ll be adding full descriptions of what future ACTS were MEANT to look like there too, plus concept art and sketches (that I might upload here if there’s enough demand for it), and that site will turn into the de facto “where to find the original Dread Not” place, as it’ll house everything I could’ve wanted to make with the AU.

For those curious who don’t want to read too much Kooki Speak (but still frankly a lot), here’s a shorter version:

ACT 1 was always planned to be just buildup, but by god am I bad at pacing. There’s a lot of small threads in ACT 1 that I never really had plans to address in future acts (Clover is one of those things, poor girl got retroactively shafted because I made her a third wheel in the Ralsei and Kris plot), but one of those is NOT Undyne and her team.

ACT 2 would’ve been entirely from their point of view, or rather the point of view of their newest recruit, Alphys, who joined the military essentially just for the money and perks, and ends up having an extended multi-year crisis over not being good enough physically, morally or mentally. Alongside the running plot of the guard team (and sometimes directly involved with it) would be the two seperate threads left over from ACT 1 - one following Spade, Asgore and Kris trying to find their way in exile, and the other following Toriel, Gaster and their new maid/head of security, Muffet, who all descend into varying forms of villainy thanks to the influence of one another.

The Act wou;d’ve taken place over the span of 10 in-universe years, and the mutual element in all these stories would’ve been self-denial, with it being most prominent in Gaster denying his own mortal body while “helping” Mettaton with creating him a metal one, secretly using Mettaton as a guinea pig for his own experiments with his own body, becoming more and more machine-like in body and mind as the story goes on, for the sake of “productivity” (which itself was just his way of trying to escape the mounting guilt he felt for his involvement in Asgore’s exile). Mettaton would never be fully satisfied with Gaster’s work, and turned to Alphys for help to secretly “fix” it. The ACT would’ve ended with Alphys and Mettaton getting exiled after they in/directly cause a malfunction that nearly gets Gaster killed. They decide to stick together in the wilderness not because they have no-one else left, but because they WANT to help each other, self-denial turning into self-acceptance through another.

Toriel and Muffet would’ve spent the ACT building a rapport with one another, mostly through Toriel’s refusal to harm the spiders Muffet thought would’ve been dismissed alongside her, and in turn Muffet being Toriel’s only refuge from the chaotic demands of her subjects and courtiers. They would’ve ended the ACT as an official yet secret couple (since Toriel’s Queen she’s expected to court men for the sake of having offspring one day, and not Muffet who is a weird spider girl). Formally Toriel being the sovereign of the country, but informally they’re acting as essentially dual Queens, one dealing with trying to bring her people up while the other puts the “bad guys” down. Note Muffet’s skewed perception of morality and how it rubbing off on Toriel probably isn’t a good thing, even if they’re good for each other in a romantic sense.

Asgore and Spade, meanwhile, would’ve gone through ups and downs in their relationship in exile, predictably, as the circumstances are kind of really fucking dire, but eventually stabalize and preffer being fused most of the time rather than unfused (the fusion, yes, in-universe keeps being called The Fusion throughout the whole story, but he has an actual name so I’ll call him Corundum from now on). Kris, meanwhile, grows from being a scared kid who doesn’t really know humanity, to a teenage little shit rebelling against everything because they’ve Met humanity, and Embraced humanity and want to fight for it. Kris is actually a good segway into mentioning that ACT 2, alongside Alphys and Muffet, was meant to introduce the rest of the key players for future acts, namely Noelle, Susie, and Lancer. I’ll get to it.

Undyne would’ve started the ACT as a diehard patriot, but over the course of several failed missions, losing her eye and finally losing Alphys, starts to doubt and resent the cause they were enlisted for. Papyrus would essentially be the only universal constant, as his conviction doesn’t wane while his concerns for his friends grow, trying to keep what’s left of the team together and “fighting for good” because he doesn’t really want to consider that the country that won the war and saved monster kind could be Bad. Napstablook is there and Sad.

ACT 3 would’ve tied all the disparate threads together, from Undyne finally standing up to Toriel and getting exiled, to Ralsei becoming Gaster’s apprentice and inheriting his unhealthy coping mechanisms, to Corundum and Kris casually hanging out with Alphys and Mettaton like a weird extended found family. All of this (mostly) through the lens of Lancer, an orphan who heard about the traitorous escapades of the fusion and wanted to follow in his example of being a bad guy. Shenanigans ensue and he gets caught spying on them, only for Spade to eventually realise that, whoops! Lancer is his biological son, and he had no fucking idea he even existed.

Along the way Kris also meets and (spitefully) befriends Susie, who’s Lancer’s childhood friend he kind of left behind in pursuit of being a criminal. Susie both resents Lancer for abandoning her, but also admires that he even had the guts to go out on his own at all. Her and Kris mostly bond by being weird. Spade, meanwhile, makes the opposite choice to what Asgore did in ACT 1, opting to leave Lancer in the foster care system because he doesn’t think he’s capable of being an actually good parent, his influence on Kris be damned. This is (almost) immediately narratively punished, as after leaving Lancer behind, the family end up ambushed and terribly outnumbered by the Queen’s guard, now with machine reinforcement.

The fight goes poorly and Kris is wounded really badly. For the sake of survival, Spade and Asgore have to unfuse, and while Asgore gets Kris to safety, Spade is captured. Unwilling to let him be taken away alone, hoping he’d be able to save him, Asgore leaves Kris with Alphys, in pursuit of the people who took Spade away, and doesn’t return. Kris wakes up some weeks after, and realises they’ve been abandoned just like Lancer was. This causes them an understandably huge amount of pain, where they leave Alphys as well and try to live completely on their own, culminating in them talking to their memory of Ralsei through their old doll. They regress back to their younger self mentally, feeling alone and unloved and like they don’t belong, but it’s exactly the memory of Ralsei that reminds them that belonging isn’t something given to you, it’s something you find in other people, just like they did in each other when they were kids.

This invigorates Kris, and they gather their rag-tag team (AKA literally just Susie and Lancer) and head to the capital, looking to free their stupid imprisoned dads and reinstate the family they belong in, the family they really want. The heist is complicated as the prisons are heavily guarded, but Kris eventually manages to sneak in on their own while the others form a distraction. They find their parents (first Spade, who chews them out for meddling before realising he really DOES need their help, and then Asgore who’s just crying, man. He’s just crying a lot.) and once the two fuse they begin making their exit, which is noisy and easily attracts attention. Attention of none other than Ralsei, who was just here to grab some documents for his boss and ended up seeing his convicted childhood friend escaping prison. He gets the chance to pull the emergency alarm, to call the guards, but even as Kris has to run and leave him behind again, he can’t bring himself to do it, he lets them go. Later that night, Kris sneaks into the castle just to find Ralsei’s room and leave a thank-you gift.

Meanwhile with the exiles, Corundum realises how badly he fucked up, in a lot of ways, both for his passivity in his own kids’ lives, as well as his refusal to accept how badly his own life has gotten. Lancer gets osmosed fully into the family (while Susie aggressively refuses to be part of any group hugs) and the next morning, Corundum finally decides to take up arms against the Queen, to make a stand against the tyranny, because it really seems like no-one else will. Until Undyne busts down the door, suplexes Corundum and declares herself queen of the pirates. It’s a weird day, and the direct segway into ACT 4.

With the Capital unstable and Corundum on the loose, Toriel’s attempts become somehow yet more desperate. While Kris and their friends are only wanted alive (they’re kids after all) Corundum is wanted Only Dead, and because of the giant target on his back and how badly the Queen wants him dead for no discernable reason (traitors of similar status in the rebellion like Undyne are wanted dead OR alive), he essentially becomes the mascot of the revolution while the actual organised army is a lot more loosely structured. Undyne plays a big role in actual battle advancements while Corundum mostly handles recruitment and survival off of the grid, as he’s kind of gotten the hang of by now. Alphys and Undyne reunite but way too much is happening right now for Alphys to actually ask her out.

Meanwhile, the kids are travelling with the rebels but aren’t allowed to participate in any real fights, which they all think is lame. One day while out and sulking, Susie and Lancer stumble upon a weirdly cold part of the forest, and find a lost girl singing to herself in what looks like a magic, giant snow globe. They take her back to camp, and while she’s suspicious, none of the adults really think of her as a threat, mostly because of how absolutely petrified and hungry the kid is. She refuses to say anything about where she’s from or why she was half frozen out in the woods, all anyone knows about her is that her name is Noelle.

On one of their self-given missions, the kids split up into two teams to see who could score more points in their made-up game. Susie and Lancer in one team, and Kris and Noelle in the other. They end up bonding a lot faster than expected, and Kris uses their human soul to power up Noelle’s already pretty destructive magic. Turns out, the ice Noelle was ‘trapped’ in was of her own making, a defense mechanism to keep her safe from the wild forest, but now Kris is teaching her how to use it for offense, too. This backfires quickly when it gets out of hand and Noelle ends up hurting Kris. They aren’t injured too badly, but are cold and bleeding and can't exactly stand up on their own, but Noelle completely panics and runs away. Kris is hoping she’s going to get help, but she doesn’t.

Once Susie and Lancer get back to camp alone, and realise Noelle didn’t come back with Kris and seems to be in a silent state of shock, they kind of panic too. Corundum and Lancer go out looking for Kris, while Susie stays behind and tries to talk to Noelle, to no avail. Once the family return, Corundum is visibly PISSED while Kris is lowkey/highkey scared of Noelle, now. Susie pieces together what happened and stops trying to reason with Noelle, instead just trying to get her to say WHY she did it, to say anything at all, basically. Alphys ends up intervening and telling Susie it probably wasn’t intentional, Noelle is having a panic attack and yelling isn’t gonna help anyone. Alphys ends up being a pseudo mom figure for both Susie and Noelle, separately. For Noelle, because she’s the only adult who really understands her animalistic anxiety and panic at the smallest perceived threats, and for Susie for being someone willing to talk her down from anger rather than egging her on or ignoring her.

During the kids’ misadventures, the two actual political factions were gearing up on both sides. On the day the rebels finally invade the capital, they do so by hijacking a trade boat and secretly passing through the border via the river, after which all hell breaks loose. The city becomes a battleground and the citizens are all weirdly equipped with shelters to wait out the storm. Meanwhile, Noelle runs at the sight of the capital back into the woods, and Susie goes after her. Kris and Lancer stick to Corundum and Undyne like glue until they get to the actual castle, which has been turned into a giant mechanical labyrinth. Alphys and Mettaton run into Papyrus and Napstablook, and end up reasoning with them rather than fighting. Undyne has her sights on fighting the Queen just as much as Corundum, but it’s really tough to manoeuvre the castle and the team gets split up.

Lancer fights and conquers the staff (Rouxls) and is so happy with his victory that he takes a nap. Kris ends up in the bowels of the mechanical castle and comes face to face with Gaster, who Corundum advised them to go easy on earlier, which backfires. To their rescue comes Ralsei, and the two fight Gaster side by side, reclaiming their childhood and friendship in the face of cynicism and hopelessness. Gaster is essentially completely incapacitated, but Ralsei knows how to keep him alive via the machines while cutting off his influence on the building. Susie and Noelle’s fight ends more peacefully though, with Susie realising Noelle was running from her family this whole time, and opting to help her rather than chase her away. Undyne comes face to face with Muffet and finally fights her head on, making up for not standing up for her teammates when she should’ve.

And then there’s Corundum and Toriel’s fight, which goes so much worse. The two of them are symbols for both sides, yes, but their conflict is a lot more personal. Despite his best efforts, Corundum is unable to fully conquer his legitimate FEAR of Toriel, while she’s unable to deliver any decisive killing blows because she’s still holding onto the vague hope that no one has to die for the prophecy not to come true. The tides of their battle go in her favour, and she forcefully unfuses them, again. Wounded and emotionally exhausted, neither Asgore nor Spade can put up a fight, at which point Toriel makes the difficult decision to kill One of them, deciding that if they can’t fuse anymore, the vision won’t be able to come true.

Only for her to be interrupted by Kris, kicking down the door only to be unceremoniously kicked out of the throne room by Toriel in a single blow. She pities them, but can’t risk leaving both their parents alive, only to see that Kris isn’t alone. Behind them, storming the halls, the rebels have formed an entire siege, and it finally clicks into place for Toriel that the prophecy already came true, and she only certified her own doom rather than preventing it. She resigns herself and refuses to fight anymore, which Asgore witnesses and is extremely confused by, even as Spade helps him back up on his feet as the Queen’s surrounded by rebels, just like in the vision. They fuse again, and while Corundum is 70% ready to kill Toriel for real this time, Papyrus of all people ends up stopping him, as even though he’s on the side of the rebels now, he still believes in a true hero’s principals, the relevant one being that you may never strike down an enemy that’s already surrendered.

Toriel is jailed instead, dropping her crown along the way and (to everyone’s surprise) putting up so little of a fight that she’s essentially the one to lock her own cage. While Corundum stays in the throne room and ponders life and what the fuck he’s gonna do now (going back to the simpler lives he had in the capital before his exile still somehow seems like an impossibility to him), the kids all reunite outside the castle. Lancer and Kris introduce Ralsei and brag about their battles, while Susie (holding Noelle’s hand very tightly) asks them if there’s a way for their big scary four armed monster dad to make sure Noelle doesn’t have to go home to her parents. Undyne and the rest of her team summon Corundum and organise an impromptu coronation and correction of the system, pronouncing the fusion as the new king while the actual delegation of the system won’t be solely in his hands (allegedly).

The story would’ve fully wrapped up with Corundum finding Toriel’s crown, and more importantly finding her in jail. As a show of spite, he breaks the crown in front of her and tells her that her reign of terror is over. Toriel looks at him, coldly and dismissively, and “wishes him luck” in ruling better than she did, if he really thinks he’s capable of it. Despite her not saying much, Corundum is still lowkey/highkey terrified of her, and the sword of Damocles begins to swing again.

There was also a planned epilogue, but... you’ll have to go to the neocities page if you want to read up on it ;)

(When I update it, that is)

Meta-deconstruction of my own work

If you don’t want to read me ramble on about my own psychological issues intertwined with trans confusion and gay denial, just skip this entire subtitle, I wouldn’t blame you at all.

I’m a big proponent of ‘death of the author’ as a means of engaging with a story, original intent being secondary in importance to your own, individual perception of the themes and characters. However, in this case I AM the author, and don’t really have that alternative lens. That kind of screwed me over in a lot of ways because I kept trying to engage with my story only through the way in which it relates to Deltarune and Undertale, like it was an extension of someone else’s work rather than my own world. From this arose issues like... really unclear timeframe for when the story takes place at all, disjointed aesthetics and character designs I was never fully proud of, but had to stick to for the sake of being reminiscent of the original. I gave myself plenty of leeway, don’t get me wrong, but I always thought of Dread Not as the third wheel in a very solid twin story, and it blinded me to what the story was, metatextuality, actually about.

I was in high school when I came up with the concept of the AU, the monsters winning the war and Toriel inheriting an unstable throne. Originally, it was just Asgore, Spade and Kris, on the run from Toriel and Gaster. The conflict was more overtly a love triangle (square?) and Toriel’s motivations were fairytale-like while Asgore and Spade were... my main focus, I’d say? I designed their fusion (lovingly nicknamed Corny by me and my best friend who I expanded the AU with later on, and who you can thank for the scope of the story described in the above subtitle) and, for a long time, he functioned as my stand-in whenever I’d make other AUs, or when I’d just be randomly doodling stuff. Yeah, the scrawny transboy with no confidence made a big fat furry to project onto, what else is new. The difference is, I never admitted that to myself. There was a lot of shame and vulnerability in openly having a fursona for me, especially since he was just two of my favourite characters literally mashed into one, it’s pure wish fulfillment. I still kind of struggle with that, and I think it shows in the way I wrote Corny in my Act 2 drafts and onwards.

He’s just a big ball of pride and shame mixed into a destructive fake cat man, running from his own identity while trying to embrace it. It's weird and complicated and, frankly, with the drafts I had I never felt like I was really doing him justice. Like there was always somehow More to him that I was failing to bring up. In time, I realised that ‘something’ is the melancholic haze of losing the place in society you thought was your birthright. You USED to be normal, you USED to be successful, but now you’re not. You’re something else, something monstrous, something everyone despises but also, you could never be anything else now. You love the new you, but you hate that no-one else does. You want this, but you also want to fit in, and you can’t. And it sucks. And that’s what the fusion of two exiled gay men have in common with a former girly girl transman slowly figuring out he’s gay.

Asgore and Spade, and Corny by extension, all represented this almost shunned masculinity within myself. I kind of lived vicariously through these outlaw gay men because, even though I’m not illegal, living day to day as a teenager at the tail end of a puberty that scarred me, still struggling to come out even to myself at times, kind of gave me the impression that I don’t belong, anywhere. Kris is and always was representative of my inner child, loud and creative and kind of just unwittingly tossed into this whole mess. And Toriel? Sadly, she got saddled with the symbolism of all the femininity I was forcing myself to live up to, to stay hidden and “passing” as the wrong gender. I never disliked Toriel, and her “villain” role to me (at the time of originally making the AU) was a necessary evil. She would get overthrown eventually, yes, but while she’s still here her reign is stifling and strict. Tyrannical. But necessary to survive. She was the one making sure the country didn’t collapse in on itself through paranoia and control, analogous to my very thin perpetual mask of girlhood I didn’t belong in that I used as a survival strategy to not get relentlessly bullied again like I used to.

I kind of feel bad that I made Toriel the villain if I’m being honest. Like, in hindsight, she really doesn’t deserve that role. Even if she’s prone to acting paranoid or rash sometimes, I feel like I really undersold her very real wisdom in the games by (plot hole DING) having her not realise that trying to stop the prophecy would probably end up being its exact catalyst. I always meant to give her that sort of resigned realisation of that fact moments before it happens, but, I’ve gotten complaints from certain people that her acting the way she does in the comic makes it seem like she never read a single piece of ancient greek literature, and I’m kind of inclined to agree with that criticism. I needed SOME kind of effigy for my younger self to metaphorically burn in order to finally embrace what I’ve been all these years. And, that reflects really poorly on Toriel. If she were a real person I’d owe her an apology. Not for trying to dethrone her, but just for giving her kind of weird motivation that I had to further expand on retroactively in later pages.

If I were to make the AU from scratch today, I’d probably put more work in giving Toriel a more grounded motivation, give her actual stakes and history in the monster/human conflict outside of a vague family lineage, and potentially also tie Kris into her plot more. It feels like a missed opportunity in hindsight, they ARE her child in Deltarune, after all. Gaster, out of the main cast, got the lamest symbolism out of everyone though, the “adult” voice that’s nudging everything into conformity, beefing with a literal child to represent the constant war between “adultness and logic” and “childlike wonder” that plagues everyone during puberty. His general role in the story was of a passive machine, someone who’d do as he’s told and not question sides, that sort of “neutral instinct” to not rock the boat that’s generally expected of adults. Again, if I were to make the AU over, I’d probably give him a more mysterious role? Have him be less overtly one of the main catalysts for the story’s events, and more like a shadowy observer cataloguing the misfortunes of the people around him for the sake of trying to prevent tragedy. He’d still be a bumbling gay idiot though, don’t worry about that part.

All of this writing about the AU, I hope, can put into perspective why it meant so much to me, and kind of still does. I might never make all four acts into standalone comics, but I still put as much of it out there as I could. It’s 7AM on a Friday after pulling an allnighter writing this entire spiel, so please excuse me if it’s sloppy or weirdly phrased in certain places. From start to finish, Dread Not has been an honest work of pure passion, and I hope if nothing else about this AU sticks with you, it’s that I loved working on it, and I’m eternally grateful for all the people who engaged with the story. Even you, whenever you’re reading this ungodly spiel, thank you.

What’s next?

For a lot of you, I’d understand if you weren’t interested in my work outside of Dread Not, or outside Deltarune/Undertale. For a long time I branded myself on those games alone, but I’m hoping to branch out more soon. If you want to keep up with me outside this project, my Art Tumblr and my Youtube are the best places to do that. I’ll be turning off Asks for this blog, so if you have any questions for me about this AU or anything else really, the art blog is the best place to go.

Alongside the formal “closure” of this blog (no more updates) I’ll also be working on remodeling my Dread Not Discord Server into just a Kooki Discord Server, and if you join you can see the myriad of fan characters for this AU that people have already made and that I never cease to be impressed by. If there’s ever going to be an “official” continuation of the story, that’s made without me but with my blessing, it’ll have its roots in that server. But, also, I wouldn’t entirely bet on it. This story is kind of a behemoth and if I can’t do it justice I don’t want anyone else to feel pressured to try it either.

Once again, thank you for reading, thank you for commenting, thank you for caring. I hope to see you again on the road ahead. And, hey, if you’re second guessing whether you wanna put your own stuff out there, take this as a sign to just go for it. You have no idea what will come of it, but that’s part of the fun. Even if you can’t see it through to the very end, it’s better to try than to never give yourself that chance. Make that comic, write that script, draw that idea. It’ll be worth it, even if it takes a few years for you to see how.

Alright, I really gotta stop writing now. I think I’m just postponing the inevitable, because ending this post means really, genuinely ending Dread Not... I guess all that’s left to say is

Goodbye

#dread not #dreadnot #dread not au #dreadnotau #the end #for real this time #kris #asgore #spade #toriel #gaster #final post #also final fun fact about how much i hate photoshop #that last image at the end of the post? trying to properly colour it crashed the program like 50 times #im so done im so tired im moving to krita fuck photoshop and fuck adobe #sorry to sour the mood of that genuine goodbye LMAO i just. god i hate adobe and i always will

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relax-and-read-on · 2 years ago

Text

I have not made made a generic hc post about the primarch in a LONG time. I miss it, and it's good for the warhammer tumblr ecosystem. So, without further waiting....

Primarch, and the absolutely shitty gifts they give each others for a White Elephants gift exchange

Roboute: A classic coffee mug (primarch sized!) Filled with sweets and a indestructible fancy fountain pen. The mug say "World Most Okay Dad" on it, and he joke that it apply to them all.

Lion: a stuffed bird. The number of eyes on it is vaguely unnerving. It's unclear wich way is the head suppose to go, and all agree that it's probably an awful mutant bird. Lion is too proud to admit that it's just a really shotty taxidermy he made himself.

Alpharius Omegon: They give a series of mysterious CD in blank case, wich is a very rare and hard to read format on most ship! It's the entire series of MLP:FiM, famous lost media in the 30th millenium.

Rogal: A thick, sturdy, and perfectly elegant multi bit screwdriver, with extra standard bits put in the handle. Give a proud presentation on it, explaining it's superior design and all it's ergonomic features. It's 45 min long.

Perturabo: it's a coupon that say "one (1) construction from me and my legion, free of complaining. Valid until the 31th millenium." It's the most popular gift of the night.

Corvus: slipper and kigurumi, all crow themed. They are *adorable*. Sadly, the size is a bit tight and vaguely indecent on the more muscular primarch.

Lorgar: a traditional colchian tea set, with hand dried craft teas! The set is beautiful, and the teas prove to be only mildly hallucinogenic.

Konrad: A very, VERY pretty embroidered set of throw pillow! They have delicate pattern of flower and nature imagery... And are made with human hair. Konrad is very proud of himself, and even more of the absolute bloody screaming his gift create when he explain it.

Sanguinius: put out by Konrad's gift, but he also made a pillow, but this one filled with his own feathers. Has surprising property against nightmare.

Vulkan: He was actually sweet, and brought homemade hot sauce, his mother's recipe! The problem is that the stuff is so strong, it's considered a dangerous chemical in most of the galaxy. Can be used as jet fuel.

Horus: Edible sexy underwear. Insist that whoever gets it has to wear it, and jokingly say that, if they are too shy, he can do a demonstration himself.

Mortarion: a succulent growing kit. Even his most dumbasses of brother should be able to keep a succulent alive, right? Doesn't mention that it's an highly invasive species that will colonise the entire ship of his poor victime.

Jaghatai: a foal. Yes, he carry a whole ass live animal to the gift exchange, and keep insisting that it's an appropriate gift. The horse is chewing on Magnus' hair.

Leman: Mad that he didn't think of bringing a puppy, but he has the most amazing looking collection of smoked salmon, caviar and preserved fish to offer.

Magnus: his patience is wearing thin, but he still offer a perfectly beautiful robe, that act as an honest to good mood ring and change color depending on the person's aura.

Fulgrim: A painting of himself! Wich is actually a joke, it's just a thin and hand painted decorative paper covering the true gift: a painting of all their family, together. Get called a try hard.

Ferrus: a collection of very pretty crystals and fossils! Wich he arranged in a chocolate box, and explain that those are his favorite flavors.

Angron: A punching bag that even *he* find durable. He made sure of it, by thoroughly testing it before giving it out, wich explain it's used appearance.

I know exactly who gets what..... Yall want to know in a part 2 ;)?

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impactedfates · 1 year ago

Note

Hello there!! Can I request some headcanons / mini-scenarios for: Dan Heng, March, Welt, Himeko, Yanqing and Jing Yuan; with a normally soft-spoken Reader who has a wide vocal range (from contralto to hitting those high notes) and occasionally does song covers? Doesn't matter the genre, so long as Reader likes it.

So they might hear Reader singing something like a lullaby or a traditional Xianzhou song one day, to something that's still soft and sweet like a mainstream pop song on another day; to belting out something like "Kakusei" or "NEXUS" from the Promare OST. :D

★ A/N: I understood the request, I just hope I wrote it in a way you wanted! People with such a large vocal range are so talented istg, they gotta teach me. (I say as if I have ANY confidence to sing anyways)

☆ Genre/Trope: Platonic

★ Format: Bullet Pointed Head Cannons (And small scenario at the end :>)

☆ Warnings: None

★ Extra: Reader is a Nameless // Readers age is undisclosed so imagine them at whatever age you wish // Reader can play instruments! // Characters might be OOC I feel // Proof Read but I did it when it was 4am lmao

When you sing more soft songs, Dan Heng tends to enjoy listening. It helps him feel more relax and sometimes rids his mind of nightmares.

He's more used to hearing that kind of voice from you. So when one day, he walks in on you singing a song that's the exact opposite of how you usually sing, he's a bit surprised.

He never doubted you could have a big vocal range, however hearing you sing a song that's different to how he normally hears you sing is what surprised him.

He still enjoys listening, but more so when you sing in a softer voice, don't get him wrong. He still enjoys your singing voice and will support you. But he isn't one for a more loud song.

"[Name]...if you're going to sing more...on the loud side, could I request you do it else where?" Dan Heng sighs softly, being awoken up once again due to you. Despite his words hinting at annoyance, his facial expression was soft and kind. A soft sorry came from your voice as you quickly turned off the music you were using, switching to a more softer song. An old Xianzhou lullaby. "Here, I'll make it up to you. Sit on the couch and I'll sing a softer song" You smiled, Dan Heng chuckled as he obliged. He can't deny that your more softer voice doesn't help him fall asleep. He silently hums along to your voice, and in a sleepy voice he speaks to you before drifting to bed. "If you enjoy music like that so much, we can pay a visit to Serval okay?"

March 7th LOVES your singing voice. She would sing along to whatever song you were singing. She praises you every time she hears you and likely took photos of you singing.

She so supports you if you ever make a YouTube (StarTube?) account and posted covers, literally your number 1 fan.

When you post a cover of a song, she's always the first one to like, comment and listen!

When you post a cover of a song that's VERY different. (Let's say, Usseewa) and you hit ALL those high notes and, everything omg. She was surprised but immediately hyped you up.

She doesn't mind if you sing songs like that at all, your singing is amazing. Like I said, number 1 fan...she doesn't hid it either.

"I love you [Name]!" "Uh, the one with the blue camera and pink hair?" "OH. MY GOD. [NAME] YOU NOTICED ME, YOU NOTICED ME. I.LOVE.YOU" Serval laughed out loud seeing Marchs outburst, as if you two don't live with each other. You could only look away with a small smile, seeing March jump up and down and shaking whoever was beside her. Much to Welts "delight"

Welts very impressed with your vocal range. But he's also worried, he knows that if you were able too have a large vocal range, you likely know how to manage it.

Still, anytime he hears you singing songs like NEXUS or Kakusei he can't help but slide over a bottle of water for your throat.

If you ever join a concert with Serval then he IS buying tickets, though not everyone may go (Dan Heng) he and the rest of the Express will.

He also tends to buy any merch you may come out with if there is any. (Mainly for March but he does keep one or two for himself to support you)

He doesn't really have a preference when it comes too what songs you sing, just as long as your happy and it isn't really disturbing anyone.

If you ever start a StarTube channel, he might animate a few of your covers! Under a pen name though, he's not embarrassed, but I think he'd like it if you thought it was a different fan and not just him who's already liked your singing from the start. (If that makes sense)

"WELT! Weltweltwelt" You ran up to him, quickly showing him an animation someone did of one of your new songs. "ArahatosNumber1Fan animated one of my covers again" You said excitedly, bringing the phone screen back to your view as you scrolled through the comments. Many complimenting the animation but many also asking who sang the cover to which they were directed to your account. "This the guy that you said was helping boost your channel subs?" You nod happily, tapping your chin you thought for a bit. "Do you think they'd still animate my covers even if I sing a different genre? I want to go with something softer this time instead of a louder peice" "I'm sure they'll animate any song you wish to sing" He chuckles. And sure enough, a week after you posted a cover of Lost Umbrella, ArahatosNumber1Fan posted an animation to go along with it.

Himeko compliments you a lot for your vocal range. In fact, she got you a karaoke machine for your birthday! Of course, though. She doesn't let you use it during night time. She doesn't want to wake up because you decided to start singing Churira Churira Dadada at 3 in the morning.

I do think she prefers you to sing outside the train. While she does enjoying your singing and she has no problem if you were to sing in the train. However she also understands it may disturb many people so she does ask for you to sing in an area where you aren't disturbing anyone.

I feel like she also asks you to teach her how to sing or have a wider vocal range. She enjoys singing herself and would love to join in when you're out singing to keep you company!

Perhaps you two can make money by singing on the streets :> (Only if you're okay with it though!)

You strummed you guitar as the two of you reached the last note, Himeko took a small bow and looked up at the audience that had gathered around. All of them clapping and complimenting your voice. She laughed softly and gently packed up your things so the two of you could get going, checking to see if you were uncomfortable with the attention before she directs you back to the train. As you two entered, Himeko was quick to sit and count the amount of credits that were left in your guitar case, looking up to you she said with a smile. "A success, well done. They loved you" "It wasn't just me singing..." "Perhaps but...I'd say they have their favourites"

When Yanqing overhears you singing Xianzhou lullabys, he's quick to shower you with compliments. Your voice is so soothing! He could listen it for so long and it's effective too. You had to usher him out as he could wake the kids you just put to bed.

When he hears you singing a song like (man I'm running out of songs I know/hj) Noels Lament. He's impressed, how can you sing a song so softly and quietly and then sing something like this which needs a stronger voice??

He might skip a few of his training to find you and see what song you're singing, he makes it a guessing game! Will you be singing something so sweet and kind? Or something that might will make head turn??

"...Yanqing?" "Ha! I guessed right this time" "...Guessed...right?" Ah, you weren't meant to know the guessing game he had in his own head, quickly, he shuffled away. Scratching the back of his head. "Of where you were!" "I always walk in this area" "...I meant...what outfit you'd be wearing?" "I usually wear similar clothes?" ...Yeah, he's running off quickly, hopefully Jing Yuan won't scold him for skipping his training again right? Surely the general can understand he just has to see if his guess was right or not.

Surprisingly (or not surprisingly) Jing Yuan enjoys when you sing your heart out with songs like Candy Store or Mount Rageous. That's the type of sing he first heard you sing when he tried to find Yanqing when he skipped yet another training sessions.

Usually he would just sleep till Yanqing returned or just go on with his day if he never did. In either case, now he joins Yanqing to see what song you're singing before returning back to train.

When he hears you singing a less upbeat song like Sweet Dreams. He's slightly surprised but listens intently, it's different to what he often hears you sing but he enjoys it none the less, he sees your happy so he's fine.

He might even request to hear certain songs just to see how well you voice range can handle it. From the loudest song that could break glass, to a soothing song that can put even the mara struck to bed. And if you successfully sing them all, he congratulates you.

Overall, he's impressed as well as many others, likely talks to you and how well you sing to his friends.

You panted a bit as you finished a particularly long high note, Jing Yuan chuckles and slides over a cup of water which you accept quickly. Taking a drink to sooth your throat. "You voice really can do wonders, I'm more then impressed" He speaks, you nodded in response as he then offers a small treat for agreeing to sing a song for him. A song that made you go from high to low, soft to loud and all in all, tested how wide your voice range can be in a singular song. "I must apologies, I just wished to see how far your voice can go. I should've considered how tired your throat must be from singing that particular song" "No worries, it was fun to read and practice that song. I'm a bit surprised you know it though" "Oh? Are you now?" "Yeah...I mean...the song was released like a month ago and you're kinda a grandp-" "Alright I get it" He chuckled lightly, gently flicking your forehead.

I'm so smart writing Yanqings and JY sleep deprived right?/j Yeah uh they might be OOC, hopefully not thoughejfpgt.

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boozasaur · 2 months ago

Text

Love In Pavilion Whump List

Whumpees: Wangquan Hong Ye played by Zhang Yun Long, Yang Yi Tan played by Zhai Xiao Wen, Zheng Zheng played by Ding Yu Xi, Jiu Huo played by Charles Lin, Li Qu Zhou played by Zhao Yi Bo, Li Zi Xai played by Chen You Wei, Deng Qi Yu played by Sun Zi Hang, Mu Mie played by Qin Xiao Xuan, Baimu Yao Jun played by Hou Ming Hao, Mu Xiao Wu played by Chen Ruo Xuan

(Lets just say this drama is now on the list of top 5 most PAINFUL dramas that I will never recover from 😂 )

Where to Watch: IQIYI

Genre: wuxia, romance, fantasy, romance

Synopsis: Dongfang Huai Zhu and Wangquan Hong Ye are the leaders of two major families, the Dongfangs and the Wangquans. In a time when humans and demons are in conflict, they work together to stabilize the situation in order to revive the Unity Alliance. On the seventh day of the seventh month, at the Bamboo Pavilion by the Huai River, their fates intertwine like the sheaths of two swords, never to be separated. They pick up the most heartwarming promise and tell a story that has endured for generations.

~~~~~SPOILERS~~~~~~~

Wangquan Hong Ye

Ep1- none

Ep2- mentions he’s been poisoned, mark on hand, inhaled too much poison mist, given medicine ; nightmare

Ep3- ear bleeding after hearing powerful music ; in bath, winces in pain, ear bleeding, seems unwell, attacked with music by FL, in pain, mentions he will soon collapse, bells in room depriving him of his senses, lost sense of smell, fighting FL, staggers, in pain, ears ringing, collapses to his knees, coughing blood, blurry vision, chest pain, hit with power, pushed into water, unconscious ; unconscious in bed, FL uses spell on him to share senses and hear each others thoughts, wakes up, notices his senses are gone when he gets too far from FL ; going through formation while blind and deaf with help of FL

Ep4- FL steps away from him, loses his senses ; meditating, wakes up, voluntarily takes poison ; walks away from FL, loses senses, FL heals him, cool fight

Ep5- none

Ep6- none

Ep7- wound on his wrist protecting FL, treated by FL, wincing in pain ; nightmare, treating wound on wrist, cured of “poison” turned out to be medicine 😂

Ep8- emotional whump at friends deaths ; drinking

Ep9- reveals identity to FL, emotional when she rejects him ; restrained by vines, possessed, forced to do bidding, fighting possession, possesion removed from him by Jiuhuo, knocked unconscious

Ep10- transported 20yrs into future to rescue FL ; fight with FL, hit with demonic power ; meditating to heal from demonic poison

Ep11- repeat of last scene ; nightmare, sweating, wakes up ; trapped in dangerous area with FL

Ep12- controlled by Jia Lan, in illusion realm, forced to fight FL ; stabbed in chest by FL, staggering, in pain, twisting knife, collapses (dies), spitting blood in real world, blood at his lips mentions he died in the other realm and will be stuck in a dream forever as living dead

Ep13- unconscious tied up to post, blood at his lips, wakes up, speaking weakly, flashback to previous ep, stabbed in chest with hairpin, grunting in pain ; still tied to post, FL puts mark on him that blocks heart meridian to control him ; FL tends to wounds, grunting in pain, aphrodisiac incense in room, stands with difficulty, dizzy, struggling to fight it, meditating to fight incense effects

Ep14- asleep in bed (pretending) ; FL activates mark on his neck, choking, chest pain, hit with power, knocked to his knees, in pain

Ep15- Jiuhuo choking him with power ; knocked to the ground by power, fight with Jiuhuo, brief flashback of dying fighting Jia Lan

Ep16- tough fight against Jiuhuo, blasted back by power, hits the ground and spits blood, using alot of power, knocked to the ground and spitting blood, hit in the chest, spitting alot of blood, on the ground in pain, fight against FL, stabbed in the shoulder, pinned against pillar, spitting blood, sword pushed in further, in pain, struggling to speak, pulls sword out of chest and throws it at FL, carrying FL into golden dawn, using alot of power to purify FL, passes out

Ep17- carried by FL, unconscious ; unconscious in bed, wakes up coughing, speaking weakly, worried for FL, sitting up, in pain, coughing, emotional seeing FL, pulse checked, mentions he has severe injuries, coughing, in pain, takes medicine ; emotional moment

Ep18- stabbed in the chest with Jia Lan power, falls to the ground, spitting blood, sent back to the past; falls to his knees, holding chest in pain, spitting blood, collapses, in bed unconscious, pulse checked ; awake, pulse checked, drinks medicine, emotional moment, pretending his wound hurts (comedic)

Ep19- none

Ep20- none

Ep21- brief fight with ZZ ; consumes snake demon core, passes out (comedic), in bed, very cold, frost on his face ; pulse checked, mentions energy is still unstable

Ep22- very cold, wrapped in blankets, nodding off, cuddles up to FL for warmth, covered in frost ; staying out late waiting for FL, covered in frost, in bed covered in blankets, drinking warm tea

Ep23- none

Ep24- none

Ep25- turned to stone, flashback/vision (younger) covered in blood, wounded, spitting blood, surrounded by bodies, cut on side, struggling to protect Zui, FL saves him from vision

Ep26- difficult fight, worried for FL

Ep27- finding herb for Qing Mu (not shown), wounds on his face

Ep28- none

Ep29- emotional moment with father in dream

Ep30- emotional moment with FL ; confronting Jiuhuo

Ep31- emotional finding father ; knocked back by energy, hits the ground, wound on his face, blood at his mouth, unsteady on his feet, difficult fight, coughing blood

Ep32- not shown

Ep33- covered in wounds, finds Yi Tan and Zui, possessed by FD (fox demon), in illusion, emotional, tries to kill himself, places his sword at his throat, saved by Yi Tan, emotional, fighting FD, using alot of power, sacrificing himself to kill FD, struggling, spitting blood, wavering on his feet

Ep34- in bed unconscious, mentions his spiritual energy is depleted, severe physical and mental trauma, no will to live, in nightmare seeing everyone that died, wakes up ; depressed, mourning his friends, crying ; doing sword dance, emotional, collapses to his knees ; depressed

Ep35- breaking in to save FL, hair turning white, mentions he lost his sword spirit, fighting Renfengs men, emotional ; says he lives in self blame and regret ; appears unwell, practicing sword, unsteady on his feet ; followed FL to confront Renfeng, takes hit for FL, weak, collapses into FL arms, blood at his mouth, in bed unconscious, mentions the hit caused internal injuries that might destroy his cultivation ; fighting, covered in blood, being persecuted by other families, depressed, practicing sword

Ep36- emotional moment with FL, sleeping in bed ; emotional finding out FL is pregnant ; worried for FL in labor, giving energy to FL, emotional ; emotional moment with FL

Yang Yi Tan

Ep1-3- none

Ep4- breaking spell chain, hit with backlash, on his knees, spitting blood

Ep5- none

Ep6- none

Ep7- drugged unconscious

Ep8- none

Ep9- emotional confrontation with grandfather, mentions he’s had a blood clotting problem since he was a child, flashback 12yo, given knock out drug and thrown into mine during winter, unconscious on the ground, wakes up, stumbling through mine as its collapsing, hit by boulder and knocked out, on the ground, gets up with difficulty, speaking weakly, forces his clairvoyance to emerge, mentions he was in a coma for a month afterwards

Ep10- none

Ep11- tough fight against Jiuhuo, using alot of power ; staggers suddenly, lies that he overused his clairvoyance fighting Jiuhuo, blood on his hand, sweating, wound on his side, tending to it, wound pressed on, wincing in pain, holding side as he stands, feeling dizzy, passes out in LI arms

Ep12- asleep sitting against cabinet, fed medicine mouth to mouth by Zui 😂, Zui uses power to wake him up to take medicine, passes back out, bleeding through bandages, mentions blood clotting issue, shivering in sleep

Ep13- (in Mu Mie’s dream) grunting in pain, covered in wounds, tearing out his own clairvoyant eye

Ep14- mentions he has severe internal and external injuries and used too much power ; given medicine to recover, mentions exhausting his power could cost him 10 years of life, flashback to ep11

Ep15- knocked to the ground by power and restrained, brief flashback of dying fighting Jia Lan

Ep16- using alot of power, knocked to the ground, spitting blood, hit by FL power, knocked to ground, spitting blood

Ep17- none

Ep18- fighting Jia Lan, blood at his lips, sent back to the past ; sad thinking about Mu Mie in future with Jia Lan loose

Ep19-28- none

Ep29- emotional finding out what happened to his father ; worried for Zui, fighting grandfather, choked, spitting blood, struggling to speak, thrown against tree, knocked out, controlled by demonic power, kills grandfather, worried for Zui, collapses ; unconscious against tree, wakes up coughing ; emotional moment with ML and Zui

Ep30- none

Ep31- being controlled by demonic energy from ep29, knocked back by energy

Ep32- controlled by FD, fighting Zui and Qi Yue, confronting Zui, stabs Zui and kills Qi Yue

Ep33- repeat of last scene, Zui places him in a dream, emotional, tells ML FD has control of his clairvoyant eye, weak, grabs blade to stop ML, rips out his clairvoyant eye, spitting blood, emotional, dies

Zhang Zheng

Ep4- FINALLY SPEAKS 😅 (not whump. But 3 episodes of appearance and nothing but bombastic side eye before his single line was torture for ME)

Ep20- flashback saving Qing Mu, bitten on the arm, wincing in pain when QM grabs arm

Ep21- brief fight with ML ; in pain, leg injured, bleeding, confrontation with mother about using his name, says Ran is already dead, limping

Ep22- eats food he’s allergic to, itchy neck ; mentions mother sold him as a child to the Zhang family to be a body double

Ep23- confrontation with QM ; talisman placed on him, weak, passes out, drug used to make him tell the truth, fighting the drug, emotional, tells QM to just kill him that he’s exhausted, scar shown from being bitten (ep20), flashback real ZZ in bed weak and sick, mentions he will die soon, emotional, in pain trying to sit up, takes medicine, in pain, medicine will give last burst of energy but accelerate death, took it to give Anaran identity, ZZ coughing blood, exchanging identities, emotional, emotional continuing to be questioned, ZZ tied up in the rain, hood over his head, about to be buried alive, AR coming to rescue him, ZZ at the end of his life, mentions he’s in pain every day due to pills, dying from pills is 100x more painful than to be buried alive, both very emotional, ZZ struggling to speak, ZZ gives AR charm he carved, emotional hug, fighting drug, weak, fever, leg bleeding, wound tended, wakes up alone in cave, head pain ; emotional confrontation with FL

Ep24- confrontation with mother ; mother feeds him (and says he’ll be under her control forever after this) ; confrontation with ML, emotional, (repeat of ep23 rain scene) ; in pain, black veins moving under his skin, emotional moment with QM, collapses, holding chest in pain, has demon poison, screaming in pain, barely conscious, QM healing him ; unconscious, wakes up, head pain

Ep25- confrontation with mother, hit in the back with talisman, collapses to his knees, holding his chest in pain, mother using demon controlling talisman on him, stands with difficulty, in pain as he forcibly removes and destroys talisman

Ep26- difficult fight, worried for QM

Ep27- worried for QM, emotional finding out what she did to save him, spitting blood and in pain transferring energy to QM, crying

Ep28-30-none

Ep31- knocked back by FD power

Ep32- unconscious on the ground, wakes up, gets up with difficulty, limping, seeing vision of ZZ grave, hit by power, dark energy entering him, controlled by FD, struggling against it, breaks free, fighting, hit hy QM, fighting QM, cut multiple times, grabs sword bare handed, hit in the chin, spitting blood, stabbed through the chest, spitting blood, sword pushed deeper, in pain, collapses to his knees, sword pushed even further, bleeding, gasping, speaking weakly, emotional, saving QM, speaking weakly, collapses into QM arms, dies

Jiu Huo

Ep9- woken up after 500yrs ; wound on chest from dragon bone, still won’t heal with his demonic power, continuous blood consumption required to ease pain

Ep10- hand injured after consuming blood from maid, struggling to control blood lust when FL is in room

Ep11- wound acting up, in pain

Ep12- telling FL about past, flashback covered in wounds, Jia Lan restoring his core, captured, restrained and injured

Ep14- weak, needing to feed, fight with FL, staggering, controlled by FL

Ep15- none

Ep16- tough fight against group, knocked back into pillar, hits the ground and spits blood, struggling to sit up, holding chest in pain, speaking weakly

Ep17- holding chest in pain, speaking weakly ; chained up, weak, confrontation with ML, hoarse voice, bleeding ; still chained, using alot of power, bleeding in pain pushing out dragon blood, breaks free

Ep18- blood at his lips, using alot of power fixing golden dawn, out of breath, brief fight with ML and FL ; using alot of power, freeing Jia Lan, escapes

Ep19-27- none

Ep26- mentions of severe injuries, cant use demonic powers or he wont survive

Ep27- confrontation with Jia Lan, coughing, speaking weakly, flashback after fighting dragon clan, covered in wounds, holding his chest, speaking weakly, spits blood, passes out, demon core shattered, Jia Lan protecting him, wakes up , worried for JL, tries to move, clutches chest in pain, JL gives him dragon emperors core, healed, worried for JL ; restrained, unconscious, poisoned, wakes up, hoarse voice, given energy, healed, hit with artifact, black eyes and veins on his face, struggling against restraints, worried for JL, emotional

Ep28- repeat of last scene, sealed in formation

Ep29- using alot of power, blood at his lips

Ep30- meditating to heal, spitting blood, holding his chest in pain, wound acting up, using power, chest pain, fighting, thrown back, hits the ground, spitting blood, knocked back, weak, struggling to get up, mentions its taking a long time to recover from broken spine, power is depleted, confronting Jia Lan, wound reveal on chest (sacrificed his core to fix golden dawn) emotional confrontation, slapped ; core being removed, stands up with difficulty, absorbing energy of all his men, confronting ML, mentions absorbing the energy is hastening his death but he has nothing left to cling to, emotional, sacrificing himself to fight ML, hit with extreme power, spitting blood, no longer immortal, emotional moment, collapses to his knees, spitting blood, remembering JL, dies

Deng Qi Yu (left) Li Qu Zhou (middle) Li Zi Xai (right)

Li Qu Zhou

Ep15- brief flashback of dying fighting Jia Lan

Ep16- (older) hit by FL power, knocked to ground, spitting blood

Ep18- (older) fighting Jia Lan, spitting blood, sacrificing himself to send others back to the past, hit in the chest, dies

Ep19- drunk, accidentaly drinks truth telling alcohol, passes out (comedic)

Ep21- consumes dog demon core

Ep25- struggling to use alot of power to protect LI and others, collapses ; wakes up on top of LI (comedic)

Ep27- finding herb for Qing Mu (not shown), wounds on his face

Ep32- trapped in illusion, flashback wounded in bed, covered in blood, weak, demon poison from his wounds, mentions brother sacrifice to save him, spitting blood, collapses to his knees, controlled by FD, cuts his own leg, stabs into other leg, wakes up from illusions, covered in wounds, crawling to his brother, legs crippled, struggling to move, screaming in pain, using alot of power, joining with his brothers power, using self destructive spell, on the ground, barely conscious, brothers talisman protected him, it was a life exchanging talisman, crying out for brothers death

Ep34- in a wheelchair, mourning brother, emotional, family worried for him, emotional

Ep35- in wheelchair, emotional

Li Zi Xai

Ep15- brief flashback of dying fighting Jia Lan

Ep19- drinking with Yi Tan

Ep32- fighting FD, covered in blood, hit in the chest and knocked to the ground, spitting blood, tough fight, flashback sacrifices right hand to save brothers life, coughing blood, fighting, knocked to his knees, using alot of power to protect Qu Zhou, spitting blood, puts life exchanging talisman on brother, joining with his brothers power, using self destructing spell, exchanged his life for brothers, dead

Deng Qi Yu

Ep15- brief flashback of dying fighting Jia Lan

Ep32- fighting Yi Tan, hit in the chest, knocked back into rock, knocked back protecting Zui, spitting blood, fighting, hit multiple times, knocked to the ground, spitting blood, controlled by FD, tries to kill Xui, Yitan stops him and stabs him, dies

Mu Mie

Ep13- nightmare about Ti Yan ; hit in the back, eating poisoned food, feeling weak, helped to stand and walk, shot in the back, collapses to his knees, FL helps him escape ; wakes up leaning against tree, standing up, grunting in pain

Ep14- none

Ep15- knocked to the ground by power and restrained

Ep16- caught by Jiuhuo, thrown to the ground and spitting blood, hit by FL power, knocked to ground, spitting blood

Ep17- mentions of being injured and used to much energy ; drinking with group, seems in pain, blood at his lips, collapses, unconscious in bed, pulse checked, friends worried for him, organs and meridians are shattered, love interest trying to heal him ; in bed unconscious, being tended to, feverish, talking in his sleep, LI emotional moment, wakes up, put back to sleep, crawling to LI, confessing love, weak, struggling, emotional, crying when LI disappears

Ep18- none

Ep19- emotional

Baimu Yao Jun

Ep1- grabs blade bare handed, hand bleeding, power attacked, spitting blood, collapses to his knees ; weak, holding chest in pain

Ep2- weak, helped to walk, bloody hand, removing demon core, spitting blood, speaking weakly, emotional moment with LI, dissipates

Mu Xiao Wu

Ep5- kneeling for a day and night, unsteady, barely conscious, blood at his lips, appears unwell ; limping ; limping to Yang Yan

Ep7- drugged, unconscious, captured ; in prison, tied to rack, wounds on his face and body, tortured, screaming in pain ; on torture rack, speaking weakly, blood at his lips, tortured ; tortured

Ep8- unconscious, carried out on stretcher, mentions he was tortured brutally, lost too much blood, meridians broken, beyond saving, fed pill to wake up and say his goodbyes, wakes up coughing, extremely weak, speaking weakly to wife, crying, dies

#whump #whump list #chinese drama #cdrama #asian whump #zhang yunlong #zhai xiaowen #ding yuxi #charles lin #zhao yibo #chen youwei #sun zihang #hou minghao #chen ruoxuan #fox spirit matchmaker #love in pavilion

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