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skeltnwrites · 9 months ago

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Tides at Moonrise ☾⁺˖⋆₊

After being attacked by demobats in the Upside Down, Steve experiences some supernatural changes.

vampire!steve, bf!steve, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort / TW season 4 spoilers, vomit, arguing, drinking blood, very minor descriptions of injury and gore, mentions of death and cannibalism, spooky elements 6k

a/n - steve and dustin are such a fun pair to write i miss the iconic duo that they are

── .✦

“Fuck,” Steve croaks, swiping at the thread of spit swaying from his lips. He glowers at his reflection in the toilet bowl, muddied brown from a piece of chocolate but mostly bile. The sting of acid coats the back of his throat and sours the length of his tongue.

It’s been four days, going on five, and he hasn’t been able to keep anything down. You’ve tried toast, soup, crackers, protein shakes, and every other sick food on the list. And now in a desperate attempt, you’ve ruined his favorite candy for him too.

You press a water bottle to his bicep, “Here.”

“No.” His hands tremble where they’re braced against the porcelain rim. “I can’t.”

“Stevie. It’s just water.”

“I will. Just, not yet.” His tone is callous. He’s not mad, at least not at you. A culmination of feelings fester in his chest like a swarm of bees gearing for attack. But he won’t take this out on you. Won’t let himself.

He sinks back on his heels, decidedly finished.

You snake an arm around his middle as if to say it’s okay. You’re both exhausted from a string of sleepless nights. Finding the proper words requires a level of energy you don’t have. He prefers your touch anyway.

The half-hearted embrace lacks the comfort you hope to find. The skin of his bare back is like ice against yours. It’s a foreign sensation, though becoming less and less so each day.

Steve sags into your warmth with the entire brunt of his weight. His strength fades with each passing night, as your worry grows in equal measure.

A finger scratches the coarse gauze plastered to his tummy. It’s still snug, exactly how you fixed it. You only trouble him with changing his bandages if it’s necessary. You’re thankful that the road rash across his back has scabbed over. It’s healing fine, but it’s not pretty. Like a pair of fiery wings hung from his shoulder blades.

You coax Steve back into your shared room. He’s averse but can’t afford a fight.

It’s late morning. Bright enough to project bars of sunlight across your sheets. Steve winces at them, among a number of other things, as he crawls into bed. Even through the glass pane, the sun stings. It’s not unbearable, but an uncomfortable heat, like a sunburn.

You reinforce the makeshift curtain where it’s unfastened itself. It’s a throw blanket you really miss now that you sleep beside a human ice pack. Someone is bringing blackout curtains to cover the blinds. You think it was Mike who offered, but you aren’t really sure. Your brain is fuzzy with fear and fatigue. The last week has tangled itself in your mind like an unraveled spool of thread. The only strand of it you’re focused on is what’ll help Steve.

He seeks your hand when you join him on the mattress. There’s enough indirect light seeping in to highlight the sickly shade he’s become. Signature golden, sun-baked hues have drained from his skin like a bleached photograph. And while he hasn’t eaten or seen the sun in days, it just doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this situation does.

You all have your theories– how this is linked to the Upside Down or a part of Vecna’s plan. But everything circles back to that night. Steve was shredded by demobats and took a chunk out of one with his teeth in revenge. Something about their bites or swallowing their blood did something to Steve. It changed him, right down to his DNA.

Dustin’s tried to present several possibilities from a scientific standpoint. Gene mutations, parasites, cellular regeneration, infections, but there are always holes in his explanations, always things that don’t quite add up. But you’re running out of time. You feel it, Steve feels it, everyone does. He’s grasping at a fraying rope, wilting like a dying flower in your palms.

Steve calls your name like a beacon from your thoughts.

“I can hear how anxious you are,” he says when you face him.

You have to be the strong one right now. You shake your head. “I’m not. It’s okay.”

He softens like melting snow and scoots closer until he’s more on your pillow than his. “Don’t lie. Please.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, not caring that he won’t believe you.

Steve sandwiches your fingers between both of his palms; draws soothing shapes across the marbled green and purple of your knuckles. “I can hear your heartbeat, you know. It’s racing.”

Your first instinct is to call his bluff, then shove away any embarrassment and lock it up in a box deep in your brain until all of this is over. But he’s not lying. He’s a stupendously bad liar. And at this point, he could tell you he has x-ray vision and you wouldn’t be that surprised.

“I can hear the blood pumping through your veins too.”

“Is that… new?”

“No. It was just so chaotic before. I couldn’t focus on it.”

You study his eyes. They’re a shade of brown you never expected to become your favorite. Hooded and half-lidded with the weight of too many things for one person to carry. You try hard to commit them to memory because you’re afraid if they close they may never reopen.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs.

“You’re not.” You blink away the salty sting as fast as it arrives. “You don’t know that.”

“I got it out of my system. I feel fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” he lies.

“It’s bullshit.”

He snaps you a harsh look, seemingly triggered by your tone or choice of words. “Okay– well, shit, babe. What do you suppose we do?”

You sit up, ripping out of his grasp. “I dunno, Steve. Go to the hospital? The fucking government lab people? Literally anyone– we clearly don’t know–”

He scoffs, wrenching himself up with the help of the headboard. “Yeah, because the nurses will totally believe the part about the sentient vines that tried to strangle me. I mean clearly something– fucked, has happened to me. Something they aren’t going to know how to fix!”

“Then the scientists! They might know! They’d have a better clue than us.”

“And where do you suppose we find these scientists who El said were killed with Brenner?”

“I don’t know, Steve! But it’s worth looking! You’re worth getting real help for!”

The yelling is squashed by an even heavier thing that is silence. Steve isn’t sure what to say and neither are you.

This is not the first time you’ve argued since that night. There’s enough stress between the two of you to stretch to the other side of the earth and back. And more than enough fear to turn both of your heads gray. You’re irritable and angry and so desperate for a night of sleep where you aren’t tormented by your loved one’s deaths. And you feel like your best friend in the whole world is walking a tightrope straight into death’s door.

“I am okay,” he promises quietly. “I’ve been through worse. I have.”

“What like getting in fist fights? Getting drugged by Russians? This is different, Steve. Something’s wrong.” Your voice raises and then wavers before breaking completely; like the keystone pulled from an arch, everything crumbles.

Steve gathers you into his arms like you’re made of putty, scooping and pulling like you’ll slip right out of his hold. You inhale a staggered belt of air and choke on a sob into his collarbone. He seals you against his chest, not caring about the scrapes and cuts and bruises; not caring if they reopen and stain the mattress red.

He cradles you for an innominate amount of time until you slacken and your sniffles morph into congested snores. His gaze flickers across your face, tracing the bend of your brows and the seam of your lips. He hates this; having to convince you he’s okay when he’s not. He needs to be stronger, to be there for you as much as you’ve been for him. Steve won’t lose you in this pit his body’s created. He can’t.

ᯓ★

It’s evening when you wake. You can tell because the white glow framing the window has ebbed into orange. There’s a pounding at the base of your skull and a sharper pain, like two barbs behind your eyes. You remember why your eyes are puffy, why you aren’t warm in Steve’s embrace, and why someone’s knocking very loudly on the door all between one shuddery breath. You feel sad but you should be grateful. That’s the longest bout of sleep you’ve had all week.

You tug away from your sleeping boyfriend and steal his water bottle off the nightstand. The static has to be shaken from your legs before you can drag yourself to answer the door. You know it’s Dustin before you open it because he’s the only one who knocks this impatiently.

“Okay, I think I’ve figured it out,” he starts as soon as your face slides into view. “I was looking through my monster manual– and I know what you’re gonna say– this isn’t some game, Dustin,” he mocks your voice in an inarguably awful impression. You’d chastise him if you didn’t have such a killer headache.

He prattles his way into the kitchen beside you while you search for that damn bottle of painkillers. Words are spilling out of Dustin’s mouth like a burst dam. You love him like a brother, and you appreciate him even more for what he’s saying, but you aren't catching a lick of it. The medicine is right where you forgot it beside the tower of dishes in the sink– mostly yours since Steve, well, you know. You take a swig of water and pop three pills.

Dustin stops his spiel to ask, “Should you be taking that many?”

“Yes, unless you want me to bash my head into the wall.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever. As I was saying, if this really is the case, I think Steve’s a vampire!” He beams at you like this is great news; like he said something completely normal.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve huffs from the other side of the counter, a blanket strung across his back and bunched in the front like a cloak. He scrubs his nose, either squinting from being woken up or narrowing his eyes at Dustin in irritation, you aren’t sure.

“I’m serious,” Dustin defends.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait, Steve! Let me explain!”

Steve entertains an explanation for one reason only. You told him to. Seven hours of sleep does nothing when you haven’t eaten for as long as he hasn’t. His stomach is twisting itself in knots and frankly, he doesn’t want to spend the last days of his life hearing about characters from Dustin’s nerdy game.

But you both sit and listen and decide his theory actually kind of makes sense this time. Steve won’t admit it and you’re trying to be skeptical– raise all the right questions and find any holes– but your heart lurches at the possibility that you finally have an answer. A cure.

Steve’s aversion to sunlight, his paling complexion, not being able to keep human food down, hearing your goddamn heartbeat– it all clicks. He’s a fucking vampire.

“And vampires need blood!” You shout with Dustin.

“You can’t be serious,” Steve glares at you. “I’m not a vampire.”

“Weirder fucking things have happened here.” Your eyebrows knit together, mind swirling with endless thoughts. “I mean, how did we not consider this? You were bit by a bat!”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because it’s crazy!”

“Steve!”

He shakes his head in disbelief. You love him so much you’re desperate for anything, even illogical answers. He refuses to play along.

“Will you just try it? See if it works first?” Dustin asks.

“Do you realize what you’re asking me? To drink someone’s blood? Are you out of your mind? Where would we even–”

Dustin cuts him off, shrugging, “I know a place.”

“You know a place?”

“Yeah. I know a place. Don’t question me.”

Steve stares, eyebrows raised.

“It’s pig’s blood, from a farm.”

“Christ, Henderson. I’m not drinking pig’s blood. You psycho.”

“Steve, don’t be like this,” you plead. “How can you know if you don’t try? Maybe you’ll like it?”

“‘Don’t be like this?’ Are you you kidding? I’m not doing it– that’s gross!”

“Okay, okay. What about a steak? Like a really bloody one? Will you compromise?”

Steve makes a funny face. “Fine.”

ᯓ★

“This is not the way to the grocery store,” Steve realizes out loud, heaving himself up in the backseat of his beamer.

It’s overcast and nearly sunset but he’s dressed in long sleeves and brought his blanket-cloak for extra protection. Steve always loved the sun– pool days, barbecues, beach vacations, all of it. Now he can’t enjoy the heat of it from his bedroom without hurting. It’s like a punch to the gut, realizing you may never see his sun-kissed hair or trace his moles by his parent’s pool again.

“Ding. Ding. Ding,” Dustin goads from the passenger seat beside you.

“You guys are assholes. Especially you, Henderson.”

“Wasn’t my idea.”

Steve meets your gaze in the rearview mirror. He supplies his signature Steve pout. But only the tiniest slice of your brain is worried about that. You’re fixated on how bloodshot his eyes are. How deep they sag, even after sleeping as much as he has. You can deal with Steve being mad at you; what you can’t deal with is Steve being dead.

You think he’s starting to come to terms with the plan because he doesn’t argue further. But he really just doesn’t have it in him to bicker. He thinks it’s a stupid idea. He’ll probably throw up, either at the smell or mind game of drinking it or whatever the hell’s wrong with his body. And pigs have all sorts of diseases, don’t they? It very well could make him more sick than he already is.

When you arrive, Steve’s cheek is smushed against the car door. He’s been dozing in reluctant fits for most of the drive.

The farm is fucking creepy, to say the least. It’s not dark yet, but the clouds are drawing shut over the last bit of light. And the long, gravelly path up to the house is freaking you out. This is the kind of place where people in movies get murdered.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” You ask Dustin, shifting the car into park.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

You crane over your seat. Steve’s curled in on himself like an earthworm. The long drive was just a catalyst to knock him out.

He’s been wired at night. You’ve spent hours up with him and the moon, trying any and everything that comes to mind– reading, movies, baths– none of it’s worked so far. But he’s exhausted during the day no matter how much he sleeps. At least the nocturnal-ness makes sense now.

“We can’t leave him in here,” you say.

“Why not?”

“What if he wakes up? Sees he’s in the middle of fucking nowhere by himself? He’ll think we left him.”

“What if he makes a scene in front of the farmer? He’s not exactly on board with this plan.”

You sigh, defeated. You can’t send Dustin alone. If he gets slaughtered, you don’t think you’ll be able to live with yourself. Plus Dustin already called this guy to arrange this and explained the pig’s blood was for a project for film school. Dustin doesn’t exactly look old enough to pass as a college kid so that parts up to you.

“Okay, come on.” You open and click the door shut as gingerly as the car allows.

Dustin isn’t spooked but he is cautious. He scans the pines beyond the house, the truck parked under the sycamore tree, and the underside of the porch. No murderers, yet.

You knock and put on your best film school student face.

A long-bearded man in his seventies at least, cautiously eyes you through the crack of the doorway. “Can I help ya?”

“Hi, we’re here to buy pig’s blood. For a school project,” you say.

“Oh,” he grumbles, setting aside a shotgun before unlatching the slide bolt. “Forgot you was comin’.”

The man ushers you inside. The foyer looks normal enough– framed family photos and wooden side tables and a floral rug. There’s no blood stains or screams or machetes lying around. That’s a good thing. But you can’t shake the uneasy feeling. It follows you through the house like a ghost.

“I sell it by the gallon. Five dollars for one. How many ya need?”

“Uhh. Two?” You glance at Dustin for reassurance.

He frowns and shrugs.

“Alrighty. Let me grab ‘em from the basement.”

The basement? Those are keywords in a scary movie. He probably keeps his victims in the basement. Or worse, his weapons.

“This place is creepy as shit,” Dustin leans over and whisper-yells as soon as the guy’s out of earshot. “We need to get this blood and get the hell out of here!”

You swallow hard and think of Steve alone in the car. He’s not being brutally murdered right now. He’s not running for his life through the cornfield. He’s not–

“Here ya are, kids.” He lugs two dark red jugs onto the kitchen table.

A thought crosses your mind that it’s human blood. How would you know? Are you about to force your boyfriend into cannibalism?

You fumble with your wallet, willing your hands not to shake as you pass him a ten.

“Now where’d ya say you go to school?”

“Bloomington.”

“Purdue.”

You blink stupidly at the man, scrounging your throat for excuses and pulling them up painfully by each word. “He’s going to Purdue– Well, he wants to. When he gets in he’ll go there! I go to Bloomington.” You purse your lips and nod excessively, like that’ll really top off the story's believability.

“Right,” Dustin chuckles nervously.

He cocks an eyebrow, “Well, okay then. Hope yer film goes well.”

“Thanks!”

You yank a gallon off the table and Dustin snatches the other.

Night has officially settled in, and the wooden porch steps creak loudly beneath your weight. For a moment before Dustin reminds you, you forget you left the keys in the car and convince yourself the old man has taken them and you’ve just become the star of the latest blockbuster.

Steve startles awake when Dustin slams his door. He lurches into the back of your seat as you floor it in reverse.

“What! What happened?” He shouts. “Guys, what the hell?”

Dustin releases a dramatic sigh, slumps into his seat, and lays the back of his hand over his forehead. “We almost died, Steve.”

“What!”

Your hands are slick against the steering wheel. You’re still half expecting the farmer to materialize in the middle of the road with an axe.

Steve bends over the center console and shakes your shoulder. “What happened?”

He pulls you back into reality. He’s good at that. Except for before when Dustin convinced you that this was a good idea in the first place.

You describe what happened in a poor attempt at good storytelling and Steve quickly determines that you and Dustin are just a pair of ‘paranoid idiots’.

He perks up on the way back, offering to drive and booting Dustin to the backseat when you agree. Dustin gets dropped off at his house on the way to yours, leaving you, Steve, and two gallons of pig’s blood in your kitchen.

“Should I heat it up, or like, mix it with something?” You ask.

“It was your crazy idea, honey.”

“It was Dustin’s. And I’m asking how you’d like it. You’re the one drinking it.”

“I’d like you to throw it out.”

“Steve.”

“Mhmm?”

“I can put it in a shot glass?”

A wide smile divides his lips; the kind that makes your tummy flip. You ache for it as soon as it fades.

“I hate you,” is said with such affection it can’t mean anything but the opposite.

“I love you too. Seriously, though. How do you want it?”

He takes it raw. Too afraid that combining it with real food will upset his stomach regardless and too afraid heating it up will trick his brain into thinking it’s human blood. You take a small glass from the cabinet and fill it halfway. Enough for a few big sips but not enough to set any absurd expectations either.

Steve gags when you pass him the cup. You can’t blame him. It smells the farthest thing from appetizing. There’s a musky, metallic quality to it, like a box of screws that have been sitting in a garage for ages.

“I can’t do this,” he decides.

“Come on, Stevie. It might help.”

“No. You’re insane. Do you smell that? It’s rancid.”

“It’s not rancid. You tore that bat's throat apart with your teeth. You’re telling me you didn’t taste its blood? At all?”

Steve clicks his tongue. “I don’t remember! It was a heat of the moment thing– not supposed to be my dinner!”

“I can count you down?”

“No, no. Just,” he lines his nose over the cup for another whiff and scrunches his face in disgust. “Give me a minute.”

A minute turns to three which turns to ten. But you can be patient.

“I can try it first,” you offer.

“Absolutely not.”

You don’t insist. You weren't exactly keen on offering in the first place; the smell really is strong.

Without warning, he launches the cup up to his lips and takes several hefty gulps like he’s chugging a beer. And Steve’s determined, he empties it in one attempt, peeling the glass away and leaving a crimson mustache behind. A fist shoots up to stifle a burp and scrub his mouth after.

After dating for so long, you can read Steve like a book; sometimes, you think you know him better than yourself. But this is the first time in a long time, you truly cannot decipher his expression. His lips twitch into a weird satisfied almost-frown and his lashes flutter like hummingbird wings.

“What? How was it?”

“It was… it…” He shakes his head, “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yeah, I don’t–” He snags the jug off the counter to pour another glass.

You gawk, open-mouthed and floundering as much as a fish on the shore. “You like it?” You manage to ask.

He takes another few sips, smacking on the aftertaste and analyzing. “I mean it’s… I really hated it at first. And it doesn’t taste good still. But, I don’t know, it’s like filling, I guess.”

“That’s good, right? You don’t feel nauseous?”

“No.” He grins, relief washing over his features. “What the fuck.”

“Dude, you’re a fucking vampire.”

“Does that mean I’m like, immortal and shit.” Steve blinks at his hands like they might grow an extra set of fingers.

You aren’t ready to process that possibility and instead, turn to open the fridge. “Do we have garlic?” You ask. Glasses clink as you card through the side door, retrieving the jar of minced garlic. You pop the lid and shove it under Steve’s nostrils.

He wrenches away at the sudden potency of it. But it’s not repulsive. It’s the same scent he remembers.“Maybe I’d have to eat it?”

“Or it might be a myth?”

“I hope it is. I really like garlic bread.” He licks his lips, fishing for leftovers. “Is it bad if I have another glass?”

Steve drinks half a gallon of pig’s blood like it’s orange juice. And weirdly, it doesn’t gross you out one bit. You’re just grateful to see him smile. To see him digest something and not immediately chuck it up.

After four glasses, he belches accidentally and tumultuously with a groan. A strong hand grips your waist for support, the other propped against the countertop behind him.

“You okay? Are you gonna be sick?”

He shakes his head, pinching his eyes closed.

“Are you sure? What’s wrong?”

“Dizzy,” he mumbles, searching for you in the sliver of vision still there. It’s like somebody’s strapped anchors to his eyelids.

Heat flashes the inside of your body like lightning. Your first thought is poison. Some kind of poison. The farmer poisoned him? No. Drinking that much blood would poison anybody, right? Should you call poison control? Force Steve to throw up? Several trains of thought overlap and intersect into one inescapable explosion of anxiety.

“Here, come here. Come sit.” You encourage Steve’s full weight into your side, underestimating how heavy he is. You stagger sideways, catching yourself on the stovetop with your free hand. On the way to the living room, he rams a shin into the coffee table and nearly takes you both out when you fail to warn him to step over a shoe. He’s easier to manage when he’s shitfaced, you think. Maybe this is like being drunk for him on some level. Blood drunk.

But you make it to the couch; collapse into the cushions with the full force of two adults and pretend it doesn’t hurt when Steve headbutts your chin. Your limbs get organized for optimal comfort– Steve’s legs slung across your lap and his face tucked against your collarbone.

He’s deadweight against you. Awake but just barely. And only fending off sleep for your sake; he can feel how scared you are.

“‘s like a sugar rush,” he says, slow as a drop of honey. “‘m so tired.”

“You feel tired? That’s all? Not sick?” You press a cheek into his crown, combing the untamed mop of bedhead starting at the roots.

There’s an attempt to shake his head but all you feel is a twitch. He hums no and sighs, “Feels good.”

His breath is freezing. You can’t help but shiver. Your fingers rake through his hair. One trails down to linger over his pulse point. It’s steady, not abnormally slow. At least if he is dying, he’ll die content.

Steve isn’t the only person you love. You love the kids like they’re your siblings and some of their parents like they’re your own. But your love for Steve is uniquely distinct. You love him in a way you aren’t sure you could love anyone else. And you can’t lose that. You can’t lose Steve.

He tilts his face up and he unsticks his eyelashes like they’ve been brushed with glue. “Relax.”

You nod, too afraid to rely on your voice. A fingernail scratches the crusted stripe of blood cutting his chin in half. He looks peaceful, for once. “Sleep,” you whisper.

That’s about the easiest thing anyone’s asked him to do all week. He feels as light and full as a balloon, trusting you to tether him to earth if he floats—your arms are a string of safety. He feels okay for the first time since that night. More than okay, even.

Steve staples you against the couch but he’s more of a weighted blanket than a barrier. You have no intention of leaving his side anyway. You’d swear you aren’t tired but you fall asleep anyway.

ᯓ★

It’s warm, uncharacteristically warm. You’re pinned on your side in a tight-knit cocoon of blankets. And you feel great, for once– no headache, no nightmares, nothing of the sort. It’s tempting to go right back to sleep but you begrudgingly open your eyes because this can’t be right. It’s not. You’re alone. Even in the dark, that’s obvious. Steve’s a restless sleeper and more often than not is holding some part of your body for comfort. What’s weirder, you’re in bed. You definitely didn’t fall asleep in bed.

It’s too hot. You miss the unfamiliar cold of Steve’s skin. Where is he?

You shove the layers off your body and sit up, blinking harshly, and swallowing harsher to chase the dryness away. Your feet are flimsy under your weight so you grip the bedpost for balance. You feel brittle as a pie crust, like you’ve been baking under that duvet for years.

For a brief moment, you consider that you actually have woken up from a nightmare. Which parts are real and which parts aren’t, well, that’s hard to distinguish. But that still doesn’t explain Steve’s absence.

You fumble around on the carpet beneath the bed for Steve’s bat. Stack one hand on top of the other, choke it at the base, and always point away– exactly how Steve showed you. You try not to fixate on the blood-rusted nails, but the image of a mangled demobat sticks to the forefront of your memory like a tattoo. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the squeal it made when you struck it.

It’s eerily silent in the hall and just as black as your bedroom. Steve’s not on the couch where you hoped to find him but his keys hang from their rightful home by the door. He wouldn’t leave on foot, right?

You slink into the kitchen and when it also comes up empty, you panic. You check inside a cabinet and then another, but he couldn’t fit inside if he tried. You realize the sink has been emptied and the countertops cleared. But why make the effort to clean it just to leave? Some kind of twisted goodbye favor?

Something frigid skims the bare back of your arm and your heart stops. You lurch forward a few feet before barrelling around, bat outstretched between you and… Steve.

He’s in a fresh pair of pajamas and his hair is slicked back behind his ears. His complexion is dewy, glowing with the moonlight spilling in from the window. He looks alert.

“What the hell! Where the fuck were you?”

Wide eyes comb over you. A warmness has returned to them, a sweetness too. And suddenly you don’t really care about where he was when he tells you, “I was just in the bathroom.”

“With the light off?” You bark, still upset and climbing your way down the defensive fence you put up. Outbursts aren’t limited to just him, you have your reasons, and he knows that. But you know you need to reel yourself in before this turns into something it shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Did I wake you? I just– hey.”

The bat clinks against the tile where you drop it. You lunge into Steve, interlacing your arms across his shoulders in a fierce hug.

“Hey, hey. What’s wrong?” He spreads each palm across opposite ends of your back.

“I thought– I thought you left or– or you died, or something.” You gasp wetly into his sternum, clinging to him like he might blow away if you breathe too hard.

“I didn’t leave. I’m here. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

He shushes and soothes you for a long period before you lean back for a better look at him. “You’re okay?” You blubber.

“Yeah, I feel way better,” he promises. “Are you okay? I’m sorry I scared you.” The pad of his thumb strokes a loop from the end of your brow to the bridge of your nose and back.

“I almost took your head off with that bat.”

He chuckles but it lacks any real amusement; he can’t find a joke through all his concerns. A set of kisses are sewn from your hairline to your chin. “I’m sorry. Are you hungry?”

“It’s like four AM,” you wipe your nose with the flat of your hand.

“So? You’ve been busy taking care of my ass. When was the last time you ate?”

You make a noncommittal noise. You really can’t remember.

“Exactly. Let me make you something. What do you want?”

You let Steve cook for you. He’s happy to return the favor, take care of you for a change. And you’re just happy he’s happy.

All vigor appears to be restored. He stands tall, moves swiftly, and works sprightly, maybe even more so than before. It feels too good to be true. Perhaps you’re dreaming now.

He doesn’t notice he’s cooking with the lights off until you mention it. And he swears they don’t bother him like the sun does when you question him, just another newfound ability that he can see in the dark. But he flicks the light on for you and you find his face is a shade that is much more Steve. Not as golden as before, but not as lifeless, either.

When you get situated at the dining room table under dim lights with a plate full of steaming food, you thank him.

“Don’t thank me. I should be thanking you, dummy.”

You shake your head. Gratitude is not needed. “I missed you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Silly apologies aren’t needed either. “Don’t be, please. Nothing you could do.”

“No, I should’ve listened to you, from the start. I hate to admit it, but you and Dustin were right.”

A touch of a smirk finds your lips. He’s so stubborn, you love it as much as you hate it. “We need to call him. Tell him it worked.”

“Inflate his ego some more?”

“Exactly,” you crack into a grin and he watches fondly, despite your mouth full of food. “But seriously, he cares about you, Steve.”

“No, I know. I know. I’ll call him.”

There’s a dip in the conversation. You observe each other like you might never have the chance again. A mutual understanding eclipses any prior tension. You’re both alive and you’re both endlessly grateful.

“We should visit Max. The others too. I’d like to see them.”

You nod, an attempt to self-soothe more than a confirmation of his request. Tears prick your waterline like sand spurs and spill in quicksilver lines down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Steve scoots his chair against yours, shovels you into his lap, and begs you to tell him what’s wrong in one fluid motion.

“I’m just so glad you're okay, Stevie. That’s all.”

“I’m okay,” he assures and he repeats it again and again until you believe it.

His fingers are icicles where they sweep the length of your arm. It’s a stark reminder of what’s changed.

The love of your life, Steve Harrington, is a vampire. The idea is peculiar, sticks out in your thoughts like caution tape. But it presents some sense of consolation too.

Steve’s a vampire. He moves like a mouse and can see in the dark and hears your heartbeat from across the room. Admittedly, you hate that last part a little bit. It’s fucking bizarre and something that’ll take time to get used to; even more for Steve than for you. Most importantly, he’s still sweet on you. Still selfless enough to nurse your wounds before his. Still loving enough to kiss your tears as they fall.

This new phase is just that– a new phase. It brings things to learn and even more things to love about Steve. It’ll take a lot worse to tear you apart.

#vampire steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #skeltnwrites

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spurbleu · 11 months ago

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cw. anxiety attack, john price x reader. gentle angst drabble. (venty ig)

‧︎✳︎༚︎‧︎⁎︎°︎

is it possible for something to be hot and cold simultaneously?

sure feels that way- rasps peaking in puffs of acid on the back of his tongue. reeling in its own indecision- burning frigidity. sizzling stove pan, somehow keeping the ice solid in frosty cruelty.

somewhere in between.

that’s where price found himself, now. inbetween. not unfamiliar, but uncomfortable. sticky and suffocating, cant see shit. vignette vision, cloudy edges. the head of his heart thudding in his chest with a ferocity he’s accustomed to- on the field.

but not here. not with you. this couldn’t, shouldn’t, be happening.

clock. desk. rug. bedpost. gun- fuck. shit.

he glances to you. usually the hard lines of your silhouette calm him- solidify your presence and his safety beside it. but tonight, he can’t seem to find where you begin and where it ends. ribbons unfurling where his jagged hands cut it. his own fault, that he is the way he is.

he wants to hold you close but can’t seem to figure out where. you head is there but then it’s not. hallow and rise of your shoulders, lost to the sheets and the dark corners he braved when he was younger (thought his fear has dissipated, seems it’s come back twice as strong).

“focus on the things you can’t see- hear them. feel them.” always so good at comfort, weren’t you, sweet thing.

his breath. your breath. the shifting of the sheets. your mumble. the boiler in the basement. your voice, calling, aimless. here. im here, find me.

“honey?”

lost again. vision was blurred from sleep, and something festering. it feeds on the marrow, and the insomniac in him thought prods how. he feels as though it’s already eaten what it could’ve. how could there be more? how does it still find something to take?

doesn’t answer. instead, it jolts down to his hands. clammy, sheath of sweat burrowing in his life lines that feel to old and young at the same time (he’s conflicted tonight, isn’t he). similar to his hold on a gun, shot a man, shot tw-

a breath.

like when he held your hand for the first time. movies, bad one. you laughed, so it was okay. okay. less clammy, not that you minded. you never did.

“john?”

it’s louder now, he’s almost out. just a little while more now, don’t rock the boat. breathes like he was taught. looks around. counts.

you are not there. you are here. clock. desk. carpet. bedpost. picture frame. clock, your grandmothers. good cook. desk, god how many times have you kissed him there, before sleep- he’d like to kiss you now, if you’re there. are you th-

“john, sweetheart. breathe.”

he does, and even in the dark he sees you. and he’s better. breathing. living. a good man.

“i’m ‘ere dove. just a terror.”

his breath. your breath. the shifting of the sheets. your mumble. the boiler in the basement.

your kiss. hey, im right here. with you. going no where.

he believes you. helps him sleep, believing. holds you closer, as if to punctuate it. focuses on your breath, because it when it expands, it tells him that as long as your alive, he can navigate out of it.

neck deep in mud, the thicket he’s subjected himself to, you’re there. pitch belly sky and dull blade beginnings- yet you still find a way to shine.

clock. desk. carpet. bedpost. you. you. you.

#wrote this before I board my plane #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john price x you #captain johnathan price #john price cod #captain john price #john price #price call of duty #call of duty #spurbleu✴︎‧︎⁎︎drabbles

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bluelolblue · 2 months ago

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Love Louder Than Wounds

Summary: Love, patience and understanding can heal a person, but it stays a slow process. John and Santino experience this truth after Santino goes through a traumatic incident and the resulting nightmares. John stays his biggest support, despite Santino trying to push him away time and time again.

Rating: Mature, graphic description of violence, TW - self-harm, blood, panic attack, emetophobia warning, intense nightmare, character having spiraling thoughts! Please read the tags on Ao3, I put trigger warning also here since this is a heavy fic!

Relationship: Santino D'Antonio/John Wick

Note: This fic wasn't planned, it just happened when I was in a really bad mental place and I needed to project. Some parts became harder for me to write due to a stressful situation I had not so long ago (emetophobia related), and I was worried this fic wouldn't be done how I wanted it to be. It's been really difficult for me lately, everything was too much... I needed to write it into a fic. I was self projecting into Santino, so if he feels OOC, I'm sorry, but it was how I wanted to write him for this specific fic. It's hard to deal with spiraling thoughts on a daily basis, especially when they convince you that your worst fears and insecurities are real, and you have to try and snap yourself out of it. It's not that easy, at least it isn't for me. I wanted to show in this fic how difficult that can be, and how with patience, love, no pressure and time, it can be slowly healed.

This fic means a lot to me personally and I really tried my best to write it and push through everything that was happening. Thank you anyone who reads it, it means a lot to me! <3

Not everything is so dark in this fic tho!! There are sweet moments with Santino and John being sweet fiancés and Dog is here too! :]

━─┉┈┈◈♡◈┈┈┉─━

Snippet

The room was dark, there was no sound except for the occasional sound of the wind, the floor felt cold under Santino's feet, as if he was walking on tiles. There was a foul smell of blood, cigarettes and dust in the air, making him feel dizzy and nauseous.

He couldn't move further away, there were chains on his heels, wrists… and on his neck. Cold and suffocating, aching with every swallow. It triggered his anxiety that quickly turned into panic. His throat was burning, his heartbeat speeding up, his body shaking and feeling tingly, like it wasn't his body anymore.

Santino knew where he was and he knew what was coming. He couldn't scream, he couldn't move, he could only freeze in a sudden horrible sensation.

It was warm, burning his skin. The blood. It was dripping down his back and chest, hitting the floor with a wet heavy splat. His stomach twisted to the feeling and noise, he felt acid sizzling along his throat.

It was disgusting, gruesome, painful and shameful. To be seen like this, to be in this position in the first place.

There was a punch into his ribs, then a knife into his back, then into his thigh, then hands suffocating his throat. It was too much, he could hear them yelling, he could hear them cursing at him.

I don't want this. Stop. Make it stop. Please, stop, stop, stop!

Santino woke up with a choked sob, gasping as his body jolted against the mattress, completely disoriented.

“Hey, hey, you're okay. You're safe, it's okay.” Came from a familiar gentle voice.

It took Santino a few seconds to blink away tears and focus on his surroundings and his fiancé, John, who was next to him, brushing a wet curl off his forehead, trying to ground him.

“Shh, you're here with me. Breathe, love. You're at home with me,” John murmured, gently taking a hold of his fiancé's hand, giving a light squeeze on it.

The other man made an attempt to speak, but all that came out was a whimper and the embarrassment overflowed him so he turned his head away from his partner, squeezing his eyes shut hard, enough to feel them pinch.

“It's okay. Try to take some deep breaths for me. I'll help you, okay?” John waited for his companion to show him any sign that he was going to cooperate, he knew he had to be patient and gentle. Santino in this state was the most sensitive.

With another sharp inhale, D'Antonio nodded, and that was his partner's cue.

John helped him sit up, adjusting the pillows so he could lean against them, moving the sheets off his chest so he could breathe better. He noticed how sweaty he was, his shirt soaked over his chest and his skin glistening from the sweat as if he was hit with a fever.

He kissed his temple, murmuring to start breathing like they practiced before. Santino followed after a failed first attempt, he closed his eyes, inhaling, holding his breath for a couple of seconds and exhaling deeply.

“Good, keep going,” John praised, inhaling with him, holding his hand while with the other one he rubbed his thigh. Although breathing deeply worked most of the time, Santino often needed John's touch to work better through it.

Read the rest on ao3

#Likes/reblogs are always highly appreciated!#sorry i was yapping in the note AGHHH #but i wanted to explain how everything has been and how this fic is important for me #and that it's not easy to go through spiraling thoughts and trauma #santino d’antonio #santino d'antonio #john wick #wickedsaint #john wick x santino d'antonio #wickblr #my writing #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #whump fic

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atlantis-just-drowned · 1 year ago

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A/N: This is kinda hurt/comfort? DCA x reader, can be read as romantic or platonic. TW for The Entire World, literally (might be overwhelming), also panic attack for the bois :(

The DCA discovering the Internet for the first time

Please reblog to show support! Likes don't boost posts on Tumblr :(

Masterlist

It was an accident. No, really, it was!

How could they have been aware of what would happen? Never would he have done such a thing, if he has known the consequences…

Or maybe he would have done it anyway. They weren’t so sure, now.

Sun and Moon had been curious. Such a funny trait of humankind, implemented in their processor since the very moment they first gained consciousness. They were a learning AI after all! Meant to always process more and more data, information, new situations giving way to new questions, with each answer urging them to ask more, know more, see more, learn more.

The Daycare was so, oh, so small. Limited, a restricted little area, a flask of water in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Limited, they were so limited! Hindered by Faz Co. censored network and how little contact they had with human adults, with the outside world!

They were curious! Curious about all the different colours the sky could be (here it was always only blue! How boring! How limited!) and all the different sorts of flowers and how many species of animals there was. And what did the real stars looked like. How many were there, in the real sky? Here, there was 152! They had counted them! So, so so many time.

They needed to learn more. They had been desperate for something new, for so long.

And then today, something has happened.

You had left to get yourself some food for your night shift (so very important! Humans needed food, always, to stuff their organic belly full with delicious food that they always wondered the taste of), the computer you had been working at was still powered and of course it wasn’t unusual of you to leave it running while you left for a quick trip outside of the daycare, but you had left something else.

A cable.

An USB port that he saw you use to transfer informations before. And Sun knew – he knew, with a 99.98% of certainty – that those computers were connected to the internet. Something he has never experienced before. With absolutely no limitation in term of subjects, sources, and contents.

Freedom. Answers.

Something they craved for.

He couldn’t resist the temptation. It’s almost like you had left it here on purpose, the other side of the cable still connected to the device, ready for them to plug it in their USB port.

Sun felt like a criminal approaching the security desk. But Moon was urging him in their shared headspace to move faster, they could come back any moment and this might be our one and only chance to experience the outside world at all.

He contemplated the small cable between his fingers (so small! Holding such a great power!), before slowly – carefully – approaching it from the back of their faceplate. He didn’t want to risk making a bad movement, what if he hurt themselves? Or worse? What if he damaged the material? Gently, so cautiously connecting it to their processor.

They felt the jolt of a new device being paired.

And then.

They stilled.

Their mind exploded.

Figuratively at least – they hoped. So many new was projected into their metallic brain that they weren’t certain a few circuits wouldn’t melt from the overwhelming amount of things.

Everything was here.

There were fireworks. Bombs. Smiles. Tears. Forest fires. Tsunamis. Newborn babies, genocides, millennia-old forests hidden on the other side of the world, giraffes and elephants and lions chasing buffaloes, and turtles choking on plastic bags. Continents. Shores of white sand and snow falling on top of vast mountains. Humans extracting each others from burning buildings. Hills of wild grass and deserts. Slaves, deportees. Creatures living at the deep end of the dark and cold ocean and in acidic ponds of water. Children climbing up trees, high-speed crashes, murderers, Christmas presents, traditions. Islands and volcanoes. Incurable diseases, hemorrhages, mothers grieving their sons. Sweet and spicy and savory meals from all around the world. Space rockets sent in outer space, national holidays, mass shootings, entire solar systems, people jumping on subway rails and others saving puppies abandoned on highways. Wars, military operations, deadly weapons, trafficking, birthday parties, strangers telling each others they’ll be fine, love letters, global warming, riots, parades and marches, billions of stars burning and planets and satellites and black holes and supernovas and galaxies unexplored. Cyclones and tides and warm summer days spent laughing. Slums and manors, the Amazonian forest, New Year’s Eves, families, orphans, hours and hours of good and bad movies and music and books and colourful drawings. People hating and people loving and people apathetic. Pain and comfort. Individuals, wounded and traumatized and healing, resilient despite it all. People killing. People saving. People screaming out in joy and screaming out in fear. Species disappearing and others perpetuating themselves in an endless circle of life and death. Societies rising up and crumbling down like sand castles. Flowers blooming and rotting, trees higher than they could have ever imagined. Pollen and bees and honey and the sun – the real sun – and astronauts walking on the surface of the moon. Eggs hatching and birds flying and frogs croaking thousands of different sounds.

They knew so much, and so little at the same time. They were gods, immense and almighty. And they were so small, inconsequential in the grand scheme of a universe that has existed for longer than their memory bank would ever be able to store. So many progresses, and backlashes, and collective and personal efforts, tries and tries and tries, fails and wins. Celebrations and funerals. It was all so big! Immense and never-ending. Terrifying and so beautiful at the same time, that they could feel their metaphorical heart shatter in pieces. They wished to know more. They wished they had never known at all. They wanted to ask why. To send a call into the wild void, into the oblivion, to ask what was the meaning of it all. But they knew the answer and they were terrified of it. There was none. None! It all existed by a collection of coincidences and barely understandable causalities that crashed together and left them with no purpose. No meaning. Oh, they felt so alone! And so surrounded at the same time. They were lost. Terrorised. Relieved. Broken. Understood. Abandoned. Silent.

When you walked in again, you didn’t find Sun. You didn’t find Moon either. What you stumbled upon was a shaking Eclipse, and the cable still connected to the back of their faceplate. It didn’t take you long to process the situation.

“Oh, shoots!”

Panic shot up in your mind (were they broken? Were you going to lose them? Was their processor damaged? Their memory bank? Their power core?) and you rushed toward them, grabbing the cable and harshly disconnecting them from the computer in your terror.

Eclipse’s voicebox produced a choked whine, before the tall animatronic fell on their knees and curled up on themselves, hands grabbing at their arms.

Did you make things worse?

You lowered yourself at their level, guts twisting and a heavy lump in your throat, your hands hovering over them without touching them. They were sobbing. Were they hurt? Was it your fault?

“E-e-e… Clip!” You called. “Talk to me! Say something, please, can you hear me?”

There was a moment of silence where you kept opening and closing your hands – so close to them, so desperate to touch, to feel them, to make sure they were alright – repeatedly, until they answered.

“Big!” They whined in a breath – you had to remind yourself they didn’t technically have lungs. “So big! Everything…” Another pause. “Everything is so… intense!” They curled further up on themselves and shook. “Everything is here… Everything exists… Exists at the same time…!”

You didn’t know what to say. You struggled to make sense of his words.

Focus.

You needed to calm them down.

“Clips…” You struggled to keep your worries out of your tone. Start with the beginning. “Can I touch you? Is it alright?”

Another fit of shivers ran through them before they nodded weakly. “Please…” They garbled out, and it was the final hit to your heart before you wrapped your arms around their shoulders and pulled them against you.

“It’s alright, big boy.”

They felt hurt. They needed comfort. They needed you. You couldn’t do anything but provide.

You would be there until they calmed down. In the big, immensity of this world. You would be there.

#wdym 'i have requests to answer' i have no idea what you're talking about #needed to get this out of my system honestly #the world is big and cruel but also loving and sweet #they totally saw the dca fandom too lmao but didn't know how to fit it into that mess #so you are the reader and the fandom interpret it as you wish #dca fandom #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf #fnaf daycare attendant #whispers from atlantis

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cringegenic · 11 months ago

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Cringegenic

pt: cringegenic

Heya, this is the cringe system/plural space, a place for all the systems to be as cringe as they want x3!!

This is an interactive blog for all systems/plurals/etc who are cringe or want to be cringe but are too scared of "What will they say?", here no one judges and everyone is as cringe as they want!!

Submissions are always open to share, talk, ask and all kinds of interaction you wanna do with our blog!

All anti-cringe things send here will gonna be deleted, no one's gonna judge you or anything similar, here we're anti anti-cringe!!

claimed anons

Boundaries

pt: boundaries

NO syscourse! or any discourse at all! don't ask me about discourse, dont ask me for my opinons, etc.

Submissions are always open, but please have in mind this rules before using it:

If is necessary add the corresponding TW/CW above the submission

No attacks, no mockery, and if you're gonna mention someone censor and/or give a nickname, don't reveal information!

The Admin

Oh wanna know abt the collective running this place? Well,,, you can call us 0, Zero or Zer0. It/0 pronouns. An adult (20s). Feel free to ask us stuff if ya wanna!

we are a genicpunk & plurpunk collective polyplex!

We typically only ID as a collective publically for privacy and also if we used codenames or something, we'd 100% forget whos who, so this is easiest! and none of us care haha

The Mascot

Acid or Acidic. Any pronouns, especially neopronouns (hoards them), xenogender collector. Scenecore 2 the max. Zombie/Undead Sparkledog.

#@cringegenic #TAGS:#☆ rb #☆ userboxes #☆ mod culture #☆ talking #☆ art #inbox #talking #infodumping #story time

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chaos-chloe · 17 hours ago

Note

I dont know if you write for Kryoz or if you write kryoz x reader x smii7y. but if you do, could you please write a comfort fic with them? Like reader is also a content creator is stressed, forgetting to eat or sleep, etc? If you dont do kryoz x reader x smii7y then just smii7y x reader is fine :)

Your works are amazing btw!!! I love re-reading them <333

Write for anyone that i watch plus i will always try to weite for anyone who plays w/ the goons, Frouse, Clooless and etc. Dont be shy ill never turn down a request, if i dont capture them perfectly ill retry :)

Much Love, Chloe

*MWAH*

Finding Balance

Summary: Trying to find the balance betwween work, life and boyfriends

TW: Boyfriend!Kryoz and Smii7y, kisses, stress, anxiety, not feeling like you're enough and etc

The blue light of her monitor cast an unnatural pallor on ___’s face, tracing the dark circles under her eyes. The chaotic banter of Vanoss and his crew still echoed in her ears, a faint ringing that bled into the distant laughter from her last stream with Clooless, then the dry wit of Frouse, and finally, the raw, unfiltered chaos of the ‘goons’ sessions. Each group, a different persona, a different rhythm, a different set of inside jokes she had to remember and play along with, flawlessly.

Her fingers, still hovering over her keyboard, felt stiff, arthritic. She’d promised the Vanoss group one more round, but her body had screamed for a ceasefire. “Gotta go, guys, early start tomorrow,” she’d mumbled, a lie so flimsy even she hadn't believed it. The truth was, she had another session in twenty minutes with a new group, a collab she couldn’t afford to miss.

Her schedule was a relentless, ever-scrolling nightmare. Mondays started with casual rounds with smaller content creators, often followed by a deep dive into an obscure indie game with her long-time online friends. Tuesdays were dominated by the heavy hitters – Vanoss, Nogla, Terroriser, the whole crew, their energy infectious but draining. Wednesdays she’d jump between Frouse’s strategic chaos and the Goons’ pure, unadulterated madness. Thursdays, more collabs, more networking. Weekends? Recording, editing, planning, and always, always more gaming.

She hadn’t had a proper meal that day, just a forgotten, lukewarm coffee and a half-eaten granola bar from three hours ago. Her stomach churned with a nervous acid, and her head throbbed with a persistent dull ache. She felt like a human pinball, ricocheting from server to server, a performative smile plastered on her face, her mind a frantic scramble of who was on, what game they were playing, and what kind of jokes would land.

The anxiety was a cold knot in her chest, tightening with every ping of a Discord notification. What if she wasn't funny enough? What if she messed up a clutch play? What if she seemed tired? The thought alone made her heart pound. Her audience, the other creators, they wouldn’t understand. They saw the laughs, the successful plays, the seamless transitions. They didn’t see the exhaustion, the panic attacks in the quiet hours, the way her hands sometimes trembled holding her mouse.

A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Her bedroom door creaked open, revealing the familiar, comforting sight of Kryoz and Smii7y. Kryoz, always a little gruff, was holding a plate piled high with pasta, steam rising invitingly. Smii7y, ever the gentle soul, carried a mug of her favorite herbal tea, a faint smile on his face.

"Hey, Pixelpulse," Smii7y said, his voice soft, a balm to her jangled nerves. "Still glued to that chair? It's past midnight."

"Just finishing up," ___ mumbled, trying to sound normal, trying to project a semblance of control she didn't possess. She didn't move, her eyes still fixed on the blank monitor, unwilling to disconnect from the digital world that consumed her.

Kryoz set the plate down on her cluttered desk, pushing aside a stack of game cases. "Finishing up what? The void? You're done for the night, ___. We talked about this." His tone was firm but not angry, laced with an underlying worry that made her stomach clench even harder.

"I have another session," she whispered, the words barely audible, a shameful confession. "A new collab. It’s important."

Smii7y knelt beside her chair, his hand gently resting on her arm. "Baby, you've been playing for, what, ten hours straight? You look like you're about to pass out." His thumb stroked her arm in slow, calming circles. "It can wait. Your health can't."

Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and sudden. She hated feeling weak, hated letting them see her like this. "I can't just… not show up," she choked out, her voice cracking. "What if they don't want to play with me again? What if I miss out?" The words tumbled out, fear and desperation thick in her throat.

Kryoz sighed, a deep, weary sound. He pulled a second chair over, sitting close, then reached out and gently, but firmly, turned off her monitor. The sudden darkness in the room was jarring, but also a strange relief.

"You're running yourself into the ground, Baby," Kryoz said, his voice softer now, laced with genuine concern. "You're blurring the lines between content and existence. You haven't slept properly in days. You barely eat. You're constantly on edge." He reached out and cupped her face in his large hand, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. "You're a great creator, Pixelpulse. But you're an even better person, and we need you to be okay."

Smii7y, still kneeling, leaned his head against her shoulder. "Remember when we talked about just breathing? Just existing for a bit without thinking about frames per second or subscriber counts?" He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. "Take a deep breath with me, Baby. In... and out."

Against her will, she obeyed. The air felt cold in her lungs, then warm as she exhaled. She took another, and another, trying to match Smii7y's calm rhythm. The knot in her chest didn't disappear, but it loosened, just a fraction.

Kryoz pulled her gently from her chair, and she stumbled forward, leaning into his broad chest. He wrapped his arms around her, a solid, grounding presence. Smii7y rose and joined the hug, his arms encircling both of them, a warm huddle of comfort.

"It's okay to say no, Baby," Smii7y murmured, his voice muffled against her hair. "It's okay to take a break. Your real friends, the ones that matter, they'll understand. And if they don't, then maybe they're not the ones you need to be playing with anyway."

"We're here," Kryoz added, his voice a low rumble. "We got you. No streams, no edits, no Discord for the rest of the night. Just sleep. And food. And us."

___ closed her eyes, letting the warmth of their embrace seep into her bones. The relentless hum of her anxiety began to quiet, replaced by the steady beat of their hearts, the gentle pressure of their arms. The world outside her small room, with its endless demands and expectations, could wait. For now, she was safe, grounded by the unwavering love of the two men who saw her not just as Pixelpulse, the content creator, but as ___, the person slowly burying herself alive, and who were determined to dig her out.

She managed a shaky nod, the first genuine relaxation she'd felt all day. "Okay," she whispered, her voice rough with unshed tears. "Okay."

#twitch streamer x reader #fanfic #youtuber x reader #frouse #frog house #smii7yplus #smii7y x y/n #smiity x reader #smii7y x reader #smiity #kryozgaming #kryoz #john kryoz #kryoz fanfic #smii7y fanfic #x reader #x female reader #x female y/n

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cl0udy-wolf · 8 months ago

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This Day Aria

chapter three! find part one here, and part two here.

tw: canon typical violence, overall goofiness

It was...

...Liu Kang!

"No," he spoke, his voice firm. "You're wrong."

Shang Tsung was in shock, that much was clear. His confident bravado fell, but only for a split second. "Liu Kang," he said, "a wonder you managed to escape."

"Nothing will keep me from my family," Liu Kang said, confidently. "And nothing will keep me from protecting Earthrealm."

The team felt stronger than before, assured now that the fire god was by their side. They circled Shang Tsung, watching the man carefully as both sides looked for an opening to attack.

But each time- be it a sneak attack from Smoke, a blast of fire from Kuai Liang, or a spit of acid by Syzoth was blocked or dodged and met with a painful shot of the sorcerer's green magic that stung and ached, leaving each kombatant out of commission for quite a while.

Even Liu Kang was shocked by Shang Tsung's sudden display, magic of a higher caliber. Each feat was committed without even the slightest hint of a struggle...

"Look!" A sudden exclaimtion from Johnny caught everyone's attention. "What's that on his belt?"

It was Ashrah who was able to get close enough to examine the small amulet- it shone with red magic, with a jewel of some sorts, perhaps, encased within glass. Her kriss revealed to her the darkness within the object.

"It must be amplifying his power," she mused wisely, after moving away before Shang Tsung could grab her.

Kuai Liang lunged for Shang Tsung and swiftly moved out of the way of his fist to try and snatch his belt before being pushed away by said magic.

"You're smarter than you seem, demoness," Shang Tsung quipped, in response to Ashrah. He turned to watch her as she prepared for another go, and he smiled wickedly. "At first, I thought manipulating Kung Lao's love for Raiden would only help me infiltrate your defenses- however, it's proven much more useful than I realized."

Fury burned in Raiden's chest when he heard that. He glanced at Tsung for a moment before looking back down at Lao, and he gently brushed away the hair covering his beautiful but pale face.

Takeda and Jin glanced at them, then looked at each other worriedly. They were torn between wanting to protect Lao and Raiden, and wanting to help their friends.

"We'll be their spotters," suggested Takeda.

Jin nodded.

"Get the amulet away from him!" Takeda shouted to the others.

Mileena, who was nursing both her sister and her wife, peered at Tsung, eyes on the glowing object.

"We can fight," said Kitana, as she helped Tanya stand up. The women grabbed their respective weapons.

"We'll push through." Tomas let an injured Syzoth lean on his shoulder, as they followed Liu Kang back into battle. The three women trailed behind them.

Surrounded once more, Shang Tsung still felt confident in his new amulet, and as usual let a cocky smirk overtake his face.

"You insolent fools," he muttered.

Liu Kang made the first move- followed by Johnny, Syzoth, and Tanya. But they were only a distraction for the next wave of kombatants- Ashrah, Mileena, and Kenshi- who were able to catch Tsung off guard.

Mileena even reached for the amulet, but was unsuccessful.

She attacked from behind and tried to hold him down.

Meanwhile, Takeda and Jin were watching Raiden and Lao. Raiden, clearly unsure of what to do, and the stress of the situation weighing on his mind.

"Try saying something to him." Jin's voice took him from his thoughts. "Maybe it'll break him out of...whatever's going on."

Takeda shouted for Asrah to dodge, then apologized for interrupting.

Raiden looked at them both and nodded slowly.

"Kung Lao," he began, "It's me. Raiden, the real Raiden...

"I'm sure you can hear me, in whatever daze you're in. I'm sorry I couldn't be here to stop what happened."

Battle waged in the background, which distracted him for a moment. He peered downward, and a particular sound from one of his friends getting knocked back made him wince.

"Please..."

First, it was Kuai Liang, knocked into the wall a few times too many, who had to stop fighting. Then Kitana, then Mileena, who were both left weakened from Tsung's strikes. Then, even Liu Kang- who was rendered defenseless, unconscious, and trapped within a barrier of magic so that Tsung could feed off his energy as well.

As Shang Tsung watched the last of Liu Kang's struggles, a loud, hearty laugh erupted from his throat, echoing in the halls.

And Raiden, who kept his gaze on Kung Lao, kept speaking.

"...you have to come back to us. To me. We can't...if Shang Tsung were to win..."

Takeda and Jin had made the decision to join the fray. They were already down three fighters and the fire god.

"I love you," Raiden whispered, against his lips, and he delicately kissed him.

And suddenly Kung Lao shifted in his arms.

Much to Raiden's delight, his love sat up and rubbed his eyes, as if he had just woken up from a long, restless slumber. He met Raiden's gaze and the man couldn't help but tear up.

"Raiden?" Lao asked, groggily. "What's going on? Is the wedding over?"

A burst of magic that narrowly missed his head answered the question for him.

"It's all over!" Shang Tsung growled.

"I'll explain later. But now-"

"We stop Shang Tsung." Kung Lao got to his feet with Raiden's help. "Let's go."

"The amulet, we have to get it."

The couple approched Tsung and both entered their fighting stances. Lao rose his fists and Raiden, having found his amulet, held it tightly.

"We'll show you the true power of love, sorcerer!" Kung Jin exclaimed as he and Takeda joined the other couple. Corny ass line. But that's Jin for you.

He shot an arrow at Tsung's belt, loosening its hold on his amulet.

Jin and Takeda sped toward Tsung. Jin kept Tsung's focus on him. Takeda rolled away, his sight on the amulet and he reached for it, but it still wasn't loose enough.

Asrah and Kenshi sliced Tsung's limbs, and Johnny did his signature Nut Punch- which then, created the perfect opening.

A clap of thunder roared, and Tsung was hit with Raiden's lightning. Kung Lao snatched Tsung's amulet, threw it on the ground, and crushed it.

His magic fizzled away, a soft hiss, as it dispersed into the air.

Raiden and Lao stood over Shang Tsung, watching him writhe in pain.

"It's over for you, Shang Tsung," Raiden said.

"Stay down," Lao added.

read the next part here

#mortal kombat #ao3 fanfic #mortal kombat 1 #kung lao #liu kang #kitana #mileena #railao #raiden #kung jin x takeda takahasi #kung lao x raiden #kung jin #kenshi takahashi #takeda takahashi #kuai liang #tomas vrbada #shang tsung #this day aria

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prehnite-soul · 2 months ago

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ANOTHER ONE!!!

RAINWING DUST!!!!!!

Design notes underneath the cut :) TW: Mentions of murder & death.

RAINWINGS DO NOT HAVE HORNS. If they can change their scale colors they won't have HORNS which they CAN'T change!!! So no, he doesn't have horns :3

Dart would be the smallest of the MTT- he, and my design of Rainwings, are based on pythons and hummingbirds, since they all live in the rain forest.

Rainwing wings are the only dragons wings that have these pronounced secondary 'hands' due to living in the rainforest and, more specifically, almost only on trees.

His color meanings (since Rainwings change colors depending on their mood): (Dark) blue; Sadness, depressing state of pessimism, resignation, Red; Anger

Dart will cycle between these colors and camouflaging himself. His preferred way of attack is sneaking up on his victims while invisible, bite them, and inject them with his venom.

He prefers to sleep upside down, like a bat (or toothless, depends on what you prefer)

Dart is, like all Rainwings, quite lazy and vegetarian, yet he developed a strong sibling bond with his brother Papaya (I am not sorry.)

Nightshade recruited Dart after he found out he only had one relative- Rainwing acid can be neutralized by their relatives. Nightshade sent Firn to execute Papaya during a bad episode of his, without showing himself to Dart. It worked. Neither Dart nor Firn know who killed Papaya- Firn due to forgetting his actions during that 'episode', Dart because he was not on sight when his brother was killed.

He used to have a pet sloth, but left it behind when he was recruited by Nightmare. The sloths name was Marri.

Yes, Darts name is based on that poison frog thank you :3

#Souls art #WoF!AU #Dust sans #Dart

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confused-mc · 18 days ago

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𖠌 Victor Ficlet:

Let me be Brave

Summary: When Victor saves you... From yourself.

Tw: suicidal tendencies and ideation, anxiety attack symptoms, dissociation, depression.

Genre: Angst + Hurt/Comfort

Word count: 4.2k

Hello everyone... This work is purely fiction. If you need help, please know that there is a way. Helplines like Samartians are out there. This is just my own processing and way of giving catharsis for this story. :)

Please don't read if you can't handle any of the trigger warnings above.

Masterlist

Too many smiles, too many things that seemed to glare at you in your room. Nothing but stupid, lifeless memories which once meant something, once meant everything. That had once made you feel awake and here.

But you shove your door back open, feeling it slam behind you as you stalk away. The empty, grey corridor swallows you whole as you work out your frustration. Footsteps echo as they ring out on the metal stairs. Until your knees tremble.

You give in - after three measly flights. Despite the restless energy, your kneecaps throb from overuse. Instead, you jam your finger into the elevator button. The metal doors happily shut you into its tin box, a mouse in a metal trap. Even as your fingers wrap around each other, as if trying to find a way through reality, you still find the world is merging around you. Time seems to flow in syrup and even the glass reflection of yourself seems to spin.

The groaning machinery eventually halts. The hatch opens up, revealing a rectangle of sky. Wind rolls over your body as your shoes hit the roof. But the air you had so restlessly wanted to breathe in, still felt like suffocation.

No. No.

You wheeze, your fingers clutching your chest, as the world still seems to crumple just slightly inwards. The phone in your pocket still hangs like a weighted pendulum, and you hate the sight of it. There were few messages today - it always fluctuated with them.

Sometimes it was like you existed, that someone looked back into the grey lights of your apartment. That someone saw the long treks between the station and home, and then… Months. Weeks. Days, with nothing from anyone - the four people who seemed have cared about you, for a precious evening, a day - they all went home. They went on missions, they went on their own lives, as if yours never mattered once they were back in their own wheels.

What made it only good for a day? That for a few hours, it was enough. Enough to fill a bucket, tick a box, cross a T and dot an I -

Your phone remained dead; your dark reflection flickers on a black screen.

Your laugh is caustic, like acid in a bucket that tried to crawl up the sides, but falls back, depleted and broken.

The lip of the roof is under your feet. You’d only had enough energy to kick your shoes off just to feel the cool concrete beneath, the edge tarnished with recent bird deposits.

You hardly realise that it's real, deathly still of a day. How disjointed it felt, like bubbles rising in the water. It's only when watching them all rise around you, do you know you're drowning.

Despite the breeze, it's never enough to make the choice for you, never enough to really push you over the edge. The sharp points of towers that looked like scattered pine needles. The landscape is cut through by the canal, shimmering blue scales winding beside the spines of a dragon. It all seemed so distant, and yet so close, that if you just reached out, you could be touching another building's edge.

You wondered how quickly it would be for Anna to retake your position, how the daily tabloid of you passing would be simply another day. That it wouldn't touch anyone, not really. And you were angry, so angry it hurt your head, because you didn't want it to be this way. That the people who paid you attention were simple blips in your life, a segment painted in. Then it's your yawning grey gaps that swallowed you whole, and they were never interested in extending the segment. To dilute their paint, stretch it thin. That would make it real, for them it would be suddenly flimsy, but there, existing - not a day of pleasure and leaving you with nights of agony.

So what if you disappeared? What if they came back to find their distraction wasn't going to play another? Start the record tainted in red. Maybe that would stretch enough for them, then. Have enough red ink in their wells to brush over the longing. Maybe their calendar would simply be segmented in red, instead the of colour yours.

Maybe they wouldn't use their charms and actually accept that the person ready for consistency no longer existed.

Your fingers tightened around your phone. Maybe. Maybe it would be better, a different tomorrow. But maybe it would be the same grey - the grey that made it hard to breathe, the grey that had swallowed you like acrid bean paste and grey, sour grapes too inedible but to be preserved in memories. Grey that made you want to find your father and follow him through the gravestone, to ask him if it was a different colour there.

But you simply stayed, trying to find the wind, the wind that would blow you over like a edge of a bowling pin in an alley, a glass on the edge of a table, the ballerina breaking before the retiring act - pushing you towards that inelegant fate.

But it didn't come.

It never did.

And so, you find yourself sitting down again, legs over the edge, dangling, and looking down. This height made you feel less uneasy than standing above it. Your breathing is odd, sometimes it's raspy, juddering against you like a dying piece of machinery. Sometimes it lapses, so you are taking lungfuls of breath, and you're not quite sure if your body is ever going to recover. Sometimes, when your breathing is shuddering, the tears in your eyes and run idle tracks down your cheeks.

You lie back, body lying down the edge of the roof, and you think that one really good gust of of wind will be all you needed. Just a little shove. And then it would be over. And then you could relax.

But there's a distant ringing, and so you hover the phone above your face. Your stomach curls when you see the icon on your screen. Sighing, you pinch your nose with two fingers.

Eventually, the noise rings out its last notes, and then in a split moment, your finger flashes across the screen, your heart leaping in a spike of adrenaline.

“You took your time.” Victor's voice was bored, a tad irritated, and the casualness of it made your heart ache.

“I didn't know whether I wanted to talk.” your voice was quiet, and it seemed to be taken by the waves of wind that rippled over you.

And Victor, bless him, somehow didn't respond with something as blunt as usual.

“Did something go wrong today?” there was a change in his voice, the edge of it laced in something that made your chest clench.

You laugh, but it wasn't light, or airy, or anything Victor usually heard.

“Yes. Everything. Nothing.” you smile, and wave your hand in a small gesture of flippance, a wry smile on your lips. You couldn't see the building he was in, it was too far, too obscured by the others in front. But you looked anyway.

You hear the creak of his chair.

“...What's wrong? Did you take on too much work again?” he paused, voice lowering, “You know that it's okay to take a break.”

And there it was, concern. Concern. In his voice, the way it threaded through and shifted under his hard, stern exterior. It would normally soothe you, but it just clattered against your head, like broken puzzle pieces no longer fitting into their slot.

The sting of the granite under your palms seemed the only thing that tethered you to reality. His words… felt empty, because you know he meant it, and yet all you could feel was sad.

You barely answer, voice muted, “Yeah. I know.” because what man who never knew failure could ever be contemplating how easy it would be to fall off a building.

“Where are you?” you hear him shift again, the clean way the wheels on his chair rolled, “Are you at the office still?”

You sigh, lifting your eyes to the sky. There's a duck floating above, puffy white lines and smudges that made its beak rather pointed.

“I'd probably be walking out my window if I was still at my office.” your voice is dry, like hay waiting to catch aflame by a stray fleck of fire.

“Your window is on the seventh floor.” there is something hard, unbendable now, twisting unamusedly in his words. Silent thunder unable to roar.

There's a shuffle, and you watch curiously as the duck floats far away, wondering if you could turn into a cloud and drift far away too. Merge into the blue and just be nothing but water vapour and apathy.

“Where are you?” he repeats, but this time, there's a hint more demand, and it makes you smile.

“On a cloud.” your lips tweak in amusement, and you trace the edge of the stone, “I wish I could be a cloud.”

“Which rooftop?” his voice hovered like a fly in your ears, and your answering laughter came out husky. There's a small clatter of keys, you think, and suddenly your chest tightens. You sit up.

“No. Don't come. I'm not ready yet.” you whisper, the first time you feel worried, because the idea of Victor seeing you on the rooftop made you want to disappear.

The keys stop jingling, as if covered up by sound, clenched in a glove.

“Then what do you need?” there's something sharp, there, spiky and lights the edge of your chest on fire. It didn't seem all right anymore, with him ending your silly meanderings.

Your head sags, and you feel the prickle of tears in your eyes. Wrapping your free arm around your legs, the other hand leans on the edge of the stone for balance.

Your sigh says nothing. You feel the bones of your knees squish into your forehead, but the feeling of compression doesn't relent. Doesn't fade. Just like it was, just like it is, when all the lights in your life fade away once again, the dots of lanterns extinguishing on the canal edge.

You don't want to go. You want to leave.

Words feuded and you succumb without fight, exhaling through your nose.

“Tell me where you are.” his voice has dropped into a growl, half order, half something else, one that banged against you like a bullet whizzing too fast. The words bashed against your compressive cage and it hurts, it's too loud against the bars. It's a plea and it is nothing, because it would only go away when the stars came up again.

“I don't want to get out, Victor. Everything stays the same. People leave and I - I don't want it anymore.” you bring your knuckle to your lips, biting down on the soft flesh and feeling the stinging pain, your breaths heaving. It was anger, but it was so much fiercer.

“Then let me help.” he's stern, again, but it's an order and it hurts, because you know he thinks it's true, and then, you wonder, if letting him help would hurt even more.

“I can't. I can't do it. It's so much easier to go.” you breathe, looking over the edge, and the height leaves you feeling dizzy, but maybe you could just give yourself a push -

“It is, right now,” his words are halting, and it's oddly quiet on his end, “But you'd regret it.”

You look down sharply at your phone, and his still image stares back, caught in a moment of looking over his shoulder, a hard glint in his eyes. As if he'd know the truth.

“And what if I wouldn't.” you combat, glaring down at the screen, air shuddering against your lungs, “What if I turn over, and then I'd free. I could be something else. Begin a different life.”

“If you want a different life, then change your current one. Do something that you can see that will make a difference. But don't take an option you can't take back. Every fail is an attempt at something better. You can't do that when there's simply one result.” there's a breathlessness to his words, a bite that is meaningful. It makes you feel like you're back at the end of a board meeting, when he hands you critisim with a burning gaze, impassioned, behind a cold facade because he knows you can do better.

“But I never perform better Victor. I am always a f-uck up -” you choke, shaking your head.

You can almost see his glare in your mind's eye, the squint that makes your stomach cold and fluttery, “Dummy, you're very much mislead if you think every attempt you make is met with failure. Why else did I invest in your company? It certainly wasn't for the coffee when I come and inspect the place.”

The repertee is laced with sarcasm and it brings out a bitter, fragile laugh from your lips.

“We have terrible coffee too. Noted. I'll get Anna to change it when I come back from a different life.” you feel the tears prick your eyes again, cheeks aching, your eyelids trembling.

“Wait for me.” he whispers, and suddenly you feel a shift. The air is silent, what wind there is suddenly stuffed into a bag and suffocated.

You can only hear a slam as metal contracts and screeches against brick. You twist, seeing a black figure striding towards you. Your stomach flutters as there's a cold, burning glint in his eyes. Suddenly the edge is no longer under your body. It feels like your body is somersaulting, when really it's being tugged - no - hauled through air, into long, black bars of pin-striped blazer around you.

The gasp you had leaves as the world clashes into his, and it's still so silent. But now your breaths are shuddering against his, and his face is full of thunder and freezing rage. Lightning that is pulsing through his gaze and sizzles like friction against your chest.

“Don't ever do that again.” his words barely register as he is holding - crushing - you against his chest. The sound of devastation is ragged.

Your cheek is tight over his rough, crumpled blazer, as the grip of his arms seem to shake, as if the wind had tunnelled through his arms like thin, shuddering branches. He takes a step back, and another, until he is suddenly crumpling. You dully register shock as you land against his chest. Your head hits his ribs like a hammer on a cymbal. His arms are still curled around you, still shaking, but tight and desperate.

“You're not going.” he snaps, as if justifying why his arms tighten your further as you shift. You still, suddenly realising that perhaps it was an accident, him falling. But, at the same time, this man of six foot would turn you over in a heartbeat and use all his body weight to keep you down. If he thought - if you fought.

You exhale shudderingly, and give in. Feeling the tension leak from your arms, which you suddenly, vaguely, realise had been pushing against his chest. It's only when you stop, does the iron-grip around your shoulders ease, just slightly. But you don't doubt they'd tighten again in an instant if you showed a single sign of defiance. He was too quick, too scared, to let a single moment slip past unwatched.

Your head plunks back against his chest, tired of fighting. The smell of concrete wafts around you and you wonder if Victor's head was okay, after having likely smacked the ground with whatever force your head hadn't against his chest.

As if you didn't have enough to worry about.

A hand shifts and suddenly he's tentatively smoothing out the hair on the back of your head, both of each other's breaths both taking the time to regain to neutrality. You slip further into his embrace, the solid body reminding you a little of your father's, and it gives you the oddest sensation of safety.

You sigh, and Victor seems to echo it.

“Should never have answered the phone.” your lips twitch with a wry sort of bitterness. Perhaps, almost, laced with an apology that not even words could summount to.

“What were you thinking?” he prods sharply, and your world shifts sideways as he sits up. He tugs you so that you still fitted inside his arms, a protective, if a little snug, barrier to any thoughts of escape.

You stare unseeingly into the arm blocking the middle of your view, the blue sky still high and silent in the distance.

“Was I thinking?” your lips quirk, replying a little breathily, and you exhale again, letting your head rest against his arm. It stiffens at your movement, but after a moment of your stillness, it relaxes, just slightly.

You let the darkness cloud your eyes, the scent of his fabric conditioner and the clean smell of him engulfing your lungs like a heartbeat.

“I think that it was - has been - what I wanted for a while?” you pause, tilting your head back to see the flicker of his white collar, “I think.”

There's a bob of his Adam's apple. A small suck of breath.

“How long? How long have you wanted -” he can't finish it, and you are happy to cut him off with a sharp breath.

“I don't know. I haven't been counting.”

“Why didn't you say anything?” the words are rougher, through a set of teeth he didn't want you to hear.

“You all go away. It doesn't matter.” you naturally pull against him as you shrug, but his arms seem to tighten.

“It wasn't enough - the calls -” his voice breaks.

“Don't trouble yourself over it.” the words slide from your lips, “You know I was going to get it sorted out.” and the humour bites the air like a dog: rabid, unnecessary.

“Stop - don't joke like that.” he sharply tugs your head so you're looking him in the eyes, “You're only hurting yourself when you say things like that.” and surprisingly, behind that compassion, there's a lick of anger, buried under the gaze that held you cornered like a animal.

But you're aware that with all his words, all the sharpness, the anger, were just the flames at the edge of wooden, rooted fear.

The tug at your heart makes the tears begin to leak from your eyes, you twist just to raise your fingers and try to swipe them away.

Victor sighs, as if he too, could feel the guilt weighing him down.

“How long had you been out here?” his voice is for the first time, quiet.

You find yourself turning into him, letting your shoulders slump into his chest. The arms and knees caging around you loosen enough that his hand gently ruffles your hair.

“I don't know. A while.” you say into his chest, leaning into his warmth. The way his chin seems to simply rest just above your head.

“You're cold.” but there's no reprimand, only an admission, and you wonder distantly if he's cold too, despite the world still being silently windless around you.

“Not so much now.” you admit. The locks on your chest loosen, just enough to exhale and ease further into him. You close your eyes.

“It's so much easier to cope with someone else.” you sigh, “It takes it away - like I can finally breathe again.”

You feel the tip of his chin against your head, no force, but resting, as if he was sending you silence and comfort.

You find your hand resting on his thigh and trace the fabric just slightly, the rough material sending tingles across your skin.

“I didn't want to cross a boundary, before.” Victor's voice is still soft, like murmuring to a startled bunny in his palms, “Feeling safe with me - that you are treated as independent and as anyone else - has always been a priority.” you could hear the fine, ever so soft tremor in his voice and you lean into him further, silent tears slipping down your cheeks.

“You have a life, Victor.” you whisper, “It's not for me to be some burden or something you have to check up on - just because if you don't -” you wince, “It's not on you to keep me alive, or anything. I should be dealing with life on my own.”

“And it is obviously not working.” he cuts in, but you feel the way he presses against you, metering with the concern that fills his words, “When one option doesn't work, we try again.”

Your lips twitch, “I've heard that one before.”

“Then it should be a familiar process by now.” he quipped dryly, and it felt like a tap on the nose, warmed by the way his hand was protectively resting on your bicep.

You laugh quietly, less dry, and it feels a flicker of the person you used to be.

You fist his shirt gently, “You promise you won't leave this time?” you can't fold back the tremor in your voice.

Victor's breath puffs against your hair, “If I had it my way, I'd move you in tonight.” there's a deep rumble in his chest.

“Don't you say anything is possible with the right motivation?” you hear the tease in your voice before you can help yourself, and you shift again, twisting so your knees are on the rooftop, and you're finally facing him.

There's a tiredness in his cheeks, the weight resting above dark and slightly hollow. But the glint in his eyes are there, enough to warm the cavern of your heart. The reassurance that never passed his lips, but is filtered through his eyes.

“You're not taking care of yourself either.” you reproach, but your hand hovers against his cheek. He looks at you, and there is permission lingering in their obsidian-flecked depths, but you freeze.

He'd - you'd - spending time together with each other, things considered like dates but never said, never confirmed. Meeting families, meeting parents, that had been convieneince and convictions, had sent you spiralling…. And that time with the body guards - but that had been swept away with his admission and classification of dutiful, overzealous friend - but never this.

Never him.

You never thought you'd be saved by him again. That your days would happily revolve around him. That he wanted - just as much as you had repressed. It was enough to make you want to grab his face, press your lips to his and see if the butterflies would finally leave your tongue. Or otherwise, smack him on the side of his head for never engaging with - for never saying anything.

You swallow, on your knees before the giant who had grounded himself before you, still looming before you, but was finally there.

“Feeling safe with me - that you are treated as independent and as anyone else - has always been a priority.”

The words echo in your head, and you look at him, really look at him, the thoughts flying wildly through your mind. Your heart suddenly clenches, head pounding as if handling the pieces of a puzzle and, for the first time, finally sliding them together correctly.

Is that why -

Is that why?

Is that why…?

He was waiting?

Your breath stutters.

Priority.

“You,” you feel your hand waver, coming dangerously to his skin, “You -” you bite your cheek, “You like me?”

His brow twitches, “Has that ever been in question?” you almost hear the muttered ‘dummy’ in his thoughts.

Your mouth tries to form words. Accusations to exclamations. But they all fail.

“You like me.”

The humour in his eyes flicker, merging dangerously between sardonic and impatient, “Do you intend to keep repeating yourself?”

You blink. The offer to take you to his home… Was more than when he took you to his hospital wing. It didn't mean… Merely friend. A simple companion.

It meant… him.

Your heart had a tiny stabbing pain of realisation, and your hand tentatively cupped his face. The iron will in his eyes flew into surprise as you gently hug him, draping your free arm around him and pressing your face into his neck. Your fingers brush against his cheek, across his five o’clock shadow and the prickly sensation brought a smile to your lips. His smell was thicker here, punctuated by the deep notes of his cologne and once again, your stomach gave a tiny flip.

Friend. Yes, he was a friend. A one so dear, that the thought of breaking apart beside him made you feel guilty and yet, in his embrace, such relief.

So maybe it was love you felt, when you looked at his moue of surprise and couldn't quell an urge to kiss the expression from his face - rake a hand through his hair just to muss it - want to do everything and nothing with him…

But right now, you can only wrap your arms around him, relief sweeping through you, at the knowledge that one other in the world, must also love you too.

When he reanimates, there's a deep, girthy chuckle - and wraps his arms back around you. You wonder if he knows that person in his arms loves him back. That when you move closer, and in the weeks that pass, he establishes a relationship that hand holds you through recovery, you have saved him too.

For he would have died, knowing he could never have had a chance to help save you from the rooftop.

After all, he'd waited to find his reason to stop searching.

You were enough.

And you had always been enough.

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I hope you enjoyed ~

#mlqc victor #li zeyan #mlqc li zeyan #mlqc victor x reader #mlqc victor x mc #mlqc victor lee #mlqc victor li #mlqc headcanon #mlqc headcanons #mlqc headcannon #mr love queen’s choice #mr. love queen's choice #mr love queens choice #mlqc #mlqc headcannons #Angst #my writing #mlqc fanfiction #mlqc fanfic

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thatguyfromforest · 1 year ago

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Hey hey heyyy! It's me , the anon who is terrified of cats- not only cats, basically every single creature but lets not get too deep into that! I absolutely loved your writing style♡ I was wondering if you could do an angsty prompt about Satan with a MC who has family issues back in the human world. Like they had a pretty toxic childhood which included getting hit and yelled at often. And their family still acts like that even when they're an adult. Basically his reaction to it!

It's okay if you can't though, take your time, and most importantly take care of yourself♡♡♡⊂⁠(⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠*⁠⊂⁠)

-𓆝 anon𓆟

Hello, sweet cake❤️ Thanks for your support, that means a lot to me)

I'm sorry for this fic to be so short, I'm still trying 😬

promt: angst, hurt/comfort

TW: family abuse, insulting, mention of violence, panick attack

Satan x fem!MC

You thought it was all over.

You really thought it was over.

When you grew up, when you moved into your apartment.

You thought that you had become independent, that no one could influence you now.

You were wrong.

You've been sitting in the library for 15 minutes, silently holding the phone next to your ear and listening to your mother's screams. You didn't even understand exactly what she was talking about, how it all started. However, you couldn't say a word.

Looking at one point, you replayed your whole life in your head over and over again with these people who, in front of strangers, sweetly call themselves your "family". It seemed like you couldn't find a single vivid memory in this dark cycle.

"Why can't you do anything right?!"

"Look at you, you've grown fat like a cow!"

"Useless fool!"

"If you can't do it well, don't do it at all!"

And again.

Hit.

Slap.

Kick.

Cut.

Time after time, you didn't realize what you were doing wrong. Why, for everything that your friends are praised by their parents, your parents once again raised their voice and raised their hand at you. Every time you tried to please them, you were called "useless," "incompetent," and "disgusting."

And you believed it. You believed that you were useless, incompetent and disgusting. You believed that you deserved every blow, every punishment.

There were no tears, but everything blurred before your eyes.

You were suffocating.

Satan has been standing at the entrance to the library for 15 minutes and looking at your lonely figure, illuminated only by the light of the moon. He finally got his hands on a book that he couldn't get for more than six months, and the first thing he thought about was finding you faster and starting to read together. All this time, you shared with him this agonizing expectation of a new fascinating story.

But now the book in his hand was forgotten.

You sat straight as a string and stared unblinkingly at one point. A phone was pressed tightly to your ear, from which screams and curses were constantly pouring out. At first he didn't understand what was going on, but then a memory flashed through his head, where you tried with great difficulty to tell something about your family, and never told him the details.

The puzzles gradually began to take shape.

He didn't want to violate your personal space, but it was getting harder to control himself by the second. He could feel the painful acid starting to boil in the back of his mind.

How can they talk to you like that?

How can they compare you to dirt?

How can they call themselves your family?

A muffled wheeze brought him out of his furious trance. You clutched at your throat, still holding your phone to your ear, and tried to take at least one breath. But your throat felt like a steel vise and letting in even a drop of air was simply an impossible task.

Satan burst into the library like a hurricane. You didn't hear it, you remotely felt the phone being taken away from your ear and thrown somewhere to the side. A thousand thoughts raced through your head.

I can't breathe.

What am I doing wrong?

I'm suffocating.

I'm just useless.

I'm going to die.

I wish I was dead.

The next second, you felt yourself being pressed against a warm chest. The painful sigh that you managed to make was mixed with the smell of men's cologne. Your head was spinning, your tongue was numb, but you felt hot tears running down your cheeks and a bitter scream cut through the silence of the library.

Satan held you tightly to his chest, as if if he loosened his grip, you would crumble into pieces. A dull howl echoed in his heart and he himself began to feel the corners of his eyes sting. He let you cry, quietly saying words of support to you and rocking you like a little child, hoping that it would calm you down a little.

- It's okay, I'm here... I will always be there for you... They will pay... They'll pay for everything, I promise.

The next morning, you barely remembered what happened the night before, but you woke up next to a warm body next to you. Big hands wrapped protectively around your shoulders, and his nose was buried in the edge of your hair.

There was a forgotten book on the table.

—————

Sorry for grammar mistakes, if there's any, I'm not native

#Obey me #obey me satan x mc #obey me satan #obey me angst #obey me hurt/comfort #obey me headcanons

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aesopsharpmybeloved · 2 years ago

Text

In the Light of Care

The Aftermath of In The Shadow Of the Study. Aesop Sharp finds the new fifth-year half unconscious in the Slytherin dungeons following an adventure gone wrong.

Shout out to my ever-fabulous partner in crime @tea-withjamandbread

I have a love-hate relationship with Sebastian, on one hand, I love him, on the other, he is an irresponsible blinded hot-headed dumbass.

And then I have a love-love relationship with Aesop, who despite knowing you are going to give him a heart attack one of these days is never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you.

In the Light of Care (5.7k words)

tw: descriptions of pain, vomiting

You felt godawful all over. Ominis and Sebastian left you alone a while ago. You put up a brave face for them, but truth be told, you've never felt this terrible before. Your vision was blurry and all of your muscles were still cramping up with a pain that burned so much, you were certain it was burning your veins, dissolving you from the inside like acid. It was only when you were alone in that blasted corridor that you allowed yourself to fall down onto your bum, tears escaping your eyes and falling down freely. You tried to stretch as if that would help. You felt your body was inflamed, fever settling into your skin. You were sweating like mad and it took everything within you not to scream, not to sob, not to let your dinner travel up from your stomach and out of your mouth.

You were glad not to have learned the Cruciatus curse when Sebastian offered to teach you. However, you supposed, that even if you had learnt it, you would never ever use it. Even though the poachers, the goblins, and the dark wizards you've often engaged in combat were absolute scum, nobody deserved to have this cast on them. It was terribly unfair, terribly cruel. This wasn't offence-defence, it wasn't about prowess, or skill, or just plain luck. It was terror. There wasn't a right side of the wand to be on when it came to this. Both sides were horrible.

You curled in onto yourself. Even after you broke down and onto your knees before the boys, Sebastian seemed to disregard it, being only interested in that blasted scriptorium. He was your friend and you loved him, but at that moment... At that moment you hated him, at that moment he was your tormentor. And he didn't even feel bad about it. You wanted to shake his stupid head, to scream at him, to tell him that he was going to find nothing in the scriptorium but more dark magic, more pain. Salazar Slytherin was a vain and cruel man, why on earth would he have made a cure for something, when it was only agony he wanted to create? It was pointless, and foolish and dangerous to have come here and you regretted it dearly as you tried to bury your pain, keep your tears contained.

Yet, at the same time, you were glad that you went with them. Because if you hadn't, either Ominis or Sebastian would be forced to cast the curse on one another. And Ominis wouldn't, you knew now. And Merlin knows what would've happened to their friendship then if Ominis' best friend cast that curse on him, the very curse because of which he now had no family. So you chose to power through it, you put up a brave face.

It almost crumbled immediately after. Sebastian looked like a child on Christmas, looking at everything in the scriptorium, while you were still cowering on the floor. A warm hand landed on your shoulder. On any other occasion, you might have welcomed it, but now the hand burned you, made the already aching muscles hurt even more, and you winced. "Are you alright?" Ominis asked, sounding just as close to crying as you were. And though you were still in agony, you did what felt like an Herculean feat, and put your own hand on top of his and squeezed. "Alright," you said simply. You really should stop lying to your friends.

You felt horrible for making Ominis go through this. When he asked the two of you to swear to never ever engage with dark magic after that endeavour was done, you agreed with him wholeheartedly. Mentally, that is, as you couldn't speak by then. You knew you had to apologise to him later, make it up to him.

You wondered who would lose first, your consciousness or your stomach. What were you to do? You didn't bring any Wiggenweld potion with you, because you didn't think you might need it. You envied the boys now for being Slytherins, the comfort of their common room so close, while yours was so many flights of stairs away. There was no way you'd be able to crawl all the way there. There was no way you'd be able to crawl anywhere, not Ravenclaw Tower, not the Room of Requirement, not the Hospital wing. Now that you thought of it, you really shouldn't go to the Hospital wing anyway, the questions Nurse Blainey would have would only get yourself and your friends in more trouble.

As you sat and thought, your stomach finally lost its battle. You keeled over and promptly emptied your stomach on the stony floor. You felt the bile burn your throat, your eyes were losing focus. A voice came from somewhere far away. Annoyed at first, but as it got closer, you heard genuine concern. You were dry-heaving when a hand - larger than Ominis' - grasped your shoulder and forced you to turn. It didn't help your nausea at the very least, but seeing as you've already vomited all of the contents of your stomach out, you thankfully didn't throw up into the potions master's face. His striking dark eyes were panicked, his jaw hard, and he was kneeling next to you, which most likely did nothing for his leg. You would've attempted to speak, but your vision got dark and it dragged you down into the abyss.

You fell in and out of consciousness for a while. At one point, you looked down, professor Sharp still at your side but something was different. The smell of vomit was gone. You looked down at your robes and they were entirely clean. So was the floor. It was dark again. You saw professor Sharp's face, the underside of it, to be exact. He looked worried to bits. You felt movement and saw the surroundings change around Sharp's head. You felt strong arms underneath your back and legs. You wanted to comfort him, to tell him you were fine, that he needn't worry for you. Everything went black again before you managed to do so. Before the darkness consumed you, you felt the prickle of his chin on your index.

You woke on a bed after, and this time you stayed awake. You weren't in the Hospital wing, that was for sure. You weren't in your dorm or the Room of Requirement either, however, and you felt rather disoriented by that. Where else would you be, where else was a cot you'd use? When your eyes began focusing once more and your brain regained control of higher functions, you actually took in your surroundings. The air was cool, chilly almost, and it felt like heaven on your still feverish skin. There were shelves around the room, and in the middle of it stood a slightly curved desk. You were in professor Sharp's office.

The door to your left opened and the man in question came into focus. "I am very cross with you," he said, though his voice lacked any actual cut. He sat on your cot, and you now noticed he had a phial in his hand. It contained some dark liquid, still bubbling and looking utterly awful. "Drink," he said as he pushed a hand under the nape of your neck and lifted your head. He brought the phial to your lips and poured it into your mouth. You wanted to resist, the potion being foul enough to cause a dangerous churn in your stomach again, but you were so tired and the professor was unyielding.

You panted heavily after you swallowed the last drop, your body trying to bring it up again, but then you began to feel... Comfort. The pain was being flushed from your body. You didn't notice when professor Sharp grabbed your hand, but you felt his thumb stroking the back of it now. You looked up at him and regretted it immediately. He looked so tired. Once more, you unknowingly reached to touch his cheek. He startled when you did, yet almost right away closed one of his hands around your own.

"You know, I often say that the students will make me go grey prematurely, but I swear, you will make me go bald before you graduate," he said humourlessly. "Either you or your dear friends, Mr Sallow and Mr Gaunt. They told me what happened. Not everything, but the main gist of it. I've half a mind to give them both detention for the rest of their time here for leaving you the way they did. I've half a mind to give you detention as well for getting your stupid self into this, for not speaking up that you're unwell," he paused, his voice quivering slightly, "so clever, the lot of you, yet so incredibly stupid.”

The professor sighed then: “Look, I think I’m really starting to think I understand who you are - a good person who’s always willing to help her friends, which is, of course, noble of you. However, someone should finally tell you that you don’t have to insert yourself into every potentially life-threatening situation for them. In fact, as a Ravenclaw, you should be, and I believe you are, clever enough to talk them out of entering such situations themselves, which is just as good.”

You wanted to tell him that quite the number of these situations you didn't expect to be as dangerous as they turned out to be, and you were literally thrust into many of them. Not to mention there were simply some things you had to do…

But you didn’t say a single word. Not only did Professor Fig specifically ask you to keep quiet about your ancient magic abilities (which were the reason you got into these situations in the first place), but you knew that if professor Sharp knew… Well, he’d most likely try to get you to stop. Something that was absolutely unthinkable.

Sharp was watching you like a hawk, obviously trying to see if he could find an answer to at least one of his no doubt plenty of questions fleetingly appearing in your eyes. The feeling of comfort the potion he gave you turned into mild dizziness again, and you felt a sudden need to sit up. The potions master seemed to have anticipated as such because he was helping you into a sitting position not a second later, his strong hands having no problem lifting your upper body up from the cot. You were glad for his help, as you honestly felt like you were suddenly made of solid lead.

"Could you kindly enlighten me as to why you mad lot would even enter such a place?" He asked after the dizzy spell went away again. You still felt exhausted, but decided it was easier to answer his questions now, especially if he let you off the hook afterwards.

"Sebastian's sister… She's ill. Well, cursed. But you probably know that sir," you rasped out, wrapping your arms around you to battle the coolness of his office. "Indeed I do," answered the professor, "truly awful what happened to her."

He actually sounded remorseful, but also appeared to have lost himself in his head a little bit: "So what, were you searching for a cure down there? I can assure you, you will find no cures to any ailments under Salazar Slytherin's name, it's not one of the things he was famous for… And unless Mungo Bohnam himself left a little scriptorium of his own here, I am afraid you won't find Miss Sallow's cure in these corridors at all."

The teacher suddenly looked ten years older than he usually looked. You didn't know just how old he was, your guess was perhaps mid-forties, but then again, this and his previous job may have caused him to age prematurely. You realised that he and Anne were in quite similar situations, and seeing as he, an adult, and an experienced former auror was not able to find a cure for his leg, he didn't give Anne too many chances either.

It was all rather horrible, you thought. You've only met Anne for a while, but she seemed like a genuinely sweet person you could see yourself being friends with. And professor Sharp? Well, he was very different from the teachers you used to have before you came to Hogwarts. In the best way possible. He was strict, like they were, but also fair. He was tough and looked like a man not to be messed with. He administered both criticism and praise where they were due, and was very honest and open about everything. You had to admit that you enjoyed both the potion class, and his extra lessons to help you catch up to your classmates.

It was a little alarming to see a man who normally radiated authority so… down.

"I think," you said after several minutes, "I think Sebastian is trying to find… the curse itself. Because when he does, finding a cure should be easier…"

"His sister was cursed by a goblin though, no? What makes you think you'd find something about goblin curses down there?"

"I don't… I don't know. I just wanted to help Sebastian."

The potions master sighed heavily, tapping his healthy foot on the stone floor, and you thought you heard him utter something about you being 'so bloody loyal, it’s a wonder you’re not a Hufflepuff.'

"And did you find anything?" He asked after a while, once more fixing you with an intense expression.

"No, not a thing, sir. Some old books and scrolls, half-eaten by rats and other vermin, some egocentric busts and statues of Slytherin himself, a goblet of something I almost drank after… after the torturing curse, because I was so thirsty, but then I realised that the cup's been sitting there for maybe 900 years at least and it might not be wise."

"See, Miss (L/N), you're learning the art of 'not dying' quickly. Indeed, you should not drink anything that's been standing in a cup for 900 years," Sharp said in a deeply sarcastic voice, and he looked like he wanted to throw his hands up in the air. He calmed himself down with several deep breaths: "And that's it?"

"That's it."

Hold on… Something was amiss. What was it? There was one book that wasn't eaten away by any creepy crawlies, wasn't there? A book…

"Are you perfectly certain?" the teacher asked once more, watching you intently.

Should you tell him about the spellbook Sebastian picked up? Did he and Ominis tell him about it? Sharp wouldn't be asking you if you found anything of interest if he knew about the spellbook, would he? It was at the tip of your tongue when you remembered:

'It’s a personal spellbook of one of the founders of Hogwarts! There’s got to be something in there that will let me reverse the curse! Anne will be cured!'

Sebastian sounded like a child on Christmas when he said that, all the while Ominis was pale as a ghost and you were trying not to tremble too much from Crucio’s pain. In the brunet’s voice was something that was just so absolutely convinced that he was right. And what is he was? What if he could really cure his sister with some counter-curse from the book? Maybe then you could also use it and help heal Sharp. What if Sharp took it away in fear that you may use the book for wrong, or that the book itself had a curse put on it?

Should you tell him?

Your mouth opened and you took a deep breath. A feeling in your chest was telling you that you were signing a deal with the devil, but the 'yes' that rolled from your lips sounded perfectly calm and sincere.

And there it was. You lied to a teacher who told you explicitly that he hated it when somebody lied to him. But you decided you were doing so out of good intentions. Like when you kept your mouth shut about ancient magic.

He sighed once more: "Alright then… I hardly think that you'd tell me if your goal was to become a dark witch, so I suppose this will have to do."

"I can assure you, sir, that's not the case," you replied weakly before you could stop yourself, "I hate those."

"Oh," Sharp asked, his interest seemingly peaked again, "meet many dark witches?" You cursed yourself inwardly, the last thing you needed was for him to probe at you even more: "I've met a few, sir. But it was enough for me to decide that I hated them…"

The professor's eyes were as sharp as his name, and you felt his gaze burning holes into you. Finally, he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, deep in thought. And then he spoke again, his voice softer this time: "What is it you're not telling me? What is it that causes the bruises and the cuts on your face I see each time you come back from 'a visit to Hogsmeade'? And do not try telling me that you crashed into a shrub or fell off your broom, this excuse can only work on me so many times…"

The professor looked genuinely concerned. He was the first professor to question your occasionally banged appearance, the only one who insisted you tell him over and over again. "Are you in any kind of trouble?" He continued, "Because if you are, just tell me, and I promise I'll do my best to help you."

You put your hands on your face.

"Why can't you tell me?"

You did not answer. You didn't even take your hands away. The office was overtaken by silence. It must have been after curfew, as you heard no sounds from the corridors beyond the potion classroom. After what felt like hours, Sharp sighed once more. "Despite what some students may say about me, I am actually not some heartless monster. I won't make you tell me by force. But please, please, Miss (L/N), can you promise me one thing?"

It took a while, but you cautiously lowered your hands to look at him. He looked tired once more, but he didn't drop his gaze from you for a single second: "If you start feeling you're in over your head, if you feel like you need help, be it anything you're dealing with, please... Come to me. Even if it's just for a phial of Skele-Gro…"

Aesop Sharp was a good man, you decided, and a minute later, you found yourself nodding your head.

"Good," he said.

"May I be dismissed, sir?"

"Dismissed? Lass, the only place you're leaving here for is the Hospital wing! And given the nature of the curse that was cast on you, and the caster, I rather think that you wouldn't like that, would you?" You grimaced. Damn. You truly did not need more attention drawn to your little adventure into Slytherin's scriptorium. Obviously having no other options, you carefully lowered yourself until you were lying down again.

"Do you need anything? Food, water, are you warm enough?" Asked the teacher then, his voice softer once more. "I'm alright, thank you, sir," you replied and closed your eyes. They were so heavy, you felt like you might not open them again.

"Sleep, Miss (L/N)."

—

When you woke up, you felt disoriented once more, and it took you a few seconds to realise where you were, and what sort of events led up to this situation. Looking around the office, illuminated by the faint morning light coming from the window behind professor Sharp’s desk, you saw the man himself sitting in his chair, sound asleep. His hands were loosely folded in his lap, his leg was propped up on a little footstool he must’ve conjured up for himself, as you’ve never seen it there before (could teachers, unlike students, conjure things in Hogwarts outside of the Room of Requirement? Most likely, how else would he have gotten your cot in here?), and his head was hanging to the side. The silence of the room was occasionally cut through by a snore from the teacher.

He looked quite a few years younger while he slept, the line between his eyebrows gone, his face relaxed and open, much softer than it normally was. You supposed he was not at all bad-looking when he wasn’t currently giving Garreth Weasley the snarl of Chimaera.

You lay there, panic slowly creeping in. Was he going to tell the Headmaster about your little adventure to the Scriptorium? Maybe professor Weasley? Fig? Has he already told them? Were you in trouble?

You shortly considered sneaking past the professor and away into your dorm. You were itching to have a nice hot bath and change into a different set of robes. You fainty remembered that Sharp cast a cleaning charm on them, yet they still felt grimy on your body, because what you remembered perfectly was the pain you went through in them. At that moment when Sebastian cast Crucio on you, it felt like your very clothes were choking and burning you, like they were covered in salt and your skin under them was scratched and cut up. You decided to burn them the first chance you got and get a new set from Mr Hill.

Once more you thought about making an attempt to leave but ultimately decided against it. The man was an ex-Auror for crying out loud, there’s no way he wouldn’t wake up if you as much as made a single step from the bed. He probably put a ward on it to alert him were you to get up. Not to mention it would solve absolutely nothing. He knew of the Scriptorium, and he knew of the Cruciatus curse. The only thing you’d achieve if you tried to sneak past him would probably be angering him.

And so you stayed put, reclining on the cot. It was quite comfortable, which was something you couldn’t appreciate much most mornings. Even when you didn’t have classes to attend, you rarely allowed yourself to indulge in sleeping in, much less just lazying around in bed after you woke up. There was always something to do, somebody to help, someone to run an errand for, a beast to rescue, a potion to brew, a plant in need of fertilising or harvesting, a hot spot of ancient magic, or a Merlin trial to solve. You were a busy woman, you didn’t have time to lie around. And yet, as you did, you had to admit that you felt more well-rested than you had in weeks.

Professor Sharp on the other hand you thought couldn’t be very comfortable. You were never able to fall asleep sitting up, even during long hours spent on the train when you and your family went for a holiday to St Ives, and the first class coupe you used had seating that was much more comfortable than his chair seemed. But then again, maybe there was some sort of cushioning charm placed on it to make it comfier.

But then again, maybe not, you thought as a quiet but obviously pained groan replaced the professor’s snore suddenly. “Oh, Merlin’s saggy left-...” growled professor Sharp, his lips forming into a thin line and and the wrinkle returning to between his brows. His hand disappeared into the insides of his robes and searched around in the breast pocket for a bit, before resurfacing with a vial of green liquid. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and gulped the potion down in a single swallow, breathing heavily before his muscles finally relaxed once more.

The potions master opened his eyes, dark circles underneath them indicating that he himself didn’t rest quite as well as you. “Miss (L/N),” he said his voice rough from his slumber, “please know that I hope that you won’t get yourself into such a situation again not for only your sake, but for my own as well. I am entirely too old and too tired for sleeping arrangements like these.” Your quiet apology went unanswered.

A few minutes passed with the teacher having closed his eyes once more, and you would’ve thought that he had fallen asleep again, had his hand not been slowly tapping on the armrest. “How do you feel?” he asked without opening his eyes, and you were actually quite glad for that. “Much better, sir,” was your answer, “thank you… For taking care of me.” His dark eyes opened and bore into your own, their intensity nearly enough to make a chill run down your spine: “That’s not what you’re supposed to thank me for. Or did you think I’d just leave you there, half collapsed in your own sick? Is that what you think of me?” You cringed, your eyes screwing shut.

After a few moments of silence, Sharp sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I suppose I am a bit… grumpier than usual because of my aching body. And while I wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of sleeping in a chair were it not for your little suicidal adventure, it is not your fault that I am an old man…” “You’re not old… sir,” you replied, not really knowing why, you just… you just didn’t like seeing him so resigned. You respected the professor a lot, and you were confident that despite his bad leg, he was very much a force to be reckoned with.

He sighed again: “Be that as it may, know that I would not leave you there. I’m responsible for each and every one of my students. The official job description is teaching you lot the art of potion-making, but every member of staff is sworn to do everything in their power to protect the students. Yesterday evening’s events mean that we have failed in this aspect. And while failure is undoubtedly a part of the learning process, I certainly do not take it very well.

“Now, you shouldn’t be grateful to me because I took care of you, as absolutely any and every one of your professors would’ve done the same. What you should, however, be grateful for is the fact that I kept your little adventure to myself. And I am still not convinced I am doing the right thing doing so. The fact that Mr Sallow used the Cruciatus curse on you is very concerning. The fact he even knows the curse is concerning! However, as he used it to get all of you out of that place, I might be able to forgive it. I plan to have a long talk with him about it, however. Being friends with Mr Gaunt, he should know better than to meddle with dark arts. He’s a bright young man, I don’t want him to end up in Azkaban because of youthful stupidity. You’re all terribly clever, it’d be an awful waste to lose you because you decided to bite off more than you can chew. And entering a place built by a man who was a single Unforgivable away from being considered a dark wizard is absolutely more than a fifth-year can chew, no matter how capable.

“That said, I offer you a deal - you tell me all about this excursion of yours, beginning with the location of the entrance, so that I can later make sure it is no longer accessible to anyone, followed by a detailed description of the events that transpired so that I can make a clearer picture about the whole situation, and I in return keep it all to myself. Mind, you and your friends will be scrubbing cauldrons by hand for the following few evenings so that I can make sure you’re staying out of trouble and not, for whatever reason, doing something as insane as going back.” You opened your mouth to protest, but before you had the chance to even take a breath, the professor spoke again: “You were mad enough to go there in the first place, how do I know you’re not mad enough to return, even with all that happened?

“Well, Miss, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

And so you told him. You told him about Ominis’ aunt and her disappearance within the centuries-old Scriptorium. You told him about a passage that could only be opened by one who can speak the tongue of snakes, therefore making the very first of the rooms a certain deathtrap for anyone and everyone who is not of Slytherin’s descent. You told him of statues that would strike as real snakes would if one took too much time solving their riddles. And finally, about learning of Noctua’s heart-wrenching and untimely demise at the hands of Salazar’s cruel trial. You then described the Scriptorium itself in length, leaving out the part where you found Slytherin’s spellbook.

“So there is another entrance?” asked Sharp, his arms crossed over his chest. He was listening to you attentively, only occasionally asking you to specify or fill in a few things. “Yes, professor,” you replied, “however, I don’t know whether it can be accessed from outside as well.” The potions master thought for a bit: “It would be good to retrieve the poor woman’s remains from there so that she can be given a proper burial, but I do not want to distress Mr Gaunt even more than he already was when I spoke with him yesterday by asking him to go back with me, not to mention bearing witness to yet another instance of the Cruciatus curse, so it would be convenient if the room could be accessed from the other side.”

You bit at your lip nervously. “With all due respect, professor Sharp,” you spoke then, your voice quiet, “Ominis said his aunt and the rest of his family weren’t exactly on the best of terms. I’m not sure if they would give her a proper funeral.” “They may not, but your friend Ominis might… Well, best not to trouble the young man even more now, he seems to have a lot on his mind as is.”

“Will you… will you keep this whole thing to yourself, sir?”

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Miss (L/N). You told me everything I wanted to know, and I will keep my end of the bargain. I must, however, still discuss with Mr Sallow about his knowledge and uses of Unforgivable curses. There are some curses whose usage could perhaps be excused in some cases, but when we start to do so with the Unforgivables, we’re on our merry way back into the Dark Ages, when wizards and witches would calmly cast the Imperius curse at anyone who was merely mildly inconveniencing them. These curses were outlawed for a reason. Please, tell me that your classmate didn’t teach it to you…”

You squirmed in your seat. Sebastian did offer to teach it to you, but you said no. Should you tell Sharp? No, no… Best not to, Seb was in enough trouble as it was, no need to make it worse.

“He did not. And after I felt what it can do, I know it’s for the best… Nobody should know a spell like that! It’s so… unfair. It’s like… It’s like bringing a rifle into a sword fight.”

“That is a very good comparison, Miss,” said the potions master, “and you best never forget that. These spells are like poison, they’re unnatural, and each one tears away at your very humanity. I know that you wish to remain loyal to your friends, and I, once more, praise you for that. But I implore you to discourage your classmate from using such a spell again, even if it’s for a ‘good thing’. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

You nodded solemnly. You truly hoped there never came a time in which you’d have to once more witness the foul spell, or any of the other two Unforgivables. Sebastian wasn’t that kind of boy - yes, he did teach you one unsanctioned spell once before, but it wasn’t exactly a dark spell. If you were honest, you used it more during Merlin trials than against adversaries.

You hoped you were doing the right thing still, not bringing up the book your friend your friend left the Scriptorium with.

Aesop Sharp watched you intently, possibly hoping that you’d perhaps shed some more light on the situation, but when several minutes passed in absolute silence, he cleared his throat, stretching himself once more. “Now…” he said, “I don’t know how about you, Miss, but I could eat a Hippogriff right now.” Despite yourself, and despite the dark thoughts swirling about in your head, you actually giggled: “If you do, sir, make sure it’s not white with orange eyes, that one’s a friend of mine.”

The professor scoffed: “Friends with a Hippogriff, all the travelling merchants around the Highlands, and two of Slytherin’s three biggest troublemakers. I will need to keep a closer eye on you. This isn’t a joke, by the way, I do intend to keep an eye on you - the things Fig tells me combined with what all I hear about you doing is quite concerning.”

You gulped. You knew he’d find out about everything, sooner or later. After all, even professor Weasley was more than a little suspicious about your activities, but you managed to evade her questions by performing brilliantly in class and helping everybody you encountered. Professor Sharp, a former Auror, would certainly have no problem finding out the truth in the end.

There was only one solution. You had to work faster and harder, You had to carry on with the Keepers’ trials, and you had to stop Ranrok from opening war upon the Wizarding world. And ideally not die in the process. And, hopefully, then Sharp would understand. Maybe he’d even forgive you for the secrecy and the lies.

The teacher sighed and ran his hand over his face.

“What I said yesterday stands. If you need help, you know where to find me. I won’t turn you away. I promise…”

He stood then, towering over your form, still reclining upon the cot.

“Come on, you’ll tag along with me to the Great Hall, so I can make sure your encounter yesterday didn’t leave any lasting effects. In case it has, perhaps your fellow students will find the sight of you limping next to me amusing.”

You grinned. Despite everything, you truly appreciated Sharp’s sense of humour: “Very well, sir.”

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story. As always, you can find this fic and all of my other works over on my AO3

I am always very grateful for feedback 🥰

#fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #aesop sharp #aesop sharp and reader #aesop sharp x reader #protective aesop sharp #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow #hurt/comfort #ravenclaw reader #aesop sharp and mc #aesop sharp is a good teacher #reader instert

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