#heavy emotions with this like. veneer of softness to them

[zapreportsblog]

OH MY LORD I LOVE EVERYTHING YOU WRITE FOR ME ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Now imma bother u again lol.

I need more angst and fluff hahah sorryyy.

So another argument between the poly!volturi kings x reader where they say something like “You are my greatest regret to ever have come into my life.”

And reader burst ot in tears and she is already suicidal so yknow she just gives up, they stop her and so on. And then she Apologises or something and they say some like this.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t you dare try and apologize for something you haven’t done or anything to do with!”

Pleaseee🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈 Love ya byeee❤️❤️❤️

↱ ending things ↰

➘ summary : remember words can hurt so best be careful with what you say

➘ the volturi x reader , aro x reader x marcus x caius

➘ a/n : I did as asked….though you didn’t say anything about there needing to be a happy ending hehehehe though I gave you the closure of an apology that was the fluff part; cheers!

Within the hallowed halls of the Volturi castle, tension hung heavy in the air, an unspoken weight that seemed to seep into every corner. The kings of the vampire world, Aro, Marcus, and Caius, stood in a circle, their expressions marred by frustration and anger. In their midst stood (y/n), the human mate of these immortal beings, her eyes brimming with a mixture of defiance and hurt.

Arguing had become an unsettling pattern, each disagreement intensifying the fractures within their relationship. Tonight, the culmination of unresolved issues reached a breaking point.

"Why can't you see reason, (y/n)?!" Aro's voice rose with exasperation, his eyes aflame with frustration.

"Because this isn't just about what you want, Aro!" (Y/n)'s voice trembled with emotion, her own frustration taking its toll.

Caius, his usual calm veneer shattered, couldn't contain his anger any longer. "You are my greatest regret to ever have come into my life," he spat, his words laced with venom.

The words hung in the air like a poison, the silence that followed suffocating. (Y/n)'s eyes widened in shock, her heart clenched with a pain she had never anticipated. She felt as if the ground beneath her feet had crumbled, her world shattered by the weight of Caius' words.

Tears welled in her eyes, a mixture of anger and heartbreak roiling within her chest. Without another word, she turned on her heel and fled, her footsteps echoing down the corridor as she sought refuge from the pain that seemed to grip her soul.

As she ran through the twisting passages of the castle, her thoughts were a tumultuous storm. How had it come to this? The love that had once bound them felt distant and fractured, replaced by hurtful words and unspoken resentments.

Reaching a secluded chamber, (y/n) collapsed onto a stone bench, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if seeking to shield her heart from the agony that seemed to seep into every fiber of her being.

The door creaked open, and she looked up to see Marcus standing in the doorway. His expression was a mixture of regret and sadness, a reflection of the turmoil that had torn their bond asunder.

"(Y/n)," he began softly, his voice a gentle murmur, "I know things have been difficult."

She met his gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and confusion. "Marcus, what has happened to us?"

His footsteps were soft as he approached her, sitting beside her on the bench. "We let our differences and frustrations build up, and we forgot the strength of our connection."

Tears flowed freely down (y/n)'s cheeks, her emotions raw and exposed. "Caius... his words..."

Marcus sighed, his gaze distant as if lost in his own thoughts. "Caius is burdened by his past, (y/n). It wasn't an excuse for what he said, but it's important to understand that his emotions are complex."

The echoes of the argument still reverberated in (y/n)'s mind as she stepped out of the castle, a tumultuous mix of emotions threatening to engulf her. The cold night air stung against her skin, a stark contrast to the heated tension she had left behind. Seeking respite, she wandered through the quiet streets until she found herself on a bridge that spanned a calm river.

Perching on the ledge, her feet hanging over the water, (y/n) let out a deep sigh. The night sky stretched above her, stars flickering like distant beacons. Her thoughts were a storm of conflicting emotions – anger, hurt, confusion – and they mingled with the ever-present shadow of her mental health struggles.

Gazing down at the water, (y/n) traced the ripples with her eyes, lost in the rhythm of their gentle dance. Her relationship with the Volturi kings had been a source of joy and turmoil, an intricate dance between love and frustration. But tonight, their argument had unleashed a torrent of emotions she struggled to contain.

Tears welled up in her eyes, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. She had always battled her own inner demons, the darkness that threatened to consume her. Her mental health had been a constant companion, sometimes a gentle whisper and at other times a deafening roar.

As she stared at the water, the tranquility of the scene before her offered a fleeting sense of solace. It was a reminder that even amidst the chaos, there were moments of stillness and beauty. But the struggle within her heart was far from over.

With a heavy sigh, (y/n) leaned back, resting her weight on her hands. Her thoughts drifted to the times of laughter and connection she had shared with the Volturi kings. But they were now overshadowed by the hurtful words and the fractures in their once strong bond. She felt lost in a sea of emotions, uncertain of how to navigate her feelings.

Her mental health struggles, too, gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. The battles fought within her own mind often left her feeling exhausted, and tonight was no exception. It was as if her inner turmoil had found its way into her external world, amplifying the pain she felt.

As the moonlight cast its silvery glow over the Volturi castle, a sense of unease settled within its halls. The lower guard had just informed the kings that (y/n) had left the castle, setting their hearts racing with worry. Without a moment's hesitation, Aro, Marcus, and Caius followed the scent that led them through the winding paths of the castle grounds and out into the night.

The scent was a trail of uncertainty, a reflection of the turmoil that had led her to leave. Each step carried them closer to the bridge that spanned the quiet river, and the kings felt their anxiety rise with every passing second.

Approaching the bridge, they saw her figure seated on the edge, her silhouette framed against the moonlit waters below. The wind rustled her hair, and her shoulders seemed weighed down by the burden of her thoughts.

"(Y/n)!" Aro's voice was a mixture of relief and concern as he called out to her, his footsteps slowing.

Hearing their voices, (y/n) turned to face them, her expression a mix of surprise and sadness. The sight of the three kings standing before her felt surreal, a reminder of the complexities of their bond.

Marcus stepped forward, his voice gentle. "We were worried about you, (y/n)."

Caius' gaze was piercing, his eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. "Why did you leave?"

Tears welled up in (y/n)'s eyes as she met Caius' gaze. His voice held a note of desperation that struck a chord deep within her. She had caused them to worry, to fear the worst, and the guilt gnawed at her heart.

"I needed some space," she admitted, her voice wavering with emotion.

Caius' expression softened, his concern evident as he took a step closer. "You scared us, (y/n)."

The bridge seemed to hang in a delicate balance, the emotions of the moment swirling like a storm. And then, with a desperation that seemed to pierce the very air, Caius pleaded, "Please, don't do anything rash."

His words hung heavy, the weight of his concern palpable. (Y/n) could see the fear in his eyes, the raw vulnerability he rarely revealed. It was a reminder that their bond, as fractured as it was, still held a deep connection.

"I sorry, Caius," she chocked, her voice trembling. "I sorry, I’m so sorry,” she cried like a broken record.

The air seemed to thicken with tension as (y/n) and the three kings stood on the bridge, their emotions swirling in the night. Caius' plea had pierced the silence, his concern palpable, and the weight of his words hung in the air like a heavy shroud.

Caius took a tentative step forward, his gaze unwavering as he locked eyes with (y/n). His voice was a mixture of remorse and desperation as he spoke, his words cutting through the charged atmosphere.

"Don't you dare apologize. You haven't done anything wrong. This is my fault."

Tears welled up in (y/n)'s eyes as she met Caius' gaze. She felt the truth in his words, the raw sincerity of his regret. But the turmoil within her heart couldn't be silenced by reason alone, and a choked apology escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry, Caius. I'm so sorry."

Caius' frustration seemed to deepen as he closed the distance between them, his movements deliberate and careful. His voice softened, a mixture of tenderness and self-blame.

"Stop apologizing. You don't have to carry this burden."

But (y/n) could only shake her head, the weight of her own emotions bearing down on her. "I'm sorry, Caius. I'm tired."

The words were a whisper, a reflection of her weariness. The constant battles within her own mind, the complexities of their relationship – it all felt like too much to bear.

And then, before anyone could react, a shocking moment unfolded. (Y/n) stepped back, her gaze still locked on Caius, her voice trembling as she whispered, "I'm sorry," one last time.

And then she jumped.

Time seemed to freeze in that agonizing instant, the sound of her body hitting the water echoing in their ears. A primal surge of panic coursed through them, their hearts racing as they stared at the spot where she had been.

Aro, Marcus, and Caius were paralyzed, the shock of the moment rendering them immobile. The bridge that had once represented a moment of reflection had now become the stage for a heart-wrenching tragedy.

As reality settled in, Caius' expression twisted with a mixture of grief and disbelief. He felt as though his very soul had been torn asunder, his voice frozen in his throat.

"(Y/n)?" Aro's voice was a whisper, his eyes wide with shock.

The ripples on the water were the only answer, their gentle dance a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions that roiled within them.

#x reader #twilight #twilight x you #twilight x y/n #twilight imagine #twilight imagines #twilight x reader #volturi imagine #volturi imagines #marcus volturi #caius volturi x reader #caius volturi #aro volturi x reader #aro volturi #volturi x reader #the volturi #marcus volturi x reader #requested #x reader requests #twilight masterlist

[heartsandhischier]

The Rink of Reality

andrei svechnikov x female!reader

summary - 931 words. coming to a close, will Andrei be able to let go? part 9 of The Pretend Play

author's note - sad boy hours for andrei

warnings - none I think

The atmosphere in the conference room was heavy, bathed in the cold light of early morning, Andrei sat across from Y/N. The familiar tension that usually crackled between them now replaced with an unusual calm. They had been called in for a cryptically described “strategic meeting” by their agents, but the atmosphere suggested it was anything but ordinary.

“We’ve called you in to discuss the result of your partnership,” Carson began, his tone measured. “Thanks to your efforts, both of your public images have significantly improved. The campaign has been a resounding success.” they cheered

Y/N agent chimed in, his voice equally composed. “We’ve analysed the data, and it’s clear. The objective of boosting your reputations has been achieved. As such, continuing the fake relationship isn’t necessary.”

The room fell silent as the implication of their words sank in. Inside, Andrei felt a sharp pang of loss, a hollow emptiness that seemed to echo off the walls of the room. Glancing at Y/N, he noticed a similar shadow cross her features, a brief flicker of sadness that she quickly masked under a veneer of indifference.

"As professionals, we’re confident you’ll navigate this next phase with the same dedication" Carson continued, oblivious or indifferent to the storm of emotions brewing silently. “We’ve prepared a statement to announce the conclusion of your relationship, framing it as a mutual decision.”

This was really the end, Andrei’s heart sunk. It wasn't just the loss of Y/N's presence in his life that grieved him, but the vanishing of a bond that, against all odds, had become real to him.

The formalities of concluding the meeting felt surreal, as if he were watching from a distance. Their agents' congratulations on a "job well done" rang hollow, a stark reminder of the professional facade they were expected to maintain until the very end.

Stepping out together, the synchrony of their movements belied the chasm that had opened between them. “So I guess I’ll see you around,” Y/N broke the silence, her voice soft a hint of sadness.

Andrei met her gaze, finding not the challenge of their earlier days but a familiar comfort that had grown between them. "Yeah, I guess so," he managed to reply, each word laden with a reluctance to let go.

"It was nice while it lasted, partner. Keeping it professional," she said, extending her hand in a gesture that felt like a final curtain call on their shared act.

"Yeah, professional," he echoed, the word tasting bitter in his mouth.

Her handshake was firm, stirring doubts in Andrei about the depth of their connection. Had he been the only one to feel something more? “Take care, Svechy.” 

And with that, they parted ways, the finality of their goodbye marking the end of a chapter he never had anticipated would be so difficult to close. Behind the professional veneer, Andrei grappled with the realization that what had started as a mere arrangement had blossomed into a meaningful connection, leaving him to wonder about the future paths that might have been, if only their beginning had been rooted in truth rather than pretend.

-

In the quiet solitude that followed their final goodbye, Andrei found himself grappling with a sense of loss so profound it seemed to permeate every aspect of his life. The ice, once his sanctuary, now felt like an expanse of cold, unforgiving solitude. Each game, each practice, he laced up his skates and donned his jersey like armor, but the weight of Y/N's absence made it hard to find the joy and passion that once fueled his play.

On the ice, his movements, once sharp and confident, now carried a hesitance, a split-second of doubt that was enough to disrupt the fluidity of his game. Passes he would make without thinking twice now missed their mark, shots he could land with his eyes closed somehow found the post or sailed wide. It was as if the sync between his mind and body had been thrown off, the harmony disrupted by the echo of a presence that was no longer there.

His teammates noticed, concern etching their faces as they watched Andrei struggle to find his footing. The locker room, once filled with the easy camaraderie and laughter that comes from shared victories and defeats, now seemed to close in on him, each well-meaning inquiry or slap on the back a reminder of the void Y/N's departure had left.

"Everything okay, Svech?" they'd ask, their brows furrowed in worry. "You've seemed off lately."

Andrei would nod, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, just going through a rough patch. I'll shake it off," he'd assure them, his voice carrying a conviction he wished he felt. But the truth was, he wasn't sure how to shake off the sense of loss that had settled in his chest, a constant companion that seemed to shadow his every move.

Evenings after games, once spent reliving key moments and celebrating with his team, now found Andrei retreating into himself, replaying not the game, but the moments shared with Y/N. The laughter, the shared looks of understanding, the way her presence had become as integral to his happiness as the sport he loved.

The realization hit him hard, a body check to the soul: he missed her. Not just the physical presence, but the connection, the bond that had unexpectedly grown between them. It was more than just missing a friend; it was the ache of missing a part of himself he hadn't realized she had become.

#nhl fanfic #hockey fanfic #hockey fic #nhl fanfiction #carolina hurricanes imagine #carolina hurricanes fic #canes fanfiction #carolina hurricanes fanfic #canes fanfic #andrei svechnikov fanfiction #andrei svechnikov fanfic #andrei svechnikov fic #andrei svechnikov x reader #andrei svechnikov imagine #andrei svechnikov x y/n #as37

[soleilnomoon]

Hi again! Still absolutely adore your Kid fic from your last event 💜 Never got around to asking for a Sanji one, so here I am again😅 But seriously, congrats on over 550 followers!! Love seeing your blog grow, cause you’re really talented and deserve them all and legit can’t wait til you hit 1k+ 🥰

For the event order, may I please ask for a #1 with my boi Sanji, with anmitsu, konpeito, and keylime pie and with honey, please? 🥹 i hate this but need some sanji angst 😭

I also dunno if these three would work particularly well together for a prompt, so you can choose whatever! just really feeling angst and sanji rn and maybe comfort if you’d like 🥰

Thank you for all your works you’ve done so far 💜💜

hiiii omg haha i loved that fic fr (i'm obsessed w that man!!!) also ily for requesting sanji i don't write him nearly enough 🥰️ but thank you sm!! 😭 making me all soft and i am so so sorry this took forever, as u know i am so slow but!!! i had fun tormenting sanji w the angst ngl 💓💓💓💓 also those were great choices for the prompt, i wanted to write more but it would've been 8k words before i finished and who has time for that (i do, but listen... that's besides the point) ✨

2k words, fem reader (honestly gn too now that i think abt it), sfw (SHOCKING i know), 18+ mdni, a lil bit suggestive but nothing wild, angst angst angst city babey, fluff if you squint, also i gave u comfort bc u deserve it bb 💗(and sanji does too); feat. sanji being in denial forever and ever, mutual pining, fake unrequited love, reader is determined and sanji is a coward; also i made myself sad writing this but a good sad bc sanji deserves happiness and i'll fight oda if he doesn't get it i s2g... (if u see grammar mistakes/spelling errors... no u didn't 💗)

“loving each other began this way: threading / loneliness into loneliness / patiently, our hands trembling and precise.” — yehuda amichai

STEP 01:

what does it take to kill a soul? —

a question that’s posed unironically, without a hint of remorse or tact, the words precise and venomous, slicing through the thick veneer that he’s carefully crafted. he’s never been able to answer that question — not at six years old, not twelve or fifteen, and not at twenty-one. his siblings took pleasure in taunting him with seemingly philosophical questions, ones that clamped down onto his thoughts with heavy shackles.

even after he’s extracted himself from that life, he can’t scrub those memories from his mind — no matter how hard he tries. they sit, still raw and bloody, giving rise to unpleasant emotions that make his stomach churn from so many things left unsaid. he never set out to be a pirate, but piracy has given him the sort of freedom that he could only wish for as a child.

it’s with tender hands, with nimble yet graceful fingers, and with a fastidiousness that puts him in a category of his own, that he creates and creates and creates —

he’s told he’s an artist, which only pushes him to work harder, to be better. and when he asks himself why, he doesn’t have an answer. or, rather, the answer he does have only serves as a punishing reminder that he’ll never be good enough. no matter how many times his crew mates thank him — their emphatic, genuine praise a soft, warm breeze against his heart, gentle caresses that he commits to memory — despair still manages to infiltrate, a darkness choking out what little light he has left inside of him.

STEP 02:

how far are you willing to go to reach the truth? —

when you join the crew, he’s unnerved by your presence, which is wholly unlike him. usually, he’s able to put on his façade of the flirtatious cook, one that’s jovial and sociable, that lives to serve and please those around him. his first conversation with you ends in disaster; he spills the drink he tried to pour for you, despite your insistence that you are perfectly capable of pouring your own drink — and he knows it’s not out of malice, but it cuts into him all the same.

he tries again and again, bringing you little treats that you only agree to eating if he sits and eats with you; confusion eats away at his mind, and when he opens his mouth to decline, you pat the seat next to you and he acquiesces. he sits stiffly, at first, unsure of why he always feels on edge around you — an irritating need to impress you in a way he’s never wanted to for others grows stronger by the day.

you think it’s cute that he always seems flustered around you — that he stumbles over his words, refuses to hold eye contact with you for longer than thirty seconds — you also think it’s cute that the false bravado that he puts on for the world, diminishes immediately the second you come close to him. if he’s skittish, it’s because you always catch him staring at you; despite his quick reflexes, his reactions around you are slow but pure — childish, almost.

lately he’s clumsier and scatterbrained, nearly burning dinner when you decide to keep him company. you lean against the countertop, a teasing smile on your face — the same one that that caused him to bump his forehead against the cabinet door earlier — as you prattle on about a dream you had. he can barely keep up, his eyes drifting from the skillet to your face, gliding around the curve of your cheek, dipping lower in a slow descent along your neck.

he blinks repeatedly when he reaches your clavicle, stunned at his restraint; and it’s only when you call his name loudly that he realizes he’s left the heat on for too long.

“are you okay?” you ask when you see that he’s fussing over how best to save the dish, mouth moving as he quietly mutters to himself. he barely registers your voice, as an insidious one whispers harshly into his ears about his perpetual incompetence and lack of talent.

you can see that he’s retreated even further into his mind, a feat that also leaves you frustrated. you want to shake him but refrain and grab his hand instead. he snaps out of whatever stupor that held him captive just moments ago, lips parting as he sighs softly before glancing down at you.

“thank you.”

the words are quiet, but impactful, as he didn’t think he’d be able to get them out. you let go of his hand too soon, but he doesn’t say anything else, choosing to focus on cooking than embarrassing himself again in front of you.

you take his silence as a silent dismissal, but you don’t fight him on it — it’s bitter, that sort of rejection, and you swallow back your argument with great difficulty.

STEP 03:

what’s the difference between cowardice and self-preservation? —

frustration bubbles underneath his skin when he can’t find where he placed his lighter; he runs a hand through his hair and tugs on impulse, accidentally ripping a few strands from his scalp. they swirl and tumble onto the ground, pathetic in a way — just like me, but he never really says that out loud. he doesn’t hear your footsteps, although you did your best to remain as quiet as possible.

a cigarette sits in between his lips, and he has half a mind to toss it over the railing of the ship, but a warmth suddenly appears in front of him in the form of a flame. you found his lighter on the floor earlier and meant to give it to him, but every time you got closer, he found every excuse to leave. you don’t realize the impact you have on him — not really, anyway — because he’s genuinely surprised that you can’t hear the heavy beats of his heart that grow more intolerable the longer he hangs around you.

always afraid of being found out, he opts to keep his distance. it’s easier this way, he tells himself, better. but he doesn’t quite believe that; the evidence is plain as day when his tongue feels like its grown three sizes in the span of seconds, where his words get lost and forgotten. it’s all your fault, he reasons; you who insists on talking candidly with him, who insists on listening to him ramble about his dreams, who absolutely insists on stubbornly tearing down his walls, steadily chipping away without a care in the world. he looks at you as if you are the source of all his problems, but he also looks at you as if you’re the solution.

the intensity behind his stare makes your hands tremble slightly, it’s a miracle you’ve managed to keep yourself composed for this long. you light the end of his cigarette with ease, as if you’ve done this for him hundreds of times —and place the lighter into his pants pocket afterwards. if he wasn’t so used to you getting in his personal space all the time, he’d retreat immediately. the proximity is almost too much for him, but he doesn’t step back; you take that as a good sign and keep him company for a few minutes.

you don’t care for the smell of smoke, but on him it smells good. you almost tell him that, but instead bite down on your lip and keep your comment at bay, nerves getting the best of you as you nearly choke on the possibility that your feelings won’t be reciprocated.

another time, maybe. cheeks flushed, you turn your face to look elsewhere. although, you wonder if there ever will be another time. with him, you never know.

he’s still trying to figure you out and why he feels a different sort of calm around you; it’s alarming and new, drumming up an irrational fear within him. he doesn’t think he’s deserving of your attention or affection, and he’s convinced himself that you don’t harbor any romantic feelings for him. and why would you?

one by one, his thoughts pummel into him, acerbic and overwhelming. he exhales a sliver of smoke and puts the cigarette out. he gives you a quick, apologetic look before telling you goodnight, the smile on his face is melancholic and barely existent. you don’t dare say a word, keep your lips pressed together stubbornly; exasperated and dejected, you don’t know what’s worse — his inability to lower his guard around you for longer than ten minutes, or your inability to stop yourself from trying to carve pieces of yourself to give to him.

maybe if you helped him fill the gaping holes in his heart, he’d truly understand how you feel.

STEP 04:

if you had to do it all over again, would you do anything differently? —

sleep evades you after that night, and the night after that, and so forth; it gets so bad that you’re yawning in the middle of the day, falling asleep before you can have a cup of coffee or tea. this does not go unnoticed by the others, and after talking with nami, you feel less out of your element and finally can see the parts of sanji that he wants to keep hidden. her advice is simple: approach slowly and with intent; corner him and don’t let him escape.

you bide your time, full confident that you can find a moment to sit down with him and talk this all out. it doesn’t come easy, but franky mysteriously swaps sanji for the night’s watch — something that should strike you as odd, but it’s a small opening that you take without thinking as you hurriedly climb up to the crow’s nest with a renewed sort of energy.

even with his eyes closed, as he sits lazily on the bench with head tilted back against the wall, he knows it’s you.

“go back to bed,” he says firmly, refusing to look at you.

your stubbornness, unfortunately, wins out. “i’m staying.” at that he sits up, his attention completely on you as his eyes widen at your words. he wants to ask you why, but cowardice wins out — again. as his features soften, a flush crawls along his face, lightly painting his cheeks pink. he closes his eyes again, tries to steady his breathing as he counts backwards, only for his efforts to be obliterated with ease the moment you sit next to him.

as your thigh presses against his, you take his hand and on impulse you trace your fingertip along the lines on his palm. he watches you with a morbid fascination that scares him; but then you start to say things like, “you will live a very long life,” and “you are courageous, and you have a big heart.”

a small part of him wants to pull his hand away, so you won’t say anything else — but he remains put, so still that you almost think he’s stopped breathing. your voice is sweet and disarming, even when you carry on this charade of reading his palm. a belated realization hits him forcefully, making him blink several times; it dawns on him that you’ve always been so kind and gentle with him, even when you teased him. he’s spent all this time overthinking and hiding behind his past, that it never occurred to him that he could have simply let you in. you’ve never given him reason to believe that you’d betray or harm him intentionally.

he takes a deep breath, voice a little uneven, “i—”

you lean in close, adoration dripping onto your words as you interrupt him. “hey, have i told you?” the question glides along his skin, the words seeping into him as you continue, the lilt in your voice a honeyed, melodic spell. “you remind me of starlight and the mysteries of space.” your lips brush against his when you tell him that, and a warmth settles into the middle of his chest, makes it hard to focus. he doesn’t think when he curls his fingers around yours and doesn’t think when heleans down to kiss you — tender yet electrifying all the same.

the move disarms you in a way that doesn’t quite make sense to you, so you simply hum in approval and lean your head against his shoulder. a comfortable silence settles around you both, but you don’t mind that at all; it’s nice, not having to tip-toe around him anymore, and the demons that plagued him for so long don’t seem so intimidating with you by his side.

#fic request #milestone event #500+ followers event #🍭✨🍨sticky & sweet event🧁✨🍭 #one piece angst #one piece fluff #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #vinsmoke sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x y/n #sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #sanji angst #sanji fluff #i love sanji a normal amt as u can tell

[kittlesandbugs]

6, 11, 35 for Riley please 😳✨

6. What are they like in motion–in different environments, and in different activities? What causes the differences between these? She's always surreptitiously taking stock of her environment. Potential threats, potential exits, potential situations that could arise. She does her best not to let it show, but it's there if you look for it in darting eyes behind the sunglasses, little head tilts. She's nervous under a veneer of bravado. It's much less obvious when she's in armor because the Rat King handles most of that information parcing for her, and the anonymity and protection lets her act more freely and confidently.

11. How are they vocally expressive? What kind of voice, accent, tones, inflections, volume, phrases and slang, and manner of speaking do they use? Riley's fairly soft-spoken normally, very neutral accent. As Sidestep, she learned how to be much better at being expressive and mimic how people emote with their voices than the Farm ever taught her, how to rely less on her telepathy to make people think she belonged where she was. After her return, she doesn't care much at all how she comes across unless she's trying to avoid trouble. Very dry tone, sardonic and snarky. Flat when she's really tired. Ortega is really the only one who gets her to raise her voice when she's arguing with him. She doesn't use much slang, but she swears a lot.

35. How and why do they internalize knowledge? What effect has that had on them? She compartmentalizes a lot of it, especially if it's something uncomfortable she doesn't want to deal with. Otherwise it gets catalogued for later use. She has a very good memory for directions, locations, and facts that may or may not be useless (better to catalog just in case...). But a lot of other, more subjective, knowledge get distorted by heavy memories and emotions.

#eydika #oc ask meme #thank friend!!! #riley owens

[occupyswift]

Rocket It Off by occupyswift

Rating: Mature

Chapter: 37/???

Summary:

Taylor Swift and Elon Musk appeared on a livestream for charity. But instead of presenting a united front, they began insulting each other. As the insults got more cringe-worthy, a shipping war broke out in the comments. To distract from the arguing, they decided to play Minecraft, but a random player came and tried to destroy their creations. Despite this setback, Taylor and Elon persevered, proving that even a billionaire and a popstar can put their differences aside and work together for a good cause.

Chapter 37

Taylor's reflection stares back at her, a mask of calm concealing the whirlwind of anxiety and nerves churning inside. She's got an interview with Ellen coming up, and those cryptic, threatening messages are weighing heavy on her mind. She applies her lipstick, a bold red to match her fiery spirit, and takes a deep breath.

Her thoughts race, jumping from one conspiracy theory to another. Could it be one of her overzealous fans, desperate for her undivided attention? Or maybe a disgruntled employee from her label, seeking revenge for some perceived slight? Shaking her head, she dismisses the ideas as unlikely and paranoid. But the nagging doubt remains, gnawing at her peace of mind.

As she runs through potential questions Ellen might ask, her mind keeps drifting back to the mysterious threats. What if they're not just empty words? What if whoever's behind them decides to act on their ominous promise? The thought sends a shiver down her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms.

She reminds herself that she's faced challenges before, battled her own demons and emerged victorious. This isn't much different - just another obstacle thrown in her path. And she's determined not to let it derail her. With renewed resolve, she squares her shoulders, steeling herself for whatever lies ahead.

But beneath the bravado, there's a hint of vulnerability, a soft underbelly exposed by the relentless pressure. She wishes she could confide in someone, share her burden instead of carrying it alone. But experience has taught her that secrets have a way of getting out, especially when they involve someone as high-profile as Elon. So she bears the weight silently, hiding her fear behind a veneer of confidence.

With a final check of her appearance, she turns away from the mirror, leaving the uncertainty behind. It's time to step into the limelight, to dazzle and delight, to prove once again that she's a force to be reckoned with.

The crowd erupts into cheers as Taylor steps onto the stage, her radiant smile lighting up the room. Ellen greets her warmly, congratulating her on her latest album and upcoming tour. Seated comfortably, Taylor launches into enthusiastic discussions about her music, her voice bubbling with excitement.

"I've poured my heart and soul into this album," she tells Ellen, leaning forward, hands clasped together. "It's been such a journey, crafting each song, perfecting every lyric. I wanted to create something that resonates deeply with my fans, something that reflects their experiences as well as mine."

Ellen nods appreciatively, acknowledging the depth of emotion and personal connection that defines Taylor's work. They delve deeper into the creative process, discussing influences, collaborations, and the evolution of Taylor's sound.

Throughout the conversation, Taylor radiates positivity and passion, her enthusiasm infectious. She reveals snippets of what fans can expect from the tour, promising surprises, fan favorites, and fresh interpretations of classic tracks.

"The energy during live performances is electric," she enthuses, recalling past concerts. "There's nothing quite like connecting with my audience, sharing stories and creating memories through music. That exchange of emotions is truly magical."

They also touch upon the challenges of balancing creativity with commercial success, maintaining authenticity amidst industry pressures. With grace and candor, Taylor discusses the importance of staying true to oneself, navigating the complexities of fame and fortune while preserving artistic integrity.

As the interview progresses, Taylor handles each question deftly, switching between serious contemplation and playful banter. Despite the turmoil brewing beneath the surface, she maintains an engaging and entertaining dialogue, captivating both Ellen and the audience.

However, the specter of those mysterious threats lingers, casting a faint shadow over her otherwise sunny disposition. Yet, she refuses to let it dampen her spirits, pushing aside her concerns to focus on the present moment. For now, she's basking in the glow of shared appreciation for her artistry, reveling in the opportunity to connect directly with her adoring fans.

The interview continues swimmingly, with Taylor fielding questions about her album, tour, and various collaborations. However, Ellen being Ellen, she throws a curveball into the mix by displaying a tweet from none other than Elon Musk. It features Taylor's promotional post for her upcoming tour, followed by a simple response from Elon – a cigarette emoji.

Taylor's cheeks flush crimson as she processes the unexpected turn the conversation has taken. Nervously, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying to maintain her composure despite the sudden surge of embarrassment.

Seeing Taylor's reaction, Ellen smirks knowingly, unable to resist poking fun at the situation. "Looks like someone's caught your eye!" she quips, eliciting chuckles from the audience.

Unprepared for this line of questioning, Taylor hesitates, searching for a suitable response. Playing along seems like the safest option, given the circumstances. After all, she can hardly admit to dating Elon during a public interview.

So, summoning a sheepish grin, she replies, "Well, you know, sometimes a smoking emoji is just a smoking emoji!" Laughter ripples through the crowd as they appreciate her quick wit.

Ellen, sensing the tension in the air, zeroes in on the topic nobody expected. Leaning forward, she locks eyes with Taylor and poses the million-dollar question, "Now, Taylor, tell us – is there anything going on between you two and Elon?"

Caught off guard, Taylor stiffens, immediately recognizing the gravity of the situation. To protect her secret romance, she opts for a strategic misdirection, putting on a convincing act of indifference.

Lips pressed into a thin line, she retorts curtly, "No, absolutely not. We merely participated in a charity livestream together, and discussed some business ventures. But clearly, we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye."

By painting herself as distant and professionally aligned with Elon, she effectively kills any speculations surrounding their relationship. A masterclass in deflection, indeed.

Ellen, persistent as ever, doubles down on her quest for answers. Pressing the issue further, she points out the palpable chemistry Taylor and Elon shared during their heated charity stream argument.

"Come on, Taylor," she implores gently, curiosity etched across her face. "What do you really think of Elon? Would you ever consider giving someone like him a chance?"

Forced to maintain her façade, Taylor grits her teeth, donning a mask of disgust and annoyance. With feigned nonchalance, she shoots back, "Elon? Honestly, Ellen, I find him arrogant and condescending. His constant need to be right is exhausting. Besides, we couldn't be more different."

Internally, guilt gnaws at her. Spewing venom about someone she cares for cuts deep, leaving raw emotional wounds in its wake. Nevertheless, she soldiers on, committed to shielding her delicate relationship from unnecessary scrutiny.

To drive home her distaste for Elon, she adds, "Definitely not my cup of tea. Give me a genuine, grounded person any day over a billionaire with a god complex."

Although her words drip with vitriol, they fail to reflect the warmth she harbors for Elon in her heart. Like a carefully constructed puzzle, Taylor meticulously pieces together fragments of false narratives, presenting a picture that starkly contrasts reality.

All the while, pain lingers in the background, haunting remnants of the harsh persona she created. Still, she perseveres, standing firm in her decision to protect their secret love story from becoming tabloid fodder.

Ellen leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. "And yet, you both managed to connect on a deeper level during your Minecraft session. There was definitely a strong bond forming there, Taylor. Don't try to deny it."

Taylor hesitates, her mind racing as she struggles to come up with a plausible explanation. "Yes, we did have fun playing Minecraft together. It was a nice change of pace, and we did share some laughs. But that doesn't mean we're compatible, Ellen. We're just too different, even for friendship."

Ellen, sensing that Taylor might still be holding back, presses on with her line of questioning. "Okay, let's imagine a hypothetical scenario. Suppose Elon were to ask you on a proper date, - nothing fancy, maybe just a quiet dinner for two somewhere private and cozy. What would you say?"

Taylor's eyes widen slightly, but she manages to keep her composure. Her thoughts race as she contemplates the possibility of going on a real date with Elon in public again – something they'd discussed privately and looked forward to eagerly. However, knowing that maintaining secrecy is crucial to protecting their burgeoning relationship, she reluctantly puts on a facade of disgust.

"An actual date with Elon?" Taylor scoffs, feigning disinterest. "That's preposterous! I wouldn't waste my time dating someone like him. He's too full of himself and his accomplishments. Besides, I prefer men who are humble, not self-absorbed tech moguls."

Internally, though, she feels torn apart by the necessity of publicly dismissing Elon. Guilt consumes her, as every word she speaks contradicts her true emotions. Inwardly, she cherishes the moments spent with Elon, whether it's exploring Minecraft or sharing stolen kisses in secluded spots. Yet, she understands that safeguarding their privacy means sacrificing honesty in situations such as these.

Seeing Taylor's apparent revulsion, Ellen shrugs sympathetically. "I understand, dear. Everyone has their preferences, and it seems yours simply don't align with Mr. Musk's personality. That's completely fine. Just remember, sometimes appearances can be deceiving, and people often possess layers waiting to be discovered beneath the surface."

With a tight smile, Taylor acknowledges Ellen's wisdom, silently vowing to remain steadfast in her deception. Despite the turmoil within her, she recognizes the importance of preserving their secret affair, even if it entails hurting Elon indirectly through half-truths and omissions.

Ellen, unwilling to give up, persists with her observations. "Seriously, Taylor, you and Elon might have more in common than you realize. Take a look at this recent tweet that's gone viral comparing the two of you."

Onscreen, Ellen displays a tweet reading 'Taylor Swift is Elon Musk for girls.' Seeing the playful comparison, Ellen fights back laughter and flashes a knowing grin.

"Sure, it's a funny meme," Taylor replies, forcing a chuckle. "But I hardly think Elon and I are comparable. Our careers, values, and interests are miles apart."

Undeterred, Ellen proceeds to highlight another connection between the pair. "Actually, Taylor, there's something else worth considering. Both you and Elon have faced criticism and opposition from certain circles online. Some of the same individuals attacking Elon's ventures also target you. Maybe subconsciously, you're drawn to him because you share common adversaries in cyberspace."

This observation strikes a chord with Taylor, causing her to pause mid-response.

Throughout Ellen's probing remarks, Taylor's mind whirls with possibilities. Suddenly, realization dawns upon her — she and Elon do indeed share a mutual nemesis lurking in the digital shadows. This revelation prompts her concern regarding the mysterious threats she's received lately. Could it be that this individual is responsible for harassing both her and Elon?

The instant Ellen announces a commercial break, Taylor seizes the opportunity to slip away and gather her thoughts. Backstage, concealed from curious eyes, she pulls out her secret phone — the encrypted device meant solely for communicating with Elon undetected. Carefully crafting her message, she types:

"I think I know who's sending those messages.”

Her fingers trembling slightly, she hits send, praying that Elon receives and comprehends the urgency of her message. Though fear grips her, Taylor knows that facing this threat together might offer their only hope of escaping the sinister grasp of this unknown cyberstalker. Keeping secrets becomes increasingly arduous as danger looms nearer, compelling them to confront the ominous presence casting a shadow over their budding relationship.

#elon musk #enemies to friends to lovers #ao3 author #fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfic authors #fanfic rec #fanfic writing #alternate universe #fanfiction

[captainshyguy]

yknow i’ve been thinking about quirrel as a character and how unique his vibes feel and its like, genuinely the only character that feels in the same ballpark is like...legolas?? 

#it may sound odd but they just feel similar yknow?? #there's nuances to both character that easily set them apart (i struggle to remember legolas' off the top of my head) #haven't watched lotr in a while but yes! #not the same or i'd be head over heels for legolas gdfkjhndhkfhdf but like. similar #the sense of lightness and well spokenness to them #the candace is similar i think #but also that kindness that comes with it #this is a friend #a friend who could probably kill you but won;t. you're safe with them #heavy emotions with this like. veneer of softness to them #honestly hollow knight characters have a very lotr charm to them in general #like i get treebeard vibes from the stag for example #its not wuit the same and it makes me appreciate the unique parts of eahc more but like. yes #anyway my point stands #legolas feels similar to quirrel in the same way that i think bill cipher feels similar to dimentio #similar vibes #luke rambles

[yokohamapound]

I am WEAK for pet names, can we have some hcs for pet names Dazai, Ranpo, Yosano, Akutagawa, Chuuya and Fyodor would call you?

My first request on this blog! Listen, I'm a huge slut for pet names. This is my first time dipping my toes in this fandom so thanks for helping me ease my way in. <3

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Edogawa Ranpo, Yosano Akiko, Nakahara Chuuya, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Fyodor Dostoevsky

Warnings: NSFW, suicide mention (Dazai ofc)

Dazai Osamu

Pet names fall from Dazai’s lips as easily as lies. He’s well known for addressing every woman in his vicinity (except Yosano, because he’s not that suicidal) with beautiful, sweetheart, bella/belladonna, darling. Usually followed an enquiry as to whether they’d use those pretty hands to strangle him. 

This might make any sweet appellations he gives you seem throwaway or disingenuous but once you’ve known Dazai for long enough, you can pick up the change in his tone when he says them—still flirtatious, but sincere. 

He doesn’t actually use your name that often, but that means when he does, it carries extra weight. The situation at hand is serious—deadly, heavy, or just emotional. 

He abuses the suffix “-chan” so much it’s filing a restraining order against him. 

Edogawa Ranpo

Now, you know Ranpo calls you by the things he values most—his snacks.

Honey, bonbon, cupcake, sweetie...

If it’s sweet and snack-related, then it’s probably been applied to you at some point in time. Sometimes he just uses whatever he’s most recently been snacking on. Pickle was an...interesting one. Didn’t land quite the way he wanted to when you started laughing hysterically, so he saves that one for when he’s in a silly, goofy mood. 

He did once open his eyes, smirk, and call you sugar~ which hit different. 

Yosano Akiko

Akiko likes to maintain her composure and professional veneer around others, so if you’re part of the ADA, you’ll probably be addressed just by name most of the time. You might get a “-chan” or “-kun” tacked on the end if she’s in a particularly good mood. 

That’s not to say Yosano’s cold, but she doesn’t want to seem too soft in front of her colleagues or clients. She has a reputation to uphold.

When she shucks the white coat and goes home, however, things loosen up a bit. Expect honey, sweetheart, or even darling if she’s feeling extra-romantic. 

I think she’s also tested out nicknames that edge toward some of her darker proclivities, but my little chainsaw didn’t have quite the ring she was looking for, so she stuck to more conventional ones. 

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

It takes a long, long time for Akutagawa to call you anything other than your name, if he uses your name at all. Oftentimes it’s just you. He also liberally calls people idiot, fool, and cur. 

Not that those will generally be applied to you. The occasional exasperated idiot might slip past his lips, but he generally reserves the disaparaging nicknames for his subordinates or his enemies.

Akutagawa is reluctant to open up and expose his feelings for you or say anything that can be mocked, but he might tentatively add a “-chan” to the end of your name now and then.

But the real kicker is when he leaned down one day, probably mid-fuck, and called you kitten.

Toes were curled that day. Moans were heard from afar.

Nakahara Chuuya

Chuuya, (oh, Chuuya <3), is almost as bad as Dazai for having a list of pet names as long as his arm. The difference being that he usually only applies them to his s/o rather than every woman around. Unless he’s being snarky. 

Let’s see here: doll, dollface, babydoll, sweetheart, baby, babe, honey, sweetheart, darlin’, prince/ss, love, lovely... 

I could go on. 

He has also referred to you as a dime piece more than a few times. Chuuya has that 1920s gangster aesthetic about him so him picking up slang from that time period just fits. 

Chuuya uses pet names liberally. Usually every other sentence, to be honest. He’s a simp for his s/o and he literally can’t help himself unless he’s around his colleagues in the Port Mafia, where he has a reputation to maintain. In which case he limits himself to a tame babe.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

The ever-mysterious Fyodor. Who knows what’s going on in that guy’s head? I’m going to be a predictable little bitch here and say that he very likely has a few Russian terms of endearments tucked up his sleeve. (I don’t speak Russian so apologies if any of these are wrong/inaccurate.)

Rodnoy/Rodnaya (m/f) - approx. “my dear”

Zolotse - approx. “gold/golden”

Myshka - “little mouse” (perfect for our rat man)

Or dropping the odd compliment like umnitsa “clever”, when you understand one of his fucky little plans. 

In general, I feel like he goes for quite simple, non-cutesy terms of endearment. Almost a little old fashioned—my dear, my darling, my love. 

Usually with a “my” tacked on the front because you are, after all, his~

#Yokohama Pound #Bungou Stray Dogs #BSD imagines #BSD headcanons #Dazai Osamu #Edogawa Ranpo #Yosano Akiko #Akutagawa Ryuunosuke #Nakahara Chuuya #Fyodor Dostoevsky #Dazai x Reader #Ranpo x Reader #Yosano x Reader #Akutagawa x Reader #Chuuya x Reader #Fyodor x Reader #tw: suicide mention #bsd smut

[slashersgostabbystabstab]

Life in the Shadows (Michael Myers x Reader)

I know I never really got back into writing because I never really got back the motivation after certain things happened. But hey, I started this fic who knows when ago and actually got the motivation to finish it. Hopefully it’s good, I kinda just skimmed thorugh it because I have a hard time reading my own writings and like I said, a good portion of this was written a good while ago and the rest is what I wrote recently. Anyways, have some Michael Myers

Plot: Michael Myers has his eye set on a person he met during his time at Smith’s Grove. Takes place after the second Halloween movie, with a fewe things changed to fit the narrative.

Word Count: 4,866

Warnings: Not much really, mentions of n*dity but nothing explicit. The usual stalking from Michael, mentions of killing obviously. Loomis being Loomis.

The face of Halloween was now nothing more than a white veneer, a haunting sight to any that lay eyes upon it.

Fifteen years ago, not very many felt the terror they started to feel just a week ago. Fifteen years ago, it was nothing but a young boy and his deceased sister. Fifteen years ago, nobody would have expected such a Halloween.

“Thirteen murders in two days. On Halloween night, twenty-one year old Michael Myers escaped from Smiths Grove Sanitarium before stealing from a local hardware store in quiet Haddonfield.”

Michael Myers, that was the name that escaped so many fifteen years ago but ceased soon after when nobody no longer cared.

“At just six years old Michael Myers murdered his elder sister Judith Myers in cold blood, his lust for blood growing the following fifteen years. This past Halloween, only a single of the escapee’s victims survived the attack. Seventeen year old Laurie Strode remains in Haddonfield Memorial Hospital, nearly recovered from the physical and emotional trauma the so-called ‘Boogeyman’ inflicted on her.”

And even this time, their fear grew into a void once a secret was revealed to the public. Nobody feared the Boogeyman; what was there to worry about when they were not who he was after?

“After having survived the home invasion, Strode had to endure yet another attack from the masked fiend who followed her to the hospital the same night. Whilst there, Myers murdered nine people in the hospital, adding on to the previous four. In the end, Strode survived the massacre when Myers’ psychologist arrived to shoot him down and burn him in the hospital’s oxygen room.”

Word spread around. Word that there was another member in the Myers’ family, that only she was the one the murderer was after.

“But in the end, no charred body was recovered.”

Little had the people known, the Shape had his eye on more than one.

“Only a week has gone by but Haddonfield still asks, what could have happened to this malicious hunter?”

Void-like eyes stared through the open window, standing in place with hands laying at each side. Heavy breathing was heard behind the mask, only coming near would allow people to hear such breaths.

Eyes cared not for those that sat on the other side of the glass, sitting on their  couch ever so…vulnerable.

Oblivious.

Helpless.

Naive.

The shape stood in place, eyes staring into the television set in front of them. On it, the picture of a young blonde, the picture taken after the second attack.

Head soon turned before its body followed, calmly striding down a self-made path through the backyard of these unknowing residents who never realized there was someone watching their  every move for more than a few minutes.

The streets of Orange Grove Avenue was nothing but an empty street, nobody in sight unless it was very necessary to go out. Even without the lack of fear, most preferred that their  children would remain at home. Adults thought the same for themselves, thoughts plagued with the idea of accidentally coming across a bloody sight that would end with them as a murdered witness.

Through hedges and trees strolled the figure, never noticed by those who peeked through their closed curtains. The voids of his mask stared straight ahead, eventually looking to the side when their  head finally turned.

From behind a tree, the shape stalked the source from whence a sound was heard.

A door opened to reveal another shape, one whose hand tightly clutched onto a worn out satchel before she gently set it on the ground. Hand now reached into the pocket of her  jacket, making sure that nothing was forgotten back inside her  home, nodding in satisfaction once she pulled out her keys.

The shape stood in the distance, keeping a calm yet very attentive stance as he concealed himself with a tree across the street from the home he watched. He saw the person fumble a bit with her  pocket, shaking soon ceasing before she lifted her head ever so slowly.

Eyes glanced to the left and then the right, head now being the one to move while an uneasy feeling overcame her. A deep feeling of trepidation soon hit when her  eyes landed on the tree standing in the distance, half of a man’s body revealed with a face so pale it looked unreal in her  perspective.

Once again, a shock came when she felt a vibration and heard a jingle, making her look down at her  jacket where her  phone rang.

She pulled out the phone before answering it, placing it against her  ear while looking back up at the tree. Nothing nor anybody stood there, leaving that uneasy feeling while she now shut and locked the door to then make her  way to her  car.

Before actually starting it, she turned to look behind, seeing nothing again. So, with her  phone on its holder, she started the car and drove away, never realizing that darkened eyes were watching from a distance.

_____________

In an isolated property where only light hit stood the shape, behind a fence that no longer proved to serve its purpose. Through it he watched an empty field with nothing but tables for those cursed inside to sit whenever breaks were given. Beyond this empty space was the large building that could have never contained him.

He walked alongside the fence, turning to the right when he reached the building’s other perimeter. From his location, he saw her again.

This time, the person wore a badge on her  jacket as she got out of her car. With her satchel once again in her  hand, she locked the car before making her way through the parking lot until reaching the sidewalk that would lead her to the front entrance of the building. Before continuing, however, she paused her   walking to look at the sign reading a damaged “Smith’s Grove   Sanitarium”. With a shake of her  head, she followed the path before finally walking into the building.

Behind some bushes, the shape watched it all until the person was no more behind darkened glass. He stood there, breaths now soft as she allowed the sound of his heart pumping hard with adrenaline. It was always said that the shape felt nothing, he was but a vessel containing evil alone. But somehow, there was something in him that not even the “best” of psychologists could discover in such a being.

“Looking into those eyes alone is dangerous enough.”

“Why is that?”

“They are the devil’s eyes. There is nothing but evil behind them.”

Such words were enough to make one turn, though the sound of voices coming from outside were also sufficient.

In a room deep inside the corridors of Smith’s Grove was a bed. To the surprise of many it proved to be one of the tidiest beds ever; sheets never undone save for a few wrinkles every now and then.

On the bed sat the patient not many dared near, the story of what he did years back sending chills down the staff’s spines.

“D…devil’s eyes? Dr. Loomis, you can’t be serious. I’ve heard all kinds of things from you, but this is new.”

From the bed, the patient listened ever so attentively, yet he did so without a care in the world. Eyes stared into the nothingness of the white wall before him while his body remained still and hunched over.

The jingling of keys sounded outside of the room, the sound loud enough to echo through the ever so silent hallways of the sanitarium. Soon enough the creaking of the room’s door followed; in the doorway stood two figures who silently peered inside.

One remained on the spot while the other immediately strode in without a care, ignoring the slight worry he had inside. A worry not about him necessarily, but more like the one he had for others such as the person who had accompanied him, and the ones who ran the sanitarium without any concern.

“Michael.” The man now stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the patient sitting on the bed.

The patient never bothered to look any other way, eyes fixated on the wall . Almost as if he wasn’t seeing it…instead, looking past it.

Even then, the man knew that he was aware of his guests.

“Maybe you should leave.”

“Excuse me?” the doctor turned to the doorway, still keeping his distance from the patient who, in the slightest and unnoticable bit, turned his head to the side.

“I’m just saying, I’ve seen that Michael doesn’t exactly…” the other person took a step inside, glancing over at the patient. “React when you’re around.”

“I am the only one in this sanitarium who can approach Michael without being injured.” Loomis now stepped towards her, once again not realizing that the patient’s head had turned even more. “I am his doctor and you are nothing but a temporary transfer.”

“I know-”

“You are in no place to be telling me what to do with Myers.” Loomis sternly spoke, then reaching a hand out to the other individual who turned away with a sigh. “Where are the others?”

“They’re on their   way.” she spoke as she handed a clipboard over to the psychiatrist that immediately looked over the papers in hand.

“Once they’re here, you may excuse yourself.”

“What?”

“Did I stutter?” Loomis’  frown deepened.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Is that so?”

“My purpose is to examine Michael because your incompetent ass can’t do so.”

Now this had noticeably riled up Loomis who had unconsciously turned his back on his patient, the latter still ever so slightly paying attention to the conversation.

“I know you don’t like working with me Loomis, I learned that along the way. I point out the reality while you continue to insist on foolish tales only a man like you can spin.” the person spat at the elderly man who could not believe the way he was being spoken to. “My tasks threaten your job, even if I only do the medical work. A man like you deserves and could land a spot in an institution such as this one with your lunatic rambles. So either step down and let me do my job, or I’ll have a chat of my own with the administration.”

Loomis could only eye this…unfortunate individual. Examining the as if he were examining a patient of his, looking for any flaws he could spur into a tale of demons and evil. To him, this temporary associate was no more than a burden in between him and Michael. Him and the Devil himself, waiting to unleash hell.

He began making his way out of the room, but not before he glanced back at Michael who had clearly been staring at the white of his room’s walls this entire time. Not a single care or thought in the world.

“I’ll have you packing your things before you even know it.” he promised while slamming the clipboard onto the nurse’s chest, lips near her  ear as she stepped away from him, realizing that the other staff had come by. For the first time since Michael had been incarcerated, Loomis didn’t bother to remain in the room.

“Alright Mikey,” one of the two guards that arrived spoke out. “You know how this goes.”

The apparent leader of the pair had handcuffs ready, these being placed on Michael’s wrists as he made it seem like he still stared at the wall.

Michael ignored every word and action that came from the guards, eyes instead focused on the staff member who was still in the room. Brown locks concealed his dark gaze, eyes following her  fingers that reached into the pocket of her  uniform trousers. From it, a pen was pulled out.

Pen and paper now connected as the nurse wrote notes, or perhaps random scribbles due to her  not being much to report at the moment.

It was a rather funny pen. A fountain pen is what it was. Somewhat girthy, made out of cheap plastic. Pink.

One of the only pieces of color Michael ever really saw inside the sanatorium, the only other times being when Loomis conducted certain examinations or when Michael was fed.

Black ink spilled from the pen and onto the paper, nothing more than a tool to further his years in this building. Black ink that came from this funny little pen, providing the only tint of life in the darkness of these white walls that caged Michael.

Black ink…spilling…merging with the warm crimson from inside the skin. It was almost lovely, the thought of a brightly colored tool, impaling the soft skin of this particular caretaker.

“You ready, doc?”

“It’s nurse.” Michael’s staring was interrupted as he felt hands grab onto his arms, hoisting him up from the bed before he nearly came face to face with his nurse. “And yes, we can take him now. Loomis should be waiting for us, if he hasn’t decided to throw a fit in his office.”

“You and the old guy don’t care much for each other, huh?” a guard spoke up as she followed behind the nurse, Michael sandwiched between the men who led him through the halls.

“I don’t care for any so-called psychologist who runs his mouth like a madman. I don’t think he’s qualified to be a psychologist.”

“Uh huh.” one of the guards replied, the words not having gone through his head properly, as he was another one of the many members who worked without giving a damn about the environment they surrounded themselves in.

“Loomis is a bitch, to put it simple.” the nurse rolled her  eyes, hearing the jingling of keys that came from the guards as well as the cuffs that contained Michael. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing, can’t properly care for a patient. I don’t know how he even takes care of himself.”

No more words came from any of the staff as her and Michael’s footsteps echoed through the empty hallways she walked through. Were it not for the continuous jingling, one could have even come to hear Michael’s breaths.

“What now?”

“Michael takes a seat, and we wait for Loomis. You two can leave once he’s here, unless he instructs otherwise.” the nurse scanned the empty room where only a metallic table and two chairs sat in the middle. Behind one of the chairs was a large mirror, one that obviously served for watching whatever interaction occurred inside. It only showed how not-so credible Loomis’ objections were.

“Actually,” a new voice sounded, making everyone but Michael look to the open door, for another nurse had come by.  “I will be staying in your place for a moment. You’re needed elsewhere.”

“Where, exactly? I can’t leave Michael alone with a nurse he’s not used to seeing.”

“I doubt he’ll care much about the change.” this other nurse stated as she made her way into the room, reaching out to grab the clipboard. “The higher ups just want to have a quick conversation.”

“It’s because of Loomis, isn’t it? That bastard.”

“Just deal with it quickly, I have other patients that actually need attending.”

“Alright, just…”

Michael had been seated in the chair opposite from the mirror on the wall, cuffed hands forcibly placed on the table in front of him as his head remained lowered.

“Just treat him right. Please.”

“Sure thing.” the nurse uttered, watching the other walk out of the room.

“What, is someone catching feelings for little ol’ Mikey?” one of the guards snickered once she was out of sight, the two guards chuckling among themselves while the remaining nurse rolled her eyes.

“Hope not, could send her back to the hospital she came from. Even then, dunno what anyone would see in a crazy like Myers.”

And all the while the staff paid no mind to the patient, Michael had actually turned his head.

Eyes looked to the empty and open doorway, almost as if waiting for his nurse to return.

With eyes fixated on the building, the shape now watched as the main doors opened once more. From the doors came the nurse, not having spent much time inside. If she had spent this little in the building on a night she were meant to work, something had changed.

He watched from a distance, taking notice of the lack of Smith’s Grove badge. He didn’t have to eavesdrop on any conversation to know what had gone on.

There was no intention of hiding himself this time, but he also didn’t care if his presence was made known. All that mattered was her, watching every move as she trudged down the sidewalk with her  satchel tightly grasped into.

Despite the distance between the two, it was almost as if this nurse- former nurse could feel him breathing right behind her  neck.

She ceased her walking, nails now digging into her  bag as she scanned her  surroundings, feeling eyes on her…

Beyond the yards of Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, beyond the fence surrounding the perimeter, her  eyes met with the darkest eyes, ever so slightly shaded from the light. Or at least, that was what her  eyes saw, somehow being able to make out…

“The Devil’s Eyes.” he read her  lips murmur, spoken in complete disbelief.

He remained in place, body as stiff as ever as he only…examined, just like she did to him many times.

Was it a figment of her  imagination? Was Michael Myers, the now so-called Boogeyman, really just…watching?

Whatever the answer, he saw her hurriedly threading to the parking lot, immediately finding her  vehicle which she hopped into after struggling to find her  keys. Once inside, she wasted no more time, her  next destination being home.

_____________

She wasn’t up to very much. She was merely…sitting.

Eating.

Thinking.

Thinking more than him no doubt, especially as he stood by the window that led into the brightly lit kitchen. Eyes stared into the glass, watching the individual who did nothing but sit with a slice of bread in hand. In the other, a rather large kitchen knife, the first one that she had pulled out from her  knife block.

She was clearly unbothered by things, but there was still a sort of affliction present on her  features.

He watched her bite into the piece of bread she had cut for herself, ever so slowly chewing the bit. her  lips, moisturized with a lick of her   lips that rid of all the tiny crumbs that even he was able to perceive from the distance he stood at.

He never blinked, merely watched with an intensity that brought a chill down her  spine.

Her eyes widened at the strange feeling of being watched, whipping her   head around as she searched for a possible answer. But just like every other time, there was nothing or nobody that could have been keeping an eye on her.

“I’m going insane…” she mumbled to herself, setting down her  piece of bread before pushing her  seat out to stand and approach the kitchen sink. In her  hand was the knife, this being washed up immediately, ever so carefully.

It gleamed under the kitchen’s light, almost making a sound as if it were a sword drawn from its scabbard.

“This was all it took.”

A kitchen knife was all it took to take the many lives of many innocents. A kitchen knife that glinted under almost anything. A kitchen knife that reflected dark pools of that made one stare into oblivion.

Once again, she spun around, this time in a panic. Through the knife she had seen the white veneer, staring right back at her with such vehemence. But alas, just like every time, nothing stood at the window, it was clearly only a figment of her  imagination. Nothing but an apparition.

“I’ve heard wondrous things about you.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I’m just like any other nurse. I’m sure anyone else could do this job.”

“You’re too humble. I’ve heard about your handling of Billy and, it’s impressed me and other nurses.”

Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, you weren’t sure why an institution such as this one specifically requested someone with your expertise. Someone apparently “perfectly skilled” as a nurse, whatever that meant. It was one of the staff members who had desired a nurse such as yourself, a nurse who would be personally assigned to Michael Audrey Myers.

“And…what is so, special, about this patient?”

“If I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure.” your new but temporary supervisor, Dr. Wynn,  admitted as he walked you down the corridors of the sanitarium. “Myers’ primary psychologist, Dr. Samuel Loomis, is particularly…wary.”

“Of his own patient? I mean, I can understand but, aren’t patients like Michael restrained?”

“That’s not it. Samuel apparently sees something in Michael. Believes there is no redeeming, that Michael is only…waiting.”

“For…?”

“I don’t know, Samuel’s lectures tend to disturb me and some of the other staff at times. We don’t always pay much attention to his rants.” the man gave a shrug, turning on his heel as he and you made it to a door that was marked with a sign reading “M. MYERS”. “We worry that because of this apprehension, that he doesn’t properly care for Michael. We can’t exactly have a patient pass due to lack of care.”

“Of course.”

“You see,” he held his breath for a moment, soon enough releasing it. “Samuel doesn’t view Michael as a human being. Has made many suggestions already, but we don’t see Michael posing as the threat he believes he is.”

You nodded at these words, having seen similar stories as you grew up.

“Anyways, I’d formally like to introduce you to Michael.”

The white door disappeared from your view after being unlocked and opened, revealing a young male who was merely…sitting.

“Michael, I’d like you to meet your new, personal nurse…”

Words became nothing as your eyes landed on this man who sat at the edge of his bed, back curved as he leaned and looked forwards. Thick, chocolate curls hid the eyes that peered at the empty wall, almost as if they examined every inch of paint.

Hands were placed on his knees as the tips of his fingers dug into the cloth of his ivory pants. He seemed so tense, yet so calm somehow. There was no change in his staring as he never lifted his gaze, only listening to the words that spewed from the staff’s lips.

“Every day from now on, you will be seeing her. She is here for your every need.”

You snapped back to your senses after feeling a hand clasp onto your shoulder, making you turn to Dr. Wynn who gave you a comforting smile.

“Right,” you offered a minimal smile before turning back to Michael who had still not moved. Not a single bit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michael. I look forward to helping you as best as I can.”

“I’ll make sure to have you introduced to Samuel after I chat with you in my office.”

“Sounds good.” you slightly nodded, giving Michael one last look before finally stepping out of the room. “See you soon.”

Dr. Wynn followed suit, closing the door the moment he had stepped out as well. Had he taken even the quickest peek into the miniature window that was on the door, he would have noticed the glance Michael had given you.

Nobody ever noticed these small things. Not even you.

Coming back to reality, she shook her head just a bit. Perhaps it was the sleep that was getting to her.

Putting out of mind the slight scare she had just experienced, she turned her attention back to the empty kitchen sink. There were no more dishes, all wet and clean on the drying rack. All but…the kitchen knife.

Had she misplaced it? No, how could she have so easily lost a knife while lost in her own thoughts?

“Weird,” she spoke to herself, now realizing that the large knife lay at the end of the counter. “I don’t remember leaving it there.”

All the doors and windows were locked, she made sure to check every single thing more than once if there really was a danger lurking around. Perhaps she did leave the knife at the end of the counter, perhaps it was during her slight moment of remembering.

He saw her shake her head, putting aside her thoughts and worries after taking the knife and placing it inside its appropriate spot. Soon after, she removed her top and made her way out of the kitchen, the shape following suit as best as he could-

-inside the home.

After the top was removed, her jeans were next once she was in the bathroom of her house.

A heat formed in the room as she turned the knob of her shower, warm water raining over the empty floor of the bathtub. The sound of the water hitting the floor sufficed in hiding his footsteps, his deep breathing.

He easily went unnoticed, dark eyes fixated on the woman as she removed the rest of her clothing.  Eyes admired every curve of her now bare body, taking notes of every bit and piece of skin. So soft. So warm. So…exposed and unguarded.

There was nothing more than glass doors that divided him and her; a pair of doors being the only thing standing between him and his prey. His head became tilted at the sound of her voice, a song from another time escaping her lips as she sang to herself, never realizing that she had an uninvited audience.

Her body in full view through the glass, only slightly distorted by the glass’ design.

His fists clenched as he was filled with an impulse, an unwavering ardor as he studied her every move.

She ran her hands over her body, almost as if caressing herself, massaging her own knots out. Hands dragged themselves over her thighs, fingers digging into them as she squeezed to provide comfort and relief. The warm, hot water almost provided a feeling of…safety.

A safety that could be interrupted at any moment by anything.

Her fingers were entangled in her locks of hair, soap threatening to fall into her eyes that she immediately shut.

It was almost as if he sensed this, stepping towards the glass doors as his heavy breaths created a foggy effect, breathing almost becoming desperate at the proximity between the two figures. His own clothed skin, so near her nude form; almost touching. Sultry flesh that he had all to himself. Flesh who’s scent he inhaled deeply, registering the smell into his system.

It was just the two of them, and that was how he desired it.

The shower knob was soon turned as the water turned off, the only sound in the entire house being the droplets from her hair and chin dripping onto the wet flooring. Once she wiped the remaining water from her face, she properly opened her eyes to look into the emptiness of her bathroom. The scathing water had fogged up all the glass inside the bathroom, hiding the fading imprint of large hands that had been placed on the glass doors.

_____________

Hours had gone by as he remained inside the house, haunting the halls like a phantom with no trace. It was almost ridiculous, foolish even, that the man was not once noticed.

Not even as he stood at her bedside.

A slumber befell the woman not too long after she lay in bed. Once changed into a set of comfortable nightwear, she promptly brought her exhausted form into bed. In front of her was a television, still powered on after hours of watching the leftover Halloween specials.

Her body was curled up against her pillow, eyes softly shut as her chest moved with every breath.

The vulnerability present was ever so tantalizing.

Large, strong hands were slowly lifted, inching closer and closer to the woman’s unsuspecting figure. His hands moved on impulse, wanting to latch onto her neck. Wanting to squeeze her throat awake. Wanting to have her eyes shoot open as she reacted too late. Wanting to have the life drained out of her body with every squeeze.

How quick and easy it would have been to overpower her. Suffocate her. Slice her. Thrust her own gleaming blade into her chest to spill the crimson liquid he had come to see so often.

“Michael…”

His breathing deepened even more at the sound of his name, lips breathing out the name of the Devil himself without realizing the consequence. Out of instinct, almost, one of his large hands brought itself onto her exposed leg, stroking the skin with an unexpected gentleness.

Immediately removing his hand, his head gave one final tilt before he took his time spinning around. His eyes landed on the television set that only presented its viewers with nothing but static.

Something had told him it was best to switch it off before officially making his way out.

#halloween #halloween 1978 #halloween 2018 #michael myers #michael myers x reader #killer x reader

[eggtoasties]

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x Reader

Rating: T + hurt/comfort/fluff

Word Count: .9k 

Summary: He exists and that’s enough.

Oikawa sits on the edge of his bed, head cradled in his hands, trying to even out his breathing when he hears her knock at the door. Fuck, he says to himself. They had made plans to cook dinner and watch a movie but he doesn’t know if he can even stomach food at the moment. In fact, he had meant to cancel their plans with a breezy excuse and a cheery promise to make it up another time but time had slipped past him.

The vibrant hues of sunset filters in through the blinds and creates a ladder of orange and red across his comforter and to the hardwood floors and he can’t help but think he should have invested in curtains. Rush hour traffic is dwindling but every siren blare and tire screech grates heavily on his persistent headache and he wonders if it's also too late to soundproof his walls too.

She knocks again and he winces. Taking a deep breath until his lungs feel like they’ll burst, he braces his shoulders and walks to the door, sending a practice smile to his reflection at the small mirror hanging next to it despite the exhaustion it brings. She comes in with a paper bag in each arm, filled to the brim with ingredients and snacks. Chattering animatedly about her day and the trip over, she fumbles with her shoes. He quickly takes the bags and retreats towards the kitchen, face and shoulders immediately dropping with the effort of maintaining a ruse.

Oikawa Tooru is many things. A talented athlete, a quick study—easy on the eyes and fast on his feet. Sure, his mouth gets him into trouble but it just as easily gets him out of it. However, while a quick thinking mind is great for the court, it’s not great for the speeds at which he peers into himself to reanalyze every mistake—past, present, and future—over and over again until he’s dizzy. The buildup of internal pressures and stresses, the seemingly infinite number of factors and hypotheticals to keep track of have been at a boiling point for too long.

His skin is hot and prickly yet he can’t help but shiver. A heavy weight drops to the pit of his stomach so he drags a hand through his hair, slightly pulling at the roots to ground himself back to reality.

"Tooru," she says, walking towards him. "What’s wrong? What do you need?"

Her hands gently hold the sides of his face and Oikawa can’t help the thundering of his chest. This close he can count every eyelash and pinpoint every freckle. Staring into her eyes, unable to look anywhere else, he finds himself pulled into the bottomless expanse of her pupils consuming her irises in the waning light.

He also finds that he doesn’t have an answer for her.

"I like when you call me by my first name," he whispers, lips hardly moving, murmuring so softly out of fear that she’d turn away or dissolve into another infinite intangible.

But with her warm hands grounding his body to her—two anchors tethering him to one of the few things he knows for certain was never a mistake—in this moment Oikawa feels as though his mind is the clearest it has ever been. The thundering of his heart is dull static against the crashing waves of emotion that ebb and flow with each stroke of her thumbs.

She smiles. So sweetly that Oikawa feels his throat constrict while she closes the short distance between them. He keeps his eyes open just until he feels her lips brush his, watching as her face relaxes into a soft grin as she nears and he can’t help but to hold his breath, wanting every part of his brain to focus on committing this moment to memory.

"Tooru," she whispers as she separates. A puff of warm air fans against his chin and her cupids bow is tracing the fullness of his lower lip and he wills himself to stay still as she ghosts her lips to the side of his face and presses into the sharp of his cheekbone.

"Tooru."

His eyes prick and the burning in his throat has become near unbearable. So, he takes a shuddering breath, gently grasps the back of her neck, and rests his forehead on hers.

He thinks they stay like this for a few seconds or maybe for an eternity. All Oikawa knows is that the sound of her quiet, rhythmic breathing is so wildly out of sync with his racing heart and imagines this is what it's like for someone to split you open, tear down every meticulously built wall, dissolve through a gilded veneer on rusting armor, and examine the contents.

His hands drop to his sides and he clenches his fists, willing himself to hold her gaze once more when he feels her warm hands around his wrists. She tugs once for him to lean forward and she places her hands to his chest while she kisses the other side of his face.

"Tooru," she says, louder this time.

Through his shirt he swears he can feels crackles of electricity coming from every single one of her fingertips at a thousand volts, resuscitating him over and over again with each sweet call of his name, each gentle kiss, until his body is thrumming with an excess of affection he doesn’t know what to do with.

Against the thudding of his pulse he thinks he can make out each of her fingers and counts from one to ten. Then once more to be sure. His brown eyes lock into hers and he offers a tentative smile. A little watery, but his mind is clear. With her, he doesn’t have to be anyone or anything but himself. With her, he exists and that’s enough.

"Tooru?"

He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck.

"Thank you."

#oikawa #oikawa imagine #oikawa x y/n #oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa toru x you #oikawa toru x y/n #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa toru angst #hq x reader #hq x you #hq x y/n #hq angst #oikawa toru imagine #oikawa toru #oikawa tooru #oikawa scenarios #oikawa fic #haikyuu angst

[drowningbydegrees]

This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅

Read on AO3

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.

No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.

It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.

The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.

But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.

Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.

The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.

The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.

Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.

Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”

“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.

“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”

Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.

“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.

“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”

Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.

“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.

“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”

Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.

In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.

The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.

He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.

Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.

They do not speak of that night again.

*****

They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.

But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.

It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.

Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”

“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.

“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.

“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.

“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.

“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.

Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.

“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.

To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.

Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.

“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.

“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.

He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.

Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”

“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”

On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”

“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.

Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”

Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”

“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”

There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”

“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”

“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.

Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”

The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”

Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”

The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”

Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”

There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”

“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.

With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.

It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.

“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?

“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”

Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.

“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.

“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.

Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”

He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”

“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.

It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”

Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”

He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”

Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt whump #emotional hurt/comfort #Guest starring Geralt's egregious lack of self-worth #mentions of blood and injury #In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug #conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one #my fic

[everlarkficexchange]

the song of my heart (plays in you)

Written by: @thelettersfromnoone

Prompt 108: Everlark fall for one another over a blood transfusion. It happens not once, but twice. His blood runs through her veins, and now hers runs through his. What are the odds they would save each other’s lives? [submitted by @mandelion82]

Rated: Teen and up; mentions of: car wrecks, physical and mental trauma, amputation.

Tags: One-shot, Soulmates, Time Jump(s), Blood-Oaths.

Word count: 2342.

Notes: Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own. Thanks to @javistg and @xerxia31 for being amazing hosts for this exchange ❤️

“The blood [of the covenant] is thicker than [the] water [of the womb].”

“Mama, tell the story again?” Grey eyes peek up shyly through dark eyelashes, fingers curling the folds of her mother’s nightgown. “ ‘bout the dream-people?”

“It’s late, darlin’,” Mama murmurs with a soft smile. She presses a kiss to her daughter’s brow. “Papa will tell the long version tomorrow, hm?”

The girl’s lower lip pops out in a pout- papa is the better storyteller, but she wants to hear the story tonight. She snuggles against her mama’s belly, whispering a ‘night-night’ to the baby they say is growing in there.

“There once was a boy who was called to war, to fight for a king in a land far from home. Though he survived many times in battle, one day, an enemy struck him, and he was hurt, something terrible. At death’s door, his friends brought him to a healer’s house, who saved his life. As he recovered, he grew to love the healer’s daughter, and she grew to love him. In time, when he was recovered, his king came calling on him again. Before he left, the boy and the healer’s daughter made a blood-oath. They drew their own blood, and held their wounds against one another. They vowed that, from that moment until they met again, the song of their blood would call out for one another, no matter how far.”

Her little hand reaches over to mama’s, pressing their palms flush. “Like this?”

“Mhm,” Mama interlaces their fingers, kissing her daughter’s knuckles. “Just like this. Every night, while he was away, all they needed to do was close their eyes, and they could feel one another’s feelings, and see through one another’s eyes.”

“Till forever?” The little girl’s eyes are growing heavy, a yawn coming in spite of her best efforts. “Mama, it’s til’ forever, right?”

Mama doesn’t answer straight away. When she does, it’s soft as a butterfly’s flight; “Till forever, until they found each other again.”

The little girl’s breathing evens out, eyes slipping shut. 

(She’s always wanting a happy ending.)

She’s twelve and using the computer unsupervised the first time she looks it up on a whim. She is meant to be researching poetry, but that quickly becomes dull. 

Instead, the rabbit hole of the web sucks her in.

According to the internet page that comes up, a Blood-Oath Soulmate is defined as a myth, steeped in legend: a couple who, when faced with separation, make a blood-oath that allows them to see, hear, and feel one another across the thousands of miles. 

The origin, exactly, is unclear. It’s a myth with several cultural variants- in her own region, Twelve, and in the northern regions of Åtta, Tio, and Tretton, the war is won, and the boy returns to the healer’s daughter. By contrast, in the southwest, they say the boy earned a glorious warrior’s death, and the girl grieves but honors his memory. In almost all the other regions, the myth is drawn out, many side-adventures and evils hinder the boy’s path home, and by the time the boy finds his way back to his love, amidst a continent of misery, they both are old and grey. It’s not clear where the myth started, some say it’s a retelling of an old Sumerian tale; others, that it comes from Viking oral lore. Some, still, argue that they all are true, that the same fate spreads itself throughout time, throughout the world, in different ways. 

All modern experts, essentially, concur on the matter of the story’s implausibility. The human body replenishes its blood count within weeks, one discussion board points out.

It was just a myth to make humans feel their love could be impermeable, or withstand the tests of distance and challenges, claims another. Or, one user with a profane avatar states, the modern meaning is just guess-work and the cultural context and any kernels of truth will forever be lost.

And everyone knows there’s no such thing as a soulmate.

Kat feels her stomach clench as she quickly exits the browser, lonely in the wake of her father’s death, and her mother’s subsequent depressive episode, and still clinging to her mother’s hushed telling of a love that is palpable down to the bone.

(She can’t decide if knowing it’s ‘just a story’ hurts or helps more. The veneer of childhood is always treasured for a reason.)

She is seventeen when it happens. 

A flash of a medical room. Harsh fluorescent lights. Thick, strong hands trying to block the light out. Starched sheets, scratching skin. A pinch of a needle and stifled shout- 

She wakes covered in sweat. 

Something is wrong, niggles at the back of her mind. Her pounding heart beats out wrong, wrong, wrong. She pushes it away, presses the thought down. She manages to lull herself back to sleep, a deep, imageless thing, but the wrongness sticks with her. 

The next night is nearly identical, except the stranger’s hands are tearing off the bedsheets. A stump of a knee rests where a leg should extend. A panicking voice, a nurse, shouts for help as the struggling and screaming begins-

“Where’s my fucking leg?!”

Kat wakes with a jolt, strangled gasps as she pushes her own blankets off, hands grasping at her limbs, the phantom terror and horror bringing bile up her throat. 

What was that?

A dreamless sleep doesn’t find her again, her eyes bruising with nights of nightmares and days of exhaustion. The hospital, the scratchy sheets, the nurses and medications and injections. 

One week, then another.

She’s in Civics class when it occurs to her. 

The blood drive, at the beginning of May. She’d turned seventeen, and finally weighed enough to donate blood.

Could it be…?

She sleeps in, one Saturday morning, when they are fitting a prosthetic on her stranger; crutches and halting steps as those beefy hands grip support bars.

“Just a step further,” a voice encourages. 

Shame and frustration, and a deep, croaking voice lashes out of the throat-

“I can’t!”

You can, you can, you can, she tries to will the stranger her confidence.

The figure stills, and for a moment, she thinks they can hear her. 

“I’m done,” they say, and in spite of the disappointment on the nurse’s face, a man in a white lab coat agrees, and helps them back into a wheelchair.

Kat feels the sinking failure, the desperate yearning to help this person, this stranger. There are only nurses and doctors, in her dreams. She knows what it means to be lonely, even when there are people around; what it means when you wake up in emotional pain, but have no one to share it with.

She wants to tell her stranger it will all be all right, but the weeks pass and she can only confide her secret to herself. They wouldn’t believe her, even if she could say it in person.

Where is your family? she tries to ask.

They never seem to hear her.

(Waking becomes harder, but she can’t confide in anyone that she wakes wishing she could live in her dreams without them thinking she’s gone mad.)

They are kneading dough, seated at a wood table in a cluttered kitchen. The prosthetic is fitting to the leg, tender today but not sore, exactly. She can smell the flour and feel the silky-smooth texture between her fingers. Smoothe jazz music is playing, from a radio over on the counter. She feels a hand squeezing her stranger’s shoulder.

“Looks good, Pete.” It’s a gruff voice, but not unkind.

“Needs to rise,” her stranger- ‘Pete’!- retorts. They don’t look up, but she can feel a flush on her ‘Pete’s’ cheeks.

“We got some coursework from the school, then.”

(She doesn’t realize this is the last she will dream of her stranger.)

The dreams evaporate, after eight weeks, as abruptly as they had begun.

In the aftermath of her first dreamless night in over a month, she wakes to the dawn breaking with no images from her stranger. 

‘Pete’. 

She tries to will herself back to sleep, compel visions back from the brink. It’s the first night she thinks to try and remember the names of the doctors and nurses, or the location of the hospital. The nametags are foggy in her memories, a nurse Jackie or Jenny and a last name they had abbreviated to, ‘A.’ 

The internet doesn’t help her any more than her own mind can. ‘An amputee named ‘Pete’ who likes to knead dough and is doing high school coursework at home’ doesn’t do much in a White Pages search. 

She writes it all down, then, each snippet and sound she can recall. She keeps the journal under her mattress, knowing her mother won’t bother, and her baby sister wouldn’t dare to look. 

Like a madwoman, she rereads her own accounts, adds notes to it every morning, hoping the dreams will start again. But every morning, the dreams seem more as if they were fantasies, and her journal reads like fiction.

A year passes. 

Her dreams now are either blank, or memories of ‘Pete’.

She could blame it on her family friend, and his stupid insistance that she attend Prom; or maybe the girlfriends she eats lunch with, who guilt her by saying that everyone needs a life outside of school, and after-school jobs.

Kat had only driven into town because she needed a damn dress. Two weeks later, and she would have been exhausted from Prom as she crossed the school stage, collecting her high school diploma.

Nothing pans out the way she imagines it will, though.

She’s alone in the car when a truck in the oncoming lane overturns at a curve in the road.

Pain bursts on her head. Flames against her skin. Crushed metal, and broken glass. In the distant fog of wailing sirens, she can hear first responders attempting to call out to her. 

The only thing she remembers seeing clearly, between the accident and the hospital, is smoke rising into a blue, cloudless sky, through a shattered windshield.

“You lost a lot of blood, Kat,” the doctor says, tone not unsympathetic. “We had to do a transfusion.”

“Oh.”

She blinks, a haze of morphling in her preventing her from fully comprehending. Some broken bones. A neck brace. Burns on her face and arms, but not as bad as they first had thought- she won’t need skin grafts.

All small mercies.

Her sister and mama are there, balloons and flowers and hugs a-plenty. Get-well-soon cards from several classmates and family friends.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” her mama murmurs, as the doctor leaves.

“Okay.”

Mama runs her fingers through Kat’s knotted hair, while her sister clings and tells her how much she loves her.

She’s not numb, not beneath the morphling. But she’s so damn tired and her skin itches under the bandages. 

(She can’t comfort her family while they try their hand at comforting her.)

She is washing her hands in the hospital room sink, when she feels a jolt, a compulsion; a chill down her spine and gooseflesh down her arms. She looks in the mirror, and feels in awe, feels a foreign elation. A burst of affection, a warmth. 

She can’t reckon with it, can’t justify it. 

It’s just… her own face. Sloppily braided dark hair. Healing stitches on her cheek, and forehead. Silver eyes, surrounded by a bruise, set in a narrow face. She gulps, leaning in closer, and trying to grasp the sensation. Out-of-body, might be the right term- dissociative, she’d read about once, for Health and Wellness. 

There’s a knock on her door, the nurse doing a check, and as Kat turns, the warmth dissipates.

The nurse comes in not long after, checks her vitals and asks a series of questions.

“My name is Katniss Everdeen.”

That warmth in her chest is back, the hair at the base of her neck stands straight.

She scrubs her hands over her face, focusing on the simple questions the nurse is asking.

“I’m eighteen years old. I’m graduating from PPH12 in Sommen in one week. I’m at Merchant Memorial Hospital.”

In the bathroom that night, she stares at her own reflection, and wonders if maybe that feeling of someone looking over her shoulder- more like looking through her eyes- if maybe….

She fogs up the mirror, and writes her room number. She stares at it, for a time, before scoffing at own ridiculousness, and wiping it away with her towel.

She only has one day left before being discharged, though she’ll miss graduation and the parties that would entail. She can’t say she is particularly disappointed; she’s never been a party person.

She’s awake when the door to her shared hospital room opens. She pays it little mind. The curtain around her bed is pulled taught, her roommate jabbering away on their phone about the food service as if this were fine dining, rather than a hospital. Kat is reading a get well card, this one signed by the whole senior class and class advisors.

There’s a thrumming in her veins, but that might be them weaning her off of the morphling.

Curtain rings scrape against metal, and she barely glances up, the nurse rounds due any minute now. Normally, though, the bubbly nurse who does the day-shift is already bustling with an overwhelming enthusiasm that makes Kat question how exhausted the nurse is at the end of the day.

Maybe it’s a different nurse or a doctor or mama, or- 

The blue eyes that are boring into hers are ones she has only seen in her dreams; she can finally see blonde curls framing them, familiar thick, strong hands brushing through the curls. 

“Pete?” she croaks, certain she’s finally lost her damn mind.

His eyes widen at the sound of his name, lips parting. 

“I found you.” 

A tone of surprise, as if he’d driven all this way, but in expectation of disappointment.

“Peeta,” he introduces himself, edging closer. His hand carefully takes hold of her own. “And… I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Katniss.”

(Her name has never been spoken as sweetly, and her heart has never felt so full.)

#thelettersfromnoone #mandelion82 #prompt 108 #Springtime Edition 2021 #submission

[kpoptrashlord-007]

Hide && Seek;; YHW

Word Count;; 3.5k

Genre;; HORROR

Pairing;; Hwanwoong x Reader

Summary;;

Inside this grand, lavish hotel and its sparkling veneer of respectability, you find yourself playing the role of the feline in a little game of cat and mouse. Your opponent? Hwanwoong, the man with the angelic smile and carefree eyes. The further you chase him, however, the harder it is to settle your nerves. The line between predator and prey is blurring and you can't help but wonder who exactly is pursuing who.

Warnings;;

TW// Blood, Character Death (random side character), Supernatural and Dark Themes!! Graphic depictions of violence! I’m serious here! It’s a bit intense. NOT for the light of heart (or stomach). Oh, and explicit language.

Please be mindful of these warnings as this features EXPLICIT violence.

Notes;;

Day Nine of the Halloween 2k20 Prompts! ~Monster~

My Masterlist

   You've had too much to drink.

   With a cloudy mind, you stumble after your companion. Your feet drag as you lag behind him. You pass many doors but he doesn't stop. Further down the hall and deeper into the building you travel, long past the area of the hotel reserved for guests.

   His silky hair bounces every time he turns to you. After what feels like an eternity staring at the back of his head, you appreciate the fleeting glimpses of gleaming eyes and that cheeky smile he flashes your way. He's keeping an eye on you, making sure you don't wander off in your drunken haze. That much is obvious but you don't mind, not really. In return you are dutiful in your pursuit of him.

   You can't recall where he is taking you. With half a mind to ask, your mouth falls open only to snap shut - he's looking back at you now with such an intensity that all you can do is stare in return. There's something swirling deep within his eyes but you can't pinpoint it; you can't put your finger on what emotion is prevalent in his gaze as it bears into your soul.

   Seconds crawl by.

   One foot in front of the other, you're on autopilot as you follow him without a thought of your own, your mind zeroing in on the burning intensity of his stare. He pulls you deeper into his hypnotic, hungry eyes with every step all the while leading you deeper into the bowels of the hotel. For some reason you trust him and you don't question the dubious situation despite this being the first night you've met.

   There's a familiarity about him that lures you.

   You come across a red sign and some yellow tape. He steps over it so you do too, tripping over your own feet to catch back up to him as his pace quickens. He disappears around a corner and you chase him. You're always hot on his trail and yet you remain so far behind.

   Your hand slides down the wall as you round the corner. Chips of paint slough off and embed within the soft flesh of your palm. With a hiss of pain, you look down. Tiny beads of blood well around the points of impact, each marked by stiff, sharp shards of paint.

   If you pull them out now, sure, it'll sting, but leaving them in will only cause misery later alongside a possible infection.

   With your mind set, you get to work. It's a struggle to remove the tiny pieces but you try nonetheless. They're small and fragile, breaking before you have a chance to remove the whole fragment but you don't give up. Piece after piece, you pick and scrape into the tender, sensitive skin.

   Blood flows more freely now. It's hard to see the paint when there's so much blood leaking out of the growing gashes but you're stubborn. You don't leave jobs half-done and you can feel more of the tiny shards just beneath the skin, taunting you. They slip deeper the further your nails chase them.

   As if they're makeshift pliers, your middle finger and thumb stretch open the skin while your pointer finger digs deep, blood and flesh pulsing from the assault.

   "Having fun?"

   You stop dead in your tracks.

   Rubbing your eyes in an attempt to clear away the alcohol-induced haze, you frown. Hwanwoong is nowhere to be seen. You squint as you scour, searching up and down from the cracked floor to the peeling ceiling, but find no clues as to his whereabouts.

   Brushing it off, you look back down to your palm and the involuntary shiver that rocks your whole body leaves you trembling.

   It's sobering.

   The complete lack of blood, paint splinters, and cuts is sobering.

   "Funny, isn't it?"

   "What the fuck?"

   It's a whisper meant to be consumed by the thundering silence and yet you know he heard it. He's lingering. Nowhere to be seen but everywhere at once, Hwanwoong is both near and far. You can't wrap your head around it.

   Then there's the shift in the hall that is plain inexplicable. Up is down and down is... gone. You haven't any proof, just a gut feeling, but it's enough and you worry that if you do check, there will be nothing at all. Will you fall, then, like a cartoon character who has just realised they're running on air? Will you plummet right through the floor, tumbling out of reality in your pursuit of Hwanwoong?

   Where did he go?

   Dropping your hand out of view, you consider it lost to you now. Anything below the waist feels numb, as if it has merged with the darkness you suspect 'down' has become. Eye level seems safe enough so you gaze from side to side.

   It isn't how you remember it to be.

   The wall is pristine. There are no cracks. The paint isn't sloughing off. Nary a blemish marks the white, clean walls on either side of you. It's dangerous to let your eyes wander and yet you have no real control over yourself. They drift up and down, still cautious of the ceiling and floor but eager to solve this mystery all the same.

   Turning your head, you gaze back at the corner where you had injured yourself. At least you thought you had. There is no bend or corner there, just a straight pathway leading you to…

   You gulp, taking a step backward.

   At the end of the hallway there's a room you wish to avoid.

   At the end of the hallway there's a door that beckons to you.

   It whispers the promise of death.

   Snapping around once more, you run. You run and you run and you run until your lungs cannot bear it any longer and your heart threatens to burst out of your chest. No matter how far you go, there's no exit.

   Gulping down air while resting against the wall, your nails dig into the plaster in an attempt to keep your body from collapsing down into the void. It comes up to your knees and the longer you stay still, the harder it is to move. Your head wobbles and shakes with every breath before your eyes flutter close.

   Just a quick breather you tell yourself, knowing full well that if you don't snap out of this reverie, you'll fall headfirst into the madness consuming you.

   "Should we play?"

   The gasp bubbling free from deep within dissipates beneath the constriction of your throat. Nails impale themselves into the tender flesh of your neck. The higher you're lifted, the stronger his grasp becomes. Blood pools in your feet. Your body shakes. Your mind screams. Your eyes open.

   But there's nothing.

   Checking your neck for blood, you find it isn't even sore to the touch. Before you is that endless hallway but not a living presence is nearby. Hwanwoong is nowhere to be seen, though this fact doesn't surprise you any longer.

   When your senses return to you, you're gazing at the floor. The same floor you feared mere moments ago. The carpet is ugly but otherwise harmless. There's no hell awaiting you and there's no darkness devouring you inch by inch. Releasing a shaky exhale, you risk turning back to face it.

   Your nightmare.

   The door.

   Carved out within the wall at the end of the hall, it waits for you. Despite how far you've tried to run away from it, it remains just where it has always been. From beneath the threshold you see the edge of the refracted light, its pattern dancing and shimmering. It's a taunt handmade for you.

   You take a step forward. Unlike your futile attempt to escape in the other direction, the gap shortens. You take another step. There's several indents in the wall lining the way. They're the perfect size for a door and yet when you run your hand along the edges, there's no air nor light seeping through. A solid wall greets your shoulder when you try to force a new entryway.

   While inching closer to the final door and its kaleidoscope of sparkling light, you pound against the hall and all its false doors. Nothing budges and nothing gives. It isn't until you turn to cross the hall, intent on scouring the other side for a hole or error in the design, that you notice the infinite shards of reflective light and how they flood the hallway. Splashes of bright light dance across your skin. Eerie silence follows.

   The door is ajar.

   Reaching out, the tip of your fingers graze against the metallic overcoat. It's old and rough to the touch. You want to pull back, to turn around and escape this personalised hell, but the room is summoning you. It's a call to judgement and you daren't ignore it. You must atone.

   The door creaks once your palm meets it. Though it looks heavy, it flies wide open with a single push. A tidal wave of light bursts through. Your heartbeat escalates.

   It's impossible.

   What you see is impossible and yet your past is here in vivid detail. From the view of the snow-capped mountains in the distance and the much closer fog over the outdoor jacuzzi to the soft jams of his radio and the desperate splashing of water to the stinging chlorine that, even now, burns your nose. It's all the same - right down to that fucking shimmering pool and the woman in it.

   "Should we play some more?" Hwanwoong purrs.

   His body presses against your own and you can feel the way it shakes with every syllable, as if he is brimming with excitement. For once, you know he's truly here with you. Whether 'here' is within the halls of the hotel or back inside that rich psycho's mansion isn't clear to you, however.

   Perhaps you hadn't been the one to walk away after all.

   "Have you been bad? Should I punish you?"

   There's no room between your bodies but that doesn't stop you from trying to push past him, to squirm around him, to force him out of the room with the sparkling, refractive light and the secret it holds.

   "Nah-uh, not so fast cutie." He smiles at you and your feeble attempt to move him. "Let's play a game."

   "No!"

   "Huh?"

   "I don't want to! I need to get out of here, you don't underst-"

   "But you don't even know what the game is yet," he pouts, gripping a fistful of your hair and stopping you dead in your tracks. With how tight his hold is, there's no doubt that the shearing burn exploding outward from the roots is your hair ripping from your skull. You can't silence the scream that escapes your quivering lips.

   There's a voice in the back of mind that tells you to endure, to experience firsthand what you put her through.

   Whether from blood or sweat, you feel a sticky dampness forming along your hairline. He loosens his grip once the tears flow down your face like a broken faucet. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he shakes his head and murmurs something. You can't make out the words over the pounding of blood within your ears. It takes a few minutes before you're able to think straight and he waits for you the whole time, content to just watch.

   "What-" you hiss through the dulling pain, "-game?"

   "You're so resilient. I like that about you, sweet cheeks. Let's play… hide and seek. Do you know how to play?" He waits for a response and the jerk of your head suffices. Satisfied that you're paying attention, he grins. There's something ethereal about him and the way his skin glows and his eyes shine. It's no wonder you had followed him so willingly. He just seems so safe. Angelic, even. "Then go hide, silly."

   With a push, you find yourself stumbling into the room with its giant pool and hypnotising effects. Unable to remain upright, you slip. The poolside puddles turn red when your cheek kisses the ground and blood spills forth from the piece of your tongue you damn near bite off.

   There's a sharp stinging pain in your thigh. Deep within your pant pocket is a solid, round secret. It digs into your leg, bruising the skin down to the bone, and you wince as you stand. From pure reflex you grasp it and hold it in place, scared to lose it.

   "I didn't think it would be us," the woman cries, sliding down the white walls and crumpling to the floor.

   "Better us than the others," you mumble out of instinct, following along with the memory.

   "I don't want to hurt you!" She's full on bawling now, tears and snot flowing down her face. You stand and wipe away the blood seeping from your split lip and torn tongue before spitting the excess into the pool. The water looks beautiful. It's gleaming and bright, unlike the last twenty-one hours.

   "Better you than the others."

   Dragging your injured foot, you approach her. She ignores your towering presence and focuses on staring into one of the little black cameras that have been watching the event unfold. You're running out of gas but she isn't faring much better.

   You can finish this.

   "Just let us go! Please, I don't want to die," she sobs, pleading with the red, blinking light on the camera. "We don't even care about the money."

   Whether it's because of the trust born from a promise made hours prior, back when the odds were tilted in a much more dire direction, or because she thinks she can bargain for her life, she continues to ignore you.

   What a mistake.

   There's killing intent in your aura. It consumes you. Even you can tell and you're quite new to this murder business. And if you can tell, she can tell. After all, before the event your lives were quite similar. Parallel, even. If you could adjust this fast, so could she.

   And yet she's crying on the floor and ignoring you, you with eyes devoid of empathy.

   You with a pool ball in your grasp.

   You with blood on your hands.

   You within striking distance.

   "We just want to live!"

   "Better me than you."

   Her desperate mewling ceases. Instead, her attention snaps to you. She can no longer ignore the threat you possess, not when you've released your weapon of choice from the soft material of your pants. Fear spreads across her dainty features like wildfire. Trying to escape the animosity spiraling over your form with your every step, she forces herself into a corner.

   "But we agreed not t-"

   Physics works in your favour. Velocity, force, and all that, but the semantics don't matter - all that matters is that the impact leaves a splatter and her body is limp. You discard the pool ball and it rolls away, leaving a trail of fresh blood in its wake. Red seeps deep into the grout between polished tiles.

   Relief strikes seconds after the realisation of your success dawns upon you.

   It is soon, however, drowned by the overwhelming sense of guilt.

   You may have won but at what cost?

   Her blood on your face stains you much deeper than the man's had. His attack had come as a surprise. It had been a fight for survival after a helping hand turned feral. You had no choice, not if you wanted to live, and by God you wanted to live. Not just to exist, but to explore and to enjoy and to possess.

   Avarice paints your skin in the darkest shade of red.

   Shooting two birds with one stone, you drag her to the poolside. Blood gushes from her forehead. It fills the room with an unmistakable and distasteful scent. Resisting the urge to recoil, you drop to your knees. Water soaks through your pants until dark wet spots cover your whole lower half. It's an uncomfortable sensation but you push it aside, instead focusing on the slight bobbing of her chest.

   She's the last of them.

   She's the final obstacle in your pursuit of wealth.

   And she's still fucking breathing.

   It takes a few seconds for her consciousness to return after you submerge her head beneath the surface. Her resistance starts immediately thereafter. She contorts and she struggles, pulling away from the iron-tight grip scarring her skull only to sink further into the depths of the pool. Your nails deep into flesh as you seek a more steady hold but you soon lose your footing to the slippery, polished tiles and topple onto her back.

   There's a loud crack and you know between your weight and the position she's found herself in with half of her body in the water and the other half flailing behind her that it is too much pressure for her fragile bones. Her ribs crack one by one, fracturing like the snap of a twig. She screams but the water consumes the sounds, rising bubbles the only evidence.

   From a deep shade of red to a soft pink, the water dilutes outward from the nonstop stream of blood gushing from her growing wounds.

   "I'm sorry, but I've come too far to care about you."

   The words are a reassurance to yourself. They serve as a reminder: this isn't who you are. You're a victim of circumstance. Someone had to do it so why not you? You've come too far to chicken out now. You've come too far to pity the ones that had to fall in order for you to rise.

   Your soul is malleable beneath the corruption of sin.

   Once her struggling ceases, you hold her down for a bit longer. When enough time passes that even an Olympic swimmer's lung capacity would fail them, you hold her down for a bit longer. Even though the blood no longer rushes forth and she's cold to the touch, you hold her down for a bit longer.

   It isn't until the room floods with light that you release her. Strands of her hair twist around your fingers as her body sinks into the depths. The further she descends, the deeper the darkness that consumes her becomes. You cannot see the bottom and soon she is lost to you, claimed by the cold void.

   A hand rests on your shoulder and you jump.

   This is when they escort you off the grounds, give you the money, and remind you of the contract.

   This is when the nightmare is supposed to end.

   For the first time, your memory alters. No blanket is wrapped around you nor is anyone calling your name, ushering you out of the battlegrounds. Instead the hand on your shoulder lifts to cradle your chin, tilting your head back to face your companion. A playful smile greets your widening gaze.

   "I found you," Hwanwoong coos, petting your cheek. "I knew from the moment I first laid eyes on you that guilt was eating you alive but this is always better than I could ever imagine."

   "Please let me go," you stammer, fear settling in the gut of your stomach.

   "Let you go? Do you not want me to clear you of this burden?"

   "No, please, I only did what I had to!"

   "Do you not want me to free you of this sin?"

   "I did nothing wrong! Surviving isn't a crime!"

   "Unfortunately for you, your opinion doesn't mean anything to me. 'I've come too far to care about you'," he mimics with a smirk. "I found you, just as I always do. And now…

   "The dawn of judgement is upon you."

   His palm meets your chest in a harsh push and you tumble. Even though your foot catches on the edge of the pool, it's much too slippery, too wet from your prior confrontation and you find yourself falling backward.

   '-just as I always do.'

   With widening eyes, you watch the ceiling blur above you. It's not what you expect of a pool room. In fact, you know it's not. Rather it's the white speckled panels of the hotel you had been stumbling around at three in the morning in a drunken haze as the years of guilt culminate in another reckless search for trouble, another desperate attempt to feel something.

   Is it still that same morning?

   Has time passed in a blink or has it frozen altogether?

   'I found you-'

   Just as he always does, he found you hiding within that same memory, stuck inside that single slice of hell. Just as he always does, he uses your weakness against you. He plays with you for a time until he gets bored of it all and sets you loose within the hotel.

   And then he plays with you anew.

   In this moment of falling, he allows you to remember. It's the final squeeze of pleasure he can extract from this iteration and he squeezes it dry. He watches fear born of knowledge contort your features and he indulges in it for as long as he can.

   Hwanwoong's soft, angelic face etches into your mind, replacing the gift of truth with a lie of familiarity and trust, and soon a fog covers your mind. Despite your unending descent, you close your eyes and embrace the calm washing over you in waves. Of your own volition, you forget.

   After all, the knowledge of one's eternal damnation is enough to destroy even the strongest mind.

#hwanwoong x reader #oneus x reader #kpop x reader #yeo hwanwoong #oneus #hwanwoong #kpop #tw blood #yandere kpop #yandere hwanwoong #yandere oneus #yandere #horror #kpop horror #supernatural kpop #demon oneus #kpop demon au #demon hwanwoong #halloween prompts 2020 #kpop halloween #kpoptrashlord-007

[commander-diomika]

(Click to Read From the Beginning) Part 6 - Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde Word Count: 4700 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Opposites Attract, Trans Male Character, Forced Outing, Pining, Additional Warnings In Author's Note

Summary: New intel from Curie brings new rules about the quarantine process. This puts Zolf and Wilde in an awkward position. A/N - The forced outing depicted in this chapter isn’t through any malicious intent, but rather circumstances outside character control. There are no transphobic sentiments portrayed in this series, internalised or direct, but some of Wilde’s caution around disclosing indicates that this is a world where transphobia exists. These things could make for an uncomfortable experience for some readers.

The few times that Zolf went out on missions alone, usually on fruitless attempts to scout the Shoin Institute, it had been Barnes that welcomed him back and locked him in. Zolf didn’t mind isolation stretches, but he didn’t love that Wilde kept himself absent for the entire duration. He understood why, but there was something unsettling about coming home, and yet having to wait for what he felt like was the proper homecoming of being reunited with Wilde. But he coped with it just fine.

When the invitation from Curie came for a meeting, and specified that only one person was welcome, Zolf fought hard for it to be him.

“You’ve never even met Curie.” Wilde pointed out, voice level despite the heat in Zolf’s tone. “It makes far more sense for me to go, and someone needs to stay here.”

“At least take Barnes with you,” Zolf countered, knowing he was being ridiculous but unable to help it. He’d known that this time was coming but that didn’t make it come any easier. “He don’t have to come with you to meet her, but he can keep you safe.”

Wilde’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Zolf crossed his arms, stymied. It wasn’t that he was overprotective. But he couldn’t squash the memory of Wilde’s face, slippery with blood beneath frantic fingers, or the haunted look in Wilde’s eyes when he emerged from isolation.

“I won’t even be gone long, Zolf. Curie is going to meet me in Hiroshima.”

Zolf opened his mouth to argue further, and was stopped by Wilde closing his eyes, looking genuinely tired for a moment. Normally Wilde relished a bit of verbal sparring and the two of them fought as easily as they breathed. But something about the way he sighed gave Zolf pause.

When Wilde next spoke, his voice was soft, a rare pleading in his tone. “I know, Zolf. I know you don’t like it. I don’t like it, but I have been looking at these same four walls for months. I am sick of not being a productive member of this team.”

“WHAT!” Zolf exploded. “You are the most productive member! Me n’ Barnes n’ Carter would be nothin’ without-”

“You know what I mean!” Wilde said, frustrated. Zolf hardly ever saw him like this. Anger was an emotion that Wilde kept locked away, just like his fear. “I’m sick of people treating me like I’m some sort of china doll, just because I can’t cast anymore!”

Zolf spluttered. “You’re not- we don’- nobody said-”

Wilde raised his hand. “I appreciate your concern, Zolf, I really do. But I’m going on this mission. And I am asking you-” Wilde drew a deep breath in through his nose “-to trust me.”

Well. That had been played like a trump card. Zolf felt something in him release, the angry churn of his stomach dissipating. If there was any truth left in the world at this point, it was that Zolf trusted Wilde.

He nodded.

---

As was protocol, on the evening he returned, Zolf, Barnes and Carter made themselves scarce until Wilde was safely in the anti-magic chamber, not detouring to any other rooms of the inn. They had arrangements for how to handle if a returning party member didn’t head straight for what they’d all started calling “the box,” but thankfully it was yet to come up. Zolf headed in after, with the keys to the cell, fresh clothes, and a bowl of prawn gyoza in hand.

“How’s Hiroshima?” Zolf asked, locking up and passing through the food.

Wilde didn’t respond, just levelled Zolf with a flat glare.

Zolf shrugged. “You can talk to me, an’ if at the end of the week you’re compromised, I’ll just assume that anythin’ you said was false intel, yeah? Until then,” Zolf pulled up the chair that sat outside and cell and settled it. “There’s no harm in it going this way,” he swept his hand from Wilde’s direction toward himself. “I just won’t tell you anything you don’t already know.” He, quite simply, was not going to take no for an answer. He wasn’t leaving Wilde alone with his thoughts for a week.

Wilde managed to look disapproving for a moment more, then a little smirk slipped through the veneer. “I find it difficult to believe you know anything I don’t, Smith.”

“Oh, sod off.”

“I can’t help it if I just happen to be the brains of the operation.” Wilde gave a small, defeated chuckle, and sat on the cot. He started undoing the anti-magic cuffs and massaging his ankles. Sometimes when there was no one using the box, Wilde would come sleep down here just for a chance to take them off for a little while.

“Hiroshima is well enough, but Curie says Cairo is a mess. The sandstorms have been giving it absolute hell. Anyone who doesn’t still need to be there isn’t, though it’s still seeing a lot of refugee traffic.” He picked up the food Zolf had passed through.

“From Europe?”

Wilde nodded between popping gyoza into his mouth. “These are very good, you know.”

Zolf waved a hand. “Hiromi’s been giving me lessons. She’s much nicer about it than her husband.”

Wilde updated Zolf on Curie’s operation. When he mentioned that she had been gifted the old Tahan estate, Zolf’s gut squeezed. It had been… almost over a year since he’d seen Hamid, and months since they’d last heard from him and the others. It was almost impossible to think that they were still alive, but without bodies or news, there was no way forward. Both men were left lingering in ambivalence, hope laid thick and heavy over a grief that couldn’t surface.

Wilde finished his food and frowned. He spoke more hesitantly than before. “There is one more thing I should tell you. We need to update some of the protocols.”

“Yeh? Howso?”

“The blue vein rumours? About the infected? Confirmed. More importantly, Curie says in every instance of a double agent, the blue veins have appeared on the body first, not the face or hands.” Wilde was overexplaining in a way that was unlike him. “In addition to the quarantine, being on the lookout for behavioural changes, Curie also recommended we do,” Wilde hesitated, again in a most un-Wilde-like fashion, “…visual inspections of those in quarantine. Thorough ones.” He fluttered nervous hands up and down his torso to illustrate.

As Zolf slowly turned over the implications, Wilde turned to rummage through his bag and withdraw papers. He gestured for Zolf to come take them through the slot.

“Reports, signed and sealed, detailing it all.”

Zolf took them, still absorbing what Wilde had said. He didn’t look through the bars. If he had, he would have seen something cautious and watchful in Wilde’s eyes.

The silence stretched on too long between them.

“Anyway, if you don’t mind, I am going to get some sleep. The boat from here to the mainland isn’t exactly a luxury cruiser, and I am exhausted.” Wilde flumped down onto the cot to punctuate the point.

“I… yeh. I’ll go have a look through these reports.” As Zolf walked away from the box, he paused in the door. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. I’m glad you’re safe, he didn’t add.

“Of course you are,” Wilde replied without missing a beat. “This place must be dreadfully dull without me to liven it up for you.”

Zolf rolled his eyes and headed upstairs.

Having read through Curie’s reports, the next day Zolf went back to Wilde’s cell with his heart in his mouth.

Naked inspections. It’s just one thing after another in this brave new fucking world, isn’t it, he thought, agitated.

The whole situation was ridiculous. What was he so worried about? After everything they’d been through there was a certain trust, an ease between them now. What was a bit of nudity in the face of all that?

He was only feeling nervy about it because he was sure that Wilde was going to be a dick about it, in his usual style. Getting under Zolf’s skin hadn’t stopped being a hobby of Wilde’s, and this whole situation set the stage for his insufferable needling.

Wilde stood quickly as Zolf entered. He’d changed out of the clothes he’d travelled to Hiroshima in, and was now wearing long dark pants and his favourite yukata, the one with green and pink floral pattern.

“I read through all the reports,” Zolf began.

“We might as well get this over with,” Wilde said at the same time, and then laughed a little manically.

Zolf took his seat, waited for Wilde to quiet, then continued. “Curie also recommended we start askin’ people to tell us stories of things that only the other would know. Code words aren’t enough because it’s more about how you do the retellin’ than it is about the information.” Wilde’s face relaxed at the notion of delaying what came next.

“I’ll get you to tell me about… tell me how you remember our first meetin’, then.” Zolf said. Since all the other people who were there are either dead or presumed dead, he didn’t want to add.

Wilde launched into an explanation of flaming notepads, blood noses, slipping into his storyteller shoes with relief. It was nice to listen to him perform, even if thinking about Hamid and Sasha was depressing.

“And,” Wilde wound up, “I just happened to linger by the door and overhear you mention something about my bum, of all things. Now, if you’ll do me the favour of telling what that was, and we can all move forward assured of each other’s memory, though probably not their integrity.”

Oh, curses. He hadn’t thought Wilde had still been around for those comments. He crossed his arms and frowned loudly.

“Come now Zolf, you’ve already said it, you can’t take it back now.” Exactly as Zolf had suspected, Wilde seemed to be delighting in causing Zolf discomfort once again, whilst he slipped back into his old, familiar smarm. Wilde wrapped his hands around the bars of the cell and bounced slightly on his toes.

“I said,” Zolf pinched the bridge of his nose. “I said it was very nice.” And he stood by it, but Wilde didn’t need to know that.

Wilde laughed, free and throaty, running his hand through his hair in a way that Zolf knew, if he had access to his magic, would be accompanied by a bawdy shimmer of sparkles. For a moment, things felt bright.

The energy snapped back. Wilde wasn’t performing for a party, he wasn’t needling Zolf for a laugh, he was locked up in a cell waiting to find out if he had an infection that would turn him into something unrecognizable and dangerous… Wilde dropped his hands from the adamantine, and the two of them fell silent.

“I can go get Barnes, if you’d prefer,” Zolf said with a useless gesture. Wilde was already shaking his head.

“What’s a bit of nudity between… friends.” Wilde asked, with a quizzical tilt of his head. His eyes were asking does friends really cover it anymore? Zolf didn’t have an answer.

Zolf didn’t know how to get this whole awkward scenario started, so he just waited, his mouth dry. There was something so grim in Wilde’s face, and Zolf didn’t understand. His obvious discomfort with the notion of watching Wilde undress should’ve delighted the man. It should have been ammunition.

As Wilde started on the ties of his yukata, for the briefest of moments, Zolf’s discomfort was replaced by a blistering anger at the absurdity of it all. All those moments he had wanted to be closer to Wilde, to touch his bare skin or to hold him… but he hadn’t asked for this. Between the two of them hung a nascent possibility. A possibility that Zolf was only just starting to acknowledge, and that deserved a chance to blossom.

That instead it should be forced to happen like this, through cell bars, was perversely unfair. To him. To Wilde. To the pair of them and all the ways that this could have been different.

Wilde paused, as if seeing the flash of anger in Zolf’s eyes. He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “Thinking about… hmph. The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” With that non sequitur, he disrobed, turning his body to drape the cloth over the cot.

As he turned back, Zolf was struck by a sudden realisation; he’d never seen Wilde with his shirt off. Never swum together, never seen him coming back from bathing with a towel around his waist. Even in the heat, Wilde always wore his shirt buttoned, his yukata firmly tied. Zolf swore he could see Wilde’s chest in his mind’s eye. It just made sense. Wilde had certainly seen Zolf’s chest; they’d been living in each other’s pockets for almost a year now and Zolf didn’t think much of it.

But no, because if he’d seen Wilde without the shirt, he would know that Wilde had a smattering of dark chest hair. And more scars on his torso than seemed right. The wounds from Douglas had torn two messy gashes near the ribs, and those scars were present as expected. But there were two more - slightly crescent shaped, uniform and well-healed - swooping across his chest just beneath flat nipples.

Surgical scars.

The air was knocked out of Zolf’s lungs. His body had grasped answers before his mind did. His thoughts felt sluggish, crawling, gasping to catch up, and when they did it was with the lurching realisation of just how unfair it was that they had been brought here, to this cell, to this grotesque scenario, against their will.

Wilde undid the drawstring of his pants and stepped out of them. Dark hair ran in a soft line from his navel down, fanning out to the triangle that dipped between his legs. His face was carefully blank, as he lifted his hands, palms up, in a sardonic “ta-dah” gesture.

Zolf was frozen inside his mind, as Wilde turned slowly on the spot.

He did have a fantastic arse, the perfect balance of muscular and plush, and once again Zolf was furious that any hint of eros in this had been utterly perverted.

Wilde turned back to face Zolf and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Zolf nodded again, his mouth dry. Wilde dressed, not rushed but efficient.

They sat in silence for a time.

“You never told me,” was all Zolf could think of to say.

“Fantastically witty and incisive commentary from one Zolf Smith, yet again,” Wilde said, voice like acrid smoke. Nothing made Wilde bite like losing the upper hand.

“I’m- I’m sorry. I jus’, I’ll go-” Zolf tried to walk and turn at the same time and knocked into the stool, clanging it down to the floor. He righted it with hands that shook and headed for the stairs.

“Zolf!” Wilde called after him. “You don’t have to leave.”

Well. That was as close to begging as Wilde ever got.

Zolf returned to his stool, and re-joined the silence. Wilde sat on the cot, watching the close wall of the cell with a face that Zolf recognised; it was one of Wilde’s favourite expressions, deliberately mild, open, waiting. It gave away nothing and invited everything. For Wilde, it was safety.

Other people, people who didn’t know Wilde as well, might take that as an invitation to speak. Zolf wasn’t other people. He thought about all the times he’d stumbled through something awkward, with good intentions but clumsy words. He had no idea how to proceed, other than it was probably wise to wait, and let Wilde find words first.

“Don’t feel bad about me not telling you.” Wilde said eventually. “It usually doesn’t come up, unless I’m sleeping with someone. Even then you’d be impressed at what can be achieved with creative use of props, dim lighting and a bit of magic.” He trailed his hand wistfully through the air, an impotent somatic component.

Zolf continued to wait, to leave the man space. Zolf wasn’t the one who’d been stripped, forced into a deeply personal disclosure without plan or intent.

“It’s not that I’m ashamed, you see. It's more… it feels like handing over a weapon, and I try to avoid that if I can. And well, I’m usually not in someone’s acquaintance long enough to feel bad about keeping it a secret.” There was an apology tucked between the words, and Zolf nodded even though Wilde wasn’t watching

He paused to run his thumb over the facial scarring, once, twice. “Bosie knew.”

Wilde let the silence stretch on long enough that Zolf felt like he had to speak or he would never stop thinking about skidding through Wilde’s blood on a cold stone floor. “You… you used to use your magic for it, righ’?”

Wilde barked out a harsh laugh. “Oh yes, for practically all of it! It was the reason I got so good at glamours! Back in Cairo I… I suspected that an anti-magic chamber or cuffs might halt the hexing, but I couldn’t, you see? I’d been doing it for so long. Everyone knew me as a man.” He shrugged, saying obviously with his shoulders. “I couldn’t go back.”

Zolf examined Wilde’s face. He was still carefully keeping his gaze on the cell wall. He still had that mild expression on his face, as though they discussed what to have for lunch, not one of the lowest points of his life. But he didn’t seem upset, so Zolf pressed on. “What happened?”

“Oh I…” he huffed a small laugh. “I got lucky. Turns out Grizzop already knew. I don’t think I reacted quite right when he punched me in the crotch.” Now something like genuine fondness crept into Wilde’s voice. “He suspected what might happen if I had to stop casting; he helped smooth things over. I was in no position to be fending for myself at that juncture, I had let the curse go on too long.” Wilde looked at his hands. “I will always be grateful to him.”

Wilde sounded like a man who knew, without a doubt, that the object of his gratitude was dead.

“Once it became clear the cuffs were going to become a permanent accessory, he set things up with the Cult of Aphrodite for me to have surgery and for them to supply the right potions. They have all the gear and know-how, of course. Not everyone in my position is a caster.”

Something else clicked in place for Zolf as he pondered the technicalities of non-magical surgery.

“Wait a minute. You were still recovering from that when we joined back up, weren’t you?”

Wilde’s brow crinkled as he considered timelines. “That’s right. Scarring needs to heal with almost no magical intervention, otherwise it’s back to square one. So it was… quite painful, to be quite honest. And compared to magical healing, the process drags on and on.”

Wilde smoothed a hand over his robe-clad chest. “I like it better this way now. No more binding my chest just in case, though I try to be careful about who sees the scars.” His voice was light, that faux-levelness starting to fade and he just, talked. Wilde was relieved, Zolf realised with a start. He wanted to tell Zolf about these things.

“It’s nice to just … be myself. Even at the end of day when I’m tired and can’t cast anymore.” And he finally looked at Zolf and smiled. Not a smirk or grin, just a completely open smile that welcomed Zolf into his joy instead of belittling or declaring victory with it. Even with the scar, sitting in a dim cell, he looked radiant.

As Zolf went to smile back, he felt his face wobble. This - Wilde smiling, confiding, being easy and honest with him - it was a better outcome than he could have hoped for. He felt the sudden bloom of Wilde’s smile in his chest, the warmth of the man’s trust.

But this was merely day one of seven, and it was still terrifyingly possible that the man who sat across from him was not Wilde at all. So Zolf’s smile twisted as it appeared on his face, and he didn’t reply, allowing them to lapse back into silence.

Day 2

“Wouldn’ it be- well not easier but less, I dunno- to just wait and do one inspection on the last day?” Zolf asked. He’d brought down breakfast and the paper, and they’d sat quietly as they ate; Wilde had finished eating and was starting on the motions of undressing.

“Zolf. My dear.” Wilde cocked his head in that patronising way that he did when he thought Zolf had said something legitimately dumb. “If I am reading your intentions correctly, your plan for the week is to eschew all your other jobs to waste away at my door-” Zolf opened his mouth to argue and Wilde simply raised his voice and pressed on “-not that I am complaining, but if you truly are going to while away the days with me, and then on the final day, you find out I have been infected the whole time and have to kill me, how, pray tell, is that going to make you feel?”

Zolf snapped his mouth shut.

“Wouldn’t you rather know as soon as it comes up?” Wilde pointed out, frustratingly reasonable.

Zolf simply wanted to throw the cell doors open because there didn’t seem any possibility that the man behind the bars was anything other than 100% pure, vexatious Oscar Wilde, but he stilled his twitching hand. Wilde’s question was to remain unanswered as Zolf simply gestured go on then and Wilde, with a grim, self-satisfied nod, started to strip.

Day 3

“No, don’tcha see, if Jennifer had gone to Antony in the garden, her mother would have known from the get-go-”

“But I simply don’t see how Alianne knowing would have improved things for Jennifer-”

“She was supportive, she could’ve helped smooth things over when Antony’s sister started her meddlin’, and they could have wrapped the whole thing up before supper!”

“Yes, but where is the fun in that, Zolf?”

Day 4

As Wilde dispassionately disrobed for a fourth time, Zolf realised there was now a familiarity to Wilde’s naked body, and that was jarring.

He wasn’t lanky, not really, but Zolf couldn’t help but think of most humans that way. The truth was he was solid enough in build, surprisingly muscular for a man who mostly rode a desk. His legs and arse especially were firm with it. He does a lot of walking about the village, I s’pose.

Zolf watched Wilde turn on the spot and he longed to trace the shape of Wilde’s shoulders, cup his ass, rub my damn nose in that soft lookin’ chest hair and…

Zolf ground his teeth against the wrongness of it all.

He thought of slipping his hands between Wilde’s legs, and though the shape of the fantasy had changed, the intensity had not.

It had been a long time since Zolf had felt a physical or sexual attraction like this, and the fact that it was at the most inconvenient time, and the most unlikely person, was enough to make him think he’d made a mistake breaking ties with Poseidon. Maybe if he hadn’t eschewed divine favour, he would have been protected from whatever trickster god had decided to throw this at him.

He kept his hands in his pockets so that Wilde wouldn’t see him clench his fists.

Maybe I should offer to strip too. At least that would put us on an equally horrible footing, Zolf mused.

Wilde dressed and turned back to look at Zolf with careful, watchful eyes. Wilde was in the business of reading even the most inscrutable enemies like a book, and at this point he had a thorough translation guide for Zolf. He knew it bothered the dwarf. The fact that Wilde hadn’t made a bunch of lewd comments was probably his idea of a kindness, but the absence of Wilde’s typical peacocking it somehow made it worse.

When he looked at him like that, it made Zolf feel like he was the one in the cell.

Zolf cleared his throat. “Got a new crossword book if you like?”

Day 5

“Pawn to E4.”

A chess board sat on a small table just outside the cell. Zolf moved the white pawn for Wilde then took his own move.

“Knight to G3.” Wilde said in a bored tone. He’d voted for bridge, but Zolf had talked him out of it. Too difficult to wrangle cards between the cell’s bars and mesh, he’d pointed out. Which was true, but what was also true was that Wilde was surprisingly bad at chess (it was much easier to cheat in cards).

Whilst Zolf did feel sympathy for Wilde, things weren’t so bad that Zolf wasn’t going to relish the opportunity to beat him at something for a change.

Day 6

Each day Wilde got closer to being comfortable with the inspections. Closer but not there. Half a lifetime of needing to be guarded about who saw your body created some strong foundational habits. That foundation wasn’t going to be eroded in seven days, regardless of how much you trusted the person who saw you.

But still, it could have been worse. Zolf shuddered to think what would have happened if this situation had been thrust on them a year ago. Their friendship, tenuous as it was, might not have been able to survive.

Dressing again, Wilde stretched the kinks out of neck. “I cannot wait to get out of here and have a proper bath and a nice long walk.”

“Nearly there.” Zolf said absently. He’d stopped needing to worry every second moment that Wilde was infected. Even though they’d been dealing with it all with distractions, with laughter, with pretending like it wasn’t happening, Zolf felt the sudden urge to be honest.

“I’m sorry that… that it happened like this. That you didn’t get a choice in tellin’ me about...” Your past? Your journey? Your truth? “…Everythin’.”

Wilde made a face of surprise, but instead of deflecting the offer of an honest conversation, he accepted. “Me too. I intended to, but as I said. I’m rarely… close enough with someone that I feel they deserve it. I wish-” Wilde paused, considering his next words, and what other weapons he might be handing over, deeply. “I wish that the circumstances had been different.”

Zolf could just ask what he meant. He could. It was practically an invitation for him to press, to force Wilde to clarify exactly under what circumstance he’d envisioned sharing secrets about his body with Zolf… but he didn’t.

Inside Zolf, uneasy guilt gnawed at him. The circumstances they had were only these ones. Wilde was vulnerable, caged, and thoroughly without a choice; but Zolf knew there were moments he’d chosen to ignore those elements. He knew, deep in his guilty core, he had been inspecting far more than he had the right. It didn’t feel honourable to press Wilde any further after that.

“Yeah.” Zolf stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Wilde. Last day ‘n all.”

Day 7

“It would have been too much to hope that the bloody sun would come out for this, wouldn’t it,” Wilde grumbled.

Freshly released, he was pondering umbrella selection in the entry hall.

“I’m guessing you don’t want me to come with,” Zolf ventured. Wilde had come out of his quarantine cheerful enough, but there was something understandably off about him; something distant and a little contemplative. Zolf had been half-expecting, or even hoping for, one of Wilde’s warm shoulder-touches. But he had kept his hands firmly to himself.

Wilde looked up, mouth twisted wryly. “I think I’ll be fine.” He hesitated, as he always did before saying something sincere. “I do appreciate what you’ve done for me this week, Zolf, but I could use a little space.”

Zolf nodded. He’d expected as much.

Inside him, the guilt twisted a little, the word violator rising in his mind. No. Neither of them had chosen anything about this situation. If anything, their connection felt even stronger for having been through the wringer, yet again. Whatever liberties Zolf accused himself of taking, it wasn’t enough to dent that.

We’re alright. Zolf thought.

We’ll be alright. I think we both could use a little time, is all.

Wilde selected the green umbrella, gave Zolf a tentative smile, and headed out into the rain.

#hank writes #rusty quill gaming #rqg #zoscar #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #rusty quill fan fic #Additional notes; zolf IS looking disrespectfully #zolfwilde

[my-writings-and-musings]

For the bot reader sparkling prompt what about Swerve and or Whirl? (I’m especially curious about Whirl’s reaction if the (or one) of the sparkling(s) resembles him pre-empurata) I would toss a possible Misfire in there too but I don’t think he’s a bot you usually do.

Hope you're ready for FEELS and CUTE SPARKLINGS because that's absolutely my favorite combo anon! Plus I'd always liked the Scavengers but never really looked into their appearance in the comic until now, and thank you for giving me the impetus to learn about the chaotic but still lovable gaggle of misfits.

Swerve

·He's admittedly been on a whole new level of euphoria since the two of you started dating, but the moment he found out you were gonna be Creators he more or less ascended. Every scan nearly brings him to tears and he keeps all the pictures on him wherever he goes, so any bot that comes near will be ambushed by a flood of bragging and a veritable album of a bitlet that hasn't even been born yet. Suffice to say that when it was finally time to meet your little bundle, he was emotional, though for your sake he remained a surprisingly steadfast and supportive partner through the entire emergence. But the moment he laid his visor on that squawling little bitlet...

·"Tears" aren't quite sufficient to describe the waterfall that poured from his visor, but thankfully the staff was quite accustomed to such reactions and smoothly checked over the newborn before handing them back to their new parents. As a metallurgist for a species made of metal that's at it's most vulnerable after birth, he's actually been present for a few sparklings entering the world to provide potential care for those considered high risk, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing your beautiful new bitlet in person.

·Between praising you and the beeb he can hardly get a coherent word out through the blubbering, but his awe and adoration is still clear as day. You made a whole new bot, and now they're here, and they're the most amazing little sparkling the planet has ever seen! Every feature of yours or his that he sees gets him crying anew, and he can't possibly fathom what he's done to deserve any of these blessings. Countless photos of their first few hours are accumulated to join his collection in addition to being shared via intergalactic Wi-Fi to every friend you have.

·When your chosen visitors arrive he's absolutely effusive with his praise of you and the beeb. Do they see this bitlet? Have any of them ever seen anything this precious in all of history?! His Conjunx made them isn't that the most amazing thing in the entire galaxy like how did they even do that?! Even bots who know him well are amazed by how genuinely tender and affectionate he is, as there's not a joke to be heard from him even once. Truthfully he can't think of anything funny about this at all, except maybe how even the tougher bots that visit absolutely melt when they see the sweet little face of a newborn amidst a bundle of blankets, but he can't really blame them now can he?

·Despite all of his joy for the two of you being Creators, when it's just you and him and the sparkling again, he's quite hesitant to ask if he can hold them. He's held them before in the rush of the moment, but here in the still and calm... It worries him. There's so much caution in his grip when he takes them into a gentle cradle, his bulky arms easily supporting the tiny weight despite how unnaturally heavy they feel. There's a flash of worry for all the chances he'll have to mess up, but that disappears when a little fist pops free of the blanket and into the bitlets mouth, where they contentedly suckle on it in the most adorable display he's ever beheld. Somehow he knows it will be okay in that moment, because he'll never let anything happen to you or your new little addition.

Whirl

·His reaction to his own prospective sirehood was a near perfect example of internal screaming beneath a veneer of calm. Of course he wasn't necessarily surprised, and he loved you more than anything in any universe, but... you've met him, right? Sure, you fragged him, but have you paid attention to the kind of bot he is? Do you really want any of this around a sparkling, or remixed into one? Admittedly he hadn't had an argument for your simple "yes" in reply, and to the day your little bitlet arrives he still can't think of a rebuttal, beyond how his claws don't give you much of a hand to hold or provide good massages.

·Somehow the entire process manages to be Unicron levels of unthinkable horror and awe inspiring beautiful wonder at the exact same time, and his attitude is even more varied as a result. There are moments he's the calm partner whispering sweet nothings, the aggressive coach shouting for you to kick labor's ass, the panicking wimp who refuses to believe the body parts he's seeing belong where they are, and the petrified but dutiful sire-to-be frozen in horror while you hold onto him for dear life. Thankfully he manages to reign it all in once the two of you have a newly minted bitlet wailing in the real world.

·He'd expected to be awed, but also knew to brace for seeing a bundle that... didn't much resemble his current self, due to Empurata not affecting genetics, but he never could have prepared himself for the reality. One look at this tiny and flawless little accident and he comes embarrassingly close to fainting, his long legs folding into a chair some brilliant medic was smart enough to push beside the bed, and his optic growing misty as he beholds you and the whole new person you made. There's awe at the fact he contributed to making something unbelievably perfect, happiness for a million reasons he doesn't care to comprehend, but also... sadness. A face he'd never thought he would see again is looking up at him with the biggest and most innocent pair of optics, all while a tiny mouth nibbles on a pair of servos so like the ones he had taken from him.

·He should be... angry, maybe? Old Whirl would have been angry, furious at the Functionists for ruining so much, but he just doesn't feel it. The sadness in his spark isn't even for him, it's for this little one who will grow up and eventually figure out why his sire looks the way he does, and all the pain that may cause a bot who never did anything to anyone... But that feeling is so small it's quickly swept away so he can feel what he actually wants to feel, and he wants to feel happy damn it! You and he have a bitlet, and a pretty good one as far as bitlets go! Heavy stuff can be addressed later, the two of you get to enjoy this with friends! There's precious few bots he trusts enough to visit, but those that make the cut are welcomed and invited to pay respects to the cutest sparkling ever born and the bot who squeezed them out. He has to fight incredibly hard to keep from shedding happy tears, but seeing so many of his friends coo over this tiny miracle strains his emotional reservation to the limits.

·For all the love he has for the little one, and all his progress in accepting himself, he still hasn't held them by the time night is settling and you're in need of rest. Only your obvious exhaustion and his protective nature compels him to finally accept the sleeping sparkling, and even then he's a wreck on the inside, his spark all but crackling with anxiety as the delicate beeb is laid in his arms while he stays carefully seated. Nothing could have made him understand just how tiny this little guy was until this moment. As you drift off, he tempts fate and holds out the tip of a careful claw, not daring to ventilate as he gently adjusts some blankets for a better look. Something like abject terror shoots through him as a stubby hand takes hold of him, but he doesn't move, and the little one only coos and keeps his solid little grip. At that he lets himself cry just a little. Nothing will ever hurt you or this tiny gift so long as he lives, and he won't let anything past present or future ruin the happiness you've made together.

Misfire

·His whole life he's had a soft spot for things that need caring for, but every time he's found something or someone to take care of he's told himself all he really cares about is the potential benefit for him. Recent events have forced him to admit that there's a soft spark under his... business savvy ways. Finding out he'd be a sire though? That was an entirely new level of self discovery, because he's absolutely thrilled and has no logical reason why. He quickly has to tell the rest of the Scavengers, which becomes daily updates on everything sparkling related, so even his close collection of friends is admittedly a little relieved when the bitlet finally arrives and they can meet them. Thankfully none of them were there to see him faint on more than one occasion during the delivery, but he does have to make up a story about the dents on his head when he calls to give the announcement that their newest Scavenger has arrived, claiming that he got them in a heroic dive to save the bitlet when they were still slippery and dropped by a medic.

·While never one to be too mushy, he's made incredibly sappy just by the sight of the new little bitlet when they finally end up clean and swaddled in your arms. All across the little one's features are pieces of him that he recognizes on the spot. Blended perfectly with those are obvious signs of you, creating a whole new being who's got some of you both while still existing as their own unique little wonder. It defies all logic and yet he's so happy he can't really bring himself to care. From their optics to their stubby hands to their impossibly cute little pedes they're already the most perfect being to ever come into existence, making them tied with his Creators for perfection, and no bot is ever going to be able to convince him otherwise on that undeniable fact. But, for the sake of the moment he does have to wonder; does this sparkling yet realize how attractive they're going to be?

·The group is getting a million messages a minute from the new sire as they head over to see the newest addition, and when they finally arrive he does everything he can to present the little beeb with a proper introduction but can't stop getting misty optics and sniffling the whole time. Thankfully the Scavengers are an understanding bunch. Every one of them welcomes their new teammate with a carefully observant Misfire there to ensure they don't risk any kind of damage to the bitlet. Not that he doesn't trust them, but he does know them, so... None of them take it personally. Nickel is spared this oversight, of course, being a responsible bot and a medic more than capable of holding even a proportionally sizable sparkling. One she informs the new Creators is very cute in her proffesional opinion.

·Grimlock gets a special little moment with the new Sire, specifically one in which he gets to truly see how far he's come with his little adopted family now that it's started to grow. Misfire is fully trusting as he hands over the snoozing bitlet, and while the Dinobot is beyond touched, he does indeed hesitate just the tiniest bit. Gigantic servos absolutely dwarf the sparkling when they're settled within. Despite what any bot walking into the room might think, Misfire knows that at this very moment his bitlet is more or less in the safest place in the universe. They seem to be at least somewhat aware of this, as their little tubby cheeks lift up in a smile when they behold the gigantic bot looking down on them, a sight so unimaginably adorable it makes every bot present shed at least a single tear.

·When the rest of the group heads out after leaving a mountain of gifts in their wake, Misfire happily takes the beeb so you can get some sleep, because he at least got some rest when he passed out during emergence. Holding his little one with just the tiniest hint of uncertainty, he spends the night mostly chatting with them in a fully one sided whisper conversation, though he does occasionally get a tiny sound from the sparkling he'll swear is a coherent reply. Understandably, this little one has a lot to catch up on though. He can't help smiling at the thought of all the adventures he's going to be able to brag about to them, and how many you'll all have together once this little one is up and finally walking. There's so much he'll have to teach them too, and somehow that excites him more, knowing you and he will get to help shape this little wonder into the most amazing bot that's ever lived...

#transformers #more than meets the eye #mtmte #idw #maccadam #tf #lost light #my writing #my asks #anon #swerve x reader #whirl x reader #misfire x reader #scavengers #transformers sparklings #bot reader #self insert #requests

[teacup-of-candlelight]

how long has it been since you slept?

1:00…. 1:30… 2:00?

2:30.

Fjord rolled over and began to slowly and silently touch each of his friends, the Mighty Nein, and cast water breathing for all of them. Normally being awake at 2:30 in the morning would not have been Fjord’s thing, but ever since the incident four nights ago sleep had been turbulent at best. If he slept at all.

Beau.

Caleb.

He went one by one counting his friends, chanting their names in his head so as to make certain he didn’t miss a single one. He couldn’t bare it if anything bad happened to them because of him.

Caduceus.

Veth.

Jester-

Jester?

Fjord started out of his silent chanting.

Where was Jester?

Panicked, he shot his eyes around the dome in search for the little blue tiefling. He had already cast the spell on everyone else. But Jester was nowhere to be found.

Rising fear and logic had a short but heated struggle in Fjord’s head before he finally gave in to logic. None of the rest of his friends had been awakened, no alarms had tripped, he couldn’t hear anything that would suggest a second invasion. But even so… where was she?

Tiptoeing as softly as possible over his sleeping comrades, the half-orc left the dome, endeavoring to not wake his compatriots in the process.

“Jester..” He called softly into the bowels of the ship. “Jester!”  Fjord found it difficult to shout and whisper at the same time. He continued to look, but with each passing minute his anxiety grew. Eventually he decided to abandon the lower decks all together and check topside. At least there might be more light to see by up there.

Sure enough, as soon as Fjord reached the top of the creaking wooden steps to the main deck of the ship, there he could see the form of Jester Lavorre in white under gown, tail twitching in the moonlight. She leaned against the railing, staring out at the sea, the breeze playing with her dark hair. Fjord let out a sigh of relief.

“Jester, there you are! Thank gods. What are you doing here?”

“Nothing…” came her slow reply. She didn’t turn to face him. “Just looking.”

Fjord heard something that could have been a sniffle, but that didn’t make any sense to him so he attempted to ignore it. Instead he took a deep breath and moved to stand next to Jester at the ships railing. They stood in silence for a heartbeat, watching the moon play on the waves, before he remembered his initial reason for finding the young blue woman. A little smirk crept onto his lips as he reached up and pated Jester’s head.

“Water Breathing…!” He declared playfully. “Now you should be good for the next 24 hours. Although it probably took me a good five minutes to find you so from now on you have to wait five minutes after the others. Which is really quite inconvenient for me you know since I should really be sleeping at this time of night…” Fjord sniffed and watched Jester letting his idle attempts at chatter to fade. His puffed up chest deflated the longer he watched her, his concern growing by the second.  

“How long has it been since you’ve slept, Fjord?” She finally turned to look him in the eyes, face small and serious.

Gods. The moonlight did beautiful things to her eyes.

“Like, really slept?” She emphasized with a slight pout.

Fjord was momentarily stunned, both by the ethereal image of the woman before him and by her sudden and direct question.

“Er.. uh. I was sleeping earlier tonight…! But you know, Yasha snores and…” He shifted uncomfortably. “Well you don’t seem to have much room to talk. How long have you been up here?”

“We’re not talking about me, Fjord, we’re talking about you!” She called him on his bluff with an adorable scowl. Her expression softened and she took a deep breath before continuing. “You haven’t slept through the night at all since then, have you?” It was phrased as a question, but Jester said it as a statement of fact.

Fjord swallowed. She wasn’t wrong.

“I heard you screaming… Was it nightmares again? From Uk’otoa?” She continued in a softer voice, eyes trained on the glistening dark waves off the side of the ship once again.

“Well now- I didn’t scream-” Fjord quickly defended his pride. If he had screamed for real he surely would have woken up the rest of his friends who were sleeping in such close proximity to him. But that wasn’t why he felt the need to correct her…

“Okay, okay! But you know what I meant.” The blue tiefling gesticulated grandly and rolled her eyes, voice pitching higher in impatient annoyance. Fjord always secretly thought it adorable when she got exasperated, but somehow the experience was markedly less fun when it was directed at him.

She was trying to hide her worry behind a veneer of something like cold aloofness, but no matter how high in the air she stuck her button nose, he could still see her knuckles white in the moonlight as they interlaced tightly, resting on the railing.

“Jester…” He sighed. “I’m alright. Really.”

“Stop telling me you’re okay! Like nothing happened!” She rounded back on him, hair whipping around her, horns glinting in the starry light. Violet eyes watery. “Because it did Fjord!” He could now see the purple tinges around her eyes and nose.

Had she been…? Oh gods.

“You died!” Jester’s voice hitched on the word died. “And… And I couldn’t do anything.”

Jester had turned her face away from Fjord, head down and bangs covering her eyes. Oh gods… It seemed to Fjord that she had been crying, or something very close. He couldn’t fathom why, but she seemed to be aiming all of her emotion at him. It wasn’t as if she—

Even so he wanted to support her… not that he really knew how.

Fjord put a tentative hand on her arm. “Jester, you look sad…” That sentence had made sense in his head until he heard it out loud. The half-orc silently cursed himself as he scrambled to find better words despite his bleary sleep deprived mind. “Ehr! What I mean to say is- Why are you upset about that?”

“Because,” Fjord couldn’t breathe when she looked at him this time. “I care about you!” She choked back a tiny sob. Little streams of water now freely fell down her soft cheeks.

“Jester-”

“I promised you before that I would heal you when you were hurting- if Uk’otoa hurt you. But when you needed me.. I couldn’t get to you! I-I let you die, Fjord.” Jester aggressively wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And I couldn’t even heal you…!” The girl finally gave in to her tears and stopped speaking.

Fjord once again felt as though there were a sword in his chest. How was it—how could it possibly be—that seeing Jester cry made Fjord almost wish the that he actually had been stabbed again, instead of having to see her like this. He would do anything to make her feel better. Take a sword. Fight a sea god… Hold her?

Somehow that one seemed harder than the others. More terrifying.

“Hey, hey…!” Fjord consoled the crying Jester softly. He cupped her face with his hands almost instinctively, and tried to wipe the tears from her purple flushed cheeks.

Her face fit so neatly in his hands. Her skin was soft and warm to the touch. His heart hiccupped in his chest, but he pressed it down. She was more important than his feelings right now.

“Jester listen to me—” She looked up at him, lips quivering, still sniffling violently. “It’s okay. You did your best! You always have. And we’re alright.”

Jester stopped sniffling for a moment, caught off guard by his word choice. She wasn’t the only one, but Fjord didn’t exactly have the time to truly contemplate the implications of it. First he had to help her. He could have a self-chastising session later.

“You do so much for me all the time,” he couldn’t help but chuckle fondly, “it’s alright if you share that burden every now and then.”

“You’re not a burden Fjord!—” Jester tried to protest, but he kept going.

“Think about it. Caduceus was there to help you.” He thought about that for a second before adding, “Help me. Either way, you’ve never let me down in any way Jester. What happened to me wasn’t your fault.”

The tiefling girls violet eyes began to glisten with water once more. “But-!”

“No buts!” Fjord interjected sternly, a finger out in front of her face. Contemplatively he studied her face, subconsciously noting every freckle. “We’re in this together, you and I. We’ve always been a team, yeah?”

With a hesitant hum she nodded in agreement.

“But we’re not alone either. We have friends that care about us support us too. Hells, I have this past that I’ve been trying so hard to get rid of that I just can’t seem to shake! But that’s not your fault. We’re not alone in this. We have the rest of the Nein to fall back on… So don’t be sad about not healing me this time, okay?”

Heaving a heavy sigh Jester consented. “…Okay.”

“Okay.” Fjord smiled fondly at her, hands still holding her cheeks.

“But Fjord,” a small blue hand came up and rested on top of Fjord’s calloused green one. “Are you sure you’re really okay? That you’ll be okay?”

Bless her, her expression was still filled with concern. For him.

The man let out a troubled sigh. “I’m, sure I will be. With time.”

“And sleep…!” Jester giggled softly through her drying tears.

“And sleep.” Fjord agreed.

The two continued to share a look, hands touching still, hair and clothes tugged on by the sea breeze, eyes locked. What in Exandria had Fjord ever done to deserve someone like the young lady before him who would worry about him? Butterflies began to crawl their way up his gullet, and he became instantly aware of their rather intimate position.

“Ehem!” The half orc cleared his throat as he removed his hands from Jester. “Well, eh, we better be getting back below decks, yeah? Sleep, and all that.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah!” She emphatically agreed, rubbing at her face in an attempt to clear it. “It would be really bad if the others woke up to like, poop or something, and saw that we were missing. I bet they’d be like, super worried.” Finally she smiled. Fjord smiled too.

“Probably! I know I w—” He caught himself. That had been too close for comfort. Moonlight glowed softly on Jester’s skin. The waves were lapping at the ship rhythmically, above the stars were twinkling.

The ensuing internal struggle last only a second or two but felt to Fjord like ages. Half of him yearned to press his lips to hers. But the other half knew that no matter how he may have felt, this wasn’t the time. He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t even been brave enough to even hold her properly. Not yet.

In compromise, Fjord leaned forward and planted a small kiss at the top of Jester’s forehead. “Thank you, for your concern. It means a lot to me. But you don’t have to worry your pretty little head about me anymore. I’ll be fine.”

The young woman’s cheeks turned a shade darker. She looked like she was searching for the right thing to say, but by the time she had found it Fjord was already entering the depths of the ship.

Despite the freshness of the incident only days before, tonight Fjord knew he would sleep.  

#fjorester #im so sorry #this is my first cr fic and it might be a mess or a trainwreck IDK #half of it was written early in the year and the other half I just finished so pls have mercy on it #Fjorester fic #long post #Critical role #my writing

[xaphrin]

I tried NOT to let this get out of control... but here we are...

Damian was a little drunk, but Raven was too, so at least he was in good company. They weren’t so drunk that they didn’t know what they were doing, but were still drunk enough to let that gleeful sense of euphoria influence their decisions. Damian stood in the doorway to her too-small room, loosening the top button on his shirt as his eyes slid down the line of her back - the zipper had slid down an inch or two, exposing the black lace of her strapless bra. Was it hot in here? He felt like it was getting hot in here. 

He glanced behind him into the empty living room, suddenly realizing that the apartment was eerily quiet. “Where’s Jon?”

“He’s still out at the party. Probably won’t be back for another few hours.” Raven looked out the window and stared down at the street below them, her lips turning into an almost-frown. “Oh no. The cab just left.” 

She didn’t sound all that upset about it. Damian reached for his phone in his pocket, swallowing the lump in his throat, and silently reminding himself that this was Jon’s sister. “It’s fine. I can call another one.”

Raven turned back around, her chest brushing up against his. Damian felt his heart jump as he smelled the sweet scent of strawberries and champagne. Her lips were far too glossy, and he was desperately trying not to notice. Her eyelashes fluttered and she reached up to place her hands on his chest, fingers splaying out over his pectorals.

“Or…”

He took a shaky breath, lifting one eyebrow. “Or?”

“You could sleepover. You know. Like you used to.” 

That was with Jon. When they were kids. Not… not like this. Not when she was looking like a temptation he shouldn’t indulge in. This was Jon’s little sister. He would murder Damian if he ever found out. Damian’s hands clenched at his sides and he forced a small smile as he stepped back, putting much-needed space between them. “I think I should probably just call a cab.”

Raven sighed and her shoulders dropped, the veneer of innocence fading around her. It was like a switch was turned off, and she looked more frustrated than anything else. Something snapped behind her, her magic fritzing with her emotions. “Damian.”

He’d heard the voice only a few times before, and it meant that he was in trouble.

“I am trying to sleep with you.” She pointed to her bed, her lips twitching. “In my bed. When we are both naked and I am riding you like the stallion you are.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, more out of annoyance than anything else. “I have been giving you hints since you moved to Metropolis months ago, and I don’t know how much clearer I can possibly be besides outright telling you that I desperately want to fuck you so hard you black out. And then, spirit willing, I want to do it again.” She huffed and looked back at him, her eyes dark. “So, take off your clothes and lay on my bed, because if we wait any longer, Jon will interrupt what we are doing and I swear to all the heavens in the universe that I will kill your best friend without any hesitation.” 

Damian felt like his head was spinning. Wait. What? What? How had he not seen her signals? He stood there and felt the last six months flash before his eyes. Late-night text messages. Cute pictures of her getting ready in the morning. Sending him coffee when he worked late at night. Going to see movies with him and Jon, and making sure she sat next to him. Touching his hand. Looking into his eyes. Kissing his cheek when she said hello or good-bye. And -

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Raven reached behind her and started undoing her dress, moving to the door and closing it, flipping the lock. Not that it would do any good against Jon’s super-hearing, but it made them both feel better. “Go on. Take off your clothes.” 

Damian dropped his suit coat onto the floor and began undoing his shirt, glancing up to see her kicking off her shoes as her dress fell to the floor. He watched her hands move around to the back, unfastening her bra. His own hands stilled as he watched her stand in front of him, plump breasts exposed. He groaned, and Raven took a step towards him. 

“Same.” Her voice was breathy, and she ran her hands over the buttons on his shirt. With a soft curse, she flicked the buttons open and shoved them to the floor. His scarred chest trembled as she ran her fingers over his muscles, thumbs circling his nipples. “You have no idea how long I have wanted to do this with you.” She pressed slow, open-mouth kisses over every part of skin she could touch. “So long…”

Damian groaned and his fingers trailed up her sides, feeling her skin tremble. “How long?”

He felt her lips still against his chest, feeling the heat of her skin burn him. There was a long pause, before she looked up at him, cheeks still flushed. “Since our senior year in high school?”

“That was six years ago!”

Raven flushed darker and she poked a finger into his chest, magic snapping where they touched. “You’re very imposing, you know. A Wayne. An al Ghul. A Robin. I didn’t know how to ask you, and what was I supposed to say to you anyway?”

“That you wanted to fuck me so hard so that I black out?” His lips found her hair, and his fingers dipped into her underwear, pulling them down her legs. He glanced down to find her already wet, and his mouth watered. “That seemed to do the trick.” Damian groaned and slid his fingers between her thighs, tracing the length of her, and feeling her wetness coat him. “You’re pretty imposing yourself. A sorceress. Half-demon. A daughter to Superman.”

“Adopted.” Her voice was breathy and weak, and it slithered down his spine like a prayer. “I’m adopted.”

“Still a daughter.” He kissed down her neck - she even tasted like strawberries, and slid a finger inside her, watching as her back arched in pleasure and feeling her body tighten around him. “You’re imposing yourself, you know. I wouldn’t know how to ask you for something like this.”

Raven lifted her eyes to his and shifted. “You make it sound like this was something you were thinking of?” 

Heat crawled up his own neck and he shifted, suddenly very uncomfortable. It was one thing to have her confess to him, but to admit the same seemed… embarrassing. He cleared his throat. “Ah… well… maybe…”

Raven opened her mouth to say something, but he added a second finger and her eyes practically rolled back in her head. He’d much rather get her to come than to admit his own weakness. She let go of a low groan and stumbled back to the bed, breaking contact with him. Her lips trembled, and she lifted her eyes to his. Damian felt like time stopped, and he found himself staring at her, taking in the sight of her flushed skin and wide, dark eyes. He could stare at her forever if she let him. 

A long pause settled between them, and she sighed, leaning forward. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You’re still half-dressed?” 

Damian’s fingers quickly unfastened his pants, and with far less grace than he would have admitted, shoved them down his legs and crawled on the bed with her. Raven gave him a teasing smile, her hand sliding down his chest to circle his cock. 

“Those years of training and you can’t even take off your pants?”

Damian groaned and he uttered a curse under his breath. He’d make her pay for that smart comment later, but right now it felt far too good to have her hands on him. He slid his tongue along his lower lip and shivered. Her thumb slid along the slit in his head, before gliding downward and then back up. It was a slow, almost lazy dance that was going to drive him insane if she kept it up for too long. He leaned back against the bed and watched as she crawled over him, swinging one leg over his hip. 

“Eager?” The word ended on a low moan. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait either. 

“Six years.” Raven sounded needy, and she leaned over him, resting her hands on his chest as she lifted her body up. “I’ve wanted this for six years. Waiting any longer seems rather asinine at this point.” Her eyes fluttered and she sunk down on his cock, her head falling back against her shoulders with the movement. “Fuck.”

Same. Hell. She felt so damned good he was amazed he didn’t lose himself right then. Damian grit his teeth and his fingers bit into her plump, pale thighs. He was going to bite those thighs later, when she sat on his face and he ate her out - that thought alone made his cock twitch inside her. But, right now, he needed to get off, and he needed to get off bad. His fingers tightened, and he pushed his hips up to her own, the movement jolting her. 

“Hold… on. Hold on.” Raven fell over him, her body still adjusting to his own. “Fuck.” Her eyes fluttered and she swallowed another breath, shivering until she was fully seated on his erection. “You’re huge, Damian. I need a second.” 

Damian tried not to feel smug about that, but he could feel the smile tug at his lips. “Huge?”

“Oh, shut up.” 

Raven settled her hands on his chest and began to move, and whatever witty banter he was about to snap back at her died. Damian’s head fell back onto her sweetly-scented pillows and he let go of a low, heavy sigh. This felt amazing. Better than amazing. Fuck. He should have done this ages ago, when he first realized his crush for her. When he realized he liked her as more than just a friend. His hand slid up her thigh and he looked up at her, watching her head fall back on her shoulders. 

“This feels so damned good.” Her thighs bunched under his touch and each downward thrust was sharper, angling her hips just so. She looked like she was in euphoria, and Damian could have sat here and watched her forever. He leaned up and pushed his hips deeper inside her, watching as her eyes widened before closing as she gasped. “Damian.”

He shivered at the way she said his name, leaned up to capture her lips in a slow, languid kiss. His tongue traced her lips, tasting her and stroking her. Her eyes fluttered and her movements slowed, becoming shaky. Damian shifted, sitting up and pulling her tightly against him. He couldn’t stop kissing her. He didn’t want to stop kissing her. He wanted to taste every whimper and cry when she finally came. He wanted her trembling and spent, and still kissing him. 

Raven’s body tightened as he pushed his hips up into her body, listening to her breath grow more ragged and desperate. Her muscles were fluttering around his cock, and she was dripping with desire. She was going to come soon, and he was going to fall right after her. One hand slid up her spine and buried into her hair, crushing her mouth against his. Hell. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last, his whole body was practically vibrating, and he was flying too close to the sun. 

He was going to burn. 

“Dami…” Her tone was weak and desperate, and her fingers tangled in his own, short locks. “I’m so close. I’m gonna-”

“Raven! Hey, I’m home!”

Raven pulled away from Damian, her eyes wide. “Oh, fuck.”

Damian groaned, the muscles in his abdomen tight with desire. “What fucking great timing, Jon.”

“Should we… finish?” Raven shivered, her fingers sliding down his chest. “I mean…” 

“Raven?”

Damian’s head dropped to her shoulder. “No.”

“We could sneak into the shower? Turn on the water and-”

Damian groaned into her shoulder. The thought of lifting her up and pinning her to the tile while he fucked her hard made his cock twitch again. He sighed and slid from her body, falling back on the bed. “No… we should… ah… get up.” 

Raven glanced down at his still-hard erection and lifted an eyebrow. “You seem to already be there.”

“Shut up.” He felt the smile tug at the corners of his lips and he rolled his eyes. 

Jon knocked at the door. “Rae?”

“Give me a minute, Jon.” Raven sighed and scrambled for some clothes. “I’m getting changed.” 

Damian snorted and whispered, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

There was a quiet pause. “Sounded like someone was in there with you? Did you need me to go?” He paused again. “You know if we need to revert to the scrunchy on the door handle like we did in college-”

Raven’s head fell into her hands. “Oh, gods. Jon. Stop.”

“I’m just saying.” He walked a step away, and then stopped as if realizing something. “Is that… Dami in there with you?”

Damian’s head fell into his hands. He should have kept his mouth shut. “Uh… hi, Jon.”

“Are you boning my sister?”

Raven barely pulled on a shirt before the door flew open, taking a chunk of the frame with it. Damian cursed and scrambled for his underwear, yanking it on. He glared at Jon and hunted for the rest of his clothes, still scattered around Raven’s small room. “You could warn me before you go nuclear.” 

“You could not bang my sister!” Jon glared at the two of them before he looked at Raven and pointed at Damian. “No scrunchy. Not for him.”

Raven’s head fell into her hands. “Oh, gods…” 

#adult nonsense ahead #damirae #demonbirds #i wanted to do lots of pieces #but this sucked me in and wouldn't let go #maybe more tomorrow?