#I did it!! I figured out doing it with a third very small needle is manageable!

[myhairpintrigger]

Helloooooo hope ur having a nice day

Is it ok if u do a darkling x reader where they get walked in on during a very intimate moment 👀 😏 . Like maybe Alina thinks she has a chance and keeps trying to one up the reader not knowing aleks is in an established relationship and finds out the hard way …..

i hope ur ok with this

thank youuuuu

I luv u anon <3 I hope YOU are having a nice day.

warnings: (very?) mild sexual content, Alina slander if you squint (im sorry baby ur still my queen)

word count: 2.8k

The Hard Way

(aleksander morozova x fem!reader)

-

Imaginably so, it took someone of great significance in one way or another to catch the eye of the Black General. So that’s why it was such a shock to see such an ordinary person on his arm. 

At the time of your meeting, you had been working as one of the Royal Family’s seamstresses and you’d been tasked with making a very important coat for a very important gala for a very important general. His first impression of you was admittedly not the best, and neither was the second or third, and he was often found ranting to anyone who would listen about the petulant little seamstress that wouldn’t apologize for sticking him with a needle during fittings and would instead tell him to man up. This, he was not used to, and it stunned him a bit. Surely you knew who he was and you had to have known that he happened to command respect and attention with his position and power. And to be fair, you did. You knew very well who General Kirigan was and you knew very well that he was capable of some very unsavory things, but you simply did not care.

And that intrigued him. Very, very much. 

So much so that he began to seek you out even after you’d finished making the (very beautiful) coat for him, to converse with you. It started out as little arguments back and forth, and it grew into little stories about yourself and small fragments of his life and what bothered him on a daily basis, and nearly a year into your little friendship with the General, you knew that you’d fallen for him, and he was very aware of the fact that he’d also fallen for you. 

You were the first one to speak about your feelings for him, as he simply could not believe anyone could ever want to be around him with nothing to gain except for his favor and the gift of his presence, so when you told him one night after he’d returned from a two week long check in with the troops near The Fold, he could hardly believe you. But he had to, when it came down to it, because when did you ever really care that he was… Him? From there, the two of you only became closer, and eventually he had made it very well known to the King that you were no longer a seamstress for him and his family, but rather a permanent resident of The Little Palace.

Now nearly three years into your relationship, your presence- just as his- commanded respect. Everyone knew exactly who you were and exactly how you were to be treated. Like an absolute queen.

You now sat in your shared bedroom with only your underclothes and a black satin robe on, perched silently in the armchair in your bedroom, reading a book. Your reverie was soon broken by a knock on your door and you slowly tore your eyes away from your book and set it aside, pulling your robe tightly closed before you glanced up at the door.

“Please, come in.” you called and watched as the door swung open to reveal Genya, who walked inside with a large box and closed the door with her foot.

“He’s returned. The General. I figured you’d want to dress yourself and come greet him. He’s brought company.” she stated and laid the box down on the foot of your bed, “It’s nothing fancy. Just a new dress.” she added and motioned delicately to the box on your bed.

You gave the girl a grateful smile as you stood up and you gave her a nod, “Yes. the Sun Summoner. It’s all anyone has talked about for the past two days. Thank you for the dress, Genya.” you replied softly and walked towards the bed. You opened up the box to reveal that the dress was in fact, nothing fancy as Genya had promised and you held the simple silk gown up to examine it and you gave her a little nod, “It’s lovely. Thank you, again.” you said kindly and she gave you a little nod before slipping out of the bedroom.

Once she had gone, you hurriedly dressed yourself in the black dress that had been left for you and you sat down next to the door and in a rush, clumsily yanked on and laced up a pair of boots before you stood and crossed the room to yours and Aleksander’s wardrobe, grabbing out a cloak, not quite sure at this point whether it was his or yours, and you hardly had the mind to care. You simply wanted to see him after missing the man for nearly three weeks now. You ran back to the door and in passing, glanced into a hanging mirror and decided you looked presentable enough before you dashed out the door, fumbling while you ran to get the cloak on. You finished getting the cloak on- which you had quickly found was indeed one of his once you saw it pool on the floor beneath you- just in time to make your way out the doors and down to the courtyard to see your lover dismounting his horse and helping a girl climb off of the animal as well, who you rightfully assumed was the Sun Summoner.

You stood back for just a moment so he could collect his bearings, but the moment he looked up and your eyes met his, all bets were sorely off. You ran towards him as fast as your legs could take you through the gravel and he bent down just a bit to your level and opened up his arms widely. Once you reached him, you launched yourself into his embrace and wrapped your arms around his neck. He wasn’t usually one for displays of affection around everyone, but he’d happily indulge you in times like this when he’d been gone long enough for his absence to become an ache to the both of you. You could hear him inhale sharply as he buried his face in your hair, his arms winding around your waist as he drew you close to him.

“You’re wearing my cloak.” he commented, obviously amused by this.

You simply huffed out a ‘yes’ and closed your eyes as you hid your face against his neck, the ache of missing him in your chest melting into a warm feeling of relief and happiness. He was the first to pull away and you followed his lead and he simply motioned towards the girl at his side.

“This is Alina Starkov. She is the Sun Summoner. Alina, this is my y/n.” he introduced and you turned to the obviously very nervous girl and offered your hand to her.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I assure you, you’re in good hands.” you said enthusiastically and motioned up towards your lover who simply took your hand and guided the two of you inside. He spoke to Alina as you walked, but you tuned the two of them out and laid your head against his arm as you walked inside with them. It wasn’t until it had been silent for a moment that you realized Alina had been directed in her own way. You looked up at Aleksander adoringly as the two of you walked and he let go of your hand, only to wrap his arm around your waist, drawing you into his side.

“You are staring at me.” he remarked, an amused smile forming on his lips.

“Well, I better not hear a hint of a complaint. I’ve missed you so much I haven’t known what to even do with myself. Most days I find myself unable to get out of bed and function like a person.” you admitted and he turned to you and swept you into his arms, carrying you the rest of the way to your bedroom, the ends of his enormous cloak that you wore dragging alongside the two of you.

“I am not complaining, my sweet love. I’m merely observing. And you know,” he began, opening up the door to your bedroom, “I have missed you as well.”

-

The weeks following Aleksander’s return were spent mainly in your bedroom or out in the courtyard walking, though the outdoor walks never lasted long as he worried about you catching a cold in the wintery weather and he’d always whisk you back inside before it had even been half an hour. His return had put you less on edge and you were finally able to fall back into your daily habits, and you really couldn’t complain about anything… except for the fact that Alina would follow your lover around like a lovestruck puppy every chance she had. You’d gone riding with them just the other day only to find yourself watching the Sun Summoner all but throw herself at Aleksander. Every time you were nearby, she’d make a point to grab his arm. Every time you’d grab his hand, she would try to lead him away or steal his attention. At first you didn’t want to believe it was on purpose, so you began to make a point of calling Aleksander “my love” and “lover” around her and everyone else, so there was no question about the two of you and your relationship status, but even then she would vie for his attention, and that’s when you realized: she was intentionally trying to show you up.

And when he’d told her his name? You’d let out an audible scoff and caught both of their eyes. Alina’s with a persistent determination and Aleksander’s with a look of confusion mixed with a warning. You decided to sit that ride out and rush back inside, tossing an excuse of ‘just tired‘ behind you as you made your way back into the Little Palace. 

You didn’t go on any more rides with them after that, and you kept your distance from Alina, as well.

It had gone on like this for weeks; at dinners, at trainings, when he was simply checking up on her, even when you were blatantly at his side with your hand possessively clasped within his own, she still made attempts to pull him away.

You’d been dreading the Winter Fete terribly, knowing what it would bring, and you were considering every possible way to find an excuse to get out of it, not wanting to watch Alina sidle up to Aleksander as if she was meant to be by his side. So now the week before the event, you sat in your bed midday, with your back up against the headboard with a book laying between your legs that you weren’t reading, rather you were sulking. The door opening made you shift your eyes upwards and they fell upon the form of Aleksander, who stood with a worried expression on his face.

“No one has seen you since breakfast. I grew worried. Are you sick?” he asked and closed the door behind him, approaching you gracefully. 

He knelt at your bedside and gazed up at you with those big eyes, so dark that often times, you could hardly find his pupil, “I’m not sick.” you replied with the same petulance that he’d become so fond of.

A chuckle made its way out of his mouth and he grabbed your book and set it aside, “Alright then. Why are you sulking in bed, my love?” he asked, as if he was speaking to an irritated child.

You glared down at him and he held his hands up in surrender, “Aleksander,” you began and then you sighed, “It’s stupid. It really is.” you finally said and then looked away from his eyes.

“It cannot be stupid if its’ got you hiding out. The Winter Fete is a week away. Normally before events like this, you’re out criticizing and directing the poor soul making your dress. Then you’re ranting to me about how you wish I’d let you make your own gowns instead.” he remarked and sat down on the bed next to your feet, “So what has you bothered, Pretty?” he asked and reached up to ever so gently take your chin between his fingers.

You studied his face for a moment before sighing and you rubbed your face, “It’s Alina. I know how childish this sounds but she’s always just… tossing herself into your arms every chance she gets, even in front of me! I’m not jealous, I refuse to be so juvenile but she doesn’t stop! It’s so-” you couldn’t even finish your sentence before his lips were capturing yours in a searing kiss. You kissed him back almost immediately, surprised by the sudden intensity of the kiss. When he finally pulled back to allow the two of you to breathe, he only chuckled and shook his head.

“Well, one thing is for certain: I definitely have not kissed Alina like that. Or at all. My love, worry not about her wants and behaviors, for I am yours and yours alone.” he promised and you looked up at him, giving him a bashful nod, “I have been putty in your little hands ever since you impaled my wrist with a sewing needle.” he teased and it was your turn to chuckle.

“I did not impale you, for one, and it is your own fault for moving when I specifically told you to hold still.” You remarked.

To this, he only replied with a hum as he leaned forward to attach his lips to your throat, “My mistake. I never meant to disobey the high and mighty dressmaker.” he teased, but you could barely form a reply as his lips trailed lower down the center of your throat and to the neckline of your dress, “Have I mentioned how much I love it when you wear black?” he asked and slid his hands behind your waist to begin to unlace your dress.

“I think you may have mentioned it a time or two before…” you replied breathlessly and sat up when he tugged you forward and he pulled your dress over your head in one graceful motion. He tossed the garment aside and pulled you away from the headboard to lay you out across the bed, and you reached up to push his heavy kefta off of his shoulders so that it fell onto the floor. Nothing but glances were exchanged between the two of you as he pushed your petticoat up around your waist and he leaned down to press sloppy kisses to your inner thighs, and you bit down on your bottom lip, a soft moan escaping your mouth. The sound egged Aleksander on and he made his way up your inner thighs and reached up with the intention to pull your underwear aside when a knock sounded at the door.

The sound didn’t bother Aleksander and he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and he gave them a sharp tug when the door swung open and a little laugh was heard, “Aleksander, Genya said you might be in here, but-” when her eyes landed upon you, her jaw dropped and Aleksander quickly moved his head out from between your thighs and he grabbed his kefta off of the floor and tossed it around you in a panic. He turned towards Alina who stood frozen in shock and he blinked a few times.

“Miss Starkov. I believe most people would apologize and leave the room by now.” he said calmly and her eyes darted between the two of you rapidly before her cheeks turned bright red and she blurted out a quiet apology and spun on her heel and left the room, the door slamming shut behind her. 

Aleksander turned back to you and then he clicked his tongue, “Well, that might have solved your problem for you. She quite literally saw my head between your thighs.” he stated with raised eyebrows and you scoffed and threw the kefta at him.

“Well, what are you doing up there?” you asked irritatedly, “get back between them.” you huffed, your cheeks nearly as pink as Alina’s had been, and he eagerly complied.

And he happened to be right. The incident did completely solve your Alina problem, because every time you saw her afterwards, she’d blush and scurry away. Almost every Grisha in the Little Palace had since heard about it, and when you saw Genya the day after, she only smirked at you and rolled her eyes, and from that afternoon forward, Aleksander didn’t seem to mind pulling you a little closer when the two of you were around staring eyes.

#the darkling imagine #the darkling x reader #the darkling #aleksander morozova x reader #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova imagine #general kirigan imagine #general kirigan #shadow and bone #shadow and bone imagine #grishaverse

[simp999]

Short Lived.

Pairing: Ken Midori x Reader

Series: Beyblade Burst

Wc: 5.4k (help)

A/N: A new friend got me back into beyblade and I needed to write for my old beloved. (Sorry splatoon manga fans, I'm still working on the next chapter!)

A/N 2: I know that the beyblade fans don't vibe on tumblr for the most part, but I am deprived of beyblade fanfic. Take it

Warnings: Ends with fluffy angst (Might make Ch.2 if anyone wants.)

Themes: Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, strangers to friends to lovers(?)-Not officially lovers but like c'mon now

Masterlist

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips as you cut the loose threads from the glove you’re trying to sew back together. 

Last night, you had been training with your bey, but it seemed your glove had had enough of the years of sweat, abuse, and regular washes that it had gone through, and gave up on you. It had gotten you through many wins, and you doubt you’d find another just as comfortable since this one is now worn perfectly to your launching hand. You remembered that your school left the home ec. class open after hours, so you figured you’d give attempting to fix your glove a shot, which obviously wasn’t going well. The threads were too far apart, then too loose, then they just looked so badly done, you were ready to give up and buy a new one. Before you were able to fully get up from your seat, a boy came up to you - a brown puppet on one hand, and blue on the other.

The brown one began to talk in a goofy voice; “Hi there! Would you like some help? This guy here likes to think he’s pretty good at sewing.” The blue one cut him off, in a drastically different voice, “Yeah, ya seem to be strugglin’ a bit there.”

You could only stare at the person in amazement. What a skilled ventriloquist! Not only can he speak with minimal movement from his mouth, but he can switch voices so quickly! 

You dismiss your thoughts, remembering the situation at hand. You get a little flustered after examining how badly you managed to mess up your stitching this time, accepting the kind stranger’s offer.

“Yeah… That’d actually be really nice.”

The boy takes a seat in the chair beside you, making sure to keep some distance between you two. He takes off his puppets and places them on the table with care, reaching a hand out toward your glove, silently asking to borrow it. You hand the beaten and well-used glove over, and he carefully but efficiently undoes the miserable stitching that you did. It doesn’t take long before it’s all gone, and you’re mesmerised by the way he so quickly threads the needle and pokes it through the fabric, making seemingly perfect lines. You see that he’s not doing the usual stitch, and you study the way he continues for a bit. He gets about a third through the small hole in the glove before handing it back to you, putting his puppets back on his hands to explain how to do this new stitch. A backstitch. He explains how to do it with maximum efficiency, and tells you that this stitch is great for reinforcing the area, which is exactly what you need.

You’re much slower, and the lines are obviously less straight than his, but this is far better than any previous attempts. He waits for you, pointing out when you begin to put too much space between the holes, or any other details. In the meantime, he introduces himself. Well, the puppets introduce themselves and him. You smile at how cute Keru and Besu are, and marvel at their unique personalities. You quickly learn that Ken’s puppets are very important to him, and that he’s obviously been doing this type of thing since he was young. His skills only further prove that, for both sewing and ventriloquism.

You only notice that you’ve been looking at Ken a little too long when he brings Besu’s little hand up to his face to ‘wipe’ Ken’s cheek, Besu asking if there’s something stuck there. Your face heats up, realizing your mistake, and you quickly assure him that you’re just heavily impressed by his ventriloquism skills. You can see slight surprise cross his face, it seems people don’t often see how difficult his skill really is. Besu thanks you, while Keru boasts about how long Ken’s been practicing for. He gets on to mentioning his puppet shows, and the two of you talk for a bit. It’s cut short when you sheepishly ask him if he can tie the final knot for you.

You try on your glove on the way home, trying to remember all the little details of the person you just met. The spikey, fluffy-looking black hair he had, the comfortable green color scheme, even his little snaggle tooth was hard to miss. It felt like you two spoke for hours, even though it was only probably 20 or so minutes. The sun is halfway through setting, and you find yourself wanting to see him again. You’re sure he went to the same school, it was simply unlucky that he and you had separate classes.

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

You spent the next couple of days paying more attention to your surroundings at school. Taking the longer routes to classes, walking around during lunch, and even getting out of class a couple of minutes early so you could try to wait at the front door. No luck. 

You didn’t really have anyone to hang out with, your - acquaintances at best - having their closer friends to hang out with. You didn’t mind, but there was something about the puppeteer that had you wanting more of his presence. He just seemed so… kind, and comforting. 

With no luck from your attempts, you decide to test out the bey stadium on top of the school. You heard rumors of it, but never bothered trying it out, favoring the one at the park and the one you had at home- you and your dad had built it. 

Before turning the corner, you heard the all too familiar sound of a bey spinning. You contemplated even going, but you were interested in potentially finding another skilled blader.

A boy with white hair and a black vest is fully concentrated on the red bey before him. You could bet that he’s counting the seconds that it’s spinning for, so you wait to make your presence known so as to not distract him. It spins for an impressive amount of time, and you wait for him to stand up and wipe the sweat from his forehead before approaching him.

“Can I help you?”

“I doubt it, but do you happen to know where I can find a boy named Ken? He wears mostly green, has two puppets-”

“Oh, Ken Midori. I believe he has a puppet show starting sometime soon in the main area of the mall.”

He finally looks at you head-on, and you recognize him. He’s known to be an extremely skilled blader, supposedly the best at school. Shu Kurenai. You pretend to not know him, and you thank him for his time before making your way to the mall. You’ve always tried to keep your beyblading lifestyle on the down-low, changing up your appearance in battle and only really practicing alone. Beyblading isn’t your only personality trait. 

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

You smile at all the little kids who are sat down in front of the booth, and imagine all the thankful parents who can finally get somewhat of a break. The story follows an over-confident but weak hero who can’t manage to beat a dragon. Help arrives, and you’re quick to recognize the two puppets and their voices. Your smile grows, and you excitedly wait for the end. No, not the end of the cute story being played, you’re excited to go see the boy managing those two adorable puppets. Though, the story is still engaging and fun. They sure are experienced at what they do.

The puppets bow to their audience, and the curtains close. While kids begin to shuffle through the crowd to meet up with their parents, you carefully make your way over to the booth, watching out for any green and black. A lady comes up to you and asks if she can help with anything, and you see that she has a puppet on one of her hands, one from the show.

“Oh, yes! I’m looking for Ken?”

She nods and calls out his name, and the boy makes his way over to the lady, only spotting you afterward. Besu’s the first to talk:

“Oh! You made it to our show!”

“I was pretty sharp out there, right?!” Keru intervenes, and Besu doesn’t want to feel left out, so the two begin some light banter. Ken breaks it up by giving his two puppets a glare, then he makes them bow their heads, as if they felt bad. You stifle a laugh at the scene before you, happy that you got your own mini show. Ken’s smile slightly grows, and his mother notices, so she tries to give him a little push.

“How about you two go hang out for a while? We’ve got everything covered here, and that’s the last show of the night. As long as Ken’s home by 8:30.”

You bring your hands together to play with the hem of your sleeve, feeling bad about taking her kid away for a bit.

“I don’t mind helping if you’d like?”

“Don’t worry about it, you two go have fun!”

The two of you stand in silence as his mom leaves. Ken’s not sure if he should be frustrated or thankful that his mom just threw him right outside his comfort zone, but either way, he’s stuck with you now.

You check the time on your phone, 6:07.

“We’ve got a couple hours, is there anywhere you’d like to go? Or… We are already at the mall, if you’d like to just walk around?”

Ken admits through Besu that he never really got to check out the mall. You’ve lived in this city your whole life, which means you know this mall quite well. You’re quick to drag him, metaphorically, to your favorite stores that you think he’d like. The two of you find some stickers you like, some shirts, and anything else you find interesting that’s also reasonably priced. You surprise him with a keychain of a cartoon-y dog that looks an awful lot like Besu. He looks happy to receive it, Besu doing a little dance while holding it between his little paws, but Keru crosses his arms and huffs.

You turn around to show him a keychain that you already had attached to your bag, which resembled Keru. Keru’s attitude quickly changes, remarking that he’s the better one because you have his keychain. He and Besu get into another small fight, and you’re once again reminded of Ken’s amazing skill as a ventriloquist.

The night flies by, but you’ve definitely gotten more comfortable with each other. This time, you didn’t forget to exchange contact information, so now you two can plan meet-up times. Once you wave goodbye to Ken, he stands in the middle of the quiet mall, feeling the same way you did after your first meeting. He’s never had a friend before, and he’s deciding that he’d be happy to have you as his first.

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

For the next few months, the two of you began hanging out outside of class. You introduce him to places you enjoy, finding out that he really likes this one clear opening in the woods not too far from your home. You went once during the day, finally trusting him enough to show him your special comfort spot. There are lots of flowers, and you even added fairy lights and a few blankets to lay on, thanks to your mom. When moving the branches away from your face and holding them away for Ken, you explain that you like to come here when you want a break from reality, or to just enjoy nature as it is.

“People are always so bombarded with lights, buildings, cars, loud noises, and the like, so we don’t often get to have 'us' time. It’s much prettier at night, we should try to convince your mom to let you stay out a bit later one night. Maybe on a weekend?”

“We often have lots of plays on the weekends, but I think our first one for next Sunday is later in the day, so if we go next Saturday night after the play it should work.” He still uses his puppets to speak, and you still love them just as much as the first day they spoke to you. They are really cute and fun, after all.

“Alright, a week and a half from now, then! Don’t forget!” Ken nods, excited to see what this place looks like at night. It seems you put lots of care into the surrounding area.

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

The next day, you had planned to meet up after school. At the end of your last class of the day, you get a text from your favorite ventriloquist saying his club is having an emergency meeting. You were really hoping to hang out with him, and you wouldn’t mind if there are other people around, so you ask if his club would be okay with you lingering around. He thinks about it, and figured that his friends wouldn’t mind, so the two of you meet up and you follow him to the roof.

You quietly follow behind him, a little nervous about meeting his friends. You wouldn’t usually be like this, but these are Ken’s friends, so there was a good chance you’d be seeing them time and time again. 

The first one to pep up is a boy with short, blond hair, he seems to be pretty eccentric. His energy is really fun and he gives off good vibes, it feels like being around him could put you in a better mood overall, which is nice. You wave at him after he points you out, and he gives you a bright grin. You notice Shu nod at you, you’re surprised he must have remembered you. The next to speak is a shorter boy with dark blue hair, and it’s a little hard to make out what he’s saying thanks to how fast he’s talking. Something about asking if you’re Ken’s friend, then about blading.

What was that about blading? It seems the friend group quieted down after he asked you the question, also wanting an answer. Noticing your lost expression, the blondie from earlier repeats his friend’s question.

“Do you do any beyblading?”

You could tell them, but you don’t like it when your name gets out there.

“Not that much.”

“But you have a bey?”

“...Yeah.”

The blue-haired boy is quick to challenge you to a battle, but you’re not really feeling up to it. You’re not a big fan of showing off your skills to any unnecessary opponents. You don’t also want to make a fool of yourself. The ‘meeting’ goes on, and they discuss an upcoming tournament. The plan for this meeting is just to battle. They introduce themselves to you one by one, then decide that they’re going to do a tournament-style set of battles. They don’t have enough players for it to start out evenly, though. They manage to convince you to join, and you agree on the condition that you get to battle Ken in the first round. It’s the only way you’d be able to hold back.

Anyone else and you’d end up with a quick and effortless burst finish.

Valt’s up first against Honcho- or Rantaro, you’re not sure which name to use since he introduced himself as Honcho, but all the others called him Rantaro. You’re surprised at how much skill is shown before you, you may have underestimated these players. Not like it matters, though. It’s then Shu against Daigo, and you already know the outcome before it starts. Finally, you end up against Ken.

You both take your positions, and you opt to not do any strength-inducing launches, so you keep it basic. You already know exactly how this match is going to do. Your eyes flicker up from the stadium to Ken, and he looks really focused on where he intends to send his bey. He makes it all too obvious that he’s going straight to the center. You barely give the launch 15% of your power, and you let him win with a survivor finish.

As if you’d have the heart to hurt him - Well, his ego. You congratulate him on the win, and remind the gang that you don’t blade that much, with a hand stretching the back of your head and a half-smile.

“No worries! At least now our tournament can continue!”

You lean back on the bench, examining the players’ battle styles. You focus mainly on Ken’s of course, and he’s a lot stronger than you had anticipated. You watch the battle between him and Valt, the underdog pulling through. It almost looked like a stroke of complete luck that he’d won against Ken, but as much as you’d like to say that, an experienced blader’s eyes like yours could catch the hidden skill that Valt has.

He comes and sits beside you, encouraging his friends. You tag along, rooting for them. Daigo sits on the other side of you, since there isn’t anywhere else to sit and his legs are tired. The two of you don’t exchange any words, but you gain a mutual respect for each other. You like his style, and he approves of you as Ken’s friend, you seem like a good pair to him. He won’t say that aloud, though.

That weekend, Ken calls you to see if you can hang out. You try your best to never turn him down, even ditching plans just to hang out with him, but you’ve got a battle in a tournament that you can’t miss. You feel bad about it, but it can’t be helped. You tell him that you’re busy, and he assures you that it’s alright and he’ll just go watch his friends battle.

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

You throw on your hood and a cloth facemask, adjusting the elastics on the sides to be comfortable. This mask is really breathable, and has a cool design that consists of two rows of cartoony sharp teeth. It’s perfect for concealing your identity while you blade.

Your opponent is already up on stage when you walk up, Hanami announcing you as the Mysterious blader, only known as X. You take a glance at the crowd, there seems to be more people showing up at your battles as time goes on. You refuse to go easy when it comes to important battles, so you steady your arms and plant your feet for maximum power.

3, 2, 1, LET IT RIP!

The crowd cheers, and your hood slips down from the force of your launch. That’s why the mask is important. The hand resting next to your hips subtly brings up three fingers. Then it hides one. One left. As you bring down your index, the opponent’s bey bursts. Six seconds, it seems you were feeling generous today.

Another quick glance at the crowd was intended only to observe their reaction, but your eyes caught someone unexpected. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The puppets on his hands seemed to be as surprised as him, their mouths wide open. Before he can make any sort of movement as your eyes linger on him, you shuffle over to the changing room. You try to be subtle when you leave, checking around corners before walking past, but that someone still manages to find you. He runs up to you, hugging you excitedly, but still gently, from behind, having Besu voice his excitement.

“I knew it was you!”

Keru’s quick to add on,

“Why didn’t ya go all out against Ken, though? You’re a really strong blader!”

You take a quick look around, making sure that nobody else is in the area before taking off the mask and hoodie.

“I wanna keep it on the down low. Getting challenged left and right isn’t too fun. And I didn’t have the heart to go all out.”

The last part was muttered, but Ken heard it. He chose to ignore it, though.

“You don’t enjoy lots of battles?” Besu sounded like he was a mix of sad and curious.

“Well, I’ll be honest, I underestimated your friends. I didn’t think they’d be fun to battle, but I might just have to one of these days. I’ll only do it in a competition, though.”

Ken nods, then stands still for a second. It seems there’s a lot running through his mind. His smile grows all of a sudden, and he hugs you again.

“We need to battle for real sometime, okay?”

You embrace the hug, then let go, with your hands still on his hips. You nod, agreeing to it. You may not have the heart to go all out right away, but you’re sure that if you do it enough, one day you two could have a really all-out, fun battle. The two of you have to go separate ways since it’s dinner time, but not before you promise to battle him often.

As you walk off, he finds himself staring at you in amazement. That opponent surely wasn’t weak, you were already a couple of rounds deep in the tournament. He had come to watch the previous battle, which featured Valt, but ended up staying because he was curious about Valt’s possible future opponents. He had gotten quite the reality check instead, realizing how awesome his friend is. Yeah…friend. 

That moment, Ken makes a big decision: 'That’s going to have to change. Next weekend.'

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

The next couple of days go by as usual, having lunch with the beyclub, and hanging out with Ken a couple of times throughout the week. Although, It’s hard to miss the way he seems to slowly inch closer to you when he’s near you, or how he may have messaged you a little more often than usual, asking how you were or if you remembered to eat. 

But Tuesday, that all stopped. He went quiet. You didn’t receive a 'Good morning, see you at school!' text. He didn’t have Besu pitch into the conversation, nor did he have Keru butt in with any snarky remarks during the beyclub battles after school. He still answered when spoken to, but he seemed very… out of it. Dazed? Like he had something else on his mind. You were worried about him, especially since you planned on hanging out with him in a couple of days. You have been planning this late-night meeting for a while now, and you really hoped that he still intended on coming.

But he didn’t move away when you moved closer to him, and he didn’t flinch when you put your hand in his and rubbed your thumb against it. You wanted him to know that you’d be there for him, no matter what. You wanted to so badly tell him that you- no. That can wait.

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

The night finally came. The sun was almost done setting, and Ken still hadn’t made it to your house yet. Now this was getting worrying. After debating for a few minutes, you finally sent him a text.

[“Hey, we’re still on tonight, right?”]

[“Of course, I’m on my way.”]

You let out a sigh of relief, unsure of why you ever doubted him. Of course you could trust him, he was the person that you were closest to, the person you cared about the most. 

You look up from your dark phone screen when you hear hurried footsteps. Ken speaks through Besu, telling you that his mom wanted help deep-cleaning the house. You give him a nod, and you gently grab his hand, (you grab Keru?), and lead him to your favorite clearing. You move the branches away, being careful as to not let them smack Ken when you let go.

Ken doesn’t notice that you two have made it to the clearing until you announce it, probably because the fairy lights weren’t on. You lead him to the blanket, getting him to make himself comfortable before finally turning on the lights with a “ta-daaa~”

You had meant for all this to feel a little silly, wanting to get rid of the tense atmosphere, but you immediately saw just about every worry leave Ken’s eyes as the lights flickered on. It’s like he was finally made aware of how dreamy the world could be, and it almost seemed as if his eyes twinkled when they met yours. 

Must have just been the lights. 

You sit beside him, eventually deciding to lie down once your arms got too strained from holding yourself up. The only thing filling the silence was the quiet buzzing of any nearby bugs, and the crickets. Ken let himself fall from his sitting position not too long after you did, and he was quick to pull you close to him. Impossibly close, even, as he had your head laying on his chest.

He’s never been this bold before, and you can easily tell that he’s nervous with how hard his heart is beating. You snuggle closer, if possible, and you’re almost on the brink of falling asleep. Before you can though, the fairy lights die out, allowing you to see the infinite amount of stars above you. There’s no better time than now.

“Hey.”

Ken slightly adjusts his head so his eyes can meet yours, but you don’t share his glance.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

His breath hitches. You catch the way his chest no longer moves up and down, and your lips waver, afraid you may have made a mistake. He most definitely understood what was implied, his reaction making it a dead giveaway. 

It’s silent for what feels like hours, the only thing breaking it being his uneven breath. Then, his light sobs. You immediately half-sit up, focusing all your attention on Ken. 

There’s a big, strained smile on his face, the kind that only shows when you’re the last person trying to convince yourself that everything’s alright. It begins to fade, and tears only begin to fall faster when you envelop him in a hug. He hugs you tighter, tighter than he ever has before, almost like he’s afraid to lose you. No, as if he’s afraid to leave you. 

You back off by a couple inches when his weak hold finally allows it, and you bring a hand up to wipe one of the many tears from his cheek. You eventually have to courage to raise enough for Ken to hear.

“Ken…did I say something wrong? I never meant to hurt you, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s not your fault that you loved me.”

You both sit in silence. Your hand weakly starts to weigh itself down, away from his face, while he avoids any kind of eye contact. This was the first time you heard his voice.

“I…I don’t want to leave. I can’t just leave you, you mean so much to me!”

He begins to ramble, and it starts to become hard to understand him when the tears come right back.

“Ken, my love, I’d never leave you. What makes you think-”

“No, no, my family. My family’s puppet shows are making me travel. I have to change schools. I have to leave. I have to leave you.”

.

.

.

“Oh.”

That’s what that meant. 

He’s leaving. 

You may never see each other again.

“...When?”

“I need to start packing tomorrow. I also need to tell the bey club.”

You nod absentmindedly, you mind trying to come up with any possible, futile ways to keep him here. When nothing useful comes up, you slowly reach your hands around his torso and lay down. He allows it.

He can feel a wet spot form on his shirt, but he only embraces you tighter. He strokes your hair as gently as he can, resisting the urge to burst out into tears again. It’s much harder when the love of his life is past that point, lying on his chest, and there isn’t much else he can do as comfort.

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

You awake the next morning to rays of sunshine crossing your face, and you groggily attempt to sit up, but the arms wrapped around you won’t allow it. You quickly recognize the fluffy, black hair you grew so used to, and the area in the woods that you loved so much. That was all you needed as confirmation that no, none of what had happened was a dream. Your eyes want to well up again, but your body refuses, still tired from last night.

Finally, Ken’s grip loosens a bit when he takes in the situation as well, but it quickly tightens again when the two of you are sat back up.

“Don’t you still have to tell the beyclub?”

“...Yeah.”

Ken makes no effort to move until you do, grabbing his hand and letting him take the lead to wherever he had planned on meeting the club. Before he turned the corner, he takes a deep breath in and plasters the usual smile on his face. You hadn’t let go of his hand, so he currently only has Besu on. 

You don’t plan on letting go any time soon.

Xander ends up interrupting the beyclub, and you all find yourselves at the Shakadera Dojo, the Beyclub battling the Swordflames. Halfway through the team battles, Daigo finally speaks up about something being off about Ken, and he slips his hand out of yours, swiftly making his way out of the dojo. You follow the beyclub, finally ending up at the top of a cliff, where they question Ken. 

You know it hurts. 

It hurts, even more, to say it out loud.

“Want me to tell them?”

He quickly looks your way, and his face is mixed with surprise, panic, sadness, and many other emotions. A slight nod towards you, and you somehow manage to utter out the words that Ken couldn’t. Only once it came to the part about him not wanting to leave could he finally speak up, and you could tell his eyes were starting to gloss over again, same as yours. It almost seemed as if a heavy weight was taken off his shoulders, only to be replaced with a heavier one. The clear emotions being shown by his friends didn’t help, and that made him want to get away as soon as possible.

Not paying attention to his surroundings, the rock beneath him crumbles, making him slip. He closes his eyes, preparing for the worst.

He opens his eyes to see your face, jam-packed with adrenaline. You pull him back up thanks to the help of the beyclub, and the two of you sit for a second, trying to comprehend everything that just happened. 

Then, Daigo lays out the idea that everyone will still be friends no matter where you are. That gives the rest of the club hope, and Ken’s eyes fill with determination. The two of you stand up, and you piggy-back off off Daigo’s idea, assuring him that you’ll be there for him no matter where you are. 

You refuse to let go of his hand once again, up until he has to get into the truck to make his way to his new home.

“Hey, don’t forget to shoot me a text anytime, okay?” 

Your nerves are getting the better of you, but Ken reassures you that he’ll keep in contact. He pulls you in for one last hug.

He doesn’t let go until his mom calls to him, and even then he waits another minute.

“I love you. And distance won’t change that. Don’t get hung up on me, though, go enjoy life.”

You let out a sad chuckle,

“As if I could ever move on. I’ll still love you, even with the distance.”

One last deep breath and he gets in the truck that begins to drive off.

The beyclub members shout their last goodbyes and you give the last word;

“Be safe, Love!”

May.21.23

#x reader #fanfic #beyblade #beyblade burst #beyblade ken #beyblade ken midori #beyblade burst ken midori #beyblade ken x reader #beyblade burst ken midori x readrr #ken midori x reader #kensuke midorikawa #beyblade kensuke #beyblade burst kensuke midorikawa #beyblade kensuke midorikawa x reader #beyblade burst x reader #long fanfic #strangers to lovers #strabgers to friends to lovers #fluff #hurt/comfort #comfort #angst #beyblade burst valt aoi #beyblade burst rantaro #beyblade burst daigo kurogami #daigo #daina kurogami #rantaro kiyama #valt aoi #shu

[purplekoop]

OFFICIAL BLOG POST ABOUT THE PLANT TWINK

So uh. full disclosure, this was meant to be a breakdown of the entire blog post, but there's not anything super interesting besides one piece of concept art I ended up having a LOT to say about and another tiny piece of info I'll explain in another post.

So, this post starts off showing the ideation for the basic design of the character, see here:

Here we see a wild array of drastically unique potential Support hero designs, varied in gender, ethnicity, and costume design, which the post says culminated into the final design. Gonna throw in a bit of personal speculation on what these earlier designs might've been planned to do:

The leftmost one seems to bending water or some other kind of substance as they float slightly off the ground. Possibly could've used water to help their teammates move around the map more freely? Definitely the simplest design of the bunch, but not bad either.

Next is a... wanting to say Japanese or Chinese but not totally certain man who appears to be holding small (acupuncture?) needles and carrying a gourd jar (I think? Not sure what they're called, again not totally sure please don't kill me). My guess is that he would've had a kit based in large part on traditional medicine from (whichever part of the world it is). I'm assuming that he would've thrown those needles as an attack/healing ability like Ana's darts, and the container would be some kind of throwable burst heal/utility? All that does sound just like a mix of Ana and Kiriko though, so that's why I'm assuming he got shelved. Okay so, belated edit: the only character of the 4 that has any specific accompanying text says: "One of these pieces features an older physician who drew healing energy into his hands and blasted it into his allies, a bit like Moira’s Coalescence." I misinterpreted this for a while as being for the fourth character of the set, but I realized this was almost certainly the "Older Physician" of the bunch. If I'm understanding it right this time, I think his healing would've essentially been healing with hadoukens?? I can definitely see this working visually with Lifeweaver's healing mechanic.

The detail sticking out to me the most is that he appears to have...

a Chronal Accelerator?? Probably not, but this does seem to be a very specific high-tech part of his design. Speaking of specific high-tech design details that remind me of other characters, there's one detail that did make it from this guy to the final design of Lifeweaver:

The little uhhh. Tube thingy. Around the collar. Yeah that. I don't know what it does. But they both got it!

Third design features a woman wrapped thoroughly in some kind of vines, with a familiar-looking flower behind her body (though this one 6-pointed instead of Lifeweaver's 5, which makes her look even more like Volcarona). I'd wager this is where the devs were starting to figure out how their ability ideas would be executed in a similar means to the end result. Personal theory: This character would've ended up being another Oasis scientist and would've been headcanonned to hell and back as Moira's rebound. Good for her.

Now oohohoohohohoooo, this last one

Look at this MAN. This ABSOLUTE LAD. Frankly I'm mad they showed this guy off, because now I wish this guy didn't get shelved.

With the exception of the plant themes, I think this guy could have very realistically had all of Lifeweaver's current kit, at least in some way. The large clock emblem on the ground could've materialized into the floating platform. And instead of pulling allies back to safety with a vine, my theory is that he would've had a targeted recall, sending allies back to where they were a few seconds ago.

This also ties into my hypothetical lore theory: This guy almost certainly would've had something to do with the Chronal tech that Tracer uses. This would go along with the trend of new heroes tending to have direct ties to existing heroes, and despite being the poster girl, Tracer doesn't really have any unique ties to other heroes outside of being friends from Overwatch, so having some character with at least a shared technology tying them together would've been interesting.

So uh. Yeah sorry flower boy, but if you and this guy were dangling off a bridge about to collapse, I know who I'd be saving.

But yeah! Very interesting set of concept art, and while sadly it doesn't seem like any one of these concepts went too far, or if they did then we didn't get to hear about what happened before they got shelved, it's still super cool to see them anyways. Always happy to get a chance to analyze Overwatch's hero design process.

#overwatch 2 #overwatch #long post #lifeweaver #overwatch lifeweaver #overwatch development history

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 41: October 1998

“You can’t stay in the closet forever.”

“Says you.”

“Are we talking literally or in metaphor?” Gerard asks.

Melanie glares at him. At least he thinks she’s glaring at him. It’s hard to tell under the fake fur glued all over her face. Gerard understands, kind of, why she doesn’t want to wear a mask, but he still thinks she maybe went overboard just a tad.

Not that he’s going to say that. Melanie may be small, but she is vicious, and even if her claws are made of rubber she’s more than capable of tearing him to shreds.

Turning back to the firmly closed door in front of her, Melanie presses against it and says coaxingly, “C’mon, Martin, we’re waiting on you. Your mum even says it’s okay if Gerry takes us alone this year. It won’t be any fun without you. Please?”

There’s a long, long silence. Finally, Martin’s muffled voice comes from the other side. “Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” Melanie promises.

“We’d never laugh at you,” Gerard assures him. “You can laugh at me instead.”

Melanie shoves him as she steps back from the closet door. “You don’t look that bad.”

It’s Halloween, not one of Gerard’s favorite holidays—the idea of a whole festival surrounding the things his mother studies and borderline worships is not his idea of a good time, and he’s a bit keener on the inherent mischief of Bonfire Night anyway—but Melanie loves it. Actually, what Melanie loves is dressing up in costumes and having fun, and Halloween is one of the few excuses she gets to do so, especially since they’re all beginning to get leery of the theater and its implications. This will be the third year running that one of the mothers in the support group for single parents holds a party all the children are invited to, and since Gerard strongly suspects this will be the last year Roger and Aunt Lily are members of that group, he’s agreed to go with Melanie and Martin. He’ll do just about anything for them.

Including wearing fancy dress.

The closet door opens slowly, and Martin steps out, very hesitantly. Gerard is shocked—not because it looks bad; on the contrary, the outfit thoroughly suits Martin—but because he knows Martin pulled this together himself.

“Oh, Martin,” Melanie says, sounding delighted. She claps her hands—paws, whatever. “You should’ve told me you were going as Dmitri, I’d’ve gone as Anya and we could’ve matched.”

Martin’s cheeks turn pink. “I wasn’t sure I could pull it off.”

“You did.” Gerard adjusts Martin’s cap—he thinks it’s called a flat cap—so that it sits at a slightly more rakish angle, then nods approvingly. “You look great. Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Martin tugs at the front of his vest a bit self-consciously. “You both look great, too.”

Gerard thinks he’s being generous, at least on his behalf, but doesn’t say so. Martin will just insist that no, really, he means it. And it has to be admitted that Melanie’s Beast costume is very convincing.

“C’mon,” he says instead. “Let’s go before we miss the train.”

It’s not that easy. Of course it’s not that easy. Roger insists on taking pictures of the three of them, both as a group and individually, and then Gerard has to fetch the encyclopedia—fortunately the Blackwoods have the same one he pulled from the library—to show him the entry on Veles he used as inspiration for his costume. They don’t get all the way out the door before Roger realizes Melanie’s tusks are still in the car, they only get as far as the stoop before Aunt Lily presses an umbrella on them, and they’re halfway down the block before Gerard’s mum calls after them that they’ve forgotten their train fare. By the time they finally get away, they have to run to catch the bus that will get them to Paddington in time to not have to wait a whole hour for their train.

For some reason, Gerard can’t figure out why, the party is in Oxford. He isn’t sure if the woman who’s part of the support group just comes all the way to London because there isn’t anything closer or if her family lives out there, and he’s not sure if Martin or Melanie know the answer either. This is the first year he’s gone, since he and his mum pop in and out of town so much and she left the group, and he’s not quite sure what to expect.

“It’s fun,” Melanie says when he asks. She’s popped the tusks out of her mouth again, as they make it difficult for her to talk effectively, and Martin has them folded into his satchel along with the bauble he found somewhere that somehow looks exactly like the music box from the film. “There’s treats and games and dancing, and there’s always a costume contest. I bet Martin’s going to win this year.”

“Yours is better,” Martin says. “Judith said they were going to maybe do one of those murder mystery games this year, too.”

“That’ll be…interesting,” Gerard says. He’s not sure if fun is the right word, and he doesn’t think he’ll be very good at it either. Martin will, though. Melanie, jury’s still out.

Fortunately, they’re not the only ones going to the party on the train, so not only does Gerard not feel particularly self-conscious about his costume (or about Melanie’s, for that matter), they can tag along with a parent who knows the bus routes well enough to get them to the house, which is on practically the other side of the town. Good thing the buses are running, too; the rain seems to have followed them up from London and all the way to the street, which is aptly named Hill Top Road. The site of the party is an enormous house, bigger than the others on the street, bedecked in crepe paper and cobwebs, and while Gerard looks slightly suspiciously at the cobwebs, Martin quietly assures him they’re fake. Since Martin has a way better sense of the Fourteen than even Gerard does, he trusts him.

Mrs. Bradford is plump and jolly and welcomes all the children with open arms and doesn’t even mention the absolute gouts of water pouring from the fake fur of Melanie’s costume because she wouldn’t stay under the umbrella, only showing her to the bathroom and offering her a towel to dry off. There are a couple girls dressed as Anastasia, eyeballing each other from across the room above identical store-bought costumes, and one or two dressed as what Gerard assumes are other popular characters, but most of the kids are dressed as witches, goblins, skeletons, or vampires. Food is laid out in the living room—popcorn balls, caramel apples, bowls of candy, cookies shaped like bats and pumpkins, and a gigantic crystal punch bowl—while the study has a metal tub in the center filled with water and apples to bob for. Another room has had all the furniture pushed against the walls, with music playing for kids who want to dance; still another is set up for games. A room filled with pillows and beanbag chairs seems ready-made for storytelling. All the rooms have the lights turned off, lit only by flickering, guttering candles, the perfect counterpoint to the rain still lashing at the windows.

Gerard has to admit, as far as spooky kids’ parties go, this one’s not bad.

He circles the rooms once or twice, just to see what’s going on. He declines to participate in the apple bobbing because of his false beard, but he joins a game of Cluedo and another of Beggar-My-Neighbor, tries to learn a party dance (made a bit awkward by the fact that his teacher is Melanie, who is somewhat hampered by her still-damp fur), then drifts into the storytelling room. Mrs. Bradford’s father, who was probably a schoolyard chum of Robert Smirke’s he’s so old, does an admittedly good job of telling a proper spooky story and making it sound real, about something that supposedly happened in one of the houses on this very street. It’s so convincing that Gerard might be tempted to go and investigate himself if it wasn’t still raining.

Choosing not to offer up a story himself—he knows plenty, but he lacks Martin’s way with words to tell them properly—he wanders through the kitchen. Mrs. Bradford is preparing something she calls a “snap-dragon”—Gerard isn’t sure what that is—and assures him she doesn’t need assistance, then kindly directs him to the washroom when he asks. He’s had more than a few cups of punch and he really needs to pee.

He manages to maneuver his costume such that he can relieve himself, then carefully washes his hands. After taking a moment to study himself in the mirror to make sure he still looks presentable, he reaches for the doorknob and starts to exit, then freezes when he hears a conversation in progress just down the hall. “—why you would even want to invite that one, honestly.”

“I didn’t.” The disgusted voice belongs to a girl he’s pretty sure is Judith, who’s Mrs. Bradford’s daughter. “Mummy insisted we couldn’t leave anybody in the group out, and certainly not just one person. Besides, they’re a matched set these days. Melanie comes with Martin and that’s all there is to it.”

Gerard bristles. Who do these brats think they are? Martin’s worth ten times any other person in this building, Gerard included, and they have no right to act like he’s a, a burden or an inconvenience or worse. He also knows that Martin would be perfectly happy to stay home and let Melanie go to things without him if he’s not wanted, because he feels like he’s making things less enjoyable for her. And really, considering there are more girls than boys among the children of single parents, it probably wouldn’t take much convincing to get him to stay home.

He’s about to step out and say something to that effect when the other girl, the one who’s not Judith, sighs heavily. “I don’t know what he sees in her, honestly. She’s so annoying. Always stepping in where she’s not wanted, and she never shuts up. And those clothes she wears.”

“Yeah,” Judith says with a nasty laugh. “Even a clown would be embarrassed to dress like that. And, ugh, her hair.”

“Good thing she’s covered in fur tonight. It’s less ugly than her face.” The other girl laughs, too, in a very mean way. “She definitely picked the right costume. Who could ever learn to love something like that? Martin’s just too nice to tell her the truth, that’s all.”

They’re talking about Melanie. Gerard feels suddenly lightheaded. Melanie, outgoing, vivacious Melanie—Melanie who’s the first to chat up the new kid on the playground or volunteer to sit with the person on their own at lunch, Melanie who tends to do the talking whenever they’re in shops, Melanie who actually likes people instead of just wanting them to either like her or not notice her like Martin and Gerard do—they don’t want Melanie here? Not that it was okay when he thought it was Martin, just that it was…typical. It shouldn’t be like that, but it is. But Melanie?

“It’s always good when the costumes fit the people,” Judith is saying, and then she jumps as Gerard flings the bathroom door open hard enough that it clatters against something and steps out into the hallway. “Who—oh, Gerard, is that you?”

“What did you say about Melanie?” Gerard demands, drawing himself up to his full height—which isn’t much, but is at least over Judith and the other girl—he recognizes her now as someone called Helen, who’s always very cagey about where she and her mother live but spends most of her time with the better-off kids in the group. Judith is dressed, aptly enough, as a witch, whereas Helen is one of the Anastasias, the one who didn’t bother with a wig. Something about that seems vaguely important, but not enough to bother about. They’re both, he remembers now, closer to his age than Martin and Melanie’s, evidently old enough to be in the catty stage.

Judith looks a bit flustered, but Helen wrinkles her nose. “You got stuck coming in with her, didn’t you? I’m so sorry. Maybe we can shove her outside, what do you think, Judith? If we convince her to reenact that scene from the movie, she might even go up on the roof and we can lock her out there.”

For a second, Judith actually looks like she’s considering that. Fury grips Gerard like a vice. “Don’t worry. We’re leaving.”

“You don’t have to go,” Judith protests, blinking very rapidly and clasping her hands in front of her chest.

“If my sister isn’t welcome,” Gerard snaps, “neither am I.”

“She’s your sister?” Judith blurts.

Helen frowns. “I thought her mother was dead. Or are your parents…divorced?” She says that like it’s the most horrid thing she can think of.

Gerard doesn’t bother explaining. He shoves past the girls and stomps down the hall in a blind fury. The rest of the kids are rushing towards the kitchen, giggling and chattering excitedly; Gerard snags the Beast and Dmitri as soon as they get close. “Martin, Melanie, come on, we’ve got to go.”

“Already?” Melanie sounds disappointed, even through the fangs. “They were just about to do a snap-dragon.”

Martin tugs Melanie’s sleeve. She doesn’t seem to notice. “That’s not safe with your costume. Come on, let’s say goodnight and go. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

It’s not, or at least it’s not so late that they have to leave, but Gerard doesn’t tell them that.

Mrs. Bradford tries to dissuade them from leaving when they (well, Martin and Melanie at any rate—Gerard can’t bring himself to be nice to someone whose daughter is so poisonous and nasty, and he finds himself bouncing on the balls of his feet and mentally urging them to hurry up already) thank her for the lovely evening; she brings up everything from the lateness of the hour to the rain and says that if their mothers can’t pick them up they’re welcome to spend the night, but Gerard simply says no and hustles Martin and Melanie out the door before anyone can say another word.

It really is a nasty night; the rain is pouring even harder than before, obscuring what little moon there ordinarily would have been, and it’s the kind of rain that chills to the bone, but Gerard is so hot he can barely feel it. He also doesn’t care that he doesn’t know Oxford well—or really at all—and only has a vague sense of which direction to head in to get to the train station. They’re also almost certainly going to have to wait for the next train, but it’s better, he tells himself, than dealing with…that. Melanie doesn’t need to be around people that hate her. She deserves so much better than that.

At the intersection at the end of the road, he starts to turn left, but Martin catches his sleeve. “Cross here and cut through the park, it’ll save us time.”

“We don’t—fine.” Gerard takes Martin’s hand on one side and Melanie’s on the other and practically drags them across the street, despite their protests. In a tiny part of his mind, he realizes he just put their lives in danger and what if a car had come along, but they make it to the other side in one piece, so who really cares.

The park is almost certainly closed by now, but nobody really stops them as they cross through a small copse of trees that offers a little shelter but is definitely not an official entrance by any means. There’s a rustle and a pop, and then Gerard is vaguely aware that he’s not really getting wet anymore. Melanie says, a bit anxiously, “Slow down, Gerry, we’ve got to bunch up together or we won’t all fit.”

“I’m fine. You two be under the umbrella,” Martin says. “This old thing’s keeping me plenty dry and warm. You guys are the ones that are never going to dry out.”

Gerard automatically takes the umbrella’s handle when Melanie presses it into his hand, then takes off again, as fast as he can. He’s only vaguely aware that Melanie is stumbling to keep up with him. Now he’s even angrier, and not just with Judith and Helen—are they the only ones that feel like that? Does every kid in the group think Melanie isn’t worth being friends with? He’s angry with himself, for not thinking this through, for not telling Mrs. Bradford why they’re leaving, for not telling Melanie and Martin why they’re leaving, for dragging them out into the rain, for not bringing a second umbrella, for making his costume out of velor instead of something that won’t hold onto the moisture like the robes are currently doing.

One thing’s for sure, he’s never growing real facial hair if it feels anything like this fake beard feels soaking wet.

Christ, it’s hard to see out here. Gerard sincerely hopes they’re still heading in the right direction, because visibility has dropped to just about nothing and there’s nobody out here. He imagines it’s probably a popular enough spot, during the day at least, maybe even usually on Halloween night, but this late and especially in this weather, they have it to themselves. It’s easy to believe it’s just them in the whole wide world, really, and it would be easy to lose track of Melanie if the sodden fur of her costume wasn’t tickling his hand.

“Martin? Martin! Gerry, stop, we lost Martin!” Melanie practically screams in his ear.

Every thought and cell in Gerard’s body comes to a sudden, screeching halt.

They’re in, so far as he can tell, a completely open field. There are no trees, no statues, no fences. Hell, it suddenly hits him that they’ve been climbing a hill, and that they’re probably standing at the highest point in the park, which would be dangerous if there was a thunderstorm going on but isn’t so dangerous when it’s just rain. The point, though, is that there’s nowhere for Martin to hide, no way they could possibly have lost him.

And yet, when he spins around, nearly losing his balance in the wet grass, he can’t see Martin. He can’t see anything.

“Martin!” he bellows. He’s afraid, suddenly, to let go of Melanie’s hand and cup his own around his mouth, afraid that if he does so she’ll get lost too even if she’s standing right next to him, but he tries to make an effective megaphone with his single free hand. “Martin! Where are you?”

Gerard feels the sudden shift of weight on the umbrella as Melanie lets go. Suddenly panicked, he drops it and reaches out with both hands to where she was a second ago—oh, Christ, please let her still be standing there—and gasps in relief as his hands make contact with sodden fur.

“Martin!” she yells, and then screams in what sounds like genuine fear as Gerard grabs her and pulls her close.

“Christ, Neenie, don’t let go of me!” he bawls back at her. “I’m not losing you too!”

Gerard can just make out the shape of Melanie’s face in the dark, but her eyes are so huge they’re practically luminescent. “He’s here, he has to be here!”

“We’ll find him,” Gerard promises fiercely, and he doesn’t know if he can really promise that, but he’s going to anyway. God, this is all his fault, if he had only thought a little harder about this…

Melanie grips his hand so tightly it hurts, and they start back down the hill, both of them yelling Martin’s name. There’s no answer but the rain, and the further down the hill they go, the harder it gets to be able to see. Everything feels…far away, somehow, and Gerard can’t even see the faintest hint of the city on the horizon.

Fuck, no, no, no…

“Neenie,” he says suddenly, coming to a stop. “This isn’t natural.”

“It’s rain,” Melanie says, but he can hear the hysterical edge in her voice. “It’s just rain, and—and it’s after sundown, and there’s no moon, and—”

Gerard pulls her closer and tries to quell the fear in his own voice. If it knows he’s scared, it’ll come for them too, and they’ll have no hope of getting Martin out. “Melanie, I know you can feel that too. How could we have lost Martin so easy if—if he didn’t have help getting lost?”

“No,” Melanie says, her voice cracking. “No, we can’t, it can’t—Martin!”

Gerard echoes her cry, but it feels…hopeless, somehow. Like he’s not going to be heard. It occurs to him then that their voices should be echoing, at least a little bit, but there’s nothing. The sound’s being swallowed up…or maybe it’s like it’s coming from all around them. There’s no way to tell, no way to be sure…Gerard isn’t even sure anymore that they’re going back the way they came, or that he’ll be able to find which way they’re supposed to be going if he does manage it.

Panic takes hold, and this time it’s not letting go. He cannot have been so feeble as to lose Martin to something like this…

He’s aware, suddenly, of music. Someone is singing, loudly and a bit off-key, but with a sincere feeling, like whoever is singing really means the words. It takes him a second to catch on to the fact that it’s Melanie singing, and he tightens his grip on her hand, letting the words filter into his brain. It sounds familiar, but he can’t place it.

And then he hears another voice, a bit faint but steady and clear, singing the next part of the song—at least he assumes it’s the next part, it’s the same tune anyway—from somewhere just ahead of them, and he gasps, because it’s Martin singing. He runs forward, Melanie dragging along with him, as she jumps back in with another line, and then she and Martin are singing together.

And then there he is, directly in front of them, what of his hair isn’t tucked under his cap plastered flat against his head and his hands tightly clenched, but it’s Martin and Gerard can see him. He gives a little cry and reaches out for him, just as Melanie does the same, and they grab his hands and pull him close and hug him tightly, and he hugs them back just as hard. For a moment, probably a too-long moment, they cling to one another in sheer relief.

Finally, Martin pulls back, just a little, and blinks up at them. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah. Don’t let go,” Gerard says. He’s still hopped up on adrenaline, and he tells himself that’s why he’s shaking.

It’s awkward to walk with his arms around Melanie and Martin’s shoulders, and their arms around his waist, but he doesn’t care, because it’s better than not knowing where they are.

They somehow make it to the train station, and Gerard manages to get their return tickets just in time for them to make the train—it probably isn’t the last one to London, given the hour, but he finds he doesn’t want to hang about in Oxford any longer than he has to. Unsurprisingly, the train is largely empty this time of night, so it’s not hard to find somewhere isolated they can sit huddled close to one another.

For the first several minutes, none of them speak. Then, after a bit, Martin eases back, fishes a handkerchief that’s somehow managed to remain dry out of his coat, and begins wiping his glasses, shoulders hunched and head bowed as he concentrates very hard on them.

Melanie bursts into tears.

Martin’s head jerks up, and he only just has time to shove his glasses back onto his face before Melanie crawls into Gerard’s lap and throws her arms around Martin’s neck. She’s not just crying, she’s full-on sobbing, and Gerard, who’s never even heard her sniffle before, admittedly panics a little again. He wraps one arm around her and another around Martin and pulls them both close, and it’s a bit like hugging a sponge in the middle of doing the dishes, but he does it anyway, because now his mind is running all the possible scenarios of what could have happened if he hadn’t been able to find Martin, if Melanie had got a little further away from him, if he hadn’t held either of their hands and hadn’t noticed them falling behind. Surprisingly, very few of them are concerned with what Aunt Lily would say.

“I’m sorry!” Melanie wails. “I’m sorry, I th-thought you were holding my hand, I d-didn’t realize you’d l-let go until we were so far away and then we couldn’t find you and it almost got you and it’s all my fault…”

“Melanie. Melanie. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Martin squeezes Melanie tighter, and Gerard too. “It’s not your fault. I should’ve said something before I let go, I just—I couldn’t see anything, my glasses were too wet, I was just trying to clean them off and—” He breaks off with a gulp, and it’s a second or two before he’s able to continue. “I-it was just—everything seemed so faraway. Like I couldn’t find my way out. I, I didn’t know It was there or I would’ve…”

“Not your fault, either,” Gerard says, and he’s a little surprised to hear the hitch in his own voice, but he doesn’t care. “I’m the one that made us leave early. I’m the one that dragged you two through that park instead of waiting until everybody else left so we could go in a group and be safe. I’m the one who didn’t hold your hands, and I’m the one who was too angry to sense the—”

He doesn’t say its name. He can’t. He doesn’t want to invite it onto the train, doesn’t want to risk it trying to take Martin away from him again, even with both him and Melanie clinging to him as tight as they can. What if it’s stronger than he is?

“It almost got you,” he chokes out. “And now it’s going to be looking for you again.”

Martin sighs. It’s too weary a sound to be coming from a ten-year-old. “I’m pretty sure it was already after me, Ger. I—I think I ran into it when I was little. I dunno. Maybe I’m wrong, but…I think that one tried to get me a long time ago.”

“We won’t leave you alone ever again,” Melanie says fiercely. Her voice is still as waterlogged as her costume.

It does make Martin chuckle, at least a little. Gerard rubs his cheek against his hair, dislodging the hat slightly, then looks down at Melanie. “Well, the other kids already think you’re a matched set, so that shouldn’t be too much of a problem, yeah?”

“We’re not getting married or anything.” Martin sounds slightly appalled, and Gerard can’t help but laugh. “And I don’t—Neenie deserves to get to have fun with people.”

Melanie finally gets her knees off Gerard’s lap and wedges herself in between them. She’s shorter than they are, so they can see each other over her head. “You’re people. And you’re fun. Why wouldn’t you get to come and have fun with me?”

“I don’t think many people want to invite us both.”

Gerard winces. “Um. That’s—that’s kind of why I made us leave.”

Melanie’s eyes darken, and her chest puffs up under the sodden costume. “Did someone say something mean? Who said it?”

“Probably a lot of people,” Martin mumbles.

“I—I only heard two,” Gerard says carefully. “Judith and, um, Helen, I think her name is? The Anastasia without the wig.”

“Yeah, that’s Helen.” Martin makes a face. “I knew she was just trying to play a joke on me.”

For a second, just a second, Gerard is tempted…but no. After the night they’ve just had, he needs to be honest. “It’s not you they didn’t want around, Martin. It’s Melanie.”

“Melanie?” Martin repeats, dumbfounded. “But everybody likes Melanie.”

“No, they don’t,” Melanie mutters. “They think I’m annoying. Like everybody at school. I—I thought maybe they were different, since they were inviting me to the party, but…I guess Mrs. Bradford made Judith invite me, huh?”

Martin holds onto her tighter. Gerard’s heart lurches. “Yeah,” he admits. “That’s what she said. That’s why I made us leave, that’s why I got so angry. You deserve better. You both deserve better.”

Melanie looks up at Martin. “I don’t want to leave you alone, but—what if I just walk you to hang out with people and then come back and get you? That way the people who like you can spend time with you, and—”

“They don’t like me either,” Martin says matter-of-factly. “They like the person I pretend to be so they won’t be mean to me. That’s all. I didn’t set out to be liked. I just wanted to be…”

Safe.

The word lingers in the air unspoken and stabs Gerard deeply. Martin certainly deserves to be liked, he deserves people who enjoy his company and want him around, just like Melanie does. He deserves friends. But Aunt Lily’s made him believe he doesn’t, and she’s made him believe nobody likes him if he’s who he really is, and so he tries to put himself into a tiny, tiny box and tick off all the right things on the list and be what people want, or at least what they expect, and he thinks if he does that he won’t get hurt.

But if Martin is right and the thing that just tried to hurt him—they’re not saying it, but they all know it’s the Lonely—has tried to hurt him before, the worst thing he can be is alone. And if he doesn’t have friends, real friends, he will be, even in a crowd. Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is in the middle of thousands of people and knowing that not a single one of them cares whether you live or die.

Gerard should know.

“We like you,” he says, yanking Martin’s cap off with one hand and ruffling his miraculously still dry hair with the other, teasing a grin out of him. “We love you. We always will. No matter what, don’t you ever forget that—you’ve always got us. Always.”

“Always and forever,” Melanie echoes.

Martin scoots a little closer, squeezing Melanie tighter between them and accidentally wringing water all over their laps, and for once he doesn’t immediately apologize. “I know. Just like you’ll both always have me.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest) #tma fanfic #gerard keay #martin blackwood #melanie king #halloween #panic tw #paranoia tw #bullying tw #implied/referenced emotional abuse #darkness #brief scenes of missing child

[darkicedragon]

Onto Steven Universe: Future. I thought I was starting completely new, but turns out I’ve watched more than I realised, haha. I guess I’m pretty certain I didn’t watch the ending of it though, but we’ll find out. XD

Up to episode 11.

Ep1 Yessss, a new intro finally! :D

Oooooh, he’s healing the gems with....the Diamonds’ tears, I guess? And he drives!

This is just ‘what everyone’s doing now’ montage, huh. I wouldn’t have thought Lars would have stayed on Earth though.

Oooooh, yesssss, teaching the gems how to be a person!

Yeah, it’d make sense Jasper didn’t want to join with everyone.

Daaang, Steven’s angry.

Awww, Jasper just wanted to fight someone! She was super happy doing that!

ep2 Integrated gemmms, yesss.

Yeah, okay, Smilie really needed as much help as he could get. 8′)

......Yeah, fine, it’s all the jobs they were made to do and are comfortable with.

l;skdfjldkfj They just want to hear screams, oh my god, ahahahah.

They’re so adorable!!

ep3

The zoo people are back! And hate Greg, ahahaha, awww.

Oooooh, boy the third Rose Quartz.

The reaction to the ‘Rose’ Rose quartz are just great, aaahaha.

Yeah, understandable where the picture ended up. 8′)

ep4

Pink’s previous Pearl, and healing the gem! :D

But the gem’s not damaged though... Ah, yeah.

Refurbishment doesn’t sound good...

Recent!Pearl, no, don’t take other people’s stuff. >8(

Ouuuch, that crack...

‘I was just standing in the wrong place.’ Ouch. 8(

Thaaat’s a temper, Steven.

‘How did you stop hurting?’ ‘I didn’t.’ Ouuuuuuch.

Attacking with the ribbon though! Wasn’t expecting that. Nice. :D

Ep5. Garnet episode when. :(

Ooooh, pranking! Not very good, but they’re trying their best!

A fusion! :D

I mean, everyone’s tried to kill Steven at this point anyway.

Bluebird is still fake though.

Yeeeep, ahahah.

YOOOO, GREG CUT HIS HAIR 8000

I did expect he could survive the fall, but yeah, wasn’t expecting the haircut, damn.

The ice swords are cool.

lj;sldkfjasdf Oh my god, the Alexandrite fusion was just so quick and squashed them, ahaha.

Ep6 Playing with Onion, awww.

Oh! Rainbow! :D

Ooooh, noooo, don’t gieve Union the umbrella...

Sunstone!

Awww, Onion’s so happy. 8′) And. So destructive.

Ep7 That’s a super precise alarm time, Steven.

Whoooof, Steven is just so uncommunicative with the others.

Pearl transformation! :D

OH, OKAY, this is just all the fusion cameos, ahaha.

Yessss, Sapphire!

Updated tag. :D At least he’s sort of relaxing now.

Ep8 Lapis episode finally!

Adorable plants!

:o More Lapises.

‘Terraforming is what we like’ Yeeeah, fair.

Wow, Lapis is so green now. 

Yeeah, the twins are going to make a weapon ins - yep.

Lapis and Steven dancing together is cute though. And awww, Lapis’ song.

‘Like Pearls’ Whoof.

The twins work really well together, and learn super fast too. I was kinda hoping they’d fuse, but at least one of them decided to go the Homeschool.

Ep9 Sadddiiieee! :D Is dating! :o

Yeeah, everyone’s leaving. 8′)

Awwww, the Off Colours graduated together. 8′)

Steven is so out of the loop now, dang. Too busy with running the Homeschool?

Awww, Sadie’s song was sweet. She’s less angry now. :)

That was way too understanding from everyone after they nearly died. It felt a little rushed.

Just. Give the Homeschool to Amythst.

Ep10 No safety rails on the greenhouse. D: Not that it matters to anyone who goes up there, but what if they’re fully human. DD:

Ooooooh boy. Steven still isn’t letting go of everyone...

Welp, there goes/comes the cactus.

The pot’s too small for them n - oh NO it can speak. 8′))))

Noooo! Don’t hide the cactus!

Steven, I think you could figure out what happened with the SMASHED WINDOW NEXT TO THE DOOR.

Escaped! WITH NEEDLES EVERYWHERE.

SO MANY NEEDLES EVERYWHERE.

Shouldn’t the cactus die with too much water?

Ooooh noooo, a hug. XDDD

-- Hmmm, typing out the reaction to the episodes, it does feel pretty bitty and monster/issue of the week, rather than something overarching. Or just a very gentle epilogue, and the overarching issue is Steven’s anger and finding a place for himself that isn’t connected to his mum.

But I guess I’ll find out, pfft.

#d liveblogs #steven universe

[chorusfm]

Barely Civil

Recently I was able to schedule a Zoom call with one of my favorite up-and-coming emo bands in this scene, Barely Civil, who are gearing up for the release of their highly anticipated third LP. The record will be called I’d Say I’m Not Fine, and it was produced by Chris Tetti. In this interview, I asked the band members about the exciting new direction they took on this new LP, what they looked towards for inspiration, and much more. I’d Say I’m Not Fine will be available on March 22nd via Take This To Heart Records, and pre-orders are live. So thank you all for your time tonight. First of all, let’s talk about the lead single called “Coasting Mostly” which came out before the new album was announced. I think it is a great transition from what you guys have done in the past and then moving the needle forward in your music. So can you talk about how that one came together? CONNOR ERICKSON (HE/HIM): Yeah, that one came together very much in the way that all of our songs come together. We write everything very collaboratively. Nobody really comes to practice with question ideas. And “Coasting Mostly” was one of those that we were coming to the end of a pretty long practice, and Alex just kind of started playing the riff. And we kind of like to try and figure things out on the fly. And that one came together really, really quickly. It was one of the more natural tracks we had written. It was also one of the first tracks we’ve written for the new record. And so I think it really set the tone for how we wanted to approach this most recent record. It’s aggressive, punchy and loud. And I think we kept a lot of that same energy throughout the writing process, and I think this record has been shaped a lot by “Coasting Mostly.” And can you talk about the lyrical process of putting that track together? And also, if that was typical for how you do your lyric writing? CONNOR ERICKSON (HE/HIM): Yeah, so when it comes to lyric writing, I’m revising and reworking lyrics up until we track them. But “Coasting Mostly” was one where that first line of, “you feel so small, it almost feels like you’re not there at all,” that was one that came out when we, for Lent, that was the first thing that I said, when that riff was shown. And so, thinking about this sort of unreciprocated care that we put into everything we put it into the relationships we have, the acquaintances that we have, we put that same care into our jobs and into all these places that sort of hold power over us. And I think that sitting down and thinking about that, I really felt like this song…all of our songs have the same sense of sincerity and of truth to the moment. But that song was a culmination of emotions that I had been feeling for years. We had to, obviously, take a break when everybody else did for COVID. And the sort of pent up frustration and aggression, that came with losing your job, and losing the friendships that you have, and sort of trying to pick up those relationships, virtually over phone, and then try and figure out how to how to piece those back together, I started to feel like a lot of the people that I cared a lot for sort of stopped caring about me. And not in a way where I’m bitter about it, but in a way where it was just like, wow, this is the reality of the world we live in. People have moved past these friendships and moved past these moments. And so I really felt like I was getting a lot more care in a world that didn’t care how I was doing or didn’t care about how present I was at any given time. And yeah, so I think thematically that that was a really big driving force behind the rest of the record. I think it put me writing those lyrics out, and put me in a place of feeling confident again, feeling like, “Okay, I know where I am. I know where I want to be. I know, lyrically and musically, what I want to do.” So it was a confidence booster for me, and I think it was as sincere and as honest as we always are.  That’s awesome. I’m glad you kind of found your voice again… https://chorus.fm/features/interviews/barely-civil/

[nikitafiber]

Appliqué

I used a small piece of a found fabric with a design/ print and attached it onto a plain found fabric. I did this using the blanket stitch, this is the stitch that I learnt in my embroidery exploration!

The start to the blanket stitch can be confusing, so my first couple stitches are slanted (probably because I had only practiced on one fabric, rather than two), but I soon got it. I definitely recommend refreshing on the technique before you start trying to do it to ensure that the stitches are square and uniform. In this example, I explored turning the stitch. I was very excited that I was able to do this since the stitch is not the most straightforward, so figuring out how to turn with a presentable result was very exciting!

I also explored varying the distance between the edge of the patterned fabric and how far out I would go into the green base fabric. The shorter the distance, the cleaner the result, but with a larger distance I was able to achieve a different look. It is also important to note that I used the full 6 strands of embroidery floss for this.

I discovered that the blanket stitch technique involves a fair amount of geometrical thinking. This is because to get an even stitch, you need to plan for the next stitch and so on, so when you stitch onto the fabric that is being attached and leave the loop to come up, the needle needs to be aligned between this hole and the initial one. Since this stitch requires a fair amount of forethought to achieve nice uniform stitching, I thought I would draw a diagram that might be useful.

So, this is the way I reasoned through the stitch. I looks crazy, but I drew this out so that I can easily reference this before and during the blanket stitch.

For me, using a triangle helped significantly. By making the third hole in line between the first two holes, ensuring a right angle, the stitch comes out in a uniform pattern.

[pastxlscorp]

Bully! Mitsuya Fanfic (pt.1)

Chapter I: Inception

✿ Word Count: 2.1k

✿ Pairing: Takashi Mitsuya x reader

✿ Topics covered: (Eventual) Enemies to lovers trope, Y/N POV, tsundere-Mitsuya, bully! Mitsuya, fem. reader, minor manga spoilers, Bully! Mitsuya headcanons from last post

He lifted his large palm, coated in silver and black rings to match his attire. He was wearing a black mock turtleneck that matched his jet black hair. In his youth, he had lilac-colored hair that was either in a buzz-cut or grown out to a mullet. Now, he sported his black hair in his college-years. He was studying to become a fashion designer, a dream he had since his youth after his love blossomed for sewing. It had begun as a chore in order to keep his sisters satisfied and happy, saving money from buying toys by simply creating them himself. As he practiced it more and more, he began to realize how intricate fabrics were. How beautiful colors could come together and form the prettiest structures and designs -- how even the ugliest colors would look elegant if you paired them properly with the right colors, or carefully took apart the threads to create something new. You on the other hand were not studying to become a fashion designer, but rather a photographer. In your youth, you were a free-lancer in art and a quiet overachiever. You had many different career options open to you, but nothing really opened you up in the way art did. You participated in many different types of art, you loved painting, sewing, embroidery, name it, you’ve probably dabbled in it. One day, your class was introduced to your photography unit and all the puzzle pieces fell into the designated places, the pieces being lost and untouched for years. Nothing brought you more joy than snapping someone’s photo on the street to surprise them with the way the sunlight beautifully encapsulated their figure. Nothing brought you more joy than taking an eerily aesthetic photo of the rain pouring on the people below your building as a lady frolocked in the rain below, eager to rejoice in mother nature’s beauty.

Truthfully, your relationship had not started out the way it was now. With his palm ever so elegantly shoving you to the floor, your photographs spilling out of your portfolio as you hit the cold tile floor, protecting your chest by landing on your elbow and knee. Snickers, chuckles, giggles-- they all filled the hallway after seeing you collapse. Only a select few actually took pity on you, including one of his loyal followers, Hakkai Shiba. Mitsuya was usually followed around by two close-friends, Yasuda-san and Hakkai. Yasuda-san was also a fashion major, while Hakkai was planning to become a model. Mitsuya was very well respected amongst the campus for many different reasons. Firstly, he was gifted with the intellect of sewing intrigue designs that made everyone sigh in awe. Secondly, pretty-privilege. You hated to admit it but Mitsuya was a very attractive-looking man, his hair was always fluffed to the right extent, he was well-dressed, and leading into the third reason, he was smart. Despite being a part of the Tokyo Manji Gang, otherwise known as Toman, as one of the second division captains, he was able to manage schoolwork as an overachiever and was known for his intellect. Not to mention, keeping his division in check along with his two younger sisters AND the sewing club that he managed at his school? It was no wonder he was seen as the perfect boyfriend, he had all of his together. This was the reason why his disregard of you was seen as acceptable, everyone assumed you must have done something wrong for him to treat you this way, right?

Incorrect assumption. You have never done anything wrong to Mitsuya-- in fact… you don’t really remember doing anything to him, period. You both met by chance in his home-economics club, which he decided to suggest to the college board upon seeing there was not a club that actively encouraged sewing. At the time, most participants on campus were graphic designers, artists, not really looking to take the fashion industry by storm as Mitsuya was. However, he was able to persuade the board and even got petition signatures to seal it all off. He was the president of the club and upon seeing the posters taped in the hallways, you instantly took the opportunity to get any extracurricular activities on your transcript. He welcomed you into the club but it wasn’t like you got that much of his attention-- after all, the club filled up quickly with Mitsuya’s admirers. Although, shortly before he began his cruel treatment and behavior towards you, it actually seemed like you two were becoming friends. He would begin to check on you a little more frequently than the rest, tapping your shoulder with a warm smile, asking you how your project was going. You would show him your small projects, nothing too big as it had nothing to do with your major, but projects that you enjoyed and had fun doing nonetheless. He seemed most amused by the sweater you created for your dog by letting out a soft chuckle. In return, he showed you the sweaters he made for his sisters, who were now teenagers. It became a routine for him to walk over to you after checking up on everyone else and talk until club hours were over. He’d find anything to talk about and it made your heart swell with how he actually took the time out of his day to make sure you didn’t feel alone. You were sure he had picked up on how you lacked friends in his club, he was clearly trying to make you feel welcome and you couldn’t help but begin to admire him even more than you once had.

One day, however, it suddenly changed. His demeanor was suddenly cold and unwelcoming to you. You noticed when you walked into his club as you normally did, taking your seat. He did not visit you within the 10 minutes it usually took him to check upon everyone else. It took much, much longer, so you simply assumed everyone needed more help than usual. However, when he came over to your table, his words startled you so much that you pricked yourself with your needle, rushing your eyes to meet his own at his sudden harshness.

┃ “Looks like someone isn’t paying attention.”

The venom in his words made your cheeks flush with a tint of red, noticing some of the club members staring at you, also in surprise of his harsh tone. You open your mouth, quickly questioning his behavior, all of your words coming out panicked, in fear you’ve done something wrong-- something to disappoint, or upset him.

┃ “What do you mean, Pres? My projects have never been an issue before.”

┃ “Nicknames are a privilege. Call me by my proper title.” He snapped, your peers widening their eyes, for he never required anyone to call him by his last name.

┃ “...President Mitsuya, I apologize. However, you can’t just--”

┃ “Look around,” he motions his arm towards the surrounding students working at their tables, sewing much larger projects and others measuring their models for their designs. Your right eyebrow began to raise in confusion, he had never minded your small projects. Yet, here he was, embarrassing, no-- humiliating you in front of your peers about how minuscule your projects were in comparison.

┃ “Your peers all have their mind set on a big project or several larger projects. Yet, here you are with your small little trinkets. They’re working hard, and you’re doing the bare minimum to have your work completed for this club.”

Tears began to prick your eyes, questioning what his true motive was here. Surely, the projects weren’t the issue. This… this was too strong of a switch-up. Something had triggered this outburst of his, but you weren’t sure what. He was always stressed, all the time actually-- had he perhaps overwhelmed himself and he was taking it out on you?

┃ “(Y/N).” Your name so violently came out of his mouth, as if it had just crashed on cement. It wasn’t the silky and softer voice you were accustomed to hearing when speaking with him. “Get your head out of the clouds. Are you listening?”

┃ “Sir… I mean, President Mitsuya, with all due respect, you seem to be… unfairly targeting me. Some of these students are creating something as simple as a sweater for their friends, why is something for my dog any different?”

The rest of the club began planning your funeral. While never seeing him this upset on school grounds, they have heard about how foul he could get with his division members. Questioning him was bound to make him explode. They all froze, eyes drifting to Mitsuya for an incoming scolding.

┃ With a harsh grab, his fingers glide under your chin as he lifts it up to meet his face directly. “'You questioning me?”

┃ “N-no sir! I mean no disrespect, I just-”

┃ “You’ll be staying after club hours.”

┃ “B-but sir I have-”

┃ “I was NOT asking.” He half-shouts, dropping your chin from his harsh grip as he makes it back to the front of the classroom where he continues to work on his own projects. Your fellow club members pitied you at first, but after seeing how harsh he got later on with you as the bullying continued, they assumed this was the result of an external conflict.

You don’t remember what he told you after club hours. He was yelling something about how you were stupid, a dumbass, and well, you get the rest. Cruel words were thrown at you as if the day before he wasn’t so fondly helping you with the sweater for your dog-- helping you perfect the stitch of his name. Any time you questioned him or flat-out denied his accusations and heinous words, he would yank your chain and pull you so you were right in front of him as he stared down at you. It was enough to scare you out of ever providing a rebuttal, and you soon learned that as the bullying continued.

Now, here you are, on the floor, calmly collecting your portfolio photographs, not even phased by his now-normal harassment. Usually, a shove would be enough to appease him, but today it seemed like one of those days where he wanted more. He walked over to your kneeling figure as you collected your portfolio, your head turned away from him to avoid giving him any form of satisfaction.

┃ “What do you say after you bump into someone?”

┃ “I didn’t bump into you, dickhead.”

With a swift motion, he forcefully grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him, his lavender eyes piercing straight through you. He was clearly unsatisfied with your response.

┃ “What do you say after you bump into someone, skank?”

Every time you questioned him or talked back, you knew it simply made him angrier. You quickly learned that him acting out was his way of earning your attention, but for whatever reason it was, you couldn’t figure out why. What you did learn, however, from your many other incidents with him, is that he would praise you when you were obedient. Eager to get this over with and save yourself any more humiliation, you replied:

┃ “I’m sorry.”

┃ “I’m sorry…?”

┃ With a sigh, you continue, “I’m sorry, President Mitsuya.”

He smirks, now satisfied with your answer. He taps your cheek with his right index finger and replies:

┃ “Good girl.”

You swipe your face away from his grasp and continue collecting your photographs, along with your notebooks and planner that had slipped out. Mitsuya scoffs as you once more retract your attention away from him and walks away with Yasuda-sun snickering. Hakkai, however, stays behind and examines you for a few brief moments. He walks over to you and begins helping you organize your bookbag. You look up and smile-- despite his silence, his eyes offered every form of apology he could give you. You had learned Hakkai was afraid to speak up to Mitsuya because he was his best friend and was afraid any talkback from him would only result in a deeper hatred for you. You didn’t mind, however, you just appreciated how Hakkai kept you grounded. He helped you remember you didn’t do anything wrong, this was Mitsuya’s doing and his alone. Hakkai was always well-dressed as well, you noticed. He was wearing an incredibly long trench coat with beautiful shades of baby blue, ocean blues and a bright orange that made everything pop. It covered a black mock turtleneck that seemed to be matching the one Mitsuya was wearing and in fact, Hakkai also seemed to have an earring on one ear, similar to Mitsuya. It appeared that he deeply respected Mitsuya, his outfit seemed to be heavily inspired by his own. With everything settled in your bookbag once more, he offered you a pat on the head with a smile as you nodded and thanked him before running off to your first class of the day.

✿ a.n. // I finished this chapter while finishing my AP Psychology hw. I had started writing it and then idk why but I was re-reading the manga and went “wait, now what if we have Hakkai and Yasuda-san…” and ta-da, take my 2.1k words of pure a$$. If this chapter does well, I’ll be sure to upload it on my ao3, too. special tags for @the2ndl and @bren-heron because they both really wanted a fic out of this concept. I hope you enjoy loves <3

#tokyo revengers #tokyorevengersfanfic #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers mitsuya #takashi mitsuya #takashi mitsuya x reader #tokyorev #tokrev #tokyo rev fanfic #tokrev fanfic #tokrev x reader #tokyorev x reader #tokrev x you #tokrev x y/n #tokyorev x yn #tokyo rev x you #mitsuya headcanons #takashi mitsuya headcanons #mitsuya hcs #mitsuya x reader #mitsuya x you #mitsuya x y/n #tokyo revengers takashi mitsuya #tokyo revengers hcs #tokyo revengers headcanons #tokrev headcanons #tokrev hcs #tokyorev hcs #tokyorev headcanons

[robininthelabyrinth]

Wen Ruohan/Wei Wuxian?🍉

Forked Path - ao3

“You did me a favor, and I intend to repay that,” Wen Ruohan said, adjusting one of his gauntlets in irritation – more at the fact that he was sinking back into that old nervous tic, a tell that he’d thought he’d eliminated years ago than at the actual request, ridiculous as it was. “But to confirm, you’re certain that this is what you want? It’s not in my nature to stop midway, so if you have any hesitations, exercise them now or not at all.”

The two rogue cultivators looked at each other and after a few moments of clear silent communication and struggle, they looked back at him and nodded. The man did so reluctantly - Wen Ruohan looked at his wife, the immortal mountain’s disciple, and her nod was far more firm.

“Very well,” he said, lips twisting in distaste. He hated owing people favors, especially when they rejected his preferred counter-offer to graciously allow them to work for his sect, but he wasn’t yet so ungracious that he wouldn’t live up to something he had to do. “We are therefore agreed: in the event both of you die prematurely, I will take your son into my sect to be raised therein, rather than allow him to be raised alone outside or in the Jiang sect."

He paused, frowning. "To be clear, however, I am not going to raise him myself! He’ll be brought up among one of the branch families.”

Dafan Wen had some kids around the same age, didn’t they? That was pretty out of the way. With luck, he could avoid having to see the brat at all…and that was all assuming that these two died, of course. Still, based on their level of certainty and the association of the immortal mountain with divination, Wen Ruohan was going to assume a worst-case scenario was likely to occur.

“That’s fine,” the man said, his voice oddly sarcastic. “We don’t expect you to do more for us than you do for your own children.”

That pricked at Wen Ruohan’s pride, since he didn’t have a conscience to be affected.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked with a frown. He had two sons of his own, and they were being raised perfectly well by his wives, as far as he knew. It wasn’t really his concern until they were old enough to actually start getting started in cultivation, swordsmanship, or even the scholarly arts, at which point he would naturally take over their education with the assistance of many able tutors – he was far too busy to waste time with them, squalling brats that they undoubtedly were, until then.

“Nothing,” the woman said, and she looked amused – he almost suspected she was amused at his expense. “After all, with hard work, even the sharpest sword can be ground down into a needle.”

That wasn’t how that idiom went at all, but Wen Ruohan was too lazy to correct her.

Later, though, after they’d left, her words kept pricking at him in the same matter as idiomatic needle – it occurred to him that he didn’t much like his wives, even though the connections they’d brought to his sect were exceedingly beneficial. It was said that where there was a father, there was a son, the two invariably resembling each other, and he’d assumed that that would be the case here…but on the other hand, if he left all the initial raising of his sons to those wives he didn’t like, wasn’t he risking them raising the children to be just like theminstead of him? Grinding down his sons’ edges, so to speak?

That would be utterly unacceptable.

He was so busy, though. Beyond his own cultivation, his sect now controlled over a third of the cultivation world, and he was ambitious to raise that to half, and then perhaps even further. How could he waste time on something as pointless as taking care of small children?

On the other hand, he supposed that in the long run he’d actually be saving time if he at least made sure they were raised up right. After all, he’d always assumed that his two sons would be his right and left hands, his able aides capable of enacting his will, and obviously it would be a disaster to find out later on that they’d been spoiled rotten or rendered stupid....

No, he was sure his arrangement was fine. How much damage could his wives do in just a few years?

…perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad an idea to check in on them.

Just to make sure.

He definitely wasn’t going to raise that stupid Wei boy, though. Favors had limits!

-

“Your accomplishments do you credit,” Wen Ruohan said to Wen Qing, and even meant it the way he didn’t mean most of the things he was forced to say at these stupid discussion conferences.

After all, Wen Qing was of his bloodline, if distantly – Dafan Wen was a branch family – but at any rate, they shared a surname, and it was sheer pleasure watching her put all those other ‘promising’ young masters in their place. Anything that added a sheen of glory to his sect was a good thing.

She saluted deeply, trying to hide the way she was beaming, and Wen Ruohan wondered once again if it was time to bring her back to the Nightless City as his ward instead of leaving her out in the wilderness with the rest of Dafan Wen. To get the sort of medical skills she had at her age showed promise and talent, and he needed people of promise and talent, especially ones with his surname, if he were going to make good on his intention to conquer the cultivation world.

He would’ve brought her back years ago, in fact, except that Sect Leader Nie said that children were fidgety, flighty creatures that were bad at dealing with change and that he’d be better off sending medical texts and tutors to Dafan Wen rather than bring Wen Qing back to the Nightless City over her father’s protests. Normally, Wen Ruohan would have disregarded advice he didn’t like and proceed with his own intentions regardless, but Sect Leader Nie had been helping him deal with his own sons ever since he’d reclaimed them from his wives, who he’d discovered had been ruining them, and it seemed unwise to dispute with him regarding matters of child-rearing at that point. After all, if he wanted Wen Xu to end up as even half the son that it looked like that Nie Mingjue was going to be, he needed the man’s expertise, and that meant making compromises, irritating as it was.

Compromises like not just killing Wen Qing’s father for refusing to hand over his children, despite it being easier to accomplish. Or not killing Sect Leader Nie himself, no matter how irritating the man was, because now his sons loved that old bastard.

(Wen Ruohan had spitefully decided to get back at Sect Leader Nie by spoiling his youngest son, who seemed at first glance to be more like the lazy scholarly type, beyond belief. It seemed to be working very well so far, including in causing Sect Leader Nie no end of frustration at his extremely clever-when-it-came-to-evading-work second son; Wen Ruohan, satisfied, viewed this result as being wholly due to his own efforts.)

“How did you find that talisman you mentioned in your last paper?” he asked Wen Qing lazily. “I hadn’t seen it before. Was it in one of the books I sent, or somewhere else?”

In truth, that had been the most interesting aspect of the presentation from his perspective – he didn’t have either talent or interest in medical cultivation, but he could recognize firepower when he saw it. Just because the talisman worked on disrupting things at a very small level for medical reasons didn’t mean it couldn’t be repurposed for larger things…

“Oh, no, Wei Wuxian invented it,” Wen Qing said. “He used it to blow stuff up until I convinced him to make a smaller version for me.”

“Wei Wuxian?” Wen Ruohan asked, frowning, and then recalled – ah, yes, the Wei boy. His parents had died some five or eight years back, if he recalled correctly, and he’d had to go fetch him pursuant to that old agreement; it had been extremely annoying at the time. He’d been in the middle of a very nasty argument with Sect Leader Nie at the time, the one that had led him to think his most serious thoughts to date of eliminating the man entirely, and then, just as he’d been on the cusp of making a decision, he’d received word of the deaths of Cangse Sanren and her husband Wei Changze.

Naturally, he needed to find and recover their son as he’d promised long ago, which given how unreliable reports of the location of rogue cultivators was naturally became a colossal waste of time, but on the bright side it had at least given him a chance to vent his spleen and get out some of his rage on something other than wringing Sect Leader Nie’s neck. It turned out that Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze had died in some obscure night hunt in Yiling, but figuring that out had all but taken a full-scale canvass of six different territories – and then Sect Leader Jiang, who hadn’t bothered to do anything near the same level of search and had opted to search the various towns individually on his own, as if that would ever work, had tried to leapfrog off the back of his hard work, thinking he could just thank him and take the boy away just like that.

Wen Ruohan had refused, of course – he had the parents’ personal request, and that outweighed Wei Changze having been a former servant of the Jiang sect or Cangse Sanren being possibly a former lover of their sect leader – and it had turned into something of a political mess for a while.

That had been where he’d gotten most of the venting out, actually.

Sect Leader Nie had sided with him in that fight, though, rather viciously, and by the end of it all Wen Ruohan was reminded of why exactly it was that the man was a useful ally to have around. He’d also forgotten what exactly they’d been fighting about, but he wasn’t going to admit that, so he just magnanimously forgave him. It had all turned out rather all right, and Wen Ruohan had put the boy out of his mind shortly thereafter.

Why would he come up now, all of a sudden?

No, wait, he’d sent him to Dafan Wen, just as he’d planned. And of course Wen Qing was from the main branch of Dafan Wen as well – she would’ve been raised with Wei Wuxian as a little brother.

“How is he doing?” he asked, more out of etiquette than actual interest, but Wen Qing lit up and started talking about how her little shidi was a verifiable genius, and so good with her actual younger brother, and whatnot. Wen Ruohan nodded, pretending he was listening, and cast his eyes around the rest of the discussion conference, looking for a distraction – there was Sect Leader Nie, who was generally good for a laugh, but he was scolding that second son of his for failing one of Lan Qiren’s classes and having to be sent a second time over. Jiang Fengmian was comforting him, telling him that he was sending his son as well this year, and of course Jin Guangshan’s heir was of age as well, and would undoubtedly be going, too…

Hmm.

“If he’s such a genius, he should interact more with his peers,” Wen Ruohan announced. “I’ll recommend him – and that brother of yours, I suppose – for the lecture series at the Cloud Recesses this summer.”

It wouldn’t do to be left, after all.

“You…you will? Really? That’s wonderful! Thank you for the opportunity, Sect Leader Wen! They’ll treasure it! How can we ever repay your kindness –”

“As long as they impress me with their talents,” Wen Ruohan said, already imagining Jiang Fengmian’s constipated expression at seeing his lover’s son that was stolen from his grasp wearing Wen sect colors and, in an ideal world, smearing his own son into the ground with his superlative skill. “That will be repayment enough.”

-

“You need to get laid,” Sect Leader Nie said, and Wen Ruohan was reminded again of why he despised the man and should have killed him years ago. Why hadn’t he done that again? “As a matter of cultivation.”

“You’re joking,” Wen Ruohan said, putting down his bowl of wine and staring at him in disbelief. He hadn’t expected the man to actually be serious. It was rare enough an event, but in fairness to him, he never joked about matters of cultivation. “How does one help the other?”

“It’ll help balance you out.” Sect Leader Nie thought about it. “Or at least let you get out some of that nervous energy that makes you a paranoid megalomaniacal little bitch about eighty percent of the time.”

That sounded a bit more in character.

“If dual cultivation could fix personality problems, Lao Nie, you’d be immortal.”

“Who says I’m not?” Sect Leader Nie asked, teeth bared in a smile. “Only time will tell. Haven’t I already outlived my father?”

Wen Ruohan rolled his eyes. Sect Leader Nie had outlived his father because when he’d started in on a qi deviation like every other member of his blasted family, he, Wen Ruohan, had personally dived into the irritating bastard’s spiritual consciousness and dragged him back out again. It was very much not something that people were supposed to do, being more likely to cause qi deviations in the person doing the rescuing than resulting in an actual rescue, but he’d never cared what people were supposed to do and, really, it would be extremely annoying to have to do without him now that he’d invested all that time and effort and figured out how to get some real use out of him. Anyway, they both seemed to be fine and possibly they were also soul-bonded now - he wasn’t actually sure, Wen Qing always got a weird expression on her face whenever she talked about it, and he usually stopped listening at that point.

He didn’t really care. As long as it didn’t interfere with his plans, what did it mtter?

“Who exactly am I supposed to be dual cultivating with, exactly?” he asked dryly, deciding to address the matter head-on because that was the only way Sect Leader Nie understood things. “Don’t volunteer yourself again. I already told you that I refuse to indulge your ridiculous kink for dangerous people.”

Anymore, anyway.

Sect Leader Nie made a face at him, but Wen Ruohan ignored him. He might’ve fallen for that before the whole spiritual consciousness-soulbond business, but now he knew for sure that it was a kink, so – no.

Nothappening.

“You have a kink for things that increase your power, I don’t know why you’re being so judgy about my kink,” the other man grumbled. “And I don’t know, find someone – not another wife, you hate your wives, and anyway they’re much happier with their other lovers.”

“I didn’t pick them because I liked them,” Wen Ruohan pointed out. “I picked them because I wanted to absorb their sects and all the aligned sects associated with them. Which I did.”

“See, this is your problem! You married for power, rather than power, if you get my meaning –”

This was true. If any of his wives could cultivate worth a damn, maybe he’d care more about them. As it was, getting a son on each of them had been an exercise in willpower.

“ – and now you’re too busy pursuing power to fuck anyone else. You really need to get it out of your system. Find someone who can kill you.”

“No one can kill me,” Wen Ruohan said. “I’m the closest thing the cultivation world has to a god. Everyone should bow down and worship me.”

Sect Leader Nie started muttering something about megalomania again, but Wen Ruohan ignored him. It wasn’t a qi deviation talking if it was true.

“I bet we could find someone who could kill you if we tried,” Sect Leader Nie finally said. “And if they’re powerful enough to kill you, they’re probably powerful enough for the dual cultivation to improve your own cultivation, which is all you care about…we should start a war, maybe.”

“A war? Against who? And why?”

Sect Leader Nie frowned thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “The Jin sect?” he suggested, probably because he’d never liked Jin Guangshan. “Or the Jiang sect? Or both, I guess, since they’re allied. They’re next on your take-over list, aren’t they?”

“You’re next on my take-over list,” Wen Ruohan said threateningly, except Sect Leader Nie only laughed at him. Which was fair, he supposed, that whole soul-bond thing made the whole conquering business somewhat unnecessary – Qishan Wen and Qinghe Nie were bound together now as thoroughly as if he’d married the man.

Which he hadn’t. And wouldn’t. No matter what stupid snarky comments Sect Leader Nie said about Wen Ruohan treating him as a de facto consort on account of not having devouring his sect whole.

(Which he wasn’t going to do either - his sons still loved the man, and by now they were as thick as thieves with the Nie boys. What was he supposed to do, disappoint them? It’d be the same as disappointing himself, and he wasn’t about to do that.)

“I suppose we could start a war against the Jin and Jiang,” he allowed. His plan had always called for battle eventually, since he knew there was a limit to how many sects he could absorb through political, marital, economic or other means. As long as the other Great Sects stood against him, he’d never be able to achieve total domination – plus, he’d have to continue to suffer through those awful discussion conferences with the boring lectures and the petty politics of it all. Why couldn’t they see that they’d allbe better off under his dominion? “I could send Wen Zhuliu –“

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how you fight wars honorably, and also because I hate that man’s guts. I can’t believe you gave him your surname.”

Wen Ruohan rolled his eyes yet again. Such petty concerns were beneath him. “If we launch a surprise attack using him assassinate the Jiang sect leaders, thereby bringing down the Lotus Pier, the war will be over sooner,” he pointed out.

“Makes it harder to assimilate them into the Wen sect afterwards, though,” Sect Leader Nie pointed out, and damnit, he had a point. “Not to mention you’re going to want some experienced people policing your waterways when you finally take over…”

Damnit.

“Fine,” Wen Ruohan said. “We’ll declare war the old-fashioned way. Maybe we’ll find someone on the opposite side that can impress me, and then I’ll marry her – or him – and be done with the whole business. Happy now?”

Sect Leader Nie made a maybe-so gesture with his hand. “Anyone who can match you in power can probably kill me,” he said regretfully. “Would you consider sharing –“

“Paws off my hypothetical future consort, you beast. Anyway, aren’t you already pursuing Lan Qiren because he nearly slit your throat with a guqin string once?”

“A man can look!”

-

“Say,” Sect Leader Nie said, staring at the army of fierce corpses currently shambling along to the tune of Wei Wuxian’s flute, advancing inexorably towards their enemies – an entirely new cultivation style that the boy had recently invented. In an effort to impress his benefactor Wen Ruohan, apparently. “Are you sure about the no sharing rule?”

Wen Ruohan stared at the grown man perched on a tree like a demon, wrapped in shadow and crackling with power, eyes glowing as red as the sun-patterns on his clothing, who seemed to want nothing more from the world than to serve it up to Wen Ruohan on a platter.

“Yes,” he said, voice only a little strangled. Maybe Sect Leader Nie had a point about power being a kink for him. “I’m very sure.”

#mdzs #wen ruohan #sect leader nie #wei wuxian is sir not appearing in this fic #my fic #my fics #forked path

[aalbedo]

injured!tartaglia x reader (part 2)

part two of this

request: Hello I absolutely loved your one shot of Tartaglia helping an injured reader sdjgksjfkf if you don't mind I'd like to request a part 2 where reader asks him the story behind that big scar he pointed out? Maybe reader finds HIM injured and returns the favor and asks about his other scars while they treat his wounds?? Ahaha reader's just like "fuck I can't just leave you here to bleed out but don't you dare think this means I care for you or anything" lmao

format: two-parter (again, read part one first)

ship: tartaglia x reader

tags: fluff, reader is the traveler-ish (a completely separate character from aether and lumine, but still the traveler, does that make sense?), author forgets basic wound care halfway into the fic

warnings: blood, mildly graphic depiction of injury, stitches and needles

words: 3027

notes: hey so uhhhhhhhh i kinda went off the rails with this one, i didn't really follow the prompt in some points since uh... the part about the stories behind the scars... i kinda forgot about that... or like... eh you'll see, anyway, - banner still fucked up it will be fixed i prommy

Despite the high number of hilichurl camps, abyss mages, fatui agents, ruin hunters and ruin guards, Lisha was still one of your favorite places to explore, it was full of treasure chests to open, sweet flowers to pick and ore to mine. Plus, the atmosphere managed to still be peaceful, the open fields where the sun would shine uninterrupted for hours and hours on end were your favorite place to sit down and bask in the sunlight.

Your leg was still recovering from the tough hit you had taken a few weeks prior, which meant that you had to take more breaks while adventuring. Not that you would complain, taking breaks, putting some numbing cream on your wound, eating some reinvigorating food and drinking fresh water was just as satisfying as exploring.

After resting for about half an hour, you decided to get up, careful not to put any pressure on your injured leg. You threw your bag over your shoulder and walked north-west, towards the road to the chasm.

In the distance, you started hearing sounds of fighting, and as you got closer to them, you could see a tall figure fighting not one, but two separate ruin hunters, with a bow. It was too far away to see the person’s face, but you had half an idea of who it could be.

Then, out of nowhere, a bright purple flash, and in less than a second the ruin hunters were both on the ground, completely destroyed. Yep, it’s Tartaglia.

You thought about turning away and changing your direction before he could see you. You had already reluctantly thanked him for helping you that day, as well as paying for your medication out of his own pocket, but you still felt like you owed him a favor that you really did not want to fulfill. He was still the guy that almost destroyed Liyue, and made you fight for your life, despite everything.

Until you saw him fall to his knees, and as he turned to face your direction you could see his chest covered in blood.

You acted on instinct, ignoring your brain telling you to leave him alone, that he could tend to his own wounds, and you sprinted towards him. He may be an asshole, but you just want to avoid him, not leave him to die.

He was resting his back on a wall, head thrown back. Even from far away, you could see that he was breathing heavily. That same backpack you had seen on him the day he helped you was now sitting next to him, his left hand already rummaging through it.

His head shot up, he had definitely heard you coming towards him, his eyes widened as you kneeled down right in front of him and got a better look at his condition. You could see a cut crossing his chest, from his right shoulder to the middle of his torso, right over his heart. His grey coat was soaked in blood, as it pooled on the bend of his hips and slid down to the ground.

“So you do care about me.” he broke the silence, struggling to talk through heavy breaths and groans. He was completely out of breath, covered in blood, definitely in pain, and all he could think about was joking.

“I don’t. Just because I hate you, it doesn’t mean I want to see you dead.” You didn’t have time to get mad at him. “Also - I owe you a favor, I guess.” The only thought in your head was to help him, so you did not think twice before quickly unbuttoning his coat and undercoat and moving them out of the way.

You got a look at his chest and through the blood you could see several other scars, most of them looked years old, a few of them looked pretty large, carving his chest and abdomen. You wondered if his entire body looked like this, and why his face didn’t.

“Like what you see?” he joked again, his voice sounded hoarse, strained, very clearly struggling to talk. You sighed, couldn’t he just shut up for a minute?

You turned to your own bag to pull out anything you might need to help him. Potions, numbing cream and even a stitching kit laid next to you. You had bought the kit after that day, and started learning how to stitch wounds.

“No,” you dismissed him again. He whined quietly, you weren’t sure if it was because of your response or the wound.

All of the sudden, you felt… fear? Fear of what? Him passing out? And anger, at the fact that he wasn’t taking the situation as seriously as you were. He could easily die from this wound and all he was doing was making jokes.

You quickly started cleaning the blood with a cloth in one hand, while holding a bottle of antiseptic potion in your left, ready to pour it on top of the cut. You were being quick, passing your hand over his chest as fast as you could, trying to gather all the blood while avoiding the open skin, but there was so much of it that in mere seconds the cloth was soaked and completely useless.

You looked up at him and he was staring at the ground, his eyes completely unfocused. “Childe,” you called him and he squeezed his eyes closed, “try to stay awake.”

“Easy to say,” he muttered. At least he was awake.

You threw away the bloody cloth, and poured the antiseptic potion directly on his scar with no warning. Despite knowing that you were just helping him, a wave of guilt washed over you as you heard him cry out from the pain and throw his head back, wincing again when he hit the wall.

Half a bottle of potion and another clean cloth drenched in blood later, the wound had completely stopped bleeding, and you finally breathed out all the tension you were holding in your body.

His face, and body, were completely pale from the blood loss. His mouth was agape, eyelids half closed - looking at you, he sighed, barely letting any air out. You glared back, but by the way his head was positioned, you couldn’t help but look at his lips, the way they moved slightly every time he breathed out, they seemed so… soft, sweet. You brushed aside a thought that had snaked into your brain. His mouth curled up and he barked a laugh, but he stopped immediately and groaned again. Had he noticed that you were looking?

“Don’t laugh, it’ll hurt you,” you reminded him as you threw away the second blood drenched cloth.

“Sure,” he replied, voice still strained. “Whatever you say.”

You find a third cloth, the only clean one you had left, used some water from your bottle to make it damp and used it to wash your hands.

“Don’t talk either,” you looked at him as you opened a small glass jar containing numbing cream. “What were you thinking, being here alone and fighting two ruin guards?” He opened his mouth. “Don’t answer, you’ll tell me later.”

“I was just collecting some debts when those two attacked me.” He groaned again.

“I said, don’t talk if it hurts.” You made it clear from your tone that you were annoyed at the way that he was acting.

You dipped a couple of fingers into the cream, and hesitated before placing your bare hand on his chest, carefully placing the cream around the wound, so that he would not feel pain when you would be stitching it closed. As you got a better look at the cut, you noticed how the skin had been basically mangled, it looked like it would not be an easy recovery.

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” he pointed out, before groaning again. You were starting to wish you had taped his mouth with something.

“Because I know what I’m doing, I’m not an idiot. And you’re making me regret helping you, just shut up already.”

“Make me.”

Your hand froze over his skin. You moved your eyes back up to him, trying to decipher his expression. Was that an invitation, or just teasing? He hadn’t even tried to put on a smug face, his expression just looked tired and worn out, which made it even harder to decipher.

The longer you looked at him, the weirder it would get, you would have to do something before it got awkward and that thought from earlier slammed back into your head.

You wanted to wish you had run the other way, but the truth was that you were glad you hadn’t. Maybe it was all of the tension you had accumulated while seeing all that blood flow out of him, maybe it was the heavy lidded look he was giving you, but you placed your clean hand on the side of his face, cupping his cheek. His eyes widened, mouth parted ready to say something, but, before he could, your lips were on his.

The kiss was fast, you pulled back almost immediately and averted his gaze right away. You could feel him staring at you as you put your hand back into the jar and picked up some more cream.

“I didn’t think you would actually-” he didn’t finish the sentence.

You quickly caught a glimpse of his expression before focusing on taking care of the wound. You contained a laugh as you saw him look absolutely dumbfounded and flustered, he had seriously been rendered completely speechless by what could barely be considered a kiss. If he hadn’t lost that much blood that day, his cheeks would definitely be red.

Honestly, you couldn’t believe what had happened either. You couldn’t believe you had even done it. You could’ve just laughed it off and kept medicating him in silence. But you were glad that you didn’t.

Neither of you uttered a word for a while, and even though the atmosphere wasn’t explicitly awkward, you wished he would say something. After a thick layer of numbing cream and several minutes of silence, you finally gathered the courage to look back at him. He was clearly pretending to look away, as if he hadn’t spent the entire time looking at you working.

“Is the pain gone? Can I stitch it now?” Your voice came out unexpectedly soft. You touched the skin around the wound, waiting to get a reaction from him.

His head snapped back to face you, and he nodded. “Can’t feel a thing,” he said as he touched his own chest. “I can stitch it though, if you wa- Ah!” He lifted his right arm, the injured one, and immediately stopped mid-air, “fuck- shit, not this,” he almost yelled.

“You ripped a tendon.” You gently took his right arm, putting it back down for him, and looked at his shoulder. “I’ll stitch it, don’t worry - I’ve learned.”

He didn’t say anything, and you took it as permission. You opened the kit you had bought at Bubu pharmacy weeks prior: recurved needle, thread and tweezers. You could feel Tartaglia’s gaze on you as you struggled passing the thread through the needle, but in the end you managed to do it.

As you hovered over the wound, your gaze fell on a large scar, the one that would normally be visible from over his coat on his neck, and it went down over the left side of his body down until his hip. It looked pretty old, but it was still very visible.

“Can I ask you… how did you get that?”

“Mh?”

You pointed at the scar with your pinkie and slightly traced over it, “this scar, what happened?”

He followed your finger with his gaze, and kept his eyes on the scar even as you moved back to the still open wound. “Oh, that?” You passed the needle through the skin and pulled it out on the other side. “I was 14.”

You saw some blood trickle from the cut as you carefully pulled the thread and passed the needle through one more time. By the way he had spoken, you felt like he was going to continue talking, so you didn’t interrupt.

“Uhm, when I was 14, I-” you heard him pass his tongue over his lips, “the Abyss, you know.” You nodded quietly as you passed the needle through a few more times.

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” you reassured him, you knew that it was a pretty sensitive topic, or at least you imagined it would be. You stitched a few more loops with ease, getting progressively more comfortable with what you were doing.

“It’s fine, I- I was in-” his voice was starting to shake the slightest bit, but you noticed the change of tone in his voice.

You finally reached the end, and you cut the thread, tying it tightly at the end. You put the needle and the tweezers back into their container.

“I had to fight this… huge- and when-” once you looked up at him, you realized how lost in thought he was, looking at his scar, unable to take his eyes off it, he was probably getting some flashbacks. “I-” his voice cracked, his lower lip trembled ever so slightly, and you could not bear it anymore. Without even thinking about it, you grabbed the side of his face and dragged him in for an actual, proper kiss.

He fell right into it and reciprocated immediately, placing his left hand on the side of your waist. It was sweet, and tender, and you got a better feel of what his lips were like: just as soft as they looked.

You pulled back first once again, and as you got to look at his surprised face, eyebrows raised and everything, your mind started racing. You had just kissed not just a Fatui, not just a Harbinger, but the Harbinger that had tried to kill you, that manipulated you and that nearly destroyed Liyue for the second time. And he was sitting in front of you looking like an idiot.

You couldn’t figure out what you were feeling, but there was something going on deep in your chest, and stomach.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you quickly clarified before he could say anything. “Neither of them do, they were just to shut you up.”

“Were they?” he asked. And just like that, he came full circle back to the false smugness.

You really, really did not want to think about the weird feeling that was growing in your stomach. “Look at what I got from Baizhu.” From your bag, you pulled out a thick strip made out of cotton and a small vial full of Slime concentrate.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“What do they mean to you?” you bit back, waiting to see if he would face the question himself, or back out like a hypocrite.

“What did you get from Baizhu?”

You both chuckled, and you noticed his bare chest rising and falling back down as he laughed. “He said it’s a new type of bandaging, you use slime concentrate to stick it to the skin.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t love the sound of that, actually.”

“I was skeptical too the first time I tried it, but trust me - it’s much more comfortable.” You heard him sigh in defeat as you already spread some of the slime condensate over the strip, and set down the half empty vial. “It won’t hurt.”

“Do you promise?”

He looked into your eyes with a relaxed expression, you looked right back. “I promise,” you replied with a kind smile, before turning your attention to the strip and stuck it over the wound, carefully placing it so that it would cover the entire cut.

“All done,” you said as you started getting up, but you felt a hand grabbing your arm, another one grabbing the side of your face, and tugging you back down, and before you could realize it your lips were once again on Tartaglia’s.

You couldn’t help but reciprocate the kiss, his lips were still soft, and at that point you felt like you could get used to them. The kiss was exactly as gentle as the one before, you could feel your fluttering in your chest as Tartaglia’s thumb started gently rubbing your cheekbone.

He pulled back first this time, and as you opened your eyes back you could see a wide smile on his face.

“Sending me mixed signals, huh?” you pointed out.

“I told you, I never had anything against you personally,” he said as he put his clothes back on, trying to fix them as much as possible, despite the very clear cut on his chest and the blood covering them completely.

“I’m gonna need some time before I’ll believe that.” You got up and reached down a hand for him to get up. “You’re gonna need to prove it to me.”

He grabbed it with his non-injured hand and stood up beside you. “While you take your time, care to walk me to Bubu pharmacy, so I can buy some of these sticky bandages?” he asked, a wide smile still on his face.

“Sure,” you simply replied, picking up both of your back and tossing them over your shoulder.

You watched him move his injured arm slightly, to figure out how much he could move it. Unsurprisingly, not much.

He hummed. “I’m gonna have to take some time off from duty, hopefully they won’t kill me for it,” he said in a joking manner, but you could sense that he wasn’t kidding about the killing part.

“Well,” as you both started walking back to the harbor, you got an idea, “you could use the time off to show me that you truly don’t hate me.”

“Like what?” You could feel his gaze on you.

“Like, we could go out for dinner,” you suggested, keeping your eyes in front of you. “In a completely neutral way, and then see what happens from there.”

“Sounds good.”

“It’s a plan, then.”

#likes; comments and reblogs are incredibly appreciated!!! #next one is gonna be albedo x reader again lmao i cant leave the man alone #i'll try posting once a week i guess #more than that i just cannot do #genshin #genshin impact #genshin childe #gi #genshin tartaglia #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact childe #genshin impact tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #childe x reader #genshin childe x reader #genshin tartaglia x reader #how many fucking tags #x reader

[lostsoulaltair]

OnS Theories (24S). Third Theory - Mikaela’s Fate in two sides. Shikama’s view and Yuu’s view

Hello everyone, I’m sure some are hyped, others are making memes (yeah I did some for the spanish fandom ehe!) and others might be sad due to how at the end Guren’s plan is turning into a complete reality, but, is it really bad?

For that, I shall discuss with you some missing points within this theory.

Therefore, let’s begin!

P.S: Theories are held within a neutral view and ships are excluded

As something that was bound to happen, within the newest chapter of OnS, Mikaela was finally able to become Yuu’s cursed gear and demon, allowing both to devour each other’s desire to become stronger and finally be able to face down the First Progenitor:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 107

But despite this positive outcome, there’s something that several fans have pointed out which is something that the First mentioned:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 107

Therefore, let’s talk in depthness about these two standpoints of view and who might hold reason through all the story.

Shikama’s Point of View

With Shikama, we’ve seen how he slowly prepared everything to ambush the demon Mikaela by sending his three Apostles to his world in order to capture him, but of course, such event was halted by Yuu:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 102

And of course, after these series of events, Shikama decided to step in and ambush Yuu and Mikaela after they had a small fight between each other to seal the pact between demon and wielder.

But, if Guren’s goal was to have Mika within a cursed gear, why does Shikama aimed to do that as well?

First of all, Shikama wasn’t planning to make Yuichiro and Mikaela happy by any means despite how the ancient forgotten past may seem to look as a possible miracle of bringing Mikaela back, but why?

This is due to the fact that the corpse we’ve seen several times, despite being called Mikaela, isn’t Mikaela Hyakuya, what do I mean?

It’s known that the soul is the composition of consciousness, the one that harbors our memories, will, fondness of someone, etc.; but once the body perishes, the soul dies with it and leaves the body to a faraway place.

First of all, Shikama’s main goal or objective with Yuu in the past was to “SACRIFICE” his life:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

But, with the current chapter, a new contradiction appeared, therefore, why is it that?

What does Shikama aimed for by having Mikaela as his cursed gear in the future?

First of all, there must be something clear. Mikaela Hyakuya is his own persona. The one that embraced to turn into a demon in chapter 93; the one that appeared in that beautiful dream was his soul and the consciousness was the demon itself, the figure that lurked and saw the happiness in such place while not knowing what he was seeing or who he was seeing.

The corpse despite carrying the same name as Mikaela is not Mikaela Hyakuya.

This in general means, being autonomous, having one’s own identity.

Therefore, when Shikama asked the next thing:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 98

What was the danger in there? That’s easy to answer and that’d be the loss of identity and memory. But, is there proof to this?

There is.

Once the demon Mikaela’s heart was shattered, and eventually was rescued by Yuu, there was something that could be described as a reset in chapter 103 due to the attitute he took with Yuu after they met again:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 103

The demon Mikaela behaved like any other demon after meeting the one that would either become their meal or their wielder; and of course, after this the battle took place between them, BUT, there was something else at hand, at that was, resonance, which lead to the soul of the demon Mikaela remember something from his past which was the next thing:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 104

Leading to the same painful memory Yuu and Mika hold to their hearts, the very needle that hurts them to no end.

But, what does this mean?

It means that the demon Mikaela only holds memories of what he lived and what his current present self had, thus leading to the same question.

What would have happened if Shikama succeeded on taking Mikaela’s soul?

That’s easy.

Mikaela Hyakuya would have ceased to exist. His existence would have forgotten everything, all the memories, all the sadness, all the pain, all the joy he expeirenced in life, to leave a soul in a blank state, an empty canvas prepared to be overwritten by something else.

But, how does this relate to seeing Mika as Yuu’s future cursed gear on Shikama’s plan?

That’s simple. Shikama’s highly possible goal was that the new soul he’d rewrite and bring forward would have favored his side, thus making Yuu carry the soul of what he lost to eventually take over him and make him cease to exist, which would lead to possession, a complete possession with no absolute control by his side.

But, since this scenario never happened thanks to Yuu, thus leading to the new scenario.

Yuu’s scenario of Mikaela’s Fate

In contrast to what Shikama had aimed, Yuichiro is very aware there’s no time, and whatever the monster wanted, it wouldn’t benefit Mika and himself, it’d mean they’d cease to exist in order to fulfill the agenda of a being that has never treasured life.

But perhaps many might wonder, how is Mika becoming Yuu’s demon makes any difference?

In contrast of being sacrifices, they’ll preserve their autonomy and fight for what they want which is to live; Yuu wants to see another tomorrow not only with his friends but with Mikaela as well:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 107

Yuu not only wanted to save Mika for his own goals or desires, BUT because he wanted him to see that there’s still hope in the world, that nothing is over yet, but in order to find the key to the map they traced, they have to fight, they have to stand together to defeat the one twisting their fates constantly.

Yuu doesn’t want to lose the gold time they spent ever since they met from the first time up till now, those years they met and fought to finally be reunited were valuable:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 107

Yuu’s main objective isn’t to use Mikaela as a tool, but he has set in mind to save Mikaela from the curse of being a demon and return him to be human again.

For Yuu, Mikaela was his first friend, his first family, the first person to ever need him in his whole life without interest, 

Which this will lead to the first loss of the First Progenitor. It’ll be the first time he’ll see that Hope and Love towards life overcome any curse; it can break havoc any fate imposed even by  a fake God.

Does this mean Mikaela will forever be trapped in a weapon?

The answer to this is NO.

He’ll become human again. How? Only time will tell!

What do you think dear readers?

Let me know!

#owari no seraph #seraph of the end #sote #ons #ons theories #ons theories 3rd theory #ons theories 24th season #ons chapter 107 #owari no seraph chapter 107 #yuichiro hyakuya #yuichiro amane #mikaela hyakuya #mikaela shindo #demon mikaela hyakuya #shikama doji #sika madu #ons chapter 106 #ons chapter 104 #ons chapter 103 #ons chapter 98 #what do you think dear readers? #Let me know what you think

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 3:

“Okay, so that’s about it.” You smile brightly, pressing a band-aid into the  boy’s skin. “Thanks for being so brave for me!”

“Mhm. I’m the bravest!”

The child before you beams, all teeth gaps and kicking legs as he bounces in his seat. You’d just given him a few routine vaccinations, and true to your praise, he had been very brave about it. All he’d done was sit there, holding his breath until his face went red, and trying not to grimace. It reminded you of someone else you’d recently treated- someone else who was currently blazoned in all his snarling glory on the little boy’s shirt.

“Oh, I’m sure! Just like Dynamite!” You agree enthusiastically, gesturing to his clothes. You turn your head, catching his mother’s eye from where she sits next to him. “Isn’t that right, mom?”

“Oh, not if I can help it.” She smiles something a little exhausted, but ultimately fond as her son starts making explosion noises. “Not if I can help it.”

If you’re being completely honest, you sort of agree with her. Just a little bit- actually, on second thought a lot.

���If that’s everything and you have no other concerns for me, then we’re about done here.” You say gently. “Do you know where you’re going? I can point you toward reception again if you need it.”

“No, we’re alright, thank you!” 

You nod, holding the door open for them as they leave. 

When the door closes, and you’re swept back up into silence, you can’t help but think of that interaction as just more proof- more proof that no matter where you were, no matter what you were doing, you absolutely could not escape Bakugou.

When you weren’t actively thinking about him, then you were seeing his face everywhere. He was on television, and he was on the cover of newspapers, and as evidenced, he was printed in perfect grumbling, snarling accuracy on children’s t-shirts. It didn’t help either that every day brought another civilian who was saved by him, and every night brought another small-time criminal who was beat to hell by his fists. You swore he was responsible for a solid 70% of all of your hospital’s traffic- it was pure insanity when you really started paying attention. 

You quickly come to realize that Bakugou is a plague; and a horrifyingly effective one at that. You’re not sure how you never noticed it before. 

Still, you can’t help but find yourself worrying a little bit. When you think of him, all you can see is his face covered in blood, the pallid hue of his skin under the hospital’s sterile lighting, and the deep-set bags under his eyes. You remember the way he practically fell asleep, laid out and injured on a hospital table. The way he was drifting while you were digging a needle and thread through his skin. 

Thinking back on it always makes you a bit sick. No one who wasn’t absolutely exhausted would ever fall asleep in a hospital- especially not in the middle of being sewn up. When you match that to the anger and terror you’d felt, that very first night you’d ever met him, it doesn’t paint a pretty picture. You come to realize that even if Bakugou was an asshole to you, you still wouldn’t wish that kind of mental torture on anybody. 

Your rest of your week goes by quickly after that, and by the time Saturday rolls around, you’ve gathered quite a few bones to pick with him. It seemed the amount of criminals you were patching up was only increasing, and their injuries were only getting worse too. Each passing day only brings more lowly criminals and thieves flooding into your hospital, all covered in the same scorch marks, broken bones, and dark bruising. It was overkill, plain and simple, and you knew exactly who the culprit was. 

You began to think that, even if it was Bakugou’s job, he really shouldn’t have been digging graves for people who were just stealing purses. There was a massive difference between a super villain and a petty thief, but he didn’t seem to understand that. Dynamite punished everybody just the same. You saw that first hand.

Still, you try to shake off those lingering frustrations. You were on your way to take out his stitches, and you didn’t want to accidently bring them up. Bakugou only mildly tolerated you the last time around, but you were sure that generosity would cease the moment you criticized anything about him. True to his quirk, Bakugou had proven himself to be a teetering powder keg- just a little bit of friction, and he’d explode on the spot.

“On your way to help his majesty?” Your superior remarks, smiling sardonically as you pass her. “Good luck, I’ll be praying for you! Try your best to come back with your head still intact, yeah?” 

You nod, smiling uneasily, but your stomach turns a little bit. 

That had been another reoccurring theme that week- jokes about how your impending doom was imminent. Apparently, Bakugou had been making a name for himself for years now- a name that was a lot less loved by your hospital then it was the rest of the outside world. You’d been hearing horror stories for days now; tale after twisted tale of nurses and doctors getting chewed up and spit out by his bad temper. It always read as a little strange to you though; in every story you’d heard, he was either hardly injured or on his death bed- no in-between whatsoever. You figure that it didn’t really matter though, the result was always the same. Relentless, explosive anger. 

Which you sort of begun to think you were in for, when you opened the door to his scowling face.

“Hey!” You greet unsurely, trying to walk into the room with a confidence you didn’t really feel. Moving past him, you rinse your hands, drying them and then slipping on a pair of latex gloves. You then pull the medical cart over to him, taking out the blood pressure cuff. Just like his last visit. “You ready to get those stitches removed?”

“Yeah. Obviously. Why the fuck else would I waste my time here? Witch.”

Yep. There it is- just what the other nurses and staff were warning you about. His attitude.

“Oh. Okay, so I see we are still using that nickname. Great.” You mutter wrapping the cuff around his arm. You fall back, crossing your arms as you wait to jot down his vitals. There’s angry tension rolling off of him, and you smile uneasily, trying to discharge it with a subject change. “On an entirely different note, though, I did want to congratulate you.”

Bakugou just scoffs, turning up his nose. A beat passes and then he folds, minutely nodding at you to continue.

“You’re not covered in any blood this time! Congrats!” You say breezily, unwrapping the cuff from around his arm. “Guess the third time really is the charm for us, huh?”

Bakugou just looks away, hardly even acknowledging you as he rolls his eyes. You think you see his lip twitch though- just a bit, and it only lasts half a second, but you count it as a success.

“So, any worries about the stitches? You been cleaning them as instructed?” You ask, gently taking his forearm in your hands. You remove the bandages and gauze with feather-light touches. “Wow, you must’ve been. They look pretty good to me.”

When you look up at him, he’s got that same prideful smirk you’d seen before; it doesn’t distract you from his condition though. His skin somehow looks paler than before, skin purple and darkened under his eyes. You see the cut on his head, still hardly healed and scabbed over. He’s overworking himself, but you didn’t need to have any medical background to see that.

“Obviously they look good. You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” He says.

“No, but I really did think you would’ve exacerbated them by now. Especially with all the hero work you’ve been doing. Which, believe me, I know is a lot.”

“What- you stalking me now or somethin’?”

“Not exactly. Me or somebody else here always end up treating all those people you save.” You tell him, setting his arm down on the empty surface of the medical cart. You try to keep your voice light, keep it entirely void of anything accusatory, but you can’t help your next words. “And every person you beat into the ground.”

Bakugou’s eye twitches when you look at him. He breathes deep, eyebrows creasing.

“Oi- somethin’ you wanna fuckin’ say to me?” He utters, eyes glinting like blistering wildfire. He leans forward, flipping his palm up towards you as it begins to crackle. “Better choose your next words real fuckin’ carefully.”

It’s his tone that catches you off-guard.

You knew it was a stupid move, your comment, but the pure poison in his response surprises you anyway. His voice is dark and angry, smoldering like a low heat as he stares you down. The words are vicious thing, a gripping threat that drips from his mouth, seeming to bite back around his teeth as he speaks it. It makes you shrink. You think that it would probably make even the strongest people shrink.

“No. It’s- I wasn’t. I’m sorry.” You apologize professionally, pasting on your best appeasing smile even as you fight off the anxiety. There’s nothing left to do but try to defuse the situation- so you turn away from him, busying yourself with grabbing a discard tray and your stitching kit. “It’s really wasn’t my business. Shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry.”

Bakugou just huffs at that, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He somehow looks even more annoyed than before and you don’t know what he wants from you. Doesn’t he know how intimidating he is? Why does he even bother acting surprised when people fold for him? Especially if he chooses to address them like that?

You wish you were the sort of person who could stand up to him- the sort of person who could put him in his place. After all, there was no room for arrogance in a hospital, and you’d always thought egotism to be a selfish waste of valuable time. But, even so, you just couldn’t be that person this time. There was a lot you could power though, but you’d never seen hot-and-cold anger like his before. He wasn’t like any of your other difficult patients- none of their threats ever sounded like promises. 

There’s tense silence as you start removing the stitches, only the sound of your scissors and Bakugou’s own breaths. You try to keep your hands steady, try to keep focused, but you’re finding it hard to keep still under his intense gaze. You feel he’s looking right through you again, waiting for any excuse to blow up again.

You’re almost done removing them entirely when he huffs, rolling his eyes as he shifts uncomfortably.

“You’re so fucking sensitive, you know. It’s pathetic.”

You stiffen.

There’s a lot you’re willing to put up with- being underappreciated and overworked was pretty much your entire job after all- but Bakugou was really wearing on you. He wasn’t the first patient to insult you, and his comment was far from the worst thing you’d ever been told; but it’s something in the way he spits the insult. Sly and challenging like he knows something you don’t. It makes you look up at him, and all you see are his sharp canines. His smirk and the way he looks down on you.

He’s picking a fight, but there’s no threat. He’s testing you.

It makes your blood boil.

“If you don’t like me, and the way I do my work,” You bite out, staring right back and speaking through own clenched teeth. “Then you shouldn’t have asked for me. No one made you come back.”

“I told you, witch. No cutting corners. You put the fuckers in my arm, you take them the fuck out.”

“Why are you fighting with me?” You ask, swallowing as you try not to shy away from his glare. “I told you last time, if this works better for you silent, then just say that.”

He flares his nostrils at that, setting his jaw. When he goes silent, you go back to snipping away his stitches. At this point, you just wanted to finish as quickly as possible.

“Silent is fuckin’ boring.” He grits, flexing his fingers. It makes the skin on his forearm shift, throwing off your work. When you look at him in frustration, you can see he did it on purpose. “It’s wimp shit.”

“Pardon?”

“I said-” He leans in close, voice low and venomous. It feels like he’s trying to paralyze you with his stare alone, sitting up straight until he’s glaring down at you. “Silence is boring. You’re fucking boring.”

You’d had a long day- you’d had a very long day and he was being extremely rude and your patience was wearing thin hours ago. That’s why you let him break your careful composure- at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

“Oh yeah, I’m boring?” You ask in frustration, entire face warming in fury. “I’m boring? Really! At least I don’t spend my entire day blowing things up and beating people half to death!”

Bakugou blinks. He blinks, sucks a breath, and then you watch his smirk crawl slow and sure across the entirety of his face. He got you. He got you to break, and he won, and he knows it.

He knows it and he settles back on his good hand, leaning away to get a better look at your flustered face. He cocks his head to the side, studying and analytical for a moment. He nods.

“There. We’re fuckin’ even.”

“Excuse me?”

“Even. You shouldn’t have fuckin’ pried around in my head and not expected me to pry in yours.”

“That’s what this is about?” You sigh incredulously, putting your scissors down on the medical cart. “Really? You’re still on that- how- how does this even tell you what’s in my head? You’re just insulting me. It doesn’t!”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why are you so fuckin’ pissed right now? Hah?” He squints his eyes, voice smooth and dripping with arrogance. “It’s cause I’m right. You’re so fuckin’ boring when you play nice all the time.”

“Play nice? What the hell are you even on about? You don’t know me.”

“I know that you piss me the hell off bein’ fake. If I fuckin’ irritate you then say so. Don’t put on your fuckin’ kid gloves and try and be professional. It’s weak.”

“No. It’s how I keep my job. Which you know, you wouldn’t understand, because you literally pick fights for a living!” You huff, pushing the medical cart off to the side and stepping back from him. “Actually- you know what, no. I’m done with this. This conversation. Your stitches are out, and you can leave since you obviously can’t stand me and would rather be anywhere but here.”

You watch him flare his nostrils again, a snarl ripping from his mouth. He slams his closed fist down on the hospital bed, eyes like blazing conflagration. Bakugou looks pissed, but more than anything he looks vulnerable. Worn raw.

“I can’t.” He grits.

“Yes! You actually can! Just walk out! Literally just walk out an-’

“God, you’re so fucking dense! I can’t leave without figuring out how the fuck you do it!”

“Do what?” You nearly scream, your owns hands beginning to clench into fists.

“I need to know.” He repeats again, hopping off the hospital bed.

His feet hit the ground, steps like rolling thunder as he nears, broad shoulders and muscular arms casting an intimidating shadow. Bakugou looks like an angry bull storming toward you. Like he’ll obliterate you given even half the chance.

“Take your fucking gloves off.”

You’re scared now, eyes darting over to the door. You knew nobody was doing rounds in the luxury wing right now, and sound didn’t pass through walls that were made to ensure silence. Heart racing in your chest, you size him up, try to think of a way to escape but he’s so close to you and he’s built like a linebacker and-

“Jesus christ. Not like that. Fuckin’ idiot.” He growls, hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He stops a few feet in front of you, sneering. “You’re not my fuckin’ type, so don’t flatter yourself. Now, grow the fuck up and take them off before I do it for you.”  

You’re not sure what makes you listen, maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s something else, but either way you listen. You pull a glove off, just barely dropping it on the counter before Bakugou speaks again.

“I’m gonna touch your hand- but do not use your quirk. Don’t even think about using it. Just fucking stand there. And don’t freak the fuck out and put up a fight about it. You’re just gonna waste time.”

You nod, hand shaking as you extend it. Bakugou seems to roll his eyes at that, but he surges forward anyways, fingers meeting yours. 

You feel it almost immediately. Your heart speeds up, but just slightly, beginning beat against your chest where it had just barely been grazing it before. You breathe deep, close you eyes, focus in on the buzzing of your skin- the way your bones sing of subtle fire. It’s barely there but it feels like warmth. Reminds you of that night, with Bakugou, when you were burning alive. Reminds you of how your bones felt too large and your skin felt too small and there somehow wasn’t enough room in the entire world to hold the weight of your rage.

“You ambient fucking bitch.” Bakugou swears under his breath. When you look at him, he’s fluttering his own eyes open, dropping your hand like it burned him.

Then he steps back and you’re gasping for air. It’s not entirely back again- but it’s reminiscent. There’s an inkling of that bone-deep exhaustion. That weariness that so often stole the air from you lungs and the ground beneath your feet. 

“Your quirk. It’s ambient. Through your skin.”

You shrink back even more, blinking owlishly up at him. 

“What? You didn’t fucking know? Jesus, how clueless are you?”

“It’s-I-” You drop your head, running a hand through your hair. “I never- I always wear gloves. Always. And long sleeves. Since I was little. Never wanted to take the chance- how did you even know.” 

Bakugou seems to turn his nose up at your question. He steps back, further and farther until his back hits the hospital bed. There’s distance but somehow he keeps the air just as charged, averting his eyes when he speaks next.

“Went to sleep. A week ago. When I saw you-”

“What? Bakugou that doesn’t- you’re not-”

“If you’d let me fuckin’ finish,” He glares down at you again, trying to beat you into submission with eye-contact alone. It works and you fall silent, holding your breath as he resumes. “You put me to sleep. Then and three months ago. I haven’t slept peacefully like that in fuckin’ years. So obviously you used your quirk on me. It’s easy. A fuckin’ moron could’ve figured it out.”

“No- but I didn’t touch you! Well, the first time, yeah, I did, but not a week ago. I was wearing gloves and I-”

“When I told you to do the splint over, the sleeve of your coat rode up.” He grits out, cheeks slightly flushing as he averts his eyes. “Then I almost fell asleep. Not like the first time, but still. Asleep. So obviously it’s your fuckin’ skin.” 

Suddenly, the ground is ripped out from under you.

Your entire life you’d always been tired. Day in and day out, constantly dragging your feet like you could never get enough sleep. Like there wasn’t enough hours in the day for you to live and be rested. 

Was it your quirk this entire time? Were you somehow ambiently draining people of their pain- even if you just accidentally brushed their skin with yours? 

You don’t know how you never realized it. How you never put two and two together. 

You’d spent your entire life purposefully using your quirk to help people-  had then sacrificed days and weeks of your life afterwards tucked away in bed and sleeping off the exhaustion. When you used your power on purpose, depending on the severity of someone’s pain, it would debilitate you. But you still did it- over and over and over again because you wanted to help people. Because you knew you could and that became the only reason you needed. 

You’d always just assumed your constant exhaustion to be aftershocks of how often you used your quirk- you never even considered the possibility that it was something you were doing unintentionally. That you were draining yourself with every hug and handshake and high-five that should’ve made you feel better.

You’d always sort of disliked being touched. Somehow always walked away with your skin prickling uncomfortably for as long as you could remember. You just never knew why until now. 

“Oi- I thought I told you not to freak the fuck out.”

“It’s- how the hell am I not supposed to freak out about this?” You gasp, hands braced behind you on the counter. “I didn’t know! My entire life! And you met me like, what, twice and you figured it out and- Are you falling asleep right now?”

In your spiral Bakugou had somehow ended back up on the hospital bed. He was still sat up, but his shoulders were completely slumped over and his eyes were half-lidded. He looked completely drained of all previous anger, swaying slightly as he blinked himself back to perfect alertness.

“Yeah. Probably.” He grumbles. “It’s your fuckin’ fault.”

“You barely touched me! How the hell is-”

“Don’t ask me, you fuckin’ leech.” He yawns, hand closed into a fist as he rubs at his eyes. “You’re the one with the stupid goddamn quirk. Not me.”

“That’s- sorry. I didn’t know. Holy shit,” You curl arms around your stomach, eyes widening. “Have I been doing this shit to everyone? My entire life?”

Bakugou groans. Audibly. Loudly.

“You’re the stupidest goddamn idiot on the face of the planet. Swear to fuck, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

“You’re not helping!” You exclaim. “It was rhetorical question! Excuse me for freaking out right now- I’m sure you’d freak out too if you suddenly found out you were osmosis-ing people’s emotions your entire life!” 

“Heh.”

“God, and just what the hell are you laughing about? This isn’t funny!”

“Osmosis.” He reiterates, mouth drawn up into a shit-eating grin. “Change your quirk name. To osmosis. Alleviate is shitty and stupid and it makes you sound fucking dumb.”

You bristle again, suddenly shaking any and all tiredness, rounding on him as you seethe.

“You- you are a goddamn asshole! You know that?” You start, stopping just a few feet in front of him. “You come in here, and insult me. Call me boring! In my own fuckin’ workplace! While I’m literally taking your stitches out! And then you tell me how my quirk works- somehow have the audacity to be fucking right about it, and now you’re insulting me? Again?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re just sitting there, completely fine, smiling like there’s something funny! This isn’t funny! I’m not funny! This is my life- which you literally have been bulldozing through for months now- are you falling asleep? Again? No! No! Not in my- wake the fuck up! Asshole!”

You’re snapping in his face, just inches away from his eyes, and Bakugou hardly even blinks. He just sits still, calm and sated as you seethe just inches away from him. You huff in absolute hatred and that finally shocks some life into him. He smiles. Tiny and barely-there, but he smiles.

“See, not so nice anymore. Knew you weren’t. Fuckin’ liar.”

You want to scream. You want to tear your hair out and maybe take Bakugou’s too, and scratch and claw until you’re bathing in all the rage you’d accidentally stolen from him. You can’t though- you can’t because suddenly the sun starts to set. It falls behind the horizon line, seeping the gold from his skin and drowning him in sterile, white, artificial pallid-ness. His skin goes translucent and the only color in the entirety of his image are the bags under his eyes. Well, the bags under his eyes and the stark red of the barely-healed slice on his forehead. 

You curse your own heart. Nearly collapse under the weight of your own sympathy. Bakugou was an asshole, an absolute, irredeemable dick, and you still wanted to heal him. Help him. Somehow. Miraculously.

So then you’re centering yourself, rubbing a hand down your face to soothe your wound-up features.

“God, you actually do look pretty bad.” You say, all attempts at grace and keeping it professional completely gone. “You really weren’t kidding about needing to sleep, huh?”

“No shit. Leech.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. That’s fine. Trade one mean nickname for another- I mean, hey, at least this one’s accurate right?” 

Bakugou does actually exhale a laugh at that remark, limbs a flurry of chaotic movement when he throws himself back on the bed. His head hits the pillow and it’s only seconds before he’s shutting his eyes.

“So, what, you’re just, like, sleeping now?” You ask, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“This is a hospital, Bakugou.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He mumbles, yawning into his hand. “‘m fuckin’ Dynamite. I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

“I’m sorry- do you, do you actually think you can ego your way out of rules? Seriously? You can’t sleep here! Not unless you’re critically injured and need like, round-the-clock care.” 

He stills, breath evening and you think he’s fallen asleep. Then he’s lazily bringing a hand up, pointing it loosely at his head.

“I’m critically fuckin’ injured.”

“No- you’re not. That’s a cut and it’s already healing and-”

“I need round-the-clock care.”

“Oh my god, are you kidding me?”

“No.” He grunts, flopping as he turns away from you. Then he’s facing the wall, nuzzling into the pillow. “I’m tired.”

“It’s-” You start, but then you’re once again falling victim to your own empathy. One look at his translucent skin is all it takes. “Fine. You know what? I don’t give a shit. Do what you want, I guess. Nobody else is using these rooms.” 

“Okay. Leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get the fuck out.” He slurs, cheek pressed up against the pillow as his eyes flutter beneath his eyelids. “Bein’ too loud. Leave.”

“Fine. Enjoy your sleep. Jerk.”

“Leech.”

You nearly punch him in frustration- until you realize that would probably only relax him more; because apparently this really is Bakugou’s world and you were the unlucky one just living in it.

He’s out before you’re even finished packing up. You’re wiping down all the surfaces either of you had touched, just about to leave, when he starts snoring. It’s a soft, almost kitten-like sound, just barely audible over your own breathing. It pisses you off. Boils your blood in your veins because it’s so goddamn humanizing even when he acts like the anti-christ with an even worse temper. It’s stupidly endearing and ridiculously sobering and incredibly, incredibly irritating. 

That stupid sound is why you double back upon leaving the room. Why you’re suddenly choosing to reverse instead of moving forward, why you’re suddenly reaching into the cupboard instead of shutting the door behind you. 

When you carefully unfold the blanket, settling it gently over his sleeping form, there’s only one thing on your mind.

Fuck being an empath.

--/--

taglist:  @fluffyviciousbunny @definitelynottrin @imsuperawkward @i-need-air @ahbeautifulexistence @brennabooz @jazzylove @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @katsuki-bakubabe @sorrythatspussynal @bakugouswh0r3 @cloudsgathering @un-limit-edd @thekatsukisimp @pollayra21 @the2ndl @officialtrashbusiness 

#bakugo #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x self insert #bnha bakugo #mha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou imagine #bakugou series #bakugou fic #mha fic #bnha fic

[pillow-anime-talk]

mistletoe. {pt.2}

synopsis: Killing cursed spirits with Satoru, winter prom with Metori and sincere conversation with Juuzou.

# tags: scenarios; christmas!au; current relationships & crush culture; romance; fluff; a bit of angst; sfw

includes: female reader ft. satoru gojou {jjk} + metori saiko {saiki k. no psi nan} + juuzou suzuya {tokyo ghoul}

part one {click}

— SATORU

“... Y/N-chan, on the left!”

“... Hey, hey! Look up, sweetheart!”

“... Oi! Behind you!”

“... Behind you too! Kick their asses, Satoru~!”

“... YEAH! Here’s my super strong girl!”

You two have been in the forest; for over twenty minutes you dealing with killing smaller or larger curses that frightened mushroom pickers or wild animals. You had a lot of fun doing it, all the time competing to see who killed more evil creatures. Of course, your boyfriend was winning so far, by three, but how could you know that some of them would come out of the forest litter, literally letting the white-haired man kill them all in a few seconds? Well, but at least you killed about twelve curses yourself, and that was a really nice result.

On the one hand, you enjoyed spending time with Gojou like that, because it was very rare for the two of you to be together on a mission, but on the other hand... It was the time of Christmas that you wanted to spend in your own home, surrounded by delicious food and desserts, hot wine or beer, loved ones, including your boyfriend’s cute students or your mutual friends. From a long time, that is, from the moment you became a sorcerer, you didn’t spend any holidays, birthdays or anniversaries as you would like. There was simply no time and energy for it because every day, apart from some Sundays, you worked to make life better for vulnerable people. It wasn’t a bad job, but sometimes... when you looking at ‘normal’ couples you envied their ignorance to the fact that some evil had appeared around them. You envied them that they could spend their free time together doing stupid things or relaxing in front of the TV.

So you sighed softly, raising the hand in which you held the small pocket knife. Small as your anti-curse tool was, it was also extremely effective and dangerous. Therefore, you cut the throat of one of the evil souls without any problems, thus defeating the last enemy.

“Ahhhh. Finally...! You’re not hurt, baby?” The young man said in a cheerful voice, and you shook your head in disapproval. Second later, you cleaned the little knife and then, hid it in one of the pockets of your black pants. “Would you like to get some hot chocolate and cake?”

“Huh? Have we finished all our work for today?” You asked in surprise, and the man just bit his lip with joy, putting his finger to his mouth after a while.

“Yes, although you forgot one thing, love.” You raised an eyebrow at his amused words. However, Satoru quickly got rid of your unawareness as soon as he raised his right hand and pointed at something above with his index finger. For a moment you were sure that he meant a curse that hadn’t been killed before, but as it turned out, it was mistletoe growing on one of the tall trees; you were surprised that during the fight he was able to additionally notice a small, green plant. Anyway, you just chuckled lightly as you stood on your tiptoes and tugged at the twenty-eight-year-old by his jacket.

You were happy that at least this one, very sweet Christmas moment could happen to you during the winter season. Thanks to this, these holidays weren’t so bad and devoid of spirit.

— METORI

Every year there was a winter prom at your school; it was the third time for you, while for Saiko, who only joined your class this year, it was something new. Of course, he was skeptical about it from the start and generally discouraged by the very idea of ​​spending time with all PK Academy students, classmates and teachers. That’s why he immediately told you that if you want to go to the prom, he can arrange whatever prom you want; he literally said if you wanted Beyoncé he could call her.

But you just smiled warmly and said that school party is enough for you and you really like it. So he couldn’t refuse you... after all, the gray-haired young boy had a huge, indescribable weakness for you. Plus, even though you’ve been dating for a few weeks, Metori still couldn’t understand how... gentle and simple you were. You weren’t interested in luxury, his money, where his father worked. Instead, you asked every day if he had breakfast, if he would like to go for a walk with you, if he would like to come to you for dinner because your mother cooked a delicious Mexican dish. It was something new and nice for a teenager who had grown up in prosperity and splendor throughout his life. It didn’t bother him, but the prom... it was quite strange and mysterious. But he agreed, so he couldn’t take his words back because he didn’t want you to get sad or disappointed.

Thus, he bought a new, well-fitting and expensive suit – one that would fit perfectly with your delicate dress, which at the same time matches to the color of your shiny eyes. He also paid for new shoes, a watch, and a hairdresser visit, but even that couldn’t compare to your soft, natural blushes and the sweet facial expression you gave him when he came to your house with his butler.

“... You’re stressed?” You asked quietly as you sat in the car and he squeezed your little hand between his much larger ones.

“I’ve just never been at a prom... public... especially at school.” He muttered, and though he turned his head, you could see a hint of blush on his nose and both cheeks. So you chuckled lightly as you cuddled up against his shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.”

The school hasn’t changed much; only a few holiday decorations have been added here and there. However, the gymnasium took your breath away because it was magically decorated. But before you had time to take your seats on the other side of the door, your physical education teacher stopped the two of you.

“Couples enter after payment.” Mr. Matsuzaki said, and the Santa Claus hat on his head added to the charm of his muscular figure.

Of course, Saiko was already taking out his wallet, but you quickly stopped it, pointing in a specific direction. It was, obviously, the smol mistletoe, which was the aforementioned entry ticket for couples who decided to show up at the ball together. So you smiled slightly at your boyfriend and he looked at you confused.

“What is it?”

“O-Oh, you never kissed under the mistletoe?”

“Kissing under it has any meaning?” He asked, still surprised, and you just moved closer to his face, stealing a short, really sweet kiss.

“It’s a tradition, love. You have to kiss under every mistletoe if you notice one.” You said happily and then thanked the teacher for going inside the gym.

Of course, Metori in his head was already calculating how many tons of mistletoe he should buy so that you could continue kissing him as sweetly as you just did.

— JUUZOU

You put two cups of hot, beautifully fragrant chocolate on the table; one was with two white marshmallows and the other with six. Of course, it was easy to guess which portion was for Juuzou and which was for you. Nevertheless, you smiled gently and then sat down next to the white-haired boy, staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

“... About what did you dream, Juuzou-kun?” You asked softly, taking the purple cup between both hands. The warm ceramics pleasantly burned your all fingers, which made you breathe blissfully. “Of course, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to tell me. We can just sit in silence and drink our sweet cocoa.” You added after a brief second so as not to put unnecessary pressure or general stress on the nineteen-year-old.

“It’s no big deal. I dreamed about my mom.” He admitted hesitantly, also taking his dark-green mug. “When I woke up and looked at the calendar I realized we had Christmas time and... Well, my mom never gave me any, not even a small gift, nor did I ever spend that time like other children my age. It hit me a bit. Not that I regret it, but... what Christmas really is?” His short speech made you look at him with a very sad expression on your face and after a quick while you just put your warm chocolate on the table, getting up from your wooden chair and walking to a random cupboard in your smol kitchen.

This year you didn’t have time (because of work) and no idea (because of fatigue) for presents for loved ones, and even more so for the unexpected guest – Suzuya, who loved to sleep in your house because, as he once said, ‘He felt at your place very safe’, but you managed to come up with a little surprise fastly; you wrapped a red ribbon that was in the cupboard with needles and scissors around an unopened box of nut cookies. You also managed to find a piece of paper and a black pen, so you wrote a concise but sincere wishes to the inspector, which ended with a tiny heart and a star. Out of the corner of your eye, you also noticed the mistletoe lying next to the clock, which was a little joke your dear friend had made to you two days ago. So you took everything and went back to the quietly sitting Juuzou, smiling slightly at him, even a bit silly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think about gifts before, but... I hope that’s enough. After today’s work, we can go to the gallery or the park to see the decorated Christmas trees, you will surely like them. Happy Holidays, Juuzou. I hope next year will be a good one for you.” You said shyly as you handed him ribbon-decorated cookies. At the sight of them, the boy only blushed, then looked at your other hand, which was still gripping a little twig. “Ohh... it’s... such a small tradition where you get a kiss under the mistletoe.” You picked up the plant and then placed it over the white-haired young man’s head, bending down after a while and giving him a short peck on the left, smooth cheek. “Merry Christmas once again.”

“Merry Christmas to you too and... thank you for that.”

You only smirked, reaching for the mug of already cool drink. However, you weren’t disappointed in drinking the cold cocoa, because the honest, slightly timid smile of the boy you liked from the beginning of your work at CCG warmed your whole body better than any other hot chocolate, tea or coffee.

#— 🍁 #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru scenarios #gojo satoru x reader #saiki k no psi nan #saiki k no psi nan scenarios #saiki k no psi nan imagines #saiki k no psi nan x reader #saiko metori #saiko metori imagines #saiko metori scenarios #saiko metori x reader #tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul scenarios #tokyo ghoul imagines #tokyo ghoul x reader #juuzou suzuya #juuzou suzuya imagines #juuzou suzuya scenarios #juuzou suzuya x reader

[isaac-lahey-imagines]

Imagine #70 | Request #31 (Part 3/3 of Isaac Lahey x Alpha!Reader)

Catch up here: Part 1, Part 2 (might need to rewrite these two though)

Can I just say that you guys who stuck with this blog (and the Wattpad imagines) are the best? And to think I haven't posted in years and we've hit 6k+ followers when I came back?! I don't even know how you people are still here and loving the pieces I put out when I'm here cringing over the old works back in 2015!

Warnings: The usual when it comes to the Teen Wolf series, specifically the Dread Doctors' season, mentions of blood, bones breaking, drugs, needles, a few curse words, idk if this is angst? whump?

Word Count: 6k+ (it's probably the longest I've written omg)

Not much of a flashback or backstory (I'm out of words, I can't squeeze anymore juices out of my brain, my bad). As usual, this is note beta-ed and sorry for any mistakes! English isn't my first language :(

~

“No more, please,” weak cries fell on deaf ears as you were dragged down from one hall to another, the smell of disinfectant and rust overpowering your already sensitive nose and magnifying the headache that was present from when you took a beating earlier.

The sound of bare flesh skidding on the polished floor bounced off the walls as you tried to pull away and run from your captors, you did not care of the stinging sensation that radiated from the pads of your feet - the open wounds left untreated by the people who kept you in hopes that whatever was inside of you can take care of it on its own.

You were repulsed at the thought of them still being considered as people after what they have put you through - they were monsters.

“Just a little more, my dear.” One of the figures that held your arm sneered, the grip on your bicep tightening making you clench your jaw. You internally scoffed at this knowing well that it won’t be ‘just a little more’ with how long and how frequent it happened and will happen.

“She should be able to go through another round.” A voice, deeper than the feminine one from earlier, spoke up as you entered through the heavy double doors of a room - an operating theater you guessed from the setup. “Prep her.”

“Her vitals are stronger now.” The third person declared, their fingers flipping through the pages of the clipboard in their hands before glancing towards the monitor to one side of the room - an image of your anatomy on display with different colors corresponding to each system in your body.

“The less you struggle the faster this will be.” One of the doctors, the Geneticist, who dragged you to this hell hole hummed as she was met with resistance on your end while she strapped you down on the cold metal table, the leather rubbing your already raw skin.

Her patience with you was at a limit, she was close to just ending it - ending you. But they have already achieved so much with their craft that it would be such a waste of time and resource to start from square one.

“Remember,” The Pathologist warned as he walked closer to you once you were settled down. “The louder you scream, the more blood we take from you.”

The tears that fell from your eyes to the sides of your face tickled your ears at the threat, small whimpers coming from you were ignored.

“Might I remind you that the btch wakes up?” The Geneticist interrupted, irritation in her voice as she steadied your shaking right hand before inserting an IV cannula in a vein at the back of your hand and taping it in place. Looking up to her left, she reached for the device below one of the two bags that hung on the pole and unclamped its tube letting the mix of anxiolytic, hypnotic, and anticonvulsant start to flow down to you. She then turned her attention to the other bag beside it, a mix of amnestic, and myorelaxant drugs, and did the same - a near-perfect cocktail mix they specifically designed for you.

She reminded the other doctors that no matter how much benzos, relaxants, or other drug concoctions they pump in your veins, you will wake up in between operations screaming your head off while attempting to break free of the hold you are currently in. “No matter how much sedatives we put in her, her wolf is too strong-”

“It’s an animal-” The Surgeon spoke up.

“She’s an alpha, a pure one-” She argued again, almost growling at the hard-headedness of her co-doctors before she was cut off by the same person.

“An animal.” He spoke in finality. “We are humans - gods even! We are at the very top of the damned food chain.”

The room suddenly fell silent, your whimpers, the beeping of a monitor, and the hum of the machines somewhere in the room were the only things that could be heard as you started to feel the effects of the fluids injected into you.

The tension you felt from earlier began to leave your body just as your vision started getting cloudy, your eyelids feeling heavier by the minute. You didn’t notice the Pathologist holding up a syringe to the light, flicking the bubbles away with his middle finger and thumb a few times before the taste of rubber invaded your mouth with such force that hurt your lips, gums, and teeth.

The Surgeon that was above you, blocking the light for a few moments, had shoved the mouth guard in before he continued securing your head in the metal gear positioned above you. Your neck followed suit with a hard metal clamp attached to the table effectively locking you in place and soon, your whole body was completely immobilized with a loud click from the double lock clamps.

The tears continued to flow down the sides of your face as you fought the sleepiness, praying for this to just end. The dread of what is to come overwhelming you and making your body shake as much as the drugs and table’s hold on you would allow.

“I’m surprised the smart one hasn’t figured it out yet.” They exchanged small talk over your muffled screams as soon as you felt the sharp sting of a needle puncturing your skin and into your cervical spine; expelling whatever it was they created into your system for the nth time. Your ears hurt from the ringing in your head while your throat burned as the pain from the syringe radiated all over your body.

“I’m surprised her mate hasn’t.” The Geneticist replied with emphasis.

“My friends, let us not be complacent.” Their leader ended their conversation as he now concentrated on looking at the x-ray on the monitor showing the movement of the serum as it spread in you.

“We continue our routine - clean her up, wipe her to an extent and then return her. ” He added as he pushed more of the liquid in you with a press of a button by your head.

“Marcel, they will know, soon enough.” She pointed out. “She will start to have withdrawals if-”

“We won’t let that happen.”

~

Sneakers skidding on the floor as everyone seemed to scramble out of the way towards the door, eyes wide with fear looking at the figure in front of them.

“Y/N?”

“Alpha?”

Isaac watched as the massive wolf in front of them let out a deep growl with its teeth bared at the people that called her attention, the fur on her back and chest standing up making her look even bigger than she already is.

“Y/N,” Isaac knew that Deaton was the best person to handle all kinds of supernatural cases, hence, the title of Emissary to their pack. “It’s Deaton.”

Letting out another growl as you licked your lips, your tail flicked lowly behind you as your eyes darted to each person present in the room before landing back to one in particular who was too close for comfort.

“Y/N, hey,” His voice sounded softer, it almost made you feel a sense of comfort until his hand reached out to you and made you snap back and almost bite it off.

This instinctively made Scott pull Isaac back by his shirt to a safe distance, struggling a bit in his grasp as the beta did not want to be moved further away from you despite the situation.

“Isaac, move back,” Deaton warned when he noticed that the curly-haired werewolf was not backing down, a hand gesturing for him to move away from you. “She’s scared.”

“No, Deaton, she heard me. She’s there - Y/N,” Isaac argued before turning his attention back to you again, blue eyes already glassy as tears filled the rim of his eyes. “She heard me.”

Isaac tried to hold on to the hope that you were present underneath the wolf because he was sure he saw that familiar glimmer that was distinctly you.

Just as he attempted to reach out to you again with a whisper of your name on his lips, the same frequency you heard before rang in your ears making you seize up and drop to the ground.

“Agh! What is that?” Liam winced as his hands reached up to his head to cover his ears, eyes scrunching shut as he tried to will away the incessant ringing.

“What’s what?” Mason asked with confusion etched on his face as he looked at his friend then to Stiles and the others, the werewolves in the room in particular, doing the same.

Isaac did not care for the ringing he heard, witnessing you looking like you were being kicked or beaten as you struggled to stand up, the sound of pained screams, whines, and whimpers coming out of you pulled at his heart making him drop to his knees beside you.

His hands hovered over your form trying to figure out what to do while he avoided getting scratched by the large clawed paws that writhed with your body, Scott and Thor doing the same and looking over you trying to see where exactly were you hurting.

“Deaton,” Isaac called as he carefully placed his hand on your shoulder before hissing - you were burning up and the black color that coursed through his veins upon touching you wreaked of disease. “Deaton what do we do?!”

“What is that?” Thor asked in bewilderment as he saw what was happening with Isaac’s arms.

“Hold her still as much as you can,” The vet’s voice was calm despite the mess, going to one of the counters in the room and asking Stiles and Mason for assistance as he tried to collect what sounded like glass vials from the way it clinked in their hold.

Isaac heard Thor mutter an apology to his alpha as he tried to hold your hind legs down as much as he can, Scott doing the same by your torso and Isaac by your neck.

“Y/N,” Isaac continued to call for you as he tried to hold your front legs down. “It’s Isaac, baby - it’s me.”

“Hurry!” Scott called to Deaton as his eyes scrunched and a sheen of sweat already present on their foreheads, the ringing still present in their ears making it difficult for them to concentrate.

Just as Deaton returned and knelt by your side, carrying a stainless steel tray that contained what looked like multiple large syringes in it, the static ringing noise started to get louder making the supernatural beings in the room let out a pained groan and lose their grip on you.

It grew too much too quickly to bear, causing the lights and windows above your heads to shatter and engulf the room in darkness. As everyone ducked for cover, Isaac stayed by your side and tried to shield you from the onslaught of sharp glass descending on you.

It took a few moments before the ringing stopped and the feel of cold air entered the room, snapping them back to their senses as their eyes opened at the smell of blood it carried with it.

Isaac immediately sat up as he felt the cold tiled floor and not your warm body underneath him.

“Y/N,” was all he said before he sprinted out of the room, the others following behind him.

“How did she get out?” He heard Stiles behind him once they reached the outside of the clinic, Thor already looking around the perimeter of the establishment for any signs of you.

Isaac’s brain was running a hundred miles at what he saw and what had just happened inside, his lips quivering as he ran his hands through his hair and pulling at the roots in frustration. He sniffled as he tried to stop the tears from running down his cheeks with the heels of his hands. Exhaling, he closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing before turning to Scott.

“She’s not gone,” his alpha spoke, already reassuring him. “We’re going to find her.”

Just before Isaac could reply and shoot down the optimism his alpha had, a car screeched to a halt in front of them.

“Where is she?!” Lydia asked as she got out of the driver’s side, a frantic look in her bloodshot eyes.

“Hey, hey, what happened?” Stiles was immediately by her side, cupping her face in his hands. But Lydia only moved out of the way and turned to Isaac and asked again.

“We don’t know where she is. She disappeared right before Deaton -” Lydia was close to tears again as she groaned in frustration.

“They can’t get her back.” She said, sounding more of a beg as her voice shook a little.

Everyone in front of her stopped what they were doing and looked at the Banshee.

“Who’s they? And where do you think Y/N is?” Stiles asked before a few seconds later, realization hit him.

~

It was on the way to Eichen House that Lydia explained everything she saw that made her break all the traffic laws implemented in Beacon Hills just to rush to the vet clinic. Isaac could not shake the feeling that Lydia, a banshee – a herald of death, had visions of you in his arms already in eternal slumber. His wolf broke more than a little as she spoke more of what she saw, only a few words registering to him – Y/N, doctors, experiment, and torture.

Everything was a flash for Isaac now, he did not even realize that they were now in a tunnel under the mental facility planning on who was going where.

But once their strategy was laid out, Isaac wasted no time in trying to locate even the faintest of your scent in the damp and moldy tunnel he was walking through. He heard Stiles and Lydia speaking on the phone in his pocket that they'd found an office that had files strewn everywhere – files that specifically contained information about you and what they have done with you so far.

“Any luck finding her?” Lydia asked as Isaac heard papers being flipped on the other end of the line.

“Nope, not yet,” Liam replied.

“No, she’s not here.” Thor was next then Scott, all claiming to find only empty rooms and dungeons.

“Isaac?” Lydia asked after not hearing from him.

“None,” he answered, sounding defeated as he rounded another corner with you nowhere in sight.

Isaac could hear collective sighs as they continued their searches, his ears already drowning out what Lydia and Stiles were doing - occasionally spitting out questions of why’s as they continued to browse through what they found in the files.

His breathing became labored as his mind started to play tricks on him the further we walked down the tunnel, the source of light slowly fading the deeper he went.

Just as he was about to turn another corner, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He felt as though soft fingertips touched him, making his skin crawl as he turned around quickly only to find an empty space. But as he directed his attention to the other corner of the room, the colors on his face drained.

Amidst the mess of metal chains and torn blankets, Isaac watched closely as the figure on the floor took a raspy breath, eyes moving behind closed lids, lips mumbling incoherent words.

“Y/N?” Isaac slowly approached, the other members of the pack on the other line calling for his attention and asking if they heard him call your name.

At the sound of your name being called, your body went rigid. Your eyes flew open, widening as you saw a shadowy figure in front of you moving closer.

“Please, no more.” Your voice cracked from the overuse as you begged, the sound of heavy metal clinking together echoed in the empty room as you backed away slowly. “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again, please!”

Your frame quivered as you continued to plead, sweat mixed with blood trickled down your body as you attempted to make yourself smaller against the corner of the cell; failing from the sudden pain on the back of your neck that restricted you to move any further away from where you were.

“Y/N, it’s Isaac. I’m not going to hurt you.” Isaac ignored the voices over the phone calling for him, asking if he really found you. “You’re safe now, they’re not going to hurt you.”

Isaac almost expected for you to cower further away from him, but you didn’t – instead, you relaxed a little as his hand landed on the small of your back and the other on your shoulder effectively pulling you into an embrace.

As Isaac felt you release a breath before melting against his chest, his scent effectively calmed you down as your wolf recognized her other half. You both stayed like that for a while before he went back to examining you and what was behind you, more so what was attached to you.

Now, more diligent in his movements, his hands hovered over what seemed to be a tube attached to the back of your neck. He shifted in his kneeling position, careful not to jostle you, before taking his phone from his pocket.

“Something’s attached to her, I need to get it off-.” He informed more to Stiles and Lydia than to others present on the call.

“Don’t!” Lydia exclaimed, panicked at what Isaac was planning. “Not yet.”

“But she’s already hurting!” Isaac’s hands returned to your shoulder and back, holding you closer - as close as the tube permitted.

“That’s connected to her spine, Isaac,” Stiles added, warning him of what might happen. “If you remove it you might do some serious damage here.”

His attention turned back to you when he heard you whimper his name.

You were testing to see if Isaac was really there with you or if you were merely hallucinating again, not sure anymore of what was real after everything that happened to you for the past few years.

“Isaac?”

“Hi,” he smiled down when he pulled away from you a little, his voice shaking as he cupped your face in his hands. “I’m here.”

Your eyes focused on his face, blinking a few times before-

“No.”

That, he did not expect.

“No, no, no.” You mumbled repeatedly making Isaac more confused- were you not happy or relieved to see him with you?

“You shouldn’t be here.” As you came to your senses, you moved out of his grasp and pushed him away at the same time with the little strength you have left.

“Y/N, we came here for you. What are you talking about?” Isaac was hurt, you can see it in his face the way his brows furrowed and eyes already releasing a few tears down his cheeks.

Before you could answer back, the same ringing sounded again.

“Isaac, you have to go, please.” You cried, your own tears flowing down your cheek as you tried to pry his hands that held on to your wrists away, wanting to get out of his hold on you all the while fighting the heavy ache in your body to turn against your own will.

“Isaac, you have to get out of there!” You can hear Stiles over the phone, can hear Scott and the others running to where your werewolf was located.

“I’m not leaving her,” Isaac growled at them but his eyes stayed on you.

“You have to, plea-”

“Y/N!”

A blood-curdling scream left your lips as your body started to tremble on the floor, your bones were visibly breaking and morphing under your skin against your will yet again. The jagged edges of the broken bones breaking through skin and the movement causing purple and blue patches to decorate your flesh, all the while the liquid inside the tube that was still attached to you bubbled angrily.

“Isaac!”

Turning to the person who called his name, he suddenly felt himself being tugged down to the floor as the sound of electricity zipping past them blasted onto the steel bars of a small window on the wall overcame your pained screams.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” the static voice called.

“It’s the Dread Doctors.” Stiles’ voice over the phone can be heard, more papers can be heard being flipped and thrown somewhere. “They’re the ones doing this to Y/N.”

“I need to get it off of her!” Isaac spoke to the phone as he watched Thor lunge at one of the doctors in front of them, his clawed hand not holding back any hits he let out. Scott was next when another appeared much closer to where you and Isaac were.

Once your cries quieted down and your body settled down to small shakes - appeased from the onslaught of transforming against your will, Isaac’s hands hovered over the tube.

“You have to go before they hurt you.” It was barely a whisper when the words came out of your mouth, your body was getting too tired to fight it anymore.

“No, I’m not leaving without you, you know that.” Isaac spoke it with a voice that left no room for arguments as he held the tube in his hand and attempted to pull.

Isaac held back a sob as the screams you let out shattered through the noise of the grunts and punches being thrown. But before he could successfully pull it out, a force had hit him and sent him across the room hitting a wall with a loud thud.

“Near-perfect.” Another doctor, the same one who threw Isaac off of you, had appeared next to you with a device in his hand that, from the looks of it, controlled the tube that was pumping the liquid into you.

“Stop, please!” Your hands flew to the contraption attached to you just as Isaac charged at the doctor, sending them both to the ground.

Blinking away the heaviness of your eyelids, you tried to move from your position on the floor only to fall back down flat on your stomach. The wolf in you whined in panic, barking almost as she nudged you with her head to stand up - that you still had strength in you and she was there to anchor you herself.

“Give her back to me,” You can hear Isaac from across the room, the sight of him swiftly landing blow after blow at the doctor caught you off guard. The blood that ran down his temple to his eyes only added a level of intensity to his yellow glowing gaze as he gave a growl that had an unnerving timbre to it. “Now.”

On the other end of the room, you watch Scott claw at the doctor he was against before the mask fell off and revealed a face that was mottled, wrinkled, and scarred. If the true alpha was disgusted, he did not show it as he put his arms up to block the hit the doctor threw his way.

At the sound of a device dropping to the cemented floor, you felt the vibration of the tube behind you stop - the bubbles silencing as it halted its actions. This immediately cleared your head and relieved you of the pain, the fuzzy veil finally lifting as you took another deep breath and attempted to sit upright again.

Successfully sitting up with a few labored breaths accompanied by a wince, you lifted your aching arms and took hold of the tube attached behind you - the stinging feel of the needle made itself known as the small movement you made just from holding it jostled a little.

Taking a couple of ragged breaths again, trying to gather the courage and strength to pull the thing behind you when the air was suddenly knocked out of your lungs. The sensation of a sharp jab radiated from your side, the groan you let out echoed to the other end of the room making your eyes dart to where Isaac was.

“No,” you let out a gasp at the sight of your mate wide-eyed as he stared up at the doctor in front of him - the pain you felt on your side mirroring where the Surgeon’s swordcane embedded on Isaac’s side and giving it a twist for good measure. “Isaac!”

Your wolf’s painful yips turned to a low dangerous growl.

Feeling the familiar throb in your gums as your canines grew longer, you heard a banshee’s piercing scream all the way from the other wing of the Eichen house while a true alpha’s growl filled the place you were in.

“No more,” You say through clenched teeth, Thor’s knees buckling at the command in his alpha’s voice, Scott and the doctors they were up against stood in awe at the willpower you displayed.

“Perfect,” one of them said under their breath, the final push for perfection.

Finally standing tall, the tube attached to your neck earlier now clutched in your hand, you did not waste time as you took down each person who did you wrong.

Going for the closest antagonist in your life, Thor immediately scrambled out of your way as your claws wrapped around the Geneticists neck. You let your body move past her without letting go of your grip on her before using the momentum to lift the doctor up, the weight and force effectively disconnecting her head from the rest of her body before hurdling her to the Pathologist who was clambering away from Scott and the fight.

Everything was a blur to the other occupants of the room as you zipped past them and took down each one before you finally lunged at the Surgeon who finally released his grip on both his cane and on Isaac.

“My child-” he managed to say as your grip on his neck tightened, his feet barely touching the ground - your eyes glowing a dangerous color as you stared up at him.

You can finally see through the mask, raw pink flesh with stitches decorating it was what the steel mask protected. His mouth opened to say something but only a gurgled gasp came out as your other hand embedded itself in his chest and pierced through skin and muscle. You felt your wolf puffing up with pride and anger - you were their greatest creation and downfall.

Silence enveloped the room as the lead doctor took his last breath before you haphazardly threw him to the ground.

With his nose scrunched and eyebrows furrowed, Isaac pulled the swordcane out of him. His jaw clenching before he let out a pained groan at the feel of the weapon sliding out before leaning heavily against the brick wall while clutching his side.

Your attention was immediately drawn to your other half, managing to wipe off some of the blood on your hand before tending to him.

“Hey,” Isaac greeted as he tried to not lean all his weight to you as you wrapped your arms around his waist, careful not to touch the stab wound on his side. You felt tears playing at the edge of your lashes as you buried your face against his chest, the scent signifying home.

“Can’t really ask you if you’re okay,” You managed to say once you pulled away and looked up at him.

“You’re one to talk,” Isaac replied with a chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

You smiled, wiping the stray tear that ran down your cheek with the back of your hand as Isaac’s lips returned to your forehead for another kiss.

“Y/N, look-”

“No!”

A loud bang and the pain that came with it suddenly broke the bubble of peace you were in.

Clutching you to his chest, you saw the same confused expression that reflected on Isaac’s eyes before they darted from you to where the smell of gunpowder was coming from.

The Pathologist’s hand shook as he held the gun up, a crazed look in his eyes as he attempted to stand up from being buried under his colleague's lifeless body. He muttered incoherent words as he aimed the gun at you again.

But before he can pull the trigger, another loud thud took you all by surprise as you witnessed the man fall down flat on his face.

“Damn.” Lydia was behind him with a bloodied metal bat clutched in her hands - Stiles’ hands were up in the air, his eyes were wide as if he couldn’t believe his girl just did that.

“Well mark me down as scared and horny,” Stiles muttered under his breath, his brain replaying the moment Lydia all but took off with his metal bat and ran down the hall as fast as her heels allowed her to where they were now.

~

“Thank you, Thor.” You hugged the larger-built werewolf, his arms wrapping around you tightly but still being mindful of your current state. “But I don’t think I’m fit to be your alpha - to be the pack’s alpha anymore.”

“I will never understand how you and the others accepted me after what had happened.” Your feet dangled as you sat on a bricked fence outside of the Eichen house, the jacket from Isaac wrapped around you securely to act as a buffer against the coolness of the night.

You can hear Thor’s wolf whine at your words, his face already reflecting the sadness you both felt at what you were doing as he leaned against the fence you were sitting on.

“Alpha, please don’t discredit yourself.”

You looked up at him, not really believing his words with how much damage you’ve done to the pack - to your family.

“You are more than worthy - especially at your age.” He added, pointing out that most of the alphas out there were a hundred years older than you. “You are strong.”

“Thank you, again - for everything,” your lips quivered as you gave your best smile before glancing up to try and prevent the tears from spilling down your cheeks. The thought of leaving your pack broke your heart, they were family. But you needed to have someone better to lead and handle pack-related things -- you needed to recover.

A comfortable silence settled around the two of you before you heard Stiles and Isaac walking towards you.

“Jeep’s good to go, big guy.” Stiles said - more to Thor than you - with a tilt of his head to gesture to where they were parked as Isaac helped you to your feet and walked you towards Lydia’s car.

“You okay?” Isaac asked softly as you both settled in the back seat.

His eyes double-checked the graze on your shoulder from the bullet that hit you, his arms never leaving your side as he let you lean on him - exhaustion already catching up to you with the way your body sagged against his.

No, not really. You wanted to say as he only tugged you closer to him, the drive to Deaton being quieter save for the soft tunes the radio played.

“I will be.”

~~~

Isaac didn’t know what exactly woke him up.

Staring back at the ceiling, his ears strained to hear bed sheets rustling beside him. With the little light that passed through the curtains of the room you shared, he ran his hands down his face before turning to his bedside.

His eyes squinted when his phone awoke and flashed the time, 3:01AM it read - the phone’s screen showed a picture of the two of you together during a weekend picnic Lydia had arranged a few weeks ago. You had your eyes closed and lips smiling - a genuine smile after so long - against his neck as he had his arms wrapped around you tightly while he made a face to the camera.

Isaac stared at his phone’s lock screen a few moments longer before movement on his side and the feel of cold skin touching his leg took him out of his reverie.

Putting his phone back on the nightstand, he curled back down the covers and turned to face you. For someone who’s a warm-blooded supernatural creature themself, you sure have cold feet.

Isaac cupped your face before tucking a stray hair behind your ear, you were lying on your stomach facing him with your hands tucked just a little under your pillow. You were still in deep sleep but it did not look as peaceful as he remembered - your brows were furrowed, your lips moved as if mumbling something and an occasional hand twitch was what he observed.

“Y/N?” Isaac asked, his voice croaked from the lack of use as he leaned on his elbow and tried to coax you awake.

It didn’t take too long before Isaac finally understood what you were saying.

Please, no more...p-please.

Leaning over your side of the bed, Isaac flicked the switch to your bedside lamp open and tried to call for you again. He could now see the thin layer of sweat on your forehead, the sheets bunching up in your grasp as your knuckles turned a lighter shade from how tight your grip was.

I can’t t-take it anymore...

“Hey, baby,” Isaac gently ran his hand down your back a few times, trying not to ‘jolt’ you awake. He knew what methods to use in waking you up when things like these happen, though it took multiple trials and errors with a few bumps - more or less scratches - in the way. But god, he’d take you screaming and lashing out at him any day than this.

I’m sorry, I won’t do it again...

“Y/N, please wake up for me.”

It broke his heart more at the thought that while you were already together, even if in that span of time you were simply friends at first, they’ve already done a multitude of things to you.

“Y/N, I’m here - you’re safe.” He tried again, the soft kiss to your temple lingering a little longer in hopes that it might help - let you sense that he was present and you were not in danger anymore.

“Y/N, no one’s gonna hurt you,” He spoke softly.

Covering your clenched hand with his, it was all it took before your eyes flew open with a sharp gasp of air. It took some strength and swiftness from Isaac to hold your wrists when you sat up so fast - almost bumping his chin in the process - that you almost fell out of the shared bed.

“Hey, hey,” He called for you, your eyes were dilated, blown wide and looking around frantically as if you were searching for the threat that plagued your life a year ago and giving you these night terrors that prevented you from having a good night’s sleep.

“I’m here, you’re safe.” He repeated, waiting for you and not letting go.

“Isaac,” He waited a little more before you finally settled down and realized where you were, your voice shook a little as you spoke his name; eyes glassy as you looked at the familiar blue eyes that called for you.

“I’m here.” Isaac gave a small smile as his hold on your wrist loosened before sliding his hands in yours and holding onto them on your lap - the soft yellow light from your bedside lamp gave his face a soft glow; his eyes looking more kinder that it already was.

Not again. Your lips trembled as you held back a sob, you shook your head as you stared down at your joined hands.

You felt trapped.

That was the only thing you felt and you wanted out, you wanted this to stop; you want an end to this thing happening to you - you don’t deserve the man in front of you.

Having known you for so long, Isaac can already see it on your face, he already anticipated it.

“I love you,” He spoke.

Absolutely no room for arguments, “I won’t leave you.”

You felt Isaac’s hands rest on your hips as you withdrew yours from his hold and tried to stop and wipe as many tears as you could with the heel of your hands. He let you lean your head on his shoulder, the feel of his lips placing a comforting kiss to your ear should’ve given your heart a little leap but it didn’t.

“How much longer will you tell me that before you finally get tired?” You did not mean to say it out loud, you hiccupped once your tears finally settled down with your head and heart.

“Never,” Isaac said as he pushed you away a little to look at you, cupping your face in his warm hands to make you look up at him, a glint of playfulness present. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

You could only sigh and give a soft smile.

“You’re too good for me, Isaac.”

Bringing your hands to his lips to kiss your knuckles, he let them go before cupping your face again and leaned down to plant a kiss on your forehead, then your nose and lastly a chaste kiss on your lips.

“You deserve good things, Y/N.”

You deserve them after everything you went through. Isaac gave that smile he reserved only for you when he pulled away.

Lying back down, Isaac pulled you closer to him before pulling the covers up just below your chin.

“We’ll be okay, remember?” Isaac reminded you of the words you said to him when he asked you a year ago.

You did not miss the way he said ‘we.’ You did remember what he told you, that you were in this together - you’re it for me.

“I remember,” you answered, curling as close as you can to his side. The tip of your nose resting against the warm skin of his neck as he rest his chin on top of your head, arms tightening around you before they relaxed.

~

Feedbacks are always appreciated! Especially since I miss writing. But again, I won't be doing much writing anymore since I've somewhat lost touch with both my imagines blogs. I might just rewrite/refurbish some of my old imagines/drabbles.

Again, thank you so much for those who stuck by this imagines blog (and for Brett as well). You don't know how much I appreciate it, again, I'm sorry for not being active (read more here)

#isaac lahey #isaac lahey imagines #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey x you #isaac lahey x y/n #isaac lahey imagine #teen wolf #teen wolf imagines #teen wolf imagine

[roach-works]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

#long post #writing #fic #autism #changelings #fairies

[goldafterglow]

dissolve me (repost)

(deleted this post on accident, reblog of original here)

Summary: We find out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Except the Tootsie Pop is Horacio Carrillo.

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Reader

Word Count: 5k+ (look away)

Warnings: angst, fluff, gory metaphors (I use figurative language to mask the scent of flaming trash)

A/N: This is literally the first thing I’ve written in like 3 years so you have to be nice to me. Please give me feedback!! But it has to be exclusively positive or I will spontaneously combust!!!

Horacio is cold.

It’s a little past midnight and the Sun has been asleep for hours by now, but not Bogota. Instead, the city moves in slow motion, the weight of slumber heavy on its creatures as the few visible stars shush the agitated crickets. Somehow, even despite the Sun’s absence, it’s influence still blankets the trees. It accumulates, even. The hot radiation permeates the lungs of taxis and buildings, but the cool darkness brings life into the air as water begins to materialize on the sides of newspaper stands and underneath Horacio’s shirt. His clothes stick to him so tight (more than usual) that he thinks he may be drowning under the moon. He can taste the ocean on his tongue and the sensation is only relieved as he steps off the pavement and onto the tile of the rundown convenience store. The building, heavily air conditioned, makes each drop of sweat feel like icicles pricking into his fried red skin, but his body still burns from the residual heat.

Somehow, Horacio still maintains that icey core in his chest. So even as he makes a beeline for the refrigerated-goods, yes. Horacio is cold.

He exists as a green-sheet ghost walking through the aisles of the grocery store, barely conscious at 2 am as he searches for some goddamn milk. He knows he works too hard, knows his life is concrete and bricks screeching against his steel heart. Every morning he walks on glass to enter his office, and every morning he forces his feet to bleed. What else is there for him? His body has been adorned with splinters and cuts for so long now, so what’s a few more? Each night, he drags his body flat across the floor, just trying to make it out the door. Trying to escape an office that chews him up and spits him out, saliva covered and filthy.

But fuck if he just wants some milk.

So he makes this small trip before he heads home. Once he finds the dairy, his heavy eyes hoist themselves upwards, to the second-to-topmost shelf in the refrigerator. The last carton of fat free milk -  dairy-flavored water - that he’ll chug the next morning. But just as his hardened fingertips reach for it, they meet something else; a third wheel to this toxic milk-Horacio romance that is ruining his plans for what might as well be the best morning he’s had in the past three milk-free days. His mind, once fuzzy from the sleepy grey clouds filling his lenses like cataracts, now feels a sharp jolt of electricity soar through it as his machine body is activated and his surroundings suddenly become clearer, laser vision kicking in. His senses are now sharper and his guard is completely up. His nerves begin racing as the data from his hands shoots straight to his brain to get integrated and that thing he’s feeling is...warm? Shit, no it’s hot. It fucking burns his skin and immediately he pulls back because his motherboard is screaming at him that he’s in danger.

His head shoots up and his eyes dart to the side as he turns to look, expecting a raging bonfire or boiling cast iron, but instead he sees a human. A sweet, candy person that looks almost surprised as he does, but with softer features and kinder eyes. He smells the caramel seeping out of your pores and it stings his olfactory nerves but perhaps he wants to smell it again so it can fill his lungs and then let it harden inside of his cold body. So that it can stay within him forever.

“Disculpame,” you say, remorse dripping out of your golden mouth and if his ears were in control, he’d beg you to say it again. Say anything. He recognizes your accent. Not a Columbian, but a gringo. His brain reminds his heart that hey, we don’t like selfish, egotistical gringos. His heart doesn’t listen.

“Go ahead,” he says, and shit he sounds horrible. He sounds fucked up, and it’s probably because he is fucked up. He talks like toothpicks and needles, but it’s okay because he got to speak to you and he’s never spoken to an angel before.

He notices how you relax a little at the sound of his English, and he feels that heat spread at the beautiful notion that he did that all by himself.

“No really, I don’t need it,” you insist, a small smile gracing your lips. “You’re very sweet for offering, though.” Huh?

Horacio Carrillo is not sweet. He doesn’t taste like sugar or chocolate or berries. Horacio is bitter gourd, burnt toast and that shitty part at the end of the banana that no one wants. Copper and hot tar oozing down taste buds and burning the frail pink dots along the way. Straight black coffee that’s tear-inducingly retched. Pepto Bismol and whatever the fuck is inside of those plastic pill capsules. Raw beef festering with E. coli and flies, a rotting corpse under a wake of vultures, the creepy old man that sits next to you on the train, mace burning your shivering eyes while you collapse to your shredded knees onto a floor of thumbtacks.

Horacio Carrillo is not sweet. But you said he was, and you are oh so persuasive. That’s when he felt the first one. Crack.

His mind goes into overdrive as panic sets in - what was that sound? What just broke? What crevice of his mind just ripped a little and how can he staple it back shut? He feels the slimey pus of his emotions begin to seep out of the opening a little, and he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. He wants to put his guard back up and regain control of this situation the way he’s been trained to do by offering you the carton and then leaving; defying your orders and following his own.

But who is he to refuse you?

“Thank you,” he says, and he’s just noticed that your hand is back at your side and your eyes shine a little brighter as your smile widens at his defeat. That was me, too. But then you’re turning around and leaving, messy bun flopping up and down as you walk towards the cash register and his heart is furious. It’s pounding in his ribcage like a ravenous shark caged in glass, telling him to not let you get away because it wants to burn in your soft flames and turn to ash in your fingers, but he stays planted. Watches you walk away and take that gentle radiating heat with you, leaving him just as hard and frozen as he was before he’d ever let you poke around into his soul. Suddenly he understands why you’d burned him so bad; doesn’t even the lightest match make that violent sizzling sound when it touches ice? But he can’t deny that you had melted him, just a little bit, and he can’t deny that he likes being a little watery.

He sees you again just a few days later. It’s a Sunday morning and Bogota is now wide awake. Pastel streaks fly down the streets as manifestations of yellow taxis, dusty red cars, and pale blue cyclers bring the canvas of the city to life. Horacio decides to be adventurous, introduce true exploration and child-like color into his monochrome world, and walk to the cafe near his street. A truly exhilarating touch, if he did say so himself.

Except he hadn’t prepared himself for the anarchy that would occur within him when he saw you again. The girl that was awake at 2 am and offered him white calcium water in a carton and called him sweet. You’re wearing one of those pink dresses that you just know is sleeveless, but a light denim jacket guards your shoulders and he can’t help but wonder what would happen if he just tugged on your collar a little bit, exposed some of your delicate skin and traced his fingers over it. Just closed his eyes and leaned down to brush his lips over - shit, fuck. What is he thinking? His eyes don’t know where to look, his heart doesn’t know how to beat, his lungs don’t know how to take in air. What do you do when you see a pretty thing in a pretty sundress? Certainly not function. Horacio wasn’t doing that at all. So he did the next best thing: sit at a table and watch you. That’s the next best thing, right?

He watches as you smile at the young man taking your order, talking to him like you know him, care about him. All you were doing was listing the ingredients you wanted in your drink, but your bright eyes twinkle with a sort of endearment that he isn’t used to. Like you were happy.

He is in awe of you. Horacio has worked so hard to stay numb, to feel nothing but that rusty scrape of motivation that made him do his job. But you made it look so easy to gush, to overflow and spill your delight with life onto everyone around you until that tired, overworked teenager behind the register was smiling too as he said “next!”

You turn your head to find a table once you pick up your order and panic settles into Horacio’s bones again as he reflexively turns his head away from you, but your keen eyes spot him. Oh, how you must pity him. The poor, miserable apparition from the grocery store. He feels that radiating heat begin to grow as you approach him at his table, so he pretends to not notice you. Pretends he’s numb as you thaw him into a dripping mess of thin ice and water.

“Is this seat taken?” you ask him, nodding to the other chair in front of him with a cup of coffee in your supple hands. Horacio’s tactful eyes scan the cafe once more; there’s other seats in the building, other men and women for you to pity. He’s been chosen. And he just can’t resist you, is too weak to deny himself that addicting sugary sweetness that you’re coated in because he’s not sure he’ll ever feel so soft again and he wants to savor it.

Horacio looks up at you, clearing his throat as he takes the kind of breath that you can feel as the air fills his lungs. He’s priming his voice to talk to you because this time, he wants to make it count.

“No,” he says. Fuck. In that moment, he couldn't remember having talked before. Has he ever spoken? Certainly not, or he’d know how to do it. But you don’t seem to mind his cold tone as you take the seat in front of you, and those damned eyes of yours are blinding to look at but god, who needs pupils anyway?

He can tell you’re curious about him. You want to pick him apart scab by scab and take him apart into individual fibers until you get to that soft mushy center that is Horacio Carrillo. You want to see him naked and open, but that’s not something Horacio can give you. How could he? He’s taken that weak, inferior soul within him and crushed it under concrete and plaster of paris, secured it with walls and steel and barbed wire until the protective layers become so extensive that even if someone could get through them all, why the fuck would they want to? It wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

“You know, I’ve never been here before,” you say, taking a sip of your drink, and he hums, knowing that’s how people interact but not quite knowing what is going on with him. You’re just saying things, just want him to talk back. You’re trying to have a real conversation with him, and he doesn’t understand why, but maybe for just once in his life he doesn’t need to fucking understand everything.

“Then what brings you here?” he asks, and slowly he begins to regain a little feeling inside him. Not enough that it unleashes his pain, but enough that he can feel that ice water slosh around inside him easily. A gentle flow of slush that mixes with your amber and makes him feel like a person.

“A student of mine recommended it to me,” you explain, and he’s starting to put together a little picture of who you are in his mind. 

“You teach?” he asks, probing you for your life. He wants to study your mind, hear the music that leaves your mouth when you speak. You nod thoughtfully, and he can tell he’s mentioned something you enjoy. He learns that you teach at a local university and hears about just how passionate you are about what you teach. His dark eyes begin to fill with that precious light you possess as you tell him about your students and how though you’re new to Bogotá, you already love it. But that doesn’t surprise him so much; somehow he just knows that you’ve got plenty of love to go around.

“Well now you know what business I have in a grocery store at 2 am,” you conclude after you tell him about your late nights grading subpar papers, curiosity twinkling in your eyes like fairy lights in the dark. “What about you?” It isn’t until the focus is back on himself that he notes the smile that graces his features. A real smile. He smiles not out of diplomacy but because right now, he’s happy. He’s high on you and serotonin and he’d let you ruin him if you wanted to. But your question troubles him. He can’t really tell you why; he can’t bear to take his ugly, black, acrylic life and stain your lavender and daffodil backdrop. So he tells you the bare minimum: that he’s a colonel and leads a special ops unit called the Search Bloc. He leaves out the blood that paints his eyes everyday, forgets to mention the agony he’s felt and inflicted on others.

“Your drink isn’t ready yet?” you question, like a sudden realization has just hit you. Your kind features are furrowed into slight confusion, and Horacio wants to let a black sky swallow him into his own misery because he forgot to order something.

“I didn’t get anything,” he admits, face starting to glow light pink as his foolishness begins to manifest on his hardened features. You don’t look confused anymore; you’re curious again. Forever wondering about the enigma in front of you, except he’s no mystery; he’s a labyrinth. Full of questions and doubt without one single answer, and once you enter you can’t ever escape.

“Then what does a colonel do at a humble cafe?” you ask. And all of the sudden, for a man that makes a living out of repeatedly evading death, he wants to evaporate into the beige, worn tile beneath the teal cushion of his seat because the answer to that question will surely ruin the delicate, blushed bubble around the two of you. But you’ve incapacitated him with your stupid fucking pretty eyes so much so that you must be the enemy in this story. He can escape gunpoint, rouse himself from a concussion, but he hasn’t got a single clue how to regain his quick wit and pistol mind in the face of something much more sinister: a pretty girl.

“I-” he starts, but all of the sudden his throat won’t cooperate because his mind is helpless to lie to you but his body is resisting. His body rejects that frozen, dreadful state of nothing that it’s normally kept in. You’ve spread the warmth of fuzzy blankets and blissful vertigo throughout his stomach and his body wants to stay warm. “I was just…” he coughs, hard, willing his esophagus to heed his commands, “...I was watching you.” Horacio is flustered now, completely out of his element as he feels his blood seep to the topmost layers of his skin, exposing his embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he adds almost immediately, his eyes wide as he tries to avert his flushed features from your careful gaze. “I know that’s weird. I didn’t mean to-”

“Horacio,” you interrupt. Say it again. Say my name again. “It’s okay. Actually, it’s kinda cute.” Crack. That steel fortress that he thought was so impenetrable was beginning to soften into something moldable, pliable only to your hands so you could transform him from a wall to a rose.

Horacio lets out a soft chuckle, biting his lip so hard he almost can’t feel his teeth digging into his own chapped flesh. His pink cheeks are full and for the first time in so long his eyes glimmer with life and adoration.

“I don’t want to be too forward and scare you away,” he says, a little nervous but so much more giddy, “but could I see you again?” You giggle, a beautiful melody that floods his ears and softens his brow.

“Yes, Horacio, I’d really like that,” you agree, and he can’t help but feel like he’s not in a cafe but somewhere in the cosmos as a compliant planet orbiting a bright, burning star. Somewhere far more heavenly and celestial than this godforsaken planet. He watches you glance up at the grandfather clock situated against the wall behind him and then back at him. “I need to get going, but take this.” You pull a pen out of your small bag and scribble a string of digits onto your coffee cup, holding the marked cardboard out to him. He’s slow to take it from your hands; he doesn’t want to keep you here, but at the same time he very much does. He allows himself to brush his fingers against yours again, like they had the night before, so that your potent you-flavored syrup can inject into his bloodstream and fill his capillaries. 

As you stand to leave, he can tell you have one last lingering thought itching at your brow. “For the record, you couldn’t scare me away,” you assure with a smile that borders on teasing. “You’re just not scary.” And he watches you walk away, leaving him completely and utterly dumbfounded as to who you had just spoken to because it certainly wasn’t Horacio Carrillo, world class murderer and notoriously inhuman interrogator. Crack.

That next Friday, Horacio sees you again. He shakes as he knocks on your door, roses trembling in his fingers as you swing the door open. He knows the bouquet resting under his chin is pathetic, an overused display of affection, but it makes you gush as you take them from hands and bring them to your own wondrous features and let that stupid cheesy token fill your lungs with its scent. 

He takes you to a restaurant like a proper gentleman, not that he gave a single shit where he was as long as it was with you. You put him far too out of his element for him to get creative with his date idea, so instead he pulls every last cliche out of the book and piles it on you. He holds the door open for you and pulls your chair out and orders wine for you because he doesn’t have a clue how to tell you that you turn him into sugar bubbles floating on warm cocoa but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to show you.

So evening after evening he finds himself leaving work just a little earlier each day. He spends less time in poorly lit grocery stores and more time loitering at the open farmer’s market under the real sun, perusing lazily amongst the various produce and trinkets because why not? He starts wearing pink and stripes and maybe a polka-dot shirt because he starts to realize that the world has so much beauty in it and all things beautiful remind him of you. He waits a little longer to shave his face so he can hear that ethereal symphony of giggles play from your throat when he uses his scruff to scratch against your soft shoulder. You start showing up in his life in places that you don’t even exist and filling his odd corners with a pretty white glow.

He lets little things bring him joy; your tongue wetting your lips when you’re deciding where to eat for the night, your neck craning to look up at him from the couch when he walks through your door, the way the stacks of student papers that rest on your kitchen island are always different sizes.  Your tongue tapping his skin when you lay a lingering kiss to his face. Your lipgloss sticking to his tricep when you don’t feel like getting up to kiss his lips, leaving a shimmer on his skin that he never wipes away. Your feather fingers sweeping his torso and turning his skin to cotton candy. The fumes of pencil lead and your perfume choking his lungs when he buries his face into your neck and breathes you in. And every fucking time you call him cute, adorable, pretty, beautiful, baby. All of those forbidden words that you dare to use in vain, courageously sacrilegious considering how he worships you, create more little cracks inside of him.

Horacio may not know how to communicate, but he knows you. He knows which compliments make you turn the reddest. He gets you your favorite artists’ CDs imported from America. He shows up at your door with your favorite pastry from your new favorite cafe. He hugs you from behind and peppers kisses down the column of your throat because it makes you giggle. He flutters his fingers where you’re ticklish until you’re so overstimulated that tears form. He cooks meals for you, insisting that all you can do to help is sit on the counter and look pretty for him. He kisses you deeply, so hard and intimate that the two of you are breathing the same air and taste the same. He does everything he can to make you smile for him because in return he gets called a “beautiful boy” and “my sweet soldier” and an “angel,” all words that send him beyond the stars and spin his head like a top until all he can think to do is giggle.

Passed weeks turn into a month, a month becomes two, and before he knows it he’s twice the man he used to be with you filling in half of him. Horacio is still, however, a man adorned with flaws. And with each moment that you occupy, he starts to really collect cracks. The powerful resolve that keeps him from ever admitting that he’s absolutely gone for you becomes compromised because you are powerful. Without even trying, your soft voice is like a wrecking ball to his defenses, breaking him down as you probe into what you call the “pretty parts” of him that he hides. But you don’t have the first clue what he’s hiding.

Horacio is not a man without emotions. He gets angry and frustrated, but those kinds of emotions sit at his surface, above his armed fortress. He can let them all out in his work through stony grimaces and raised voices and guns and fists. But he also feels sorrow, regret, shame. So much shame. These emotions are unsightly black and blue dents in the soft, fragile mush that sits at the very core of him. Under his walls are wounds still wide open and full of splinters, gushing blood and pus, septic and untreated. And they fucking hurt. So he gathers them all together along with his love, his adoration and sweetness, and ices them over, freezes them away and covers them in layer after layer of concrete until he can barely even remember that they’re there.

But he’s starting to feel again.

His fondness for you is explosive and wild, greedy for your affection. But he’s afraid. He knows you adore him, because you are brave. You can speak your feelings into existence and not feel like something inside you has fractured. But Horacio is a coward. He can’t say he loves you, he can’t love you. He knows that if he did, his filthy rotting core would be unleashed and he’d feel an agony worse than anything he’s ever subjected anyone to. But you’re leaving him full of cracks, making him weak and vulnerable in the security of your arms, and he doesn’t think you could hold all of him together if he was truly unleashed. He thinks you might realize how much of a lost cause he is and leave him on the side of the road to bleed out.

The last crack you leave in him is so small, you don’t even notice.

He sits next to you on your couch, your head tucked into his neck as a shitty telenovela radiates through the thick glass of your TV set. Neither of you say anything because you don’t need to be talking to feel comfortable with each other, so you don’t notice how he hasn’t glanced at the TV in 15 minutes. He can’t take his eyes off of you, hermosa, the puny glow of Rodrigo telling Lucia that “it’s not what it looks like” barely doing your face justice. He notices each pore on your face, the curve of your jaw and the bridge of your nose forming sweeping lines that sculpt your face, and he knows he is so utterly fucked. He knows he’s so dangerously in love with you.

He only blinks when you yawn softly, those lines contorting as you scrunch your face. He relaxes a little as you move to sit up, leaning forward to grab the remote from the coffee table and blindly turning the TV off as the preview for the next episode plays. He fills to the brim with amazement as you stretch your back, letting out a gentle squeal. Now it’s just that antique lamp on the edge of your couch illuminating the room, and it’s still not enough light. Nothing is ever bright enough when you’re there to rival it.

“It’s late, baby,” you whisper, a sleepy rasp scraping your voice a little as you look up at him with a rosy smile. You reach up to run a hand through his dark hair, taking care to let your fingers caress his scalp. “You can stay if you want,” you offer, as he’s stayed the night before. “I sleep better with you anyway.” Crack.

“Cariño,” he breathes, his features turning pained as his lip begins to quiver like never before. “Cariño I love you.”

Horacio crumbles in your hands.

Like a mound of brown sugar after it’s poured, the dome losing its form as it slowly collapses, grains dragging over each other as they sink to the bottom of the bowl and the dome is destroyed. No longer held together by tight, sticky molasses and instead a helpless, feeble puddle too broken down to be considered a shape anymore. Just a pathetic sea of lost particles, helpless in putting itself back together. He falls apart right in front of you.

He feels tears that are years old begin to flow down his cheeks, falling off his chin and onto the baby blue cloth of his too-tight shirt. He is completely unprotected, every last defense around that shapeless, dark flesh inside him falling to dust as you hold it in your kind hands. Your arms are quick to wrap around his head, bringing his face to your chest where he is safe. He’s never been more raw and vulnerable in his life, and yet he’s never felt more secure.

He bares his soul to you. He chokes on his words as he gushes his dried, brown blood onto your cotton skin and you soak up every ounce of him. He tells you he is ashamed, that he is remorseful, that he is afraid. And you listen, skin absorbing him in until you’ve got him enveloped in your big, beautiful heart. And whereas every touch used to break him down, your fingertips are now healing him, building him back up and reshaping him into something better than what he was. He can feel his scars begin to heal and the pain begin to dull as an intense awe for you overcomes him.

He knows you can’t just fix him with your fairy dust overnight. He knows he will need time to restore himself from beast to man. But fuck if he doesn’t want to do it with you, can’t do it without you.

You’ve led him towards your bed, undressing him slowly because you know that he just needs to breathe and feel the air cool his irritated skin. Once you’re both down to your underclothes, you’re careful in letting him onto the mattress. You sit down first, leaning back against the pillow, and then you sweetly tug on his arm to join you. He dives into your body head first, face nosing into your neck as his big arms wrap around your midsection. You reach for your softest blanket, enveloping the two of you in the added warm as his breaths begin to even out against your chest. He feels you wrap your arms around his head again, for the second time reminding him that he is safe.

He can feel his emotions getting the best of himself again as you whisper sweet nothings into his hair, telling him how strong and brave he is, how beautiful his soul is now that he’s really showing it to you. His muscles melt into you as you take those fragments of him and begin to piece them back together, filling the cracks you’d made with your marshmallow fluff and liquid gold.

He feels warm again as you call him your “baby,” and this time he doesn’t try to run away from it. He embraces it, leans into it. He was being protected by bones and bricks, but now it’s by honeycomb and delicate flesh. Horacio finally starts to feel like he’s beautiful because you’re letting him borrow yours. And as long as you’ll have him, he’s willing to share.

#horacio carillo x reader #narcos #maurice compte #iris writes #i didn't fuckfigfdsg put the goddamn mf italics in #i feel like i've outgrown my italics phase #god this post isn't even that old what the fuck am I talking about