#The pain of these verse but just- *Dramatic hand gestures*))

[insightful-mother]

((Me forgetting I have Reaper Verse for Emi and I’m-))

((If anything I’m torn in just either Snake or Horse for her Noise form mainly because the whole Chinese elements and Fire is fixed on these two the most. I am leaning towards Horse, but I feel Snake would be also be interesting....))

#Verse: Burnt Close to the Sun & Reborn a Reaper #AU Verse Drop: AU #OOC: Stand OUTSIDE #Number of Days Veggie Speaks: The Mun Talks #Mun is Talking: VEGGIE SAYS #((I am sleepy from wine and work #I'm just recalling thigns and just ahhhhh #The pain of these verse but just- *Dramatic hand gestures*))

[theashen-fox]

Main!/RWBY! Verse-Ash’s Team

The Team as a Whole-“Tricksters” is among the more polite things to call this little band. They consist of outcasts, mischief-makers, ne'er-do-wells, and more often than not, all of the above. How did these people end up in Beacon? Well, same way anyone does: airship. Jokes aside, they either attended different Combat Schools or otherwise proved themselves worthy of joining the Academy. During initiation, they were able to show that they were willing to be…unconventional in the way of combat, using tricks to defeat their enemies instead of outright charging into battle. While some would deem this cowardly, they have few, if any, traces of fear in the face of fighting. Their methods, while questionable, produce good results. They were given the name HALN (Harlequin) due to their mischievous tendencies and unpredictability. As it stands, they are not overly popular at Beacon, but any student who knows them knows not to cross them, lest they be a victim of one of their pranks, which are never lethal or physically painful but are always humiliating. It should be noted, however, that despite their mischief, you can generally count on them to do the right thing. Sure, they may cause some damage along the way, but in the end, they’ll beat the bad guys, save as many people as they can, and get out before anyone changes their minds. “Chaotic Good with Chaotic Neutral Leanings” would be a good way to describe their morality. One way or another, though, Ash is the saner one of the bunch, often covering for any antics they get up to. 

Harlequin Alichino

Age-18-23

Motif-The harlequin/jester

Appearance-Harlequin is dressed in rather flamboyant attire, including a traditional jester outfit, complete with a white “comedian” mask. (Think of the Harlequin costume from Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood.) Behind the mask, he has short brown hair, bright green eyes, and is quite tall and thin, which allows him to be quicker and more agile than the average person.

Personality-Harlequin has a reputation for being theatrical, often using dramatic gestures and sophisticated language for someone his age. Case in point, he tends to treat a battlefield as a stage, his allies as actors, and himself as the director. As such, he tends to hang back, only intervening when things get out of hand and his allies are in dangers that he knows they can’t escape from, just as how a director would do if there was a dispute between actors. Despite this, he is by no means a coward. He is simply a pragmatist. He knows that being the leader means that he must be the one who determines what strategies to take against the enemy, and that if he dies, the team may very well fall apart. Being well-versed in theatrical matters, he is not half bad at acting himself. For example, if an enemy approaches him directly, he will begin whimpering and groveling before them, begging for mercy, before stabbing them to death or neutralizing them in some other way as they begin to come closer to either finish him off or boast.

Abilities: Knife-fighting, explosives, agility, strategic planning, acting.

Semblance-Weave

Harlequin is capable of manipulating the fabric of his own clothing or someone else’s. The applications of this include controlling a person’s movements, choking them, or simply causing discomfort. The catch is that for it to work, the clothing has to be made of natural materials, like wool or cotton. The more natural the cloth, the more control he has.

Name-Lucius Promethea

Age-19-25

Gender-Male

Color-Golden

Motif-Prometheus

Semblance-None; he is instead a technological genius, capable of hacking and gaining control of nearly any kind of advanced machinery.

Appearance-Lucius is a muscular, handsome young man with short yellow hair, blue eyes, and wearing a casual white suit. He constantly carries about an expression of scorn and arrogance.

Personality-More often than not, Lucius can be quite prideful, boasting about how he is “destined” to lead the world into a new age. However, his pride doesn’t fully blind him to reality. He knows that there are things that he cannot do, heights he cannot reach, opponents he cannot beat. So he resolves to improve himself so that he can conquer these challenges. This is what motivates him to want to become a Huntsman: to be able to push himself past limits he never even knew existed. In addition, his arrogance does not prevent him from genuinely wanting to protect the innocent, although it does prevent him from being polite or modest when doing so.

Weapon-A swarm of drones and turrets, and failing those, his own two fists, feet and numerous high-end firearms. .

(I just want to say that yes, the following name does follow the Color Rule. Why? It’s associated with Dionysus, which makes you think of wine, which is red. Voila.)

Name-Nysus Kokinos

Gender-Male

Motif-Dionysus 

Color-Red

Race-Human

Age-19-22

Appearance-Nysus is a slender, effeminate man with shaggy dark hair, maroon-colored eyes (which become full-on red when his Semblance is activated), and wearing clothes that are quite loose and “indecent”, albeit not overly revealing.

Personality-“Wild child” doesn’t begin to describe Nysus’ attitude, though if you’re looking for a simple label, it’ll do. He is a world-class troublemaker, which says something, since he’s on a team of self-proclaimed “tricksters”. It is truly a wonder that he hasn’t been expelled from Beacon with the amount of mischief he causes. What is truly odd is how he does “petty” types of pranks rather than defacing monuments or damaging school property. Some examples: spiked punch bowl? Nysus. No soap in the restroom? Nysus. Books needed for an upcoming exam missing, despite you being sure you “set it right here”? Nysus. However, in spite of his wild and irresponsible nature, he has standards. For example, none of his pranks go to perverted lengths, such as peeping into the girl’s locker room or something of that nature. Also, he doesn’t stand for bullying, and tries to see to it that bullies are on the receiving end of his mischief.

Semblance-Frenzy

Nysus is something of a lunatic. As such, his Semblance is rooted in madness. While he acts loud and rambunctious most of the time, in combat, his Semblance is one to be feared. His eyes glow pure red, not just the irises, but the rest as well. He begins to laugh maniacally, then he attacks his opponent with (seemingly) unrestrained ferocity and bloodlust, ignoring pain dealt to him, possibly injuring himself to get closer to his foes. However, this can prove to be a weakness as well, as his maddened state causes him to lose all rational thinking until the opponent or himself is dead or too injured to continue.

Weapon-A staff with grapevines engraved into it known as the Thyrsus. He conceals a long dagger inside, for which he has a variety of poisons or explosive chemicals that he inserts into the staff, some lethal, some not. He can even use the aforementioned poisons as ammunition, launching darts filled with them. 

#main!/rwby! verse #about muse

[samstree]

“Hey, Jaskier. Wake up.”

Geralt shakes the bard gently on the shoulder. Through the thin chemise, he can feel Jaskier’s too-warm skin—the fever is down a bit, but not gone.

And the bard remains dead to the world.

“Jask,” Geralt calls again. “Come on, I need to tell you something.”

The bard curls into himself, and that’s when Geralt notices the pillow he’s hugging under the cover—Geralt’s pillow, to be exact.

Jaskier seems to catch these words, and his soft snoring quiets down. Geralt keeps running a hand up and down his bicep but it only serves to make Jaskier bury his face deeper as if he doesn’t want to let go of the blissful oblivion.

Geralt never knew the sight of Jaskier sick and vulnerable could do so many things to his heart, make him feel like a pool of warmth is gathering in his stomach. But again, he never expected Jaskier. Not how much he would come to care for this chatty and colorful bard, not how hopelessly he would be in love with him either.

That’s why he needs Jaskier awake. Now.

“Just open your eyes for a while, Jask. Come on.” At those words, Jaskier’s eyes meet Geralt, sleep-muddled and strikingly blue. Geralt softens at the sight. “I’m in lo—”

“G’ralt?” The bard croaks his name miserably. Blue eyes flutter shut again. A frown forms between his brows. “I’m…so…so tired…”

Jaskier buries his nose into the pillow and inhales. The bard is not a small man but at this moment, he looks as if the bed and the layers of blankets can swallow him whole. Geralt can’t help but wrap his hand around Jaskier’s chin to soothe his distress.

“Shh. Let me say this and you can rest. Come on,” Geralt coaxes. “I love—”

“Why are you so cruel to me?” Jaskier sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, heedless of Geralt’s now twice interrupted confession. “I’m sick. I want to sleep… ‘m cold… alone. I’m alone and I can’t…”

Jaskier trails off, his protests pitiful but he still manages to nuzzle into Geralt’s palm. Is it possible for a witcher’s heart to burst with love?

“It’s the fever talking, Jask.”

Geralt continues to rouse the bard, and finally, finally, Jaskier rubs his eyes open with clarity. An adorable furrow remains, and Geralt wipes it away with a thumb.

“I love you.”

The confession comes out in a whisper, but not because Geralt is unsure of his heart. Only the gods know how long he has been brewing these three words, how he has played out the scene over and over in his head.

Jaskier stares, and stares, the sleepiness in his eyes now completely gone.

“Is this a dream?”

The question is so careful, so full of restrained hope. Geralt’s heart clenches.

“I’ve been in love with you, Jask, for longer than I know.” The corners of Geralt’s mouth tug upward. “I made so many plans for this moment, just so it can be perfect for you, but now... This is enough.”

Jaskier knowing his heart is enough.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Just like that, you’ve—”

He tries to prop himself up but a pained grimace overtakes his face. His joints must still be aching from the fever. Biting back a grunt, Jaskier lets his body fall to the bed. Geralt moves his hand to the small of his back and starts kneading the taut muscles there. Slowly, the bard leans into the touch and goes completely limp.

“Hmm,” he groans contentedly. “Just like that, you made a grand confession the most anticlimactic thing in the world. My writing professor back in Oxenfurt would be disappointed if you put that in a romance novel, my dear. A random morning, when I’m still in bed, no less.”

“Not random.” Geralt moves to Jaskier’s knees, massaging the soreness away. “Had years of build-up. For me, at least.”

If Jaskier feels any surprise, he hides it well.

“Why now, then?”

Jaskier stills his hands, and Geralt threads their fingers together instinctively. Blue eyes fix on him in earnest.

“You mentioned the fever you went through as a child.”

“And?”

“How it made you feel cold and alone. Like no one could reach you.”

“Like I would be alone forever.” A haunted look clouds the same blue eyes. Geralt squeezes his fingers in sympathy, and feels the gesture returned.

“You talked in your sleep,” he continues. “You begged me not to leave you here alone.”

Jaskier instantly tries to hide his face away, his blush deepening from embarrassment. “Gods, it’s so humiliating. I didn’t mean to—”

“I need you to know that I won’t.” He puts as much conviction in those words as possible. “Because I love you, Jask.”

Deep down, Geralt has long since learned that the bard is not someone he can just leave anymore. But Jaskier won’t know it, not without him saying it out loud. From the looks of it, the bard is taking in everything pretty well. His entire face has turned beet-red, the flush stretching down to the open collar of the chemise, but now, there’s also an air of giddiness in his eyes.

“Come here then.”

Geralt lets himself go to Jaskier, the blankets thrown aside so his body heat can do the work. He guides Jaskier’s head to the crook of his neck and makes sure the bard is nestled comfortably. He buries his fingers in those messy brown locks like it’s where they’ve always belonged.

Jaskier is hugging him tightly with those strong arms, circling Geralt’s torso the same way he always clings to a pillow. The urge to say it again is overwhelming. So he does.

“I love you,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s hair.

“That’s way too many times in a row, darling. One might start to believe it’s genuine.”

The sliver of doubt might be masked under the teasing, but Geralt is too well-versed in Jaskier’s moods to let it slip past his attention. He has to earn the trust, after all these years, after breaking Jaskier’s heart too many times.

“Good. They are,” he adds. “I’ll prove it.”

“When I wake up, maybe.” Jaskier lets out a timely yawn, his voice rough with exhaustion. “First, you’ll have to tell me about your big plans. I’m sure there’s a ballad in there or two.”

“Are you?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s you, you know…” Jaskier’s hand is resting near Geralt’s heart, so he takes it to his lips. “Always the dramatic one.”

Geralt gives up on hiding the grin on his face and places a quiet kiss in Jaskier’s palm. With that, the bard slips into a peaceful slumber, knowing he is loved.

#alternate ending to Hug a Witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #fluff #sleepy jaskier #love confessions #soft geralt #sick jaskier #geralt of rivia can use his words #geralt x jaskier #cuddling

[julek]

**banter, 10 for the banter prompts😆

#10. “I already regret my decision.”

“Now, then,” Jaskier says primly, smoothing out non-existent creases down the front of his doublet, “are there any questions, any doubts I could put at ease?”

The room is silent, the fire popping from time to time. Jaskier coughs into his elbow.

“I said” —another cough— “Are there any questions?”

Geralt heaves a sigh, and puts his hand up. Jaskier smiled.

“Aha!” He exclaims, looking intrigued. “There, the dashing gentleman in black— yes, did you have a question?”

Geralt grumbles under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” Jaskier says, an inquisitive look in his eyes.

Geralt hums. “I had, uh, I had a question about the”—he squints down at his palm—“the, uh— a particular senile used in the poem?”

Jaskier closes his eyes in a pained grimace. “Simile, Geralt.” He brings a hand to his forehead. “The poem’s simile. We’ve been over this. You said you’d help!”

Geralt shrugs from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, though he’s a little sheepish. “I already regret my decision.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You’re supposed to raise your hand and ask about the simile, giving me room to launch into the second part of the lecture— where I analyze the first and last verses, tying the story up.”

“I know,” Geralt says, because he does. “And then I thank you profusely, because it was simply the best poem I’d ever heard,” he recites. “And then you humbly say, It’s my duty to the arts, and everyone slow-claps as you walk off stage.”

Jaskier sighs. “That part you remember!”

Geralt stands up, walking into Jaskier’s space. He carefully takes Jaskier’s hands from where they’re pulling at his hair and tangles their fingers together. “Hey,” he whispers.

Jaskier looks up at him, blue eyes almost crystalline around the tiny red veins gathering around them. He’d been practicing all week, scribbling infinite notes down on his notebook, perfecting his stance in the mirror and trying out opening lines. His Oxenfurt room — the one they’d been sharing — is covered from floor to ceiling in papers, open books and splotches of ink. He’s also managed to get Geralt to help him, playing audience instead of just lazily lounging around in his bed, distracting the bard from his work with his naked body and half-smiles, and now they’re both exhausted.

“It’s okay,” Geralt whispers, looking into Jaskier’s eyes with a soft edge to his own. “You’ll do great.”

Jaskier leans back against his desk, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Geralt’s scarred hand. He sighs. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice the smallest Geralt’s ever heard it. “If there’s any mistake, any empty spaces, anything unaccounted for, I won’t have time to fix it.” He sniffs. “It has to be perfect.”

Geralt hums. “It is,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “And it will be. It’s yours— I’ve seen you write prize-winning ballads in a lunch break. This,” —he gestures to the mess of a room around them— “with all the time and thought you’ve put into it, will knock them out of their robes.”

Jaskier snorts at that, and nuzzles his nose against Geralt’s neck. “You think so?” he murmurs into his skin.

Geralt holds him tight. “Even better,” he says, “I know so. They won’t know what hit them, what with that perfect simile.”

Jaskier pulls back, his finger coming dangerously close to Geralt’s nose. “You do know the word!” He presses his hand to his heart, ever the dramatic. “I knew you had it in you.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, pulls him close to his chest. “What can I say,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s lips, “I have a good teacher.”

He’s about to kiss him when Jaskier pulls back again. “Actually,” he says, a wicked grin on his face, “it’s Professor.”

#mywriting #hope you like it!! thanks for the prompt <3 #geraskier ficlet #geralt x jaskier #answered #ahh-fxck

[bombyxluna]

Omega Mammon X GN!Human MC 

This is more of an intro to the series, which is why is a lil bit longer and more explanatory.

We’re here to break sub gender norms! 

I don’t know how many parts this will have but I want it to be angsty.

No NSFW yet :P

CW: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Talks of heats/ruts/sub genders

The Devildom is, for a lack of a more fitting word, strange. Though, you suppose, being surrounded by demons should be. 

There’s too much you don’t understand still. Three months have passed since you arrived - or were kidnapped? the jury is still out on this one - and it feels like an eternity of time and too little all the same. 

Demons, as it turns out, have very different customs and rituals from humans. So do angels. You are in the least thankful for the classes, but every other student in them seems well versed in the basics, while you float about unsure of what’s happening. Hell, even Luke knows more than you, and he hates demons. Not to mention he’s a child. Double low blow. 

The classes would be going a little bit better if you only had time to actually study for them. Though you do suspect that Diavolo doesn’t actually give a shit about grades and this entire school is a mockery to appease his peaceful plans, you're still stuck in what’s basically hell and having to go to what’s basically hell’s undergrad school. Great. 

The least you can do is prod around for some demon knowledge. You know, just in case. Because things are getting weirder by the day, and sometimes it feels like it’s all an ongoing inside joke you’re not really a part of.

Also, because of them. 

Living with demons wasn’t exactly unexpected, but living with the Seven Rulers of Hell - well, six of them, was. 

Despite initial impressions, you’re quickly figuring out there’s more to each of them than the public eye could see. Something lurking below their perfectly crafted personas, that is reserved only for the ones in close proximity to them. Only for family.

You’re not family, but you’re definitely in close proximity. 

It’s easy to tell how much they hide behind masks. Lucifer, as far as everyone else knows, it’s the always serious and stern big brother that will never crack a joke or play around. The entire foundation of that statement could be torn down with one single picture you had, of him playing with Cerberus. 

Leviathan, despite actively trying to kill you over a book series since - no, you’re not over it - is more than the shut-off otaku who is otherwise known as the Admiral of the Devildom’s marine. He is also clumsy and shy, and he goes on tangents about what he likes, and he is friendly. 

Satan, known as the hot-headed brother who has a tendency to overwork himself into humor changes and explosive arguments, is a reserved person, a cat lover, an erotica reader, and an absolute dork. 

Beelzebub, though he whines about food a lot, is far more than just the hungry brother who also happens to be a jock. He’s a carebear, a very attentive listener, has great movie recommendations, and an amazing cook. 

Asmodeus, who may look lust-driven and shallow to the onlooker, but is caring, a hopeless romantic, a good friend and brother, and even a little insecure. 

And then there’s Mammon.

At first, you didn’t know what to think of him. He acted high and mighty, too strung up in his high horse to look at a human such as yourself. When Lucifer put him in what was basically the task to babysit you, it’s safe to say you were annoyed. 

But then, you started to pick up on things. Small things. Unnoticeable to those who aren’t looking, but that become increasingly clearer once you realize them. 

He’s clingy. With his brothers, with you, even with his credit card. Though he never lets himself linger, when he hugs you, it’s tight and crushing, like he needs to be as close to you as possible. When your arms brush together as you walk about, he blushes. 

His brothers tease him. A lot. To the point, it’s painful to even to you sometimes. He laughs through it all, but you can see the drooping at the corners of his mouth, and how the giggles don’t reach his eyes.

And he’s scared. At least, that’s what it seems like to you. He puts up a front of being this big, angry, scary, and powerful demon such as his brothers, and though you certainly don’t doubt the powerful part, the angry and scary seem faulty. 

It’s intriguing. One day he’ll be all over you and the next he’ll act like he barely knows you, avoiding your eyes and only answering in curt answers. Sometimes his PDA is off the charts - he’ll throw arms around you, stick close, pull you closer when you’re walking together - and others he acts as the smallest of touches burns him like it pains him to be so much as near you. 

And there is that smell. It lingers on him but not on his brothers, like a perfume stronger than anything else. It doesn’t make any sense, though, because you’re pretty sure it’s not perfume. You’ve seen him spray himself before leaving in the mornings and it’s not the same smell. It’s something else, a light waft that emanates from him in waves, but no one else seems to pick up on. 

He’s a puzzle that refuses to fall in place, and all you want to do is figure him out. 

Solomon sits down in front of you with a loud gruff, dropping a small pile of stacked books on top of the wooden table in the library. The librarian shushes him when the sound echoes through the empty halls. Asmodeus hot on his trail, carrying nothing but a bag. He sits down as well, eyes all but sparkling.

“MC!” He sings. The librarian shushes him. 

“Hi, Asmo,” you make space on the table, putting your bag on the chair next to you.

“Ready to cram years of demon biology in one afternoon?” Solomon asks. He smiles wickedly as if he thinks it’s actually possible to do so, and you feel a little bit like a prey caged in by a much, much more astute predator.

You asked for help with the subjects, and maybe you’re already regretting it a little. “Sure,” you answer, trying to sound determined. 

He smiles. “What are you seeing in your class?” 

Solomon picked different classes for the year, and while you were fine with not doing whatever the hell goes on in advanced alchemy, it’s a little bit of a bummer to not share even one class with the only other human around. 

“I’m not… really sure,” you slouch on the seat, ready to give up. Why can’t the world be like the movies and you can spend an entire year just looking out the windows and being pretty? “Subgroups? Or sub genders?” 

“Oh,” he says softly, flipping through one of the heavier looking books. 

Next to him, Asmodeus is pulling out a notebook filled with post-its and notes made in glitter pens. You suspect he didn’t come to lecture you, and that suspicion is confirmed when the notebook is discarded as soon as it showed up, apparently being pulled out only because his bag was on the smaller side and his pink switch-like video game was at the bottom of it. He sighs dramatically, lowering the music coming from it, and laying his chin on Solomon’s shoulder.

Yeah, definitely not here for you. 

Solomon slides the open book towards you, marked on a page titled Subgenders then starts flipping through the next. 

Asmodeus watches as you read over the basic introduction. 

“It’s not hard,” he says, voice bubbly even though the words game over can be read on his screen, “It’s a little tricky to separate, but you get the hand really quickly.”

-

It’s not actually all that hard to figure things out. Solomon, despite the borderline chaotic ways he chooses to explain things, is a fairly good teacher. You manage to grasp the three sub genders and the differences between them in no more than a couple hours - a record if you’re being honest. 

And Solomon had been right. It’s not hard to separate them. Alphas are, generally speaking, the “dominant” gender. They’re easier to anger and natural born fighters. They experience ruts, can mate, and have knots. Most of the royal court are alphas.

Omegas are the “lower” gender - though according to Solomon, the idea that one is lower to the other is being more and more fought againts and discussed in the realms - they’re conflict solvers and are seem as sweeter and more fragile. They experince heats and self lubricate. Most of the common demons are omegas.

Betas are a middle ground. They don’t have scents as strong as alphas or omegas, and aren’t easily affected by ruts or heats. They can still mate, however, and are often seem as level-headed and good right hands for alpha leaders. They’re rare. Barbatos is one of them.

And then there’s the Apex, the “alpha of alphas” as Asmodeus described them. An alpha so powerful he stands above all others, in the top of the “food chain.” That’s the category that fits Diavolo.

“So… what are you then, Asmo?” You ask, folding your arms above the book Solomon had highlighted to you.

Asmodeus perks up, bright as ever. “I’m an alpha, of course! Can’t you tell?” He gestures to himself, manicured nails gleaming under the bad lighting. 

“What about you?” You turn to Solomon. He hadn’t mentioned anything about humans having sub genders, but you kinda wish that was possible, although you couldn’t tell why.

Asmodeus pulls Solomon closer by the arm and beams. “He’s my omega!”

Solomon shrugs him off with a low chuckle. “Don’t make me slap you.”

“Kinky,” Asmodeus points a finger to him, smiling wide. He pulls Solomon again, by the shoulders, and lowers his turtleneck, revealing a bite. “I didn’t lie, though.” 

Solomon pushes him off with a scowl, covering the mark with his hand. “Yeah, yeah.” He waves Asmodeus off, adjusting the clothing.

You chuckle at them but say nothing. It’s clear Solomon doesn’t want you to.

Asmodeus pays his scowl no mind, resting his head on Solomon’s neck. Solomon sighs. “I’m not anything. Humans don’t have sub genders. We didn’t evolve to them, so we end up in somewhat of a grayscale. The closest thing to us would be betas.”

“Then we… claiming and that stuff… we can’t do it?” Your eyes trail to Solomon’s neck, but the bite is covered. 

“Not really,” he sighs, “this was an exception.”

“And why’s that?” Asmodeus hums, leaning over Solomon. Their faces are almost touching. 

Solomon sighs again, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Because I’m a demon’s whore.”

Asmodeus smiles, so much that little dimples show up at the corners of his lips, and he claps. “I love you so much.” 

You roll your eyes, making a vomiting sound when they kiss. Lowering your gaze, you read over the title of one of the chapters. 

“Hey,” you look up again, catching their attention, “what about your brothers? Mammon has a different scent, is he an omega?”

Asmodeus splutters, looking exaggeratedly shocked. He chuckles, strained. “Of course not!” He waves hands in front of himself, almost hitting Solomon in the face, “We’re all alphas.”

“Oh,” you say. It doesn’t make sense. None of the others have a scent like Mammon’s. It’s a little sweet, but seems clouded, slightly sour in the corners. 

“I don’t get it,” Asmodeus muses, tapping a finger to his chin, “humans don’t really feel our scent, how can he be different?”

His gaze is closed off on you, analyzing a little too much. It makes you feel like an ant under a magnifying glass, “I uh… he just does.” 

Solomon stares at you but doesn’t comment on it, even if it looks like he wants to. 

Asmodeus hums in thought, gaze still sharp on your every movement. Then, he smiles, almost artificial in its wake, “Well, whatever!” He slaps a hand to the table. At this point, the librarian gave up on shushing you.

Solomon is still staring at you. You move a little. Being watched like this makes you feel kind of squeamish.

Asmodeus is staring at Solomon, and then at you, resting his head on a palm. He hums again, stretching his arms over his head, and then he’s up, pulling Solomon with him. “We should get going!I wonder who’s on dinner duty.”

You blink. Dinner was still far away. Your study session just got cut short, and while you have no idea why, it feels like it’s your fault.

As you close the book and gather your things alongside them, the word seems to call you again. “Being an omega sounds painful, though,” you close the book, “heats and all.” 

Solomon scoffs. He closes his notebook, sliding his bag over a shoulder. “That makes it more fun.”

Asmodeus tsks, waving Solomon off, “Don’t listen to him he doesn’t have a soul.” 

Solomon neither confirms nor denies this statement, instead only giving you an amused chuckle and a tilt of the head. 

The feeling that you did something wrong, crossed a barrier you weren’t supposed to, clings to you. But still, it makes no sense. 

There’s something different about Mammon. You have to figure out why. 

-

The first thing you notice is that you’re missing a pillow. You’re back from a week filled with classes, ready to drop in bed and sleep the entire weekend when you realize something seems off. You look everywhere, but the pillow is nowhere to be found. 

Then, a couple of days later, the thin blanket you keep for movie nights and long study sessions is gone. 

It progresses like that. The throw you use to warm your feet. Your favorite stuffed animal. A fluffy winter jacket. 

When you ask, fed up with this little prank, none of the brothers seem to know where your things went. 

Your pact with Mammon is still somewhat fresh, but you find yourself going to him, if not for a solution, maybe to complain. 

The door is open when you arrive, pushing it inside without ceremony. 

“Mammon, you’re not going to believe-” 

The words die on your throat. There, spread on top of his bed, twisted and fluffed together into a carefully crafted bundle - no, your mind provides, a nest. This is a nest - are all your missing items, and, sitting on top of them with a flushed face and big eyes, is Mammon. 

Oh. 

Turns out you were right. 

“MC, I, I…” Mammon fumbles upwards, all but stumbling in the mess of blankets and pillows he has apparently snatched not only from you but from his brothers as well. There are even some pillows you don’t recognize, cow patterns all over them. 

“Mammon…” it’s all you can say. You have never dealt with this before, but the answer to your question was clear as day, right in front of you. 

Omegas nest when stressed or needy. Came Solomon’s voice, a memory from the lecture just a week before. 

“You’re an omega.” You say, in a surprised whisper, cogs turning on your mind and finally fitting with each other. 

Mammon’s face falls and his breath hitches. “How do you know about that?”

“In class… we went over the basic biology of demons and…”

He gulps audibly, eyes darting to the floor. “Then you know.”

You can almost feel the question marks forming around your head. “Know what?”

“How disgusting this is,” he gestures to the nest. His face is still reddened, voice bordering on wet, “I took your things without telling and I… I used them, my scent is all over them and now… I’m sorry, MC.”

“Mammon…” you reach towards him, but he steps back.

“You probably want them back, right?” He chuckles dryly with no real humor. “It’s okay, I get it. People don’t like when omegas get all needy, I know that.” He scratches at the back of his neck, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes tugging at his lips. “You can take them, I’ll just…” he points to the door, “yeah.”

And then he’s gone, leaving behind the same smell you came to associate with him, only much sour in its wake. Your pact mark burns, glowing a faint yellow tone. You stand next to his bed, confused and feeling like you managed to fuck up even more.

Masterlist

#obey me mammon #mammon x reader #mammon x mc #mammon avatar of greed #mammon x you #obey me! #obey me mammon fanfic #obey me fanfic #omega mammon #obey me shall we date #mammon scenario #aboau

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance Story: Unlikely Salvation, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: Arc 4, Ariadne is established with the Resistance

Mind Magic, pt1 : Lesson 1.1 [ First | Prev | Next ]

I could teach you, Reyan said. She wanted that. I’d have to use mind magic against you. She understood, and she wanted it anyway.

That doesn’t mean she can’t be nervous.

It takes her, atypically, a second to work up the courage to knock. Apparently he knows she’s there anyway, because the door swings open by itself just as she lifts her hand. “Come in,” he calls. She does.

He puts down the book he was reading as she closes the door behind herself -- only thinking once her hand is already on the handle that he could probably do that just as easily with magic too. At his gesture, she sits down next to him.

It won’t be fun, he said, and from what she remembers that’s an understatement. She still wanted to do this. Still wants to.

“Has anyone ever used magic through your hands before?” Reyan asks her. Perplexed, she shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She doesn’t even know what that means.

He lays a hand on her shoulder and she can’t help but stiffen, expecting pain in her head. Instead there’s just a peculiar buzzing underneath his palm. Similar, but not the same, as touching something electrified but not high enough voltage to hurt.

“Open your hand,” he instructs her. When she does, white-blue sparks leap from her palm.

Stunned, Ariadne jerks her hand away from her body. The motion makes the sparks jump, like they do from Taryn’s hands when she’s angry. 

She turns to Anders with open-mouthed shock. He’s smiling, and it takes the edge off her fear. “Aim it at something,” he tells her. “Like you’ve seen us do. Throw it.” She hesitates. “You won’t break anything I can’t fix.”

So she does it, mimicking the gesture she’s seen dozens of times. She kind of doesn’t expect anything to happen. And it’s not the dramatic crack of lightning Taryn can throw, but the sparks leap from her hand. They sputter across the carpet for a good few feet, leaving singe marks as they go.

Ariadne goggles, wide-eyed. 

When she turns back to Anders, his smirk has nearly turned into a grin. Tentatively she lets herself smile back. “You’re alive,” he tells her, “and thus not… thoroughly unmagical. Some of us are just born connected to magic.” “Fuck,” she swears, amazed. “If you could just show people we’re really not different…” “Eh, you’ve got to have your mind a bit open to not think I just corrupted your fucking soul.” She sighs. “... yeah.”

“Now, when I use mind magic on you, I open up that connection. I can’t not do so.” Ariadne has to wrench her eyes off her own hand to listen “You can’t resist quite the way I would,” Anders continues. “But when I do mind magic, it makes me vulnerable. You can hear my thoughts in your head?” She nods, hesitantly. She remembers him talking to her, last time, talking her through it. “That’s because part of you is doing mind magic, on me. In a way.” “Fuck.”

“So, your goal is to put me off balance. To hear things in my head that I don’t want you to hear. The way you do that is you make your head distracting.” “Distracting,” she echoes uncertainly. “The easiest way : I am afraid of fire. Put it in your memories. Nowhere obvious. Where I’m least expecting it.” Ariadne frowns. “I don’t think I understand.” “I’ll be going through images in your head, right?” She nods. “Your memories, your thoughts.” Another nod. “You control them. I don’t. So edit them.” She shakes her head. He’s lost her. Anders continues anyway. “Now, I can tell, usually, when you’re changing them to hide something. But not if I think I am surrounded by fire.”

He pauses to look at her bemused frown. “I think we should just try it,” he says. “Okay.”

He reaches out, and Ariadne instinctively takes a breath and sets her teeth. She clasps her hands together tightly in her lap, not wanting to lash out. “Think past the pain,” Anders reminds her, setting one hand either side of her head and holding firmly.  “I am opening up a connection that goes in both directions.”

And pain slams into her skull. 

She’s ready for it, but she can’t quite swallow a short sharp “ngh-!” She doesn’t try to pull away.

“Relax.” 

Anders’ voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It’s not quite sound, but she hears how he sounds to himself when he speaks. A kind of familiarity washes through her with the instruction. She lets out the breath she didn’t realise she was holding, and tries to make her muscles relax despite the stabbing, insistent pain.

“You can hear me,” he continues. “That means you’re in my mind too. Now I’m going to look for things.”

She’s thinking -- she can’t help it -- about the last two times he did this. And then suddenly she isn’t thinking about that anymore. Suddenly she isn’t on the couch in Reyan’s house anymore.

She’s standing in the quad at Site 17, listening to Riven give a lecture on mind magic.

The memory is more vivid than any memory without magic. It feels real. Like dreaming. Like she’s back there. The air is crisp after the rain and the sun is in her eyes and she hears Riven’s voice like he’s right there and she could step forwards and touch his uniform.

“You’re letting me see this,” Reyan tells her, although he is not in the memory.

Ariadne is reeling. But at the same time she is standing motionless and calm and listening. And, somewhere out of reach, her body must still be sitting …

It hurts.

The one thing the memory can’t overwrite is the pain.

“The building behind him,” Reyan nudges her thoughts back to the exercise at hand -- the real exercise at hand, not the lecture. “Imagine if it just caught fire.”

She can imagine that. They’ve done enough fire drills. She’s seen enough fires. In the same instant that she has the thought, orange flames begin to leap behind the windows. She knows what they should look like, and they do. She knows that a thick column of black smoke should start to rise, and it does.

It’s a visceral, exhilarating rush. Reyan was right. She does have some control.

She’s seen buildings burn to ash on film. She thinks it, and the thought becomes one with the memory-world. The building is becoming a shell, an inferno glowing from the inside. Riven’s voice has grown distant and muffled, like a badly tuned radio, lost in the roar of the flames.

The roof collapses inwards and flames rush upwards towards the sky. She knows how it feels to get caught in the heat-and-pressure wave of a warlock throwing fire and she feels that heat on her skin now.

And she feels fear. A raw-edged, paralytic terror of the flames. There’s a sharp pain in her left knee.

And everything goes black.

She’s left with just the splitting headache, the lingering adrenaline thrill, and a very distant awareness that somewhere Anders’ hands are still on her head, stopping her from pulling away.

“Very good,” he says without speaking. “Let’s try something a little harder.”

[Next]

#my writing #verse: resistance #unlikely salvation #ariadne milonas #anders reyan #anders does forbidden magic #because he's a badass like that

[random-imagines-blog]

Vampire Town {Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader}

Requested by: I’m so sorry, I couldn’t find the conversation so I can’t remember. :( Wordcount: 2778 Summary: Happiness and Love can appear when least expected.

During the long span of your life, a lot of your nights had been sent in solitary. You wandered through the world, seeing the beautiful sights of history; the architecture, the music, the literature, the wars, but never had anyone to share that with. Until you came across the broken form of a blonde vampire - Lestat. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” You said, sensing the poor vampire. Broken, without a home, ready to give up on his life after his partner had left him. You sat on the stoop of a burned down mansion beside him, tore your wrist open and forced him to drink from you. He became greedy, which you encouraged. You had just fed on three mortals, willing victims who walked away just as safe as they had come, just a little anemic. You put your hand on the back of his neck and tilted his head back, letting the blood pour down his throat. You squeezed a few more drops, and he let you go, hanging his head upon your shoulder like a hungover human.

You took him to the abode you were staying in. Nothing so gothic as what Lestat may have been living in, but a home nonetheless. A three-story brownstone with a basement that concealed your coffin. You put Lestat into it before the dawn arrived, and looked down at him with a tilt of your head. He was a very handsome vampire, and would only look better with more blood flowing through his veins. He would need a trough-full, however. You would need to wake early to prepare that for him.

Your long fingers stroked his face, turning it towards the candlelight to get a better look. His skin was pale, his hair flaxen. He had been through a lot of pain - even his sleeping face showed that. It may take a dozen nights, perhaps, to get him to peak performance. But you did love a challenge, and were a sucker for a disaster of a person. Loneliness had grown old along side of you - why not try something new for once.

It took some time for the vampire, whom you learned to be named Lestat, to look alive again. Or, perhaps, a little less dead. He was far too beautiful to ever be considered a human being. Those dull creatures, though you were one of them once, bored you with their generic looks. You enticed a few of them towards the house, let Lestat feed. You found out one thing about him instantly - he was absolutely vicious when it came to feeding. Not at all as elegant as his demeanor might make it seem. And you allowed him to finish victims to nearly the point of death, then disposed of the bodies yourself.

“You seem to be feeling much better,” You said, joining him in your parlor. It was just you and he, as you knew no one else in New Orleans. You had only stopped here because it was where the first boat you came across was going. “How could you give up on your life like that?”

Another thing you learned about Lestat; he was very convinced of his own righteousness.

“It is my right to give up my life if I so wish,” He hissed, despite the blood dripping from his mouth. You did not say anything to contrary, just licked your thumb and plucked the droplet from his face. You let it rest on the tip of your tongue, savoring the flavor. “Who are you to try to bring me back?”

“You may call me y/n,” You said with a soft smile, ignoring his harsh tone. “I am noticing that you are alone, but you are well versed in talking to people. Were you a social one, Lestat?”

He was quiet for a little while after that, in some sort of reflection. He stared at nothing, and you left him to that, sleeping in a box rather than your coffin for you still allowed him to take over yours. That was the most intimate gesture that you had ever given to someone. You had shared your clothes with him, even, until you had gotten him some of his own. He looked as pretty as a painting in your white blouses, in your long dark skirts. In this world, for the first time, you had someone to share everything with.

His perpetually bad mood never bothered you. Nor did his dramatic nature. Because you knew that one day, he would either open up to you, or he would leave. You would prefer the first. But would have to quietly accept the second.

But after two years, a blink of an eye for someone like you, he opened up. He told you all about Louis, about Claudio, about Armand. About the reporter whom he had turned who was who-knows-where. About Marius, even, and how he had turned which was further back than you had expected him to go. And so in return, you told him about your loneliness, about how you had traveled from town to town and only run into a few like you. You did not know your maker. You didn’t remember him, or her. You didn’t even remember where it was that you were changed, only that you were high up in the mountains. Why you were there, you could not recall either. But you did not dwell on the mysteries of the past; only your present time.

And on Lestat, because for the present, and forseeable future, you were stuck with him. Lead a stray dog to a home and you have a pet, as you’ve heard someone say.

-

Half of the candles in the parlor remained unlit, for neither of you needed much light in order to see in the dark. Lestat had one of your hands in his as he lead you in a waltz around the room. You could not stop smiling - a facial expression that you hadn’t used too often over the years. A dance! You’ve never danced before, hence why Lestat was currently giving you a lesson. You were even wearing a gown that he had gifted to you - custom made in one of the best shops. He still had his connections in the city of New Orleans. A real vampire’s town, as you had discovered.

“You are a natural!” He praised with a smile of his own, showing off his glinting, sharp, white teeth. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

“I’ve never had a partner. I haven’t met many of our kind before and dancing with a human just seems so...” You struggled to find the words. “Slow.”

“Very slow indeed,” Lestat agreed. He had picked a roses from the garden, and had them in a vase to add something living to the house. He now took one of them, and stuck it into his mouth, the thorns cutting at his lips but he did not have a care about that. You laughed at that - what a silly vampire you had ended up with.

“How is the pain, my darling?” You asked, licking your lips at the sight of that little bit of blood.

“Agonizing,” He droned, swinging you around into a spin, then returned you into his strong arms. The blouse that he wore, another thing custom made, was of a silk fabric, and felt soft upon your cheek. You suddenly remembered what it was like to cry, just from that light touch. Agonizing - you recalled what that felt like. It had been well over a century.

“The same as when you were betrayed by your love, Louis?” You questioned. Lestat cut the dance short, but he still held you.

“I don’t wish to talk about him any further,” He said, harshly. “There are more important things in my life now! I am free of him and his ... whining. I am being treated in the way that I deserve. And you - you are finally being treated as you deserve.”

Lestat wielded compliments as a weapon. He used them to distract you from asking further questions. And it worked, every time. You sighed contently as  he kissed your hand, then went up your arm towards your shoulder, then all the way back down. You could feel his cold lips through the fabric of your sleeves. It made you feel like a flower bulb in Spring, sprouting up for the first time from the damp dirt into the beautiful world above.

“You flatter me deeply, Lestat. You are better than I deserve.”

He spun you around once more, and you continued to spin in the middle of the room, arms outstretched as he watched you. Thanks to being a vampire, you did not feel dizziness like the humans did, and could outdance them all if you so wished. Lestat was a grand teacher. He then caught you, then dipped you low to the ground, so much so you could smell the dust of the floor.

“No, that is what you are to me.” His fangs were exposed as he smiled down at you, a fearsome image for anyone else, but not for you. You smiled back at him, and held him tightly as he brought you back up to your feet, humming along with the song.

“I should get cleaning this place, Lestat. It takes more than dancing to make a house a home.” You let go of him to go and grab a broom, but the blonde vampire grabbed you again. Ever since he had opened up to you, he loved to be in your presence. And it wasn’t something that you were going to complain about after being alone for so long.

“Don’t tease,” He said, holding onto your hands with his long fingers. “I’ll hire us a thousand maids, so you don’t have to get these wonderful hands dirty.” You let out a child-like laugh of glee at his amazing words. You were a sucker for them, mind the pun. “And a thousand more dresses for if you get a speck of dust on this one.”

“I don’t need a thousand dresses, Lestat. I could live in rags as long as I still had you.”

-

Five years later, you and Lestat still resided in New Orleans. It was a town of pleasure, of magic, of long nights - and plenty of swampland in order to hide bodies if you went too far with any victims. You did your best not to, but sometimes temptations swept in and you nearly drank to the point of death. But apart from that, you were living in a near-domestic bliss.

“Now, why are you doing this when you don’t get cold?” Lestat asked, walking in from the outside world with coins in his pocket and a well-fed look on his face. You were holding knitting needles in your hand, working on a shawl pattern that you had seen a woman working on last time you were out shopping. He kissed the top of your head and placed a bag on your lap before you could even answer him.

“I like to keep busy - it keeps eternity interesting,” You insisted. You set aside the knitting and started to examine the shopping bag that was on your lap. “What is this?”

“Why don’t you open it and see?” Lestat asked, with a cocky smile. You looked at him with amusement, then delicately opened up the bag. Inside was something ... something fabric. You pulled it out then stood with it in front of you. A long black gown - the color that you always wore, and which Lestat said you wore so well - and it was made of the softest velvet that you had ever felt. He looked pleased as you brought a sleeve to your face to feel the fabric even better. “Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful, Lestat, thank you. What’s the occasion?”

“It is the anniversary of the day that you found me. The day that everything changed,” He held his hands up in the air as if he were an actor on a stage, something that you always found entertaining. You loved encouraging the odder aspects of his personality, just as he did the same for you, even when he could not understand.

“What a cheerful gown, I’ll wear it on our next night out.” You exclaimed, twirling with it. Though you would never be able to see yourself wearing it in a mirror, you thought that you would feel beautiful in it. And Lestat would tell you that you were. He was growing predictable in the most wonderful way.

“Why not today?” He questioned, approaching you and held it onto your body to emphasize how lovely you would look in it. “Wear it to bed with me. I want to feel it upon my cheek while I sleep.”

“I wouldn’t want it to get wrinkled... oh, alright,” You said, seeing his earnest expression. He helped you out of the simple dress that you were wearing, one that you had picked yourself. He was much more into the luxurious fashion of the day, favorite bright colors that made him stand out. You were not so flamboyant, and preferred to let him be the center of attention rather than yourself. It worked out well, though you did get occasional glances from other ladies, wondering how someone such as yourself had managed to gain the love of such a charmer.

You wondered the same thing yourself.

As his fingers tickled at your spine, as his hair swept against your face, you questioned how you could have grown so lucky. Were the years of isolation just a pre-payment for the years of happiness that you were having now?

You stepped into the new gown, and he pulled it up, over your thighs, your waist, your bust, your shoulders, and smoothed everything down so it draped you perfectly. He must have came home just in time, for a flash of lightning came through the windows, and the rumble of thunder. The sound of rain upon the roof and on the sidewalk. “Music to my ears,” You said, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“A most marvelous lullaby,” Lestat said, unable to stop feeling the fabric. The seamstress must have put a lot of work into this gown, for it fit you perfectly, emphasizing your waist and bust in a way you haven’t seen before without a corset, and fell to the ground without pooling at your feet. “May I take you to bed, beautiful?”

“Oh, you divine charmer,” You said, pressing your hand upon his cheek. He whisked you away, down to the basement where your coffin lay.

A while back, you had traded in your usual sarcophagus bed for something much better. It was Lestat’s idea initially, complaining about the long, cold days alone inside of a tomb. It had been an unexpected surprise when he actually did something about it, instead of expecting you to do so. When you came home from a feeding and a walk, he presented to you the double coffin. It was exactly as it sounded - two built into one, with room for both of you, and no inner wall to keep you apart.

He held your hand to help you climb inside, then followed you right in. Velvet dress on velvet interior; it felt both warm and rather sexual. With the lid closed, and the two of you in complete darkness, you felt confident, wrapping your arms around your blonde lover and pulled him close.

It took you some time to realize that this was the love that you deserved. That you were worthy of affection and love, despite all of the years that you had gone without it. And you were just lucky enough to find it with another vampire, so the only limit that you had was not time, but imagination.

As for Lestat, you had truly saved him from the misery that he had put himself through after Louis. He was ready to lock himself up for a hundred years or more, just to avoid the pain. To take the sleep of the immortal ones and awake in a brand new age. But this one still had a lot to offer, that much was clear with you. He never thought of that; only that he would remain in a state of purgatory, rather than a life of shooting stars and velvet gowns.

He was glad he stayed in this Vampire Town.

#Lestat x reader #Lestat De Lioncourt #Lestat oneshot #Lestat #Interview with the Vampire #Interview with the Vampire oneshot #oneshot #one shot #request

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

The 80s au prompt! Maybe a new transfer student tries to bully Jaskier, thinking he's the bottom of the social ladder? And the football team sets them straight? Or maybe they try to flirt with one of the boys despite being warned away? I just love this verse so damn much! ♥️

(I do love me a jealous Geralt tbh)

tw: panic attack, soft geralt, protective geralt, itty bitty anxiety committee jaskier, Letterman’s jacket

---

Geralt glanced around the cafeteria but Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. Kevin tapped his shoulder and set his tray down at their usual table, “Your boyfriend got volunteered to show some new kid around. I’m sure he’s just a few minutes late.”

“Oh.”

As if on cue, a bright laugh could be heard approaching from the distance. Jaskier and a slightly taller boy were walking shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing and talking as they made their way towards the gathering football team. As they approached Geralt heard Jaskier say, “The one with the long white hair is my boyfriend.”

The stranger looked Geralt up and down out of the corner of his eye. “Would you mind if I sat with you guys today while I catch my bearings?”

“I’m sure that would be fine.”

They finally reached the table. Jaskier plopped himself into his reserved seat at the quarterback’s side and gestured to an empty chair nearby. “Guys, this is Max. Max, this is Geralt, Kevin, Dave, Mark, Steven, Reggie, and Charlie.”

“Nice to meet you all,” the new kid waved. “I’m Max. Juli-uh..Jaskier has been showing me around.”

“You’ll get used to the nickname,” Jaskier smiled pleasantly. “Max is from Aedirn.”

“Welcome to Kaedwen,” Geralt offered. “Glad you could join us!”

“Glad to be here!” Max replied. A pair of golden eyes narrowed slightly in his direction. Geralt didn’t like the way Max seemed to lean towards Jaskier every time the brunette spoke, or how he looked to Jaskier for approval when he made teasing remarks. He definitely didn’t like the way Max’s hand rested on Jaskier’s arm or shoulder whenever he agreed with him. 

Geralt was...jealous.

---

“If that Max kid doesn’t stop touching Jaskier every time they hang out together, Geralt might just pop a blood vessel,” Kevin laughed, adjusting the weights on his machine. He, Dave, and Mark were all working one end of the weight room while Geralt was on the other, bench pressing nearly fifteen pounds more than his boyfriend’s body weight.

“Do you want to warn the little bastard or should I?” Mark asked.

“I got it,” Kevin waved him off. “I’ll save his ass from getting kicked.”

---

Kevin didn’t have time to warn him, unfortunately, because Max was an entire fucking fool. 

Jaskier had been waiting outside the locker room for Geralt and his teammates to finishing showering up after their workout when Max appeared from seemingly nowhere. The new kid claimed that he’d gotten lost and quickly resumed their conversation from lunch, touching their shoulders together insistently as he tried to convince Jaskier to flirt back. “So you said you like Duran Duran earlier, right? I have their latest record if you wanna come over some time and listen. My system is amazing; I saved up all summer to get new stereo speakers.”

“That’s cool but-”

“You’ll dig it, I promise. We can even smoke a joint or two if you’re into the weed scene; my dad is totally cool with that kind of shit.”

“I appreciate it, Max, and I’d love to hang out sometime but-”

“You’re just...” Max leaned down towards Jaskier. The smaller sophomore was boxed in against the wall, his heart picking up speed in his chest as he began to panic. His next set of refusals got stuck in his throat and he prayed for his boyfriend to come to his rescue. “You’re really just too cute for your own good, Julian.”

“Did you miss the part at lunch where he said I was his boyfriend?” Geralt asked. He’d exited the locker room just in time to see the panic start to spread across Jaskier’s face. The redness creeping up from his boyfriend’s collar to stain his cheeks wasn’t from flattery; Jaskier was legitimately frightened of the the other, larger sophomore. 

Jaskier fell gratefully against Geralt’s side and let the quarterback wrap a large, white-leather Letterman’s jacket around his shoulders possessively. “Better, babe?”

Jaskier buried his nose in the collar and breathed deeply, willing his heartbeat to slow back to normal. Geralt turned to face him. He ran a comforting hand through Jaskier’s soft, brunette hair and cupped his face, rubbing his thumb across the younger boy’s blood-warm cheekbone.”Are you going to be okay? Do you need a minute to breathe?”

Jaskier nodded and Max’s eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You gave him a panic attack, you useless fuck,” Dave explained from behind him. Max whirled around. The rest of the Kaedwen Academy Wolves were standing in a group, arms crossed over their chests, their expressions a matching set of grim disappointment. “If Jaskier had hyperventilated and passed out, would you have carried him off to the back of your shitty car?”

“I-uh-I-”

“You’d better get going,” Geralt urged. “Wolves are very territorial creatures.”

“I’m sorry, guys, really. I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Geralt growled. Jaskier ducked his head beneath Gearlt’s chin and let the older boy’s hands run up and down his back. The strokes were firm, soothing, and endlessly tender. He felt better already. “What matters is that you scared my boyfriend.”

Max fucked up again, of course. “And the whole football team would get suspended in order to protect this one twink?”

Mark cracked his knuckles automatically. Nobody talked shit about Jaskier like that. Not unless they wanted to enter a world of pain; but Geralt shook his head. “This one isn’t worth it, guys. We have a big game this weekend and I need all of you present on the field.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“But know this,” the white-haired giant turned to Max. His honey-gold eyes blazed with a fury that not even Geralt’s teammates had ever seen before. Dave, one of his closest friends in all the world, took a nervous step back on instinct. Geralt’s voice was low and dangerous as he continued, “If you ever so much as breathe on my boyfriend without his express verbal consent again, you will never know peace. You should know that I will get you back somehow. You won’t know when and you won’t know how, but you’ll get what’s coming to you if you. So I’d better not hear your name come out of his mouth again unless it’s to tell me that you were being a perfect gentleman. Understood?”

Max nodded and disappeared in a flash.

---

“Thanks for helping me out with that creep today,” Jaskier sighed, snuggling closer into Geralt’s side. They were tucked into Jaskier’s bed, with the sophomore’s hand splayed across his boyfriend’s abdomen. Geralt’s hair was haloed across the pillowcase in a spray of silver and Jaskier thought he looked angelic. “You’re beautiful, you know that? You’re my white knight.”

“Does that make you the princess?”

“You know what, I was wrong. You’re actually the dragon. This is the tower and you are the dragon.” Jaskier threw the back of his hand up against his forehead and whispered dramatically, “Oh save me! Somebody save me!”

Geralt pressed several quick kisses against his boyfriend’s temple and cheek, chuckling. “Goober.”

“Mhm. Your Goober.”

“That’s right,” Geralt nodded, tightening his arms around the smaller boy. “Mine.”

#geraskier fic #geraskier #geraskier 80's au #80's teen geraskier au #high school 80's geraskier #geraskier prompt fill #geraskier 80's prompt #jealous geralt #protective geralt #anxious jaskier #panic attack tw #anxiety tw #it's very brief #geraskier fluff #geralt x jaskier #quarterback geralt #theatre gay jaskier

[toomanyfandoms02]

Sing For Me // Spencer Reid x Reader

Blurb request for @stinkyelf and @criminalcow ! This one was FUNNNN TO MAKE.

Summary - Reader convinces Spencer to go to a bar with her and jealousy ensues. We have Protective! Spencer.

Word count - 1.5k (ahaha, suppose to be a blurb OOPS)

Prompts - "Touch her again and I'll break your wrist." -- "But I wanna hear you sing!" -- "Wait a second, were you jealous?"

"No, Y/n, please. You know it's not my kind of thing." Spencer dramatically threw his head back as I tugged his sleeve.

"Please?! Everyone wants to go home and I wanna drink! You're not gonna let me go to the bar all by myself? In the pretty dress that I have in my car?" He glared at me a bit, rolling his eyes.

"Are you really convincing me to go with you so no man harasses you?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing. Please?" I furrowed my eyebrows, sticking my lip out and giving him sad eyes. The full puppy dog look.

"Fine! Alright."

"Yay! Thank you Spencey." I skipped towards the exit.

"Please don't call me that." He whined quietly, trailing behind me.

I hopped into the driver's seat, starting it up as he took the passengers. He slid the seat back significantly farther than it's original placement, which practically had his knees up to him in the fetal position.

"Off we go!" I cheered, pulling out of my parking spot.

-

"Beamers?" Spencer's eyes squinted at the neon sign that hung above the wooden doors.

"It's a good bar." My shoulders shrugged. "Okay, turn around." I gestured my finger in a circle. "I'm changing into a dress in my car." He snickered, shaking his head and turning around.

"You know you look fine right?" His arms were crossed against his chest.

"I know. But I don't look bar ready." I unbuttoned the last button on my blouse, letting it fall from my shoulders. The black flowy dress slipped over me and I climbed from the car. "I'm decent." I chuckled. He turned to see me shimmying my tight skirt out from under the dress and throwing it in the back window. His face flushed a bit with the smallest smirk. "What?"

"Nothing." Spencer pushed his hair from his face and turned on his heel towards the bar.

"No no!" My hand grasped the hem of his sweater vest. "You are not wearing the in there. Take it off."

"Come on." He groaned, quickly pulling it over his head and throwing it at my face. "Better?" Spencer now sported a button down with a tie, dress pants and black converse. I reached up and loosened his tie a bit.

"Much better."

The bar smelled of people and Alchohol, to be expected. Spencer's nose scrunched noticeably.

"Let's get us a drink!" Grabbing the cuff of his shirt, I dragged him to the bar. Ignoring his noises of protest the whole way.

"You know someone has to drive right?" The side eye he was giving me told me that he was calling me irresponsible.

"We aren't gonna get drunk, don't worry, just have fun." I slipped the bartender a note.

*Give this stressed ass man the strongest you can give him.*

I was just gonna get *Spencer* drunk.

-

Spencer was about 3 *strong* drinks in, wobbling a bit on the stool he had set himself in not too long ago. His eyelids drooped as he watched people on the small stage doing karaoke.

"You should get up there and do something." I nudged his side lightly, I felt as if a small breeze could knock him from his sitting position.

"Absolutely not!" He half slurred, looking at me like I was crazy.

"But I wanna hear you sing!" The only fluids I had drank at this bar was 2 glasses of water, and I was crystal clear.

I was gonna get that man on the stage.

Maybe it would just take *one* more shot, so I ordered another.

"Y/n, you don't understand." He clumsily pointed his finger at me. "I cannot sing, and I will not sing."

"Well, fine. If you won't sing, you just drink one last shot." I slid the drink towards him. He downed it without hesitation.

-

It takes exactly 4 drinks to get Spencer to sing.

I had convinced him mere moments ago to go up on stage and sing. It still took a few minutes to get him there, but after 4 minutes of bickering, he agreed to do it.

I watched as he leaned to the karaoke machine operator. He must have said some weird ass song because the operator gave him quite the strange look. That's when I heard the music start.

Put Your Head On My Shoulder.

Of course the man would choose a song that come out in 1959, there's no surprise there. The real surprise was his voice.

I had pretty low expectations for 2 reasons.

1. Spencer just didn't seem like the singing type.

2. He was kind of plastered right now.

But as soon as he began I was in a trance. I could not keep the smile off of my face. He started the second verse, coming closer to the edge of the stage, then pointing to me.

"Put your lips next to mine, dear!" He belted, keeping his eyes on me. My eyes shot open wide with raised eyebrows.

*Is this actually happening right now?*

It was quite the scene to watch, and be a part of. The song was nearing the end, just as he was saying the last line, a man wrapped his arm around my waist. I was looking at Spencer long enough before the strange man to see he had an angry look smeared onto his features.

"Do you need something?" I inquired, attempting to peel his arm from my hips.

"Is that your boyfriend up there? Or do you make goo goo eyes at everyone like that." I glared into his ice blue eyes, proving him wrong. "I would love for you to look at me like that baby." His grip around my hip tightened.

"Can you fuck off?" I pushed at him but he was relentless. But that didn't matter as he was jerked away from me.

"Touch her again, and I'll break your wrist." Spencer was looking a lot more sober than he was before. I could see the fire burning behind his eyes, I hadn't seen him so angry before.

"What are you gonna do about it twig?" It was no doubt that the harassing man was larger then Spencer, and I wasn't about to let him get hurt. I grabbed the mans arm, swinging him around and slapping him in the face, then quickly bringing my shin to his privates. He collapsed onto the ground with a small cry.

My hand intertwined with Spencer's to drag him from the bar and to my car.

He sat down with a huff and a cross of his arms in the passengers seat.

"What a fucking douchebag!" Spencer flailed his arms wildly. I hadn't heard him speak so fouly before.

"It's okay, I'm alright."

"He shouldn't have touched you at all! Don't any men have decency? I hated seeing his arm around you. I've never gone from so drunk to so sober before." He sunk into my leather seats, looking grumpier.

"Wait a second, were you jealous?" His head whipped my way, not saying anything. His mouth opened and closed but nothing came out, he looked like a fish out of water.

"Maybe." I didn't think it was *possible* for him to sink even further into the seat. But he did.

"Is that why you sang that song?" I leaned closer to him.

"I don't know why I did that." He grumbled, placing his palms over his face. "It was a bad decision. A pretty bad way to confess that you like someone, when your drunk." His head shook back and forth under his hands.

"I thought it was romantic." My shoulders shrugged. "And you have an amazing voice, where did that come from?" He stared at me incredulously.

"You thought it was romantic?"

"Well yeah. Did you *not* see how I was looking at you on that stage? If that guy wouldn't have started dumb shit I probably would have kissed you right when you came down the stairs." I chuckled nervously.

"Can you kiss me now?" He looked pained in the face, clearly afraid I would reject him.

"This is sober you talking right? Not drunk incoherent you?"

"Totally sober and coherent. I've wanted to kiss you while coherant many times." He looked away, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "That sounded-"

I rolled my eyes and grabbed his tie, turning him towards me and smashing our lips together. He reciprocated immediately, pushing himself over the center console as much as he could. We pulled apart and set our foreheads against eachother.

"Put your lips next to mine, dear." He sang.

"Hold me in your arms, baby." I sang back, grabbing the back of his neck and kissing his nose. "Aren't you glad you came to the bar now?"

"I wouldn't have missed it anyway, especially with you."

#MGG #mgg #criminal minds #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #mgg fic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine #matthew gray gubler #matthewgraygubler

[hyunhour]

10:47PM ] [ han jisung au

a/n: eya! soo this is just a really short blurb lmao >< i was watching record of youth, and there was this one scene where the two main characters cuddled together and watched a movie that featured one of them. andddd soo an idea popped up in my head. uhh please? watching your boyfriend who’s also apart of skz, on the screen? then cuddling with him? JSJAJJDSJDJX insanity. for fictional purposes only!

boyfriend!jisung, jisung x fem!reader, very soft fluff, so much fluff

tw: fluffflufflfuff yeah no tw LMAO

word count: 1.2k

in a world where han jisung who is a member of the most raved k-pop group, stray kids; is also the best boyfriend you could ever wish for. tonight is the night after one of their live shows, both of you opted to stay in at the dorm.

“Do we really have to watch this?” Jisung groans in frustration, pouting with the bottom of his lip jutting out very obviously. He flutters his eyes at you, flashing his puppy dog eyes, which you normally find irresistible; but not tonight.

Tonight, you were persistent. You were adamant on watching his recently aired live comeback stage, a re-run of it, one that he had worked so hard on. You simply wanted to acknowledge all of his efforts, and shower him with incessant praises after. He would always shy away from your compliments, which you clearly didn’t feel any ounce of abashment as you do so. You knew how much he secretly loved them anyway.

Perhaps, it was the way his ears would flare into a deep red, or the way he would kick the blanket that enveloped both of you off in embarrassment. You loved teasing him so much, always managing to get a rise out of him.

“Of course! We have to!” you wriggled your way out of his arms, kneeling on the couch. He threw his head back, his hands covering the entirety of his flushed face. “And it was your second win too! Please! Just this once.” you clasped your hands together, bouncing helplessly off your folded legs.

He whips his head to your direction, scanning over you, his bottom lip in between his teeth. “Fine.” he gives in to your relentlessness, sighing a deep breath as he mentally prepares himself for what’s to come.

“The things I do for you,” he clutches his chest, bunching up the fabric there. You roll your eyes, blowing tufts of hair out of your face. “So dramatic. You know you looked good anyway,” you say as you snuggle right back to his side, his arm that was slung over the couch, immediately finding a hold of yours.

“Looked?” he backs away a little, one of his eyebrows cocked up. You poke at his cheek, before bringing both your hands to pinch his cheeks. “You always, look good.” you correct yourself as you shake his head lightly, giggling at the newfound sight of him.

He cups his hands around your face as well, doing the same action as you, except a little more rougher and tighter. Your cheeks ultimately being squished under his hold. “Ah. Thank you!” the frown on his face was immediately replaced by his heart-shaped smile, one of his crooked tooth proudly showing. The both of you remained like that for a while. Slight dizziness catching on as you tried to compete with him to find out who could withstand the newly-turned violent head-shaking the longest.

A familiar melody interjects your moment, it was finally Stray Kids’ turn. You immediately peel Jisung’s hands away from your face, even finding effort to push him away slightly causing him to tumble a little over the armchair. “Ya! What the–“ he was caught completely off guard, steadying himself back up again with his hands.

Your eyes were now glued onto the TV screen. Sure enough, the whole of Stray Kids already stood in formation. “It’s Back Door, baby! Back Door!” you shake him from the sides of his shoulders, with him flaying helplessly.

You watched as Jisung slid from beneath Hyunjin, easing into his verse smoothly. God, you couldn’t believe that that man was the very same man next to you, and also, your boyfriend. You really couldn’t suppress the smile that stretched from ear to ear on your face, Jisung simply leaned back into the couch, eyeing your beaming smile. His heart simply fluttering at the sight of you.

Jisung looked rather ravishing, especially in that new stage costume. You remember when he couldn’t stop rambling to you about how itchy it made him feel, but also spammed you with a bunch of pictures with the costume as well. Pain is beauty, he captioned them. His jet black hair complimenting his milky white skin, and the signature smirk of his that adorned his round face. He shined even without a spotlight.

He smothers himself with the pillow nearest to him, not wanting to look at himself in the screen. You rest your head on his shoulder, fits of giggles leaving your body involuntarily, you felt giddy with love as you admired him on the screen. You clutched onto his arm, further snuggling into the crook of his neck, inhaling whiffs of his scent.

“You did so well, babe! I’m so,” your breath hitched, you were at a loss of words. You felt blessed to have such a talented boyfriend, an all-rounder at that. He unearthed a great joy, one that you wished the whole world could indulge themselves in. “–this is unfair! You’re perfect!” you finished, playfully smacking his chest.

He rubbed the aching spot, wincing a bit. “Shut up, you are literally.. literally! The most perfect girl ever!” he counters, his eyes all wide and bright. They held no uncertainty, pure sincerity only. It made your heart swell with glee, knowing that Jisung would never feed you sugar-coated words, he only says what he truly means. “So beautiful, so smart, so talented in whatever you try to do. You’re fucking perfect.” he rests his forehead against yours, lifting your chin.

“S-Shut up,” you huff in annoyance, all you wanted to do was bury your head in his chest and tuck away the shyness that washed over you.

“Look at you now, all shy.” he scoffs, further lifting your chin as you attempt to avoid his blazing eyes. When you finally meet them, instead of seeing just pupils, you see pools of galaxies within those feline eyes. It felt like every ounce of air had left your lungs, leaving you breathless for a moment.

“I’m so lucky to have you. I love you, you know that?” you say softly in a hushed tone, your eyes wavering, feeling as if you’d get lost in his multiple galaxies if you stared any longer. He lets out a stifled chuckle, noticing your usual tough demeanour being overriden by your anxious eyes.

“And I’m lucky to have you. I love you more, you know that?” he replies, leaning in, words as soft as a whisper. His lips barely grazing the tip of your ear, leaving you shuddering under the intimate contact.

“That’s not possible.” you shook your head lightly, chuckling.

It’s true. He’s the anchor in your life, the one that holds you down to stability when life gets rocky. Just the mere touch of him fills you up with pure ecstasy and it’s almost incomprehensible as to how he does it so easily. How he met you at one of your darkest times, yet he looked past it, instead poured love into the abyss within you. He was always so adamant, persistent on making you the happiest girl in the world. And that he does.

“Yes it is. Uh, hello?” he waved one of his hands over your face. “Living proof right here, missy.” he mocks, only to earn another playful slap from you. He whines a little, complaining about how you’ve been getting too comfortable about hitting him now. You only respond by sticking your tongue out.

“Now that it’s over..” he gestures to the screen, where a new group was performing. You had missed out the majority of performance because Jisung had successfully distracted you from doing so. He was so sly with his actions, you almost wanted to in applaud him for it.

“Let’s bake those brownies.” he swipes his tongue over his top lip, rubbing his hands together.

“Let’s!” you squeal, jumping out of your seat before tugging on his arm.

#stray kids #skz #stray kids fic #skz x reader #han jisung #jisung skz #jisung au #han fic #jisung fic #stray kids imagines #han jisung imagines #skz imagines #stray kids oneshot #han oneshot #jisung oneshot #stray kids fanfic #skz fic #skz han #kpop imagines #kpop fanfic #kpop fluff #stray kids fluff #skz x stay #skz x you #soft jisung #soft skz #soft han #han fluff #jisung fluff #skz fluff

[coleyholts]

The ER and the Operation

First off-Sorry I haven’t posted in a while.  For obvious reasons, this post took a lot of time to put into words that were relatable.  

Trigger Warning: Infant Injury.  This is by far the worst part of the entire ordeal.  I want the reader to know that none of this is exaggerated whatsoever, and it may be difficult to read.  What happened in the ER and trauma center that day has truly changed me.

The glass doors parted in front of me to reveal a line of people waiting to get checked in. This was the first time I cried. They all quickly waved me up ahead of them once they saw that I had an obviously unconscious, super pale, vomit covered infant in my arms.

The helplessness set in when I was required to sign in like everyone else.  It’s not like I expect special treatment, but my baby was dying and no one seemed to understand the urgency of the EMERGENCY.  There were no nurses coming out to receive a trauma patient. There was no alarm.  I stood there, alone, with my rapidly worsening baby, sobbing and screaming for help while dripping in her breakfast and lunch.  At this point, she would wake up and pass out again in a vicious cycle.  Over and over, I watched her light dim for what felt like an eternity. After what I would rationally estimate to be about seven minutes (48,369,526 years to a scared parent), they finally called us back.

Everyone was taking their time.  I wondered if they thought I was being dramatic.  Were they rolling their eyes and blaming my emotion on “New Parent Syndrome?”  They were.  I felt it.

It wasn’t until they FINALLY decided to run vitals that they discovered what I was trying to stress since I had entered the hospital.  My daughter had something way more serious going on than any of us expected.  We walked (very briskly) down the hall to get a better look at what was actually happening in her head.  The tech and nurse cloaked me in protective gear so that I could stay with her.  I gently stroked her toes (also known as de peets) as she woke up, cried in pain, and fell back into her trauma-induced sleep while they got all of the imagery they needed.

We were brought back to our room and had a brief moment alone.  I held her so tight while I kissed her face and alternated holding her feet and hands.  They were so cold.  A nurse rushed up to our door, looked at me and said, “make sure to keep her as upright as possible.”  

That’s when I knew there was a bleed in my baby’s head.

A team of nurses came in and told me that they were going to start an IV, which actually made me feel relieved to know she would be feeling better soon. This is when Daniel arrived, and being that he is the epitome of girl dad attitude, he understandably doesn’t like to watch her get stuck.  He stuck his head in the room and immediately backed out when they tried to start the line. Unfortunately, we found out very quickly that she had no blood in her limbs whatsoever.  

They stuck her over and over again just to find air bubbles, which means they were unable to administer any intravenous medication to replace fluids, relieve pain, stop her from fading in and out of consciousness, or do anything to prevent the blood pooling in Natasha’s skull.  They decided that her condition was serious enough that she needed a line no matter what it took, which I agreed, which meant that they were going to use a legitimate power tool to drill into her shins to run a line into her bones.  I consented and sobbed, knowing the pain my baby had already endured that day was going to be the start of much more, if she survived.

While this was going down, Daniel was right outside the door, unaware of the issues we were running into, he heard a nurse at the nurses’ station ordering a helicopter for an infant, and that the “family wasn’t aware yet.”  My husband is a strong, supportive man that is a fixer.  If he cannot fix a problem, he expresses himself with (verbal) anger.  He comes into the room and says very abruptly to the nurse, “You’re flying her out?! Why?!” to which the male nurse responded, “because there's something seriously wrong and it needs to be fixed.”  I saw him escalating with anxiety so I assured him that they were just having a little trouble getting the line in and he returned to the hallway to start the wait for the doctor who was going to tell us what the hell was actually happening to our baby.

When she arrived, the doctor came in with Daniel.  She told us that Natasha had fractured her skull, and along with potential brain damage and hemorrhage, we were also concerned about blood loss, as her supply was pooling in her head.  The only way to save her life was to get her to INOVA Children’s Hospital for an emergency surgery, on a helicopter that I was not allowed to accompany her on.

Alone with my baby and the nurses, I was so upset.  My sweet girl was in so much pain. I made eye contact with a nurse and while sobbing, begged her to please administer anything whatsoever to ease the headache and all of the needle sticks-not to mention the drill.  For the first time, someone heard me.  She RAN into the hall and managed to bring back Versed, which can be administered nasally to relax muscles and calm the patient.  I am given the same drug when I get my back injections, so I was relieved.  It also prevents the patient from remembering everything, when administered in proper dosage.  It helped Natasha’s discomfort immediately.  They gave her the numbing shots in her legs, and while she was dozing and truly unaware of my presence, I stepped into the hallway.

This was the first time since the CT scan that she wasn’t in my arms. This time was different.  We knew the severity of the injury and she was being cared for by the entire trauma team of 7+ people.  I took one step out of the room, one step to the left, and planted my butt on the wall and hands on my knees for stability while I hung my head in complete disbelief.  How could this happen?  I opened my eyes and saw my clothing, dripping in her vomit.  I can still smell the banana berry baby food she ate without hesitation two hours earlier.  I screamed and sobbed as my muscles locked up in my legs and chest, then I felt someone put their hands on me.

I was literally picked up and supported while I shakily stood, completely losing my mind over the guilt and hatred I felt for myself.  The drilling began and I let out a sound I didn’t know I could make, while I was held tighter than I’d ever been.  I pulled back, just for a second, to look into the eyes of my soulmate and all I could say was, “I’m so sorry.”  Daniel pulled me back in, kissed my face, wiped my tears (which really didn’t do anything considering they just kept coming, but the gesture was so kind), and proceeded to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, and that he loves me and he loves that I am his daughter’s mother.  In that moment, his anger subsided and he moved to a different headspace.  That small exchange is burned into my heart forever and I have never been so incredibly thankful to be his wife.

They helicopter team arrived and they were still unable to get a steady line going.  According to their transport regulations, a patient transported by air has to be hooked up to an IV as well as intubated.  Time was ticking and my baby was visibly fading.  While still in the hallway, we were met by some medical coordinator who was trying to arrange a ride for us while she was in the air.  I don’t know how he was able, but after insisting over and over, they let us go.  They finally put an IV in my baby’s forehead; there was no other way.  They were discreet and covered it but I know what an IV mark looks like after the fact.  They could not get her intubated and save her so that (very brave) helicopter team took a huge risk that ultimately got her to INOVA by deciding to take her anyway.  WE kissed her goodbye while sobbing and told her how much we loved her.  The thought of her dying in flight weighed on us heavily, so we took off as soon as they wheeled her out.

The ride there was crazy.  I had no thoughts and all the thoughts going through my head.  My heart was nauseous.  I set a quick group text to my immediate family.  We saw the helicopter fly over us and it was a sigh of relief-knowing we were FLYING down the highway but she would be there faster.

We pulled up to the ER/Trauma Center.  I got out and ran in.  All I could get out was “Natasha” until they asked my relation and I somehow got out, “my baby...”  They valeted the car so Daniel could be with us.  They were rushing to get her into surgery.  They brought us into the trauma room (families usually aren’t permitted there but there was no time) and pulled up some waiver and permission forms.  They briefly explained the surgery, we signed, then it was GO TIME.

We stepped out of the room as the table with my baby strapped to it-full of wires and tubes-flew out of the trauma room.  The anesthesiologist made brief eye contact with me, halted the team, and said, “Let her kiss her baby.”  He knew she could easily not make it through this surgery.  Daniel kissed her and loved her for a few seconds and backed away with teary eyes.  I laid my forehead against her cheek.  I sobbed and screamed.  I kissed her over and over as my tears soaked us.  I told her I was so so sorry and that I loved her so much.  I wished it was me.

They took her away then.  The team saw my raw sorrow.  I got a very quick but kind pat on the back and they took off.

We were met by a social worker who brought us to a private room where we could chat and have some water.  Of course, we were asked all the suspected child abuse questions, but they got the idea pretty quickly that this was a freak accident.

After the interview, we were brought to a huge waiting room that must have been filled with 100+ seats.  We found a spot and the social worker left us.  We sat for a moment, touching hands.  They we both had to cry, then stand, then pace... The wait took forever, even more so not knowing if she was even going to live.

My brother, Jason works out that way and asked us if we needed anything right at that moment.  I was wearing a paper shirt provided by a nurse, so we gave him a small list and he stopped by.  He and Daniel stepped out for some fresh air while I sat breathing deeply and trying not to worry myself into another panic episode.  Then, an actual angel emerged from the hospital doors.

Dr. Leon Moores, a pediatric neurosurgeon at Pediatric Specialists of Virginia performed the emergency surgery.  I called for Daniel as Dr. Moores hugged me so tightly.  I didn’t know if this was a good or bad hug yet.

Daniel and Jason walked (ran) back in and sat with us to hear the outcome.  He told us that he was able to remove a blood clot the size of his fist from Natsha’s skull and that her vitals were wonderful.  So she had 100% survived the surgery.  Next was about brain damage, and by some miracle, her brain remained unharmed.  Dr. Moores saved my baby.

While they were getting her settled into the PICU, Jason took us to Target to get some clothes and snacks.  We had no idea how long this journey was going to be.  We got back to the hospital, gave gigantic hugs, and went up to see our baby as she woke up.

[prodigiousvisions]

Headcanon/Divergence? [1] (Yosano): Childhood, The Great War, and life after the war.

Initial disclaimer and semi-related note(s)–

So if part of this looks familiar to you, that’s probably because you read it before in its original, rudimentary state. I have quite a few regrets of impulsively deleting my Yosano blog (vivificamortem) tbh due to having an episode, and one of them was not saving the original post of this when I first wrote it. That being said I still think it’s important enough to warrant a rewrite even if I don’t exactly recall the specifics. As this eventually becomes very Fukuzawa and Ranpo orientated/centric, I just want to make it clear this will not apply to your respective muses of these two unless we discuss it. These are considered backstory supplements and characterizations of Yosano and Yosano’s main verse. She does not have mains for Ranpo or Fukuzawa at this time, and I usually... don’t do mains? But for specifics like this, this would probably apply to potential, future mains and warrant mains of these two. If that makes sense. Anyway. This will also include a bunch of new HC details I didn’t have before.

I was going to be mean and not put this under a cut lol but I’ll be merciful since it is extremely thorough and lengthy. 2,300+ words lengthy, and that’s not including this disclaimer. I know I asked people to read this once finished but realistically I cannot ask that in good conscious unless you are genuinely interested/care and actually are into BSD lol. Fleshed out details+conceptualized explanations/characterization below. Content/mention warnings for suicide ideation + attempts, and neglect.

CHILDHOOD

Yosano was an only child. She was not a beloved child, a planned child, nor a wanted child. Her parents would have been inclined to give her away instantly had they not compromised to raise her as a sort of... ‘help’ for the couple’s wagashi shop. It was a regret far before the first sleepless night when she was a baby, but they decided to grin and bear it. Raising Yosano was an arduous task and they made it very clear in how they behaved toward her as she was growing up. Saying that she was simply neglected wouldn’t even begin to describe it. In response to this, as a young girl Yosano developed a loud, brash personality that would more often than not get her in trouble both at school and with her parents. Being punished was never fun, but at least it garnered their attention for a little while before they went back to essentially ignoring her presence. Her adapted personality would not lead to any fruition for her lonely soul at school either, most kids finding her annoying, scary, or would simply view her in scorn for being so outspoken and strange. She began to believe the outlook of her parents: her only use was to be a shopkeep of the family business. The girl debated with herself often what was the worth of life, what was the point to live, if not to live and be frowned down upon at every other moment. Troubled and depressed, Yosano tries her hardest to cope, keeping her chin up but her eyes glued to the floor when in seclusion.

At some point or another Yosano and her parents find out about her ability and the extent of it all. It freaks Yosano out at the start, thinking about how ridiculous it is that someone who contemplated on a daily basis what they truly benefited out of being alive could potentially alter the fate of someone’s life and grant them a second chance. Then for once, she finds worth in herself. It wasn’t something she could actively go and show off of course, but it gave her a purpose. Her dramatized exterior of self-entitlement and loudmouthedness proceeds on of course, but her outlook begins to shift. She has hope. She can do something good for people. And have a (figurative) place doing so. 

This new purpose was an open door opportunity not only for Yosano, but her parents as well. At the first opportunity to do so as they are tired of taking care of this child, they’re quick to send her off, knowing how valuable that ability and its potential was. In this case, it was the military (either catching wind of her ability or deciding to now call on her due to the necessary role in their war strategy) demanding for Yosano to take part personally. It was a ridiculously easy feat to get their permission to send her away. She was technically no longer their responsibility while she was away. Hell, they hoped she would never come back.

She wouldn’t. And that was that. That was the last time she ever saw and would be in contact with her parents.

THE GREAT WAR

It’s worth reminding everyone that Yosano was a child, and the gravity of her new circumstances didn’t quite dawn on her before it was too late. At the start, she was excited to show that she could have worth and be surrounded by people that would appreciate her for what she did. It would be the first time in all of her life that would happen. And it is for these very reasons that she has such strong, genuine, sincere reactions during the chapters/times she is midst the war. While maintaining her semi huffy and self-imposed air, she was also able to allow it to falter a little because for once, she didn’t need to resort to that to be paid attention to. In their initial praise, it did freak her out at first, the foreignness being so strange to her. But she appreciated it, she truly did. (Note: this obviously doesn’t apply to Mori lol.) The unnamed soldier that Yosano interacts with at this time especially strikes a chord with her. His kindness makes her think that maybe if she was fortunate enough, she would have liked to have someone like that as a brother. Maybe someone like that could have stopped the pain she’d endured with her parents. But that was in the past! He was lending her more toward the perspective of hope just as he told her that she was doing for him and the other soldiers. The creation of the butterfly clip, again, freaks her out because she’s unsure how to react to kind gestures. It is the first of its kind– a present, meaningful in its weight and sentiment in a way that she would learn later would continue to influence her life in various, monumental ways. His present interest in poetry is also something that Yosano would find herself enjoying, too. At the time.

Honestly, I really don’t even think it’s worth elaborating on Mori cause. Well. That whole ordeal speaks for itself. His manipulation and obsession grosses her out at its minimum / start and would later be the colossal trigger and collapse of her mental stability and lead to lasting trauma even as an adult. But anyways, back to other details worth note in this timeframe.

The war efforts proceed and we reach the point where things are looking grim and soldiers are getting near fatally injured faster, and coming back in droves. She realizes rather quickly that she bit off more than she can chew; to have to bear witness to these men being on the brink of death and quickly ‘revive’ them like some sort of automated robot would, naturally, mess up anyone. Her haughty behavior drops quickly as she becomes more quiet, tired, horror creeping up her body gradually in the form of slowly raising goosebumps. She’s wondering when the war will be over, and starts to second guess her purpose. Is what she’s doing right? But she’s not hit rock bottom, not yet at least, as the unnamed soldier reassures her the second instance. He relays how her saving him would bring him back to his family. He tells her: “I’m glad that you’re here.” And it makes way for Yosano’s first instance of ever crying in front of someone, feeling an overwhelming amount of gratitude to being seen and the need to trudge forward to protect. Protect those who had a life to return to. He’d been living proof of the importance of life– that life wasn’t always so cruel to others, that she had a chance to be surrounded by those who cared about her too. She cries in her vulnerability.

Things turn for the worst. Every day is a living nightmare. She can wipe away blood from her body, others’ body, but she will never be clean of the endless pools of blood that stained her hands after her treatments. Even at the age of 11, she comes to the realization that she is the single force that shackles all these people to the torture of having to throw themselves into battle again and again for futile efforts. She’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown constantly, but consoles herself with the thought that the unnamed soldier will be able to tell her it’s alright, maybe even help her figure out a way to get them all out of there. Yosano doesn’t want her ability, hell, she’d opt to having no purpose over this. She would trade her life for all of these people. She just needed this to stop. It’s all her fault. 

The person who was the embodiment of her last shred of sanity and piece of hope commits suicide and dubs her the Angel of Death, and that was her final breaking point. The sliver of belief that providing good for people and having a purpose is ultimately gone. Her worldview that she started to have hope for shatters. It was a cumulative, gradual raise of hope for a better life to have it all smashed to the ground. This tied in with the actual events she lived through, clearly, do not help. Trauma blocks it out of her memory later on, but there are plentiful, deliberate suicide attempts from the young girl afterward, wanting out of this hell that her own hands allowed to bear fruit, but for various circumstances and reasons, her attempts would not work and/or she would simply not be allowed to die at Mori’s hands. She is a hysterical, screaming, crying mess until she is no longer able to cry anymore. If not suicide, then alternative methods. Yosano would attempt to blow the ship up with the explosives that were stored at the bottom – it would have been a far crueler end than prolonging everyone’s destined death, but ultimately fails at that as well. 

LIFE AFTER THE WAR

She is apprehended and taken away to an institution where she spends three years in a void of a space, living on earth as if her spirit has long been faded. She is a shell of a person, succumbed to her own despair and doing the absolute bare minimum. Humanity only ever makes itself present in jaded eyes that blink sometimes and the agonizingly slow rise and fall of her chest to indicate that somehow, she was breathing. Living, but not alive. Not really, anyway. She may as well be rotting away, unkempt, unpure, and wishing life would simply put her out of her misery. Devoid of any hope, feeling death would be a start of repenting for her crimes. But it was never that easy. Why would it be? 

Ranpo and Fukuzawa rescue her. We all know how that goes. Let’s touch on some details of after that. 

After rescuing her, the duo have Yosano reside with them in Fukuzawa’s apartment. While Ranpo and Fukuzawa managed to recover a glimmer of hope in Yosano by rescuing her alone, the hope is discarded as she feels she is unworthy of it and they essentially are put in a position where they have to rehabilitate her. These two people cared enough about her to try to help her– she can see it, despite going about like a walking corpse some days. But guilt is overbearing, suffocating, and it shakes her down with constant night terrors that she is too drained to scream at as well as frequent moments where she blacks out without prompting. At this time, the butterfly clip she dares not to remove from her person is a reminder, a grim heavy burden she forces herself to carry on her shoulders that she was not a good person and that this was her karma and hers alone. She should not forget that no matter how good intentioned Ranpo and Fukuzawa were to her. There was absolutely at least one more time she attempted to take her life. Needless to say, it’s a painstakingly slow process, taking about a full year before Yosano can even start to really improve outside of talking to them here and there. 

(I feel like this behavior / state is EXTREMELY similar to how Kyouka starts off as, too, so my Yosano would definitely take to Kyouka more strongly than some others. But that is an entirely different conversation for some other time.)

Once she gets to a point where she can process things again and forcing herself to come to terms with the fact that these two will simply not allow her to remain dormant, Ranpo takes to tutoring her to help get her back on track to where she left off in her schooling, as she was getting stable enough to where Fukuzawa had confidence she could get better. This process was also slow, but Ranpo is quite the good teacher when he wants to be! The endeavor is a success, and she is able to enroll again in public school, where she is still piecing together why she was granted this second chance at life. It feels pitifully ironic, all things considered. As time does, it also grants an opportunity for growth and change. Eventually, she gradually shakes her way out of her shell at snail’s pace. Some days were still harder than others, of course. Getting poetry assignments would make Yosano have full on anxiety attacks where the only solutions of getting her to calm down were to have Ranpo or Fukuzawa at her side, or if at school and neither were present, to be sent home. These instances lessened over time, thankfully, and the episodes would turn to bitter, depressing moments where Yosano would tense up and try to pass it off to Ranpo if she was able in a way that while seemed lukewarm in how she expressed it, certainly held its weight of obvious trauma. 

(She never liked to talk about her issues. Never. And instead almost always opted for distractions as her method of coping. It is a major flaw of hers that you can absolutely call her out for even in present time.)

Yosano will never truly return to being 100% normal, but that’s fine, as she really was never at 100% anyway. Schooling in its own right helped her cope with things and served as a distraction from negative thoughts, and she found herself enjoying it and studying harder than ever before. Assisting in the preliminaries of helping around the detective agency also allowed her to grow into the figurative seat that Ranpo saved just for her. No longer did she have to be abrasive to garner people’s attention, either, becoming more comfortable with an occasional snarky tongue when the situation allowed it, and slowly being allowed to live as herself for the first time. It was truly shocking to see that people liked her for her and not the potential of weaponizing the dangerous ability that she had. Once more was her ambition to help people reignited, but it would be done on her own terms. Compelled by her convictions as schooling was coming to a close, she decided that she would go to pursue higher education at a university while formally getting a degree to become a doctor. It is then when she got accepted that her new self would truly shine, becoming as close as she could to be at peace. This endeavor was sped up to lightning fast speeds because of her drilled in skill of being all the more studious and essentially holding the knowledge of what it entailed already.

Not necessarily integral details, but while in university, she did pick up the hobbies of taking up Kickboxing Classes as well as Dance Classes and are longstanding interests of hers that she maintains even after finishing her schooling. These, too, serve(d) as time slot distractions to keep her thoughts at bay when her mind decided to be a little cruel to her at some moments. Poetry no longer leaves a bitter taste in her mouth and is now a newfound interest of hers. She even writes poetry of her own at times. As of present time, her butterfly clip is still a symbol of burden she chooses to carry and a reminder, but it is also representative of metamorphosis, a chance at a new beginning– a new life. That there was value in life, and that you should live on for those who could not.

#unwind the scroll. >> long post. #/ ...what are tags ill figure this out later #/ i always said i suck at writing backstories and stuff and i didnt know what to write for yosano but turns out. i have a LOT to write for #/ yosano. should i put this in her carrd bio? maybe i should.

[divinion1990]

Family Law

Summary: Fourteen years ago, Sherry Blendy and Lyon Vastia shared one fateful night together. Now, the conflicted fourteen-year-old Chelia discovers that her father is not the man that she believed all these years. Their journeys are destined to intertwine, but will the truth destroy their family bonds, or pave a strong future together? Collection: Fairy Tail Dad’s AU Main Characters: Chelia Blendy, Lyon Vastia, Sherry Blendy, Gray Fullbuster

----

May 12, 2020

The sounds of singing and pop music played by an overworked speaker resonated throughout the community centre. To some it was sweet, to others it was a nail through the forehead. Bouncing around the wooden floorboards and the pale teal walls, escaping through to the small reception room at the front.

“I’m sorry, the halls have ended up double booked due to the holidays,” the receptionist apologised to the two men. “The girls will be finished up in the next five minutes or so, I promise. Then the day-care centre will be free again!”

Lyon nodded, a polite smile written across his face. “That’s quite alright. We can wait.”

“Or we could not,” Gray rolled his eyes.

The older male scoffed. “Nonsense! This meeting is the best thing for you. See, they’re stopping already!” Lyon told him.

It was true. The sounds of the singing were replaced quickly with childish giggling and running around the room. Bags, coats and all other belongings were quickly gathered by the gossiping teenagers, little care for what was around them as they discussed their latest rehearsal successes.

“Did you hear that high note? And the dance routine… That last step was so hard!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it!”

“I’m sure we’ll do much better next time.”

“We’re already getting much better!”

Gray tucked himself into the corner of the room as the small collection of young women raced out in front of him. They bounced around with an excited air, chattering and wishing each other the best of luck. It only gave Gray reason to give Lyon a long, flat stare.

“I promise you; it’ll be worth it,” Lyon reassured him, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve recommended similar groups to many, many others in your exact position. They’re a great way to assist you in getting over your issues.”

Gray’s frown turned into a glare. “Issues?”

“See, Aki agrees with me,” Lyon offered, leaning down to the child by Gray’s side. He in no way seemed to be in an agreeing mood, too busy staring at the small crowd from behind Gray’s legs and holding onto his father’s hand tightly. Lyon didn’t seem to notice this. “We’re going to help daddy get over his issues. Aren’t we Aki?”

“Please don’t talk to my son about issues…” Gray hissed at him, grabbing onto Aki’s hand even tighter.

“The room should be free now,” the woman behind the desk called out to them both. “Second door on the right.”

“Thanks,” Gray huffed, quickly moving away and towards the door.

Lyon grinned proudly, watching his friend disappear with his son. Without a shadow of doubt, he knew that Gray would take great things from this experience. It had been an excellent idea - after all, Lyon had tried and tested this many times with other clients.

“Mom! We got through the second verse!”

“Excellent work, both of you! Oh Wendy, I love what you’ve done with your hair!”

“Th-thank you, Mrs Blendy…”

“Oh Wendy, how many times? You can call me-“

“Lyon!”

Lyon blinked suddenly, looking back to the man calling his name. “S-Sorry?”

Gray frowned back at him. “Are you coming or what?” he asked him impatiently. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just… thought I recognised someone,” Lyon explained, quickly ignoring his instincts and following Gray into the room.

 -----

 “I saw him today.”

Ren turned to his wife, pausing. It wasn’t her words that made him concerned, but the way that she held her arms over her body, the awkward glance away, the pauses between each breath. It was all enough to make him stop and listen.

“Oh?”

She hesitated. The words caught on her tongue. It held an almost ominous presence in the build up to her admission. “Her father.”

He paused again. He turned away, putting another item back into the cupboard. “I see,” he said simply.

She bit her lip. Squeezed her arms tight. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him around. I’d assumed he’d moved away again. But he was at the community centre at the same time as Chelia. If I’d been a few minutes late…” she gave a heavy, defeated sigh. “Not that I suppose that would be a bad thing…”

Ren just listened, continuing to put away the groceries in a solemn silence. Hearing that his silence was being returned, his hand stilled. “I don’t think this is my problem…” he said slowly.

She sighed again, this time more dramatically. No matter how sharp and uncaring that might have sounded to the untrained ear, Chelia understood. “No, you’re right. I need to decide what to do with this. We’ll stay a family no matter what happens. She isn’t going to stop loving you, you know,” she told him with a twinkle in her eye.

He turned away, taking an excruciatingly long time to put away just one can of peas.

She giggled. Ren was being as proud as always, but she could always see the love there, even when he didn’t like to admit it. “Thank you,” she told him, walking back to his side and placing a kiss on his cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

——

“And then she started going on about love and how we are all still a family,” Chelia finished explaining before ducking her head into yet another dusty box.

“I see…” Wendy told her softly, brushing the dust from another label. ‘Chelia’s Toys, 2006’. She pushed the box aside. “I can’t imagine what it must feel like finding out your father isn’t-I mean, he is-but-“

“It wasn’t exactly a well-kept secret,” Chelia admitted, pulling out random items and inspecting them. “I always suspected. I don’t look anything like him.”

“That’s true… but even so…” Wendy whispered quietly.

“Nothing’s changed,” Chelia told her seriously. “Even though he isn’t related to me by blood, he’s still my dad. All I’m looking for now is my father.”

Wendy nodded. It really was admirable watching the way that Chelia had dealt with the news that would have shattered her own world. To the point where she was concerned that denial was burning strong inside her, no matter how well she seemed to have rationalised the information. The only thing left for Wendy now was to be a support, a close friend, and a sister to prove not all family relied on blood.

“Um… Chelia…” Wendy paused, trying to get the words right that she’d already thought through a hundred times. “If your mother had this conversation with you… why didn’t she tell you who your father was? Why are we having to look in boxes?”

Chelia paused. It was a question she’d both expected and still struggled to find an answer for. “I didn’t want to ask her...” she admitted, looking down. “I didn’t want her to feel like I was-like I was turning my back on Dad,” she said.

Wendy nodded slowly. There seemed to be a lot more emotions going on there than what Chelia was willing to say, but that at least seemed healthy. She reached over and put a hand over her friend’s.

“We’ll find him together,” she promised her.

Chelia’s smile lit up. She jumped on Wendy, grabbing her into a tight, tight hug. “Thank you, Wendy.”

Wendy gasped at the sudden affection but smiled back warmly. She held on tight, knowing that it wasn’t for her own sake that they’d share this moment. “Any time,” she promised, giving another squeeze before letting go. As she did, her eyes drifted to another box in the far corner, and a name that filled with promise. “Look,” she gestured.

It was everything Chelia had both anticipated and feared. The cardboard box with the words scribbled along the side; ‘Sherry High School/College’. She slid across the floor to the box, pushing away the thick coatings of dust. A line of Sellotape that had long since lost all adhesive properties came away easily in her hands, as she opened the flaps. Everything seemed painfully slow to reveal. An oversized school sweatshirt, with gold embroidery of a snaked creature emblem. Old schoolbooks that were filled with notes, love-hearts and scribbles that could have one day been considered ‘important’. Dusty shot glasses that had been packed and forgotten about, tainted with memories of exciting nights.

Usually, Chelia would have found it all fascinating. A different side to the loving mother she had always known, one that had her whole life ahead of her and – from the contents of this box – seemed content to spent it chasing dreams, scribbling love-hearts and enjoying life. She began to pull out pictures, so many frozen images of long nights ago. She had been a popular woman, wearing a wide smile and more often than not with her hands cupped into a heart shape.

“Your mother was beautiful,” Wendy commented, glancing at the pictures that Chelia was putting onto the ground. “She-she still is beautiful! She was very beautiful in these pictures, though…”

Chelia nodded. “She was,” she agreed, starting to see the patterns. Though it often seemed she would be with a different person every night, she finally saw the friendship groups emerging, until she confidently could pick out a picture with four young people. “I think… I think this is it…”

Wendy glanced over, a serious look on her face. “… You’re sure?”

A small pause from the young woman before another nod. “The way that mother talked about him… I’ve only heard her talk that way about me and my father. It was someone that meant a lot to her. One of her closest friends. It has to be someone from these pictures, one of these… one of these men is my real father.”

----

Sometimes it felt like Lyon was a dark mark upon the world of children.

He was the monster that forced parents to fight and separate. He was the demon that turned lives upside down. He was the villain who asked the painful questions: Who do you want to live with? Did they hurt you? Who do you feel safe with? How often would you like to spend time with these people? They were no questions that any child should have had to answer, and it was not an easy question to ask. Sometimes Lyon had to play the bad guy, for the most important reasons.

There was always a secret sense of dread when he saw a child in distress. There were the background thoughts running through his head, the guilt of separating a child from comfort, the terror that if he made one wrong step someone could get seriously hurt, and then there was that look. The one that cut him right to his core. Even if he forced himself into that polite smile, tried to offer a peace offering of candy, and pray the child was not traumatised for life.

Lyon’s eyes stayed pinned to the small child, watching him even as he took continual sips from his coffee mug. Waiting for him to make a sign, some kind of indication of the trauma he’d caused. Or perhaps the salvation he’d brought.

Instead, Aki just brought him a small block. Lyon looked at him quizzically… and turned back to Gray.

Gray nodded with a small smile. “He’s giving it to you,” he said with a small smirk, relishing perhaps a little too much in how uncomfortable Lyon looked.

Lyon looked back at the ‘gift’, reaching over and taking it. “Oh… thank you very much.”

The child beamed and walked off again to search for more toys.

“For someone who works with kids all day, you sure are awkward around them,” Gray commented.

It was hard for Lyon to understand what Gray’s tone meant, even after all his years of training in other’s true motives. “I usually don’t talk to children as young as Aki…” he admitted, looking even more surprised as another wooden block was passed to him by a very proud looking Aki. “And when I do, they’re usually not social visits… Does that bother you?” he asked.

Gray paused for a few seconds, before shaking his head. “You’re a natural,” he said.

Lyon didn’t feel like a natural. He put down his mug to take yet another block, as Aki disappeared into his toybox and produced five more. He giggled as he was racing back and forth across the room now, trying to drop them into his father’s friend’s lap, a fun new game to explore.

“If you say so…” Lyon said, muttering yet another ‘thank you’ and looking more perplexed by the second. “Is he usually so, uh, generous?”

“No,” Gray smiled faintly. “It means he likes you. And trusts you.”

Lyon swallowed hard. That innocence. He was clearly far too young to understand. Either that, or he had been through too much and resorted to taking kindness in the most unlikely ways. “Well… I like him too,” he admitted, smiling back.

When Aki came running back over, instead Lyon held out one of the building blocks back in his direction. The child’s eyes widened, taking it in his hands and inspecting it intently. He smiled and made a happy little sound, running off again to repeat the game again.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a kid yourself…”

Lyon paused. There it was again, an edge of sadness he’d been expecting whenever around children. No matter how much joy or love it filled him with. “I… got distracted,” he excused himself, looking away. He didn’t want to talk about the years he’d wasted. On work, on some girl, on paths taken that left him much older and much less wise than he’d hoped to be by now. It wasn’t a choice he’d made, but many smaller choices which had left him alone.

It became clear he wasn’t going to say any more. In the spirit of distraction, Lyon quickly became caught into the new games with Aki. He poured the blocks onto the coffee table and within a few seconds had been showing the young boy how to rearrange them. Or Aki had been showing Lyon. It was hard to tell, Gray noticed, finding a very small hint of a smile on his face as he watched them both.

At least this, this small protected bubble, felt safe.

#fairy tail #ftdadsau #Lyon Vastia #chelia blendy #fairy tail dads au #adoption #family drama #family secrets

[reeesea]

Something Sweet: Part Two

~sweet lotus~

one ~ two ~ three ~ four ~ five ~ six ~ seven ~ eight ~ nine

pairing: minsung, jisung/minho

warning: mentions of alcohol I guess...

words: 5k ish

summary: Jisung gets side tracked and ends up following Minho into a host club/bar. That's it really :)

a/n: I’m cross posting this on ao3 but don't know how links work so I hope you enjoy if you do happen to stumble upon this. <3

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Jisung’s been busy. Well, kind of. 

Jisung, along with the other two sleep deprived zombies that make up 3racha, have once again barricaded themselves in their shared apartment. The trio has been working nonstop to prepare for their next performance. Their recently hired manager, Sana, had notified them that the venue that they were playing was actually twice as large as their last. The boys had been trying to flesh out a few new songs/covers to play and hopefully win over the crowd.

Busy wouldn’t really describe the boys. Yes, they were working hard producing more and more, but the lulls of writer’s block and exhaustion would set in eventually. Each time would leave them to fend for themselves by staring mindlessly at the ceiling, or collapsing into an unplanned 4 hour nap, or just plain gorging themselves on the various carry outs of the day. 

Changbin, who surprisingly was able to work remotely for his producing job at JJP Ent., was juggling his work for them and his work for 3racha. Bin would sneak out of his studio/bedroom whenever the lull in creativity set in, or the anticipation of their Friday night show started creeping up on him. Almost every time this led to Chan or Jisung playing some of what they were working on and then the realization that the third rapper had joined them, neglecting his paid work, would set in commencing the throwing of shoes and a chorus of animated yells from all parties to arise. One way or another, always returning a reluctant Changbin back to his, as Jisung put it, “big boy work” and the other two back to their respective laptops and keyboards. 

Chan was probably the most focused of the three. His ability to juggle multiple projects at the same time was practically god-like and occasionally left the other two producers completely clueless as to which project he was actually working on. When the exhaustion had finally caught up with him, Chan could be found by the other boys asleep sitting in front of his laptop. Changbin and Jisung had worked out a little system to keep the older in check, taking turns moving an unconscious Bang Chan to the couch and making sure he had eaten before returning to their own assignments. The leader would wake up a few hours later feeling confused, but thankful for the other two's efforts to keep him on his feet. 

Jisung, the ever all-rounder of the group, usually was the one busy writing, composing, producing, and doing anything he could get his hands on. But this time, the main reason Jisung never quite felt busy was because no matter how hard he tried, sometimes he just couldn't quite find the words for his verses. The new addition to their set list actually didn't take much time to make, production wise, but writing his verse always turns out to be a challenge when the writer’s block sets in. Even with days straight of thinking about what he wanted to say on his part, no progress meant no work had been done, which to Jisung meant he had not been busy. It was a slippery slope that all of them had experienced before, but this time Jisung’s descent down that slope came in the form of trashing pages of lyrics and stanzas immediately after spending hours on them, and distracting himself in piles of blankets while scrolling forums, SNS, and internet videos for inspiration. From which the cycle continued. The concept of just freestyling it completely on Friday was starting to sound better and better.

Sana would occasionally come by (daily? None of them really knew what day it was, only that it wasn’t Friday yet), opening up the black-out curtains that lined the floor to ceiling windows of the apartment, always followed by at least one audible groan from one of the members. During one of the many occasions of Jisung staring blankly at the ceiling in the dark, Sana had entered the apartment and practically tripped over Jisung from where he was curled up on the floor in a blanket chimichanga, “Jisung-ssi, why are you on the floor, again. Its literally 3pm.”

Jisung liked to call them chimichangas, mostly because he really liked that it was a four syllable word, but it also described him best when he was in a blanket burrito feeling especially fried from exhaustion.

After tripping over Jisung for maybe the third time that week, Sana had left the apartment telling them to be sure to be ready for their performance tomorrow at five pm, when she would meet them at the venue. Although Jisung was the one currently rolled up on the floor, the other boys had somehow looked even more exhausted on the couch with emptied coffee cups in their hands and obvious dark circles under their eyes. They had finished in the early morning as always, trying their best to prepare for their performance, that apparently was tomorrow. That was news to Jisung, and still nothing written for his verse.

“You guys look so dead, how are you even awake right now” Jisung mused from his bundle on the floor. 

“I honestly don't know. Do you think I could just go to sleep until our performance tomorrow?” Chan chuckled at the realization that their call time wasn't more than 17 hrs away. 

“Honestly you need it, with how much you got done this week. You finished almost all the tracks for the album, right?” Changbin asked from his spot on the couch. Chan nods vaguely at the question . 

“Yeah out of the songs we chose, I was able to brush them up, and fixed the beat on a few. We can look at them closer after Friday.”

“This week didn't seem real. The last thing I remember was dragging Chan’s unconscious body down the hallway after we got back from Menu 98.” Jisung was gesturing wildly beneath the blanket he was under, but the other two didn't have to even look at him to know he was being dramatic. “Bin-hyung it took you like 3 whole minutes to put the right key in the door. I'm glad your attempts with the bottle opener didn’t end up damaging the lock.” 

That one earned Jisung a pillow to the face. 

“Well hopefully this Friday we won't end up in the same condition. Wine hangovers are the fucking worst,” Changbin held his head in remembrance of the pain but a smile was starting to sneak out on to his face. “But guys, since we’re finally officially signed with a company, I wouldn't mind getting to celebrate again this weekend.” 

His smile only grew as the other two joined in the grinning from their respective spots in the living room. It was true, they finally signed with a company. JJP Entertainment had reached out to them after having seen them perform one of their shows. Changbin had submitted a producer application to the company earlier that year, and seemingly as soon as they had seen the three in action all of them were accepted and got to sign with the agency. Changbin had begun working as a producer about a month ago while the other two had just recently been officially signed into the company as group members. To all of them it still seemed like it was too good to be true, but a week into it they were all just excited to be calling themselves recording artists and to have consistent pay for their professional work. 

Their manager Sana was a result of the company beginning to help promote 3racha as a group. Chan had mentioned that they weren’t going to be officially announced as a part of the company until they could properly debut with their album. Jisung wasn't going to complain though, he was just happy to feel like the dreams they’ve had since their underground highschool rapper days were finally being realized. 

All three of them, grinning wildly, were already feeling antsy to be on stage again. The hours until they could step onstage couldn't move fast enough.  

---

Minho had a busy fucking week.

 He had picked up two extra closing shifts that he usually would have days off on, but the reward of a bigger paycheck pulled his leg into accepting to take them. The bright side, he supposed, was that his coworker had taken his Friday shift and he was able to have a night off. His original plan to spend the entire night in the studio was pretty much shattered when his annoyingly loving roommates had scolded him when he had told them his plans. During morning rehearsal the group was able to get a lot done, and had polished their performance piece they had planned for a showcase in the coming week.

Minho told himself that he would have still stayed after practice if it wasn't for Hyunjin’s nagging to visit him at work that night, but he was packing his bag just as soon as the others once they were finished.The truth being that going to Hyunjin’s work almost always included free drinks and good company, and Minho felt like it would be the perfect way to relax his nerves after the week of productive practice, and painful working shifts. 

Hyunjin worked at the host club and bar a couple streets away from their apartment. The establishment was mostly known for the beautiful and handsome hosts and hostesses that worked there who served up drinks and polite conversation. In the more recent years, the place was becoming popularly known as being just a normal service bar that just had beautiful servers and bartenders. Many tourists and locals came to the bar in hopes of seeing and meeting these beautiful people, while also obtaining their weekend quota of alcohol. Of course as Hyunjin could attest to the host club wasnt without clients, as his boss asked him multiple times if he wanted to switch positions from bartender to host due to all the patrons asking if he was available.

“Come on Hyung! You can come and meet my new coworkers. Also you promised to visit Momo-noona last time and she’s still pissed you haven’t been back in like a month. Honestly at this point she wont stop worrying that you aren’t coming back to see her, and keeps asking me like-” 

“Okay, okay Hyunjin I’ll come with you, just stop rambling,” Minho giggled at the younger antics and his tendency to ramble to himself aloud, while in a conversation. It was reasons like this that made Minho glad the boy was only a bartender and not a host. Although, he would probably pay himself just to see the young 21-year-old try and make coherent conversation with a client. Hyunjin was beyond just beautiful, but when it came to conversing with strangers past their drink order, he was quite a bit less than suave. 

Hyunjin cheered as he skipped out the studio doors, joining arms with Felix as they made their way toward their shared apartment. 

---

Jisung left their flat early in hopes of being able to find the venue on his own, but still allow himself time to properly get lost. Surprisingly enough he was able to find the venue on the other side of town without much trouble and with Google Maps opened on his phone. One of the  reasons why it was so easy to find, was that the venue was huge. Among the lavish entrance, and its multicolored lighting, it had a large marquee with “3racha” shown in bold as the night's act. It was still the early evening and the district’s businesses were just starting to show signs of preparation for the night's patrons and customers. There were food stalls setting up, readily pre-cooking the batches of street food for those who would be passing by throughout the night. Clubs were just beginning to open their doors and prepare for the crowd that always came to dance away the start of the weekend. The bars were beginning to gather their additional servers and bartenders, from the looks of the various uniformed strangers on the street entering their respective places of employment. There were a few barhopping adults and students littering the streets with excited chatter and giggles of anticipation. 

Jisung can’t say he ever went out with friends much other than when the group would perform at bars and clubs right out of high school. He never had experienced the “wild night out with your friends” trope that he secretly loved watching in dramas and tv shows. There was just something watching a group of friends all going and enjoying a night together that made Jisung’s heart smile. Looking around again and escaping his thoughts, he spots a familiar face in the distance. 

In front of him is his cute server from last week, Minho, walking down the street not even 50ft away. Granted Jisung had honestly forgotten about the man after that night, as the dull ache of a hangover had occupied his mind the morning after. Jisung never thought he would actually see the man again outside the confines of the restaurant that he worked at. And maybe because this coincidence felt more like fate, and maybe because Jisung is the kind of guy to believe in fate, or maybe because Minho had smiled and from 50 ft away it still took Jisung’s breath away, Jisung found himself stumbling forward to follow the man into the bar he had just entered. 

--- 

Minho had walked into the familiar establishment and immediately went and found his place on a barstool. 

“You didn't have to come this early.” Hyunjin was all dressed up in his collared shirt and vest, with his name tag reflecting the dim lights from above his heart. The completed uniform of all the bartenders and servers at Sweet Lotus, of course, made Hyunjin look even more like a prince than usual. 

It was barely 15 minutes after the bar had opened for the night when Minho’s leather pants and silk shirt wearing ass had entered. 

“Well, it's not like I had any other plans tonight. Felix had left for work and it was too lonely in the apartment to wait for the bar hopping crowd to pass through, so I thought I would just beat them instead.” 

“I knew you missed me.” Hyunjin made a kissy face toward Minho that was met with a gentle face slap by the hand of the older. 

“Please, I only came to get an early start on the night. Maybe try and beat the in house record for free drinks.”

“Oh please you already know you still hold the record, don't act cocky” Hyunjin rolled his eyes, and earned a giggle from the other. There was a running competition between the off duty servers and hosts of who could get the most free drinks from strangers in a night. It was a vanity competition as much as it was a ploy for the employees to boost the bar's sales when off shift. 

Minho thrived off of it, when he had worked as a host for the club. He had been in the highest demand on and off duty, gathering a total 19 drinks paid for by strangers within a single night. Even after Minho had left the club, his record still held. Hyunjin would sometimes come home updating Minho on how close some of his new coworkers had gotten to the record, well aware of how much the title inflated the man’s ego. 

Before Minho had the chance to respond a tuft of brown hair tripped into the bar entrance. A familiar looking boy with big shining eyes, searched the room until making eye contact with Minho. The determined look in the boy’s eyes was completely contrasted by the soft smile starting to appear on his lips as he approached the bar. 

Recognition flooded his memory as Minho looked back at the cute boy that had given him his number on a receipt the previous weekend. The boy struggled slightly at getting atop the stool next to Minho, earning him a slight snicker from the bartender as he watched the scenario play out in front of him. Hyunjin just watched his cocky ass roommate be made speechless by the entrance of a cute high school looking kid dressed in street clothes, there was no way he wasn't going to hound Minho when they got home. 

“Hi.” The younger looking boy smiled again fully creating a heart with his lips, and Minho couldn't help but smile back. That seemed to only make the younger grin wider if that was possible and his eyes sparkled with content. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I met you last week, I mean kind of. You were my server on Friday night, and you recommended a drink and a dish for me, and I’m pretty sure it was the best thing I had ever tasted before. And now that may seem like a completely crazy reason to low key follow you into a bar after seeing you on the street, but for some reason I feel indebted to you for giving me the best thing I’ve ever tasted also I’m pretty sure I was embarrass-”

“Hi Jisung,” Minho didn't know anyone else could ramble even more than Hyunjin, but here he was, Han Jisung, the cute boy in the pink hoodie who had given him his number and a tip that was quite a bit more than his 20% usual. In full honestly Minho had found the receipt a few times during the week in his work pants pocket, but had always returned it before considering actually dialling the number scrawled on it. 

“You don’t have to feel indebted to me, that’s all apart of my job…” A wave of guilt weighed on Minho as he made eye contact with Jisung again. “Also I apologize for never messaging you. I know you left me your number on Friday, and I usually don’t pay too much mind when customers give me their numbers, but for some reason I still kept yours.” Jisung’s eyes widened at that and his expression looked as if he had just realized something. 

Minho just continued, “To be completely honest, I didn't think I would see you again, especially outside of my work.” 

“I didn’t either,” Jisung quickly interjected. “And to also be totally honest, I completely forgot that I gave you my number. Tipsy me can be a little more bold than I thought.” He chuckled inwardly at himself. Looking at Minho now, Jisung had no idea how even tipsy he had found the balls to do something like that. In casual clothes, Minho looked god-like to Jisung, and something about the change in atmosphere made Customer Service Minho almost non-existent. Being able to look at Minho, his glittering sharp eyes, his perfectly styled hair, and breathtaking smile without any filters, and something about it made Jisung’s heart beat even louder. There was a slight pause as Jisung had stopped speaking and had got distracted with staring at all of Minho’s features. “Uh..um… anyway damn now I feel bad. Can I like buy you a drink or something to make up for it?” Jisung barely managed to stutter that out. 

“Hey Min-hyung, that's your first for the night, and it's not even five yet. Damn maybe you will break your record,” Jisung looked over to the voice's owner and seemed to have just acknowledged the presence of the bartender after entering.

“Shut up Jinnie, I don’t wanna make him pay for my drink, the sun’s not even set” 

“That hasn't stopped you before” 

“No I really mean it, I'll pay for your drink if you'll let me. Not really sure what you two are discussing but I don't have a problem paying, even just to mend my consciousness” Jisung pleaded. 

“You sure talk a lot with your wallet there, Han.” Hearing Minho using his last name to address him wasn't lost on Jisung. If anything Jisung was starting to take it as a challenge. 

“Well, let me buy you a drink and we can talk now because we didn't get the chance over the phone.” Jisung really wasn’t sure where that confidence came from but it diminished quickly as he held his breath waiting for Minho to respond.

Minho smirked and nodded agreement, ordering his drink. “What about for you?” the bartender asked Jisung as he was taking out his card to pay for said drink. 

“Oh nothing for me I have to get ready for a show soon,” squinting to read the man’s name tag “Hyunjin-ssi.” 

Minho's curiosities from the previous weekends returned, and he found himself jumping on the opportunity to learn more about the boy. They were just curiosities. Han Jisung was just a curiosity. “What is it you do exactly?” 

“Oh I’m a rapper in a group, with the two other guys you saw. Together were super cool rap trio 3racha~” Jisung put an emphasis on the name with excessive hand gestures. Minho thought they were cute. “And we're actually playing at the venue not too far from here. We’re on at 9 if you want to come watch.” Jisung smiles widely at that, cocking an eyebrow as if that was persuasion enough to get Minho to come. 

It was. “Maybe I’ll stop by then. I can’t say I’m not curious.” Minho tries his best to feign disinterest, but his roommate’s smirk from across the bar meant that he wasn’t completely successful. 

Minho glares at the bartender while Jisung continues the conversation. “So what was it that you were talking about? The record and all that, did I miss something?”

Hyunjin giggles at the question and puts on a dramatic voice, “Well, here at the Sweet Lotus even our employees will come on their off days and breaks to enjoy the bar and club as patrons, but of course flirting with coworkers is generally frowned upon, so we made up a fun little competition.” Hyunjin continues to explain what the casual competition entitles. Minho shifts to watching Jisung instead. Seeing the boy again had been somewhat of a shock, and now actually looking at him, something about Jisung made Minho’s heartbeat a little quicker. Probably just the beginning effects of the sip of alcohol he had yet to consume. Or it could be the way Minho kept thinking about how soft the boy looked, his cheeks, his hair, his smile. Jisung was cute. A cute curiosity

“So what’s the record then? The highest number of free drinks?” Jisung was asking both of them but had turned toward MInho to meet his eyes. They were full of stars, even when the rest of the place was dimly lit. 

“19 drinks in a single night, held by our very own Lee Minho. Making him the hottest guy to ever grace our establishment, at least by the objective body count” Hyunjin dramatically bows to him. 

“Hey I got 17 once” yelled the other bartender from further down the bar. 

“I better keep coming back then, so you can’t take my spot San-ah.” Minho responded and sent him a cheeky smirk. The other bartender responded with a pouty face and a groan, before turning back to another customer. “But technically I’m not an employee anymore, so I think that takes me out of the running,” Minho continues.

“Still, I don’t think you’d ever lose that title… n-no offense to any of the other employees. I mean I only just got here and have only seen a few of you, but you are all respectively very attractive, and-” 

“Jisung stop rambling.” Minho giggled at seeing how flustered he could make the other. “Plus I doubt I’d lose my spot if you have anything to do with it, Mr. rich boy rapstar.” Minho takes a sip of his drink as the other sputters once again into a bumbling mess, blushing even harder. 

“What noooo! Not me pshhhhhh. I am but a lowly underground rapper. Please my heart’s too fragile to handle being called a rapstar by you this early in the night, also I swear I’m not a rich boy! Not yet at least, I haven't even gotten my first paycheck, paycheck, you know?”

“Your tipping habits say otherwise” 

Jisung grumbles under his breath something that sounds like ‘damn it drunk jisungie you did it again’

Before the conversation could continue, Jisung's phone rings from his jacket pocket. “Hello?... AH Sana-noona please don't yell.... Yes I know what time it is. It is-” Jisung checks the clock on his phone “Five-Thirty! Fuck, I’m on the way” Jisung looks apologetically at Minho and Hyunjin and does a few hand gestures that indicate he has to go. “I'll be there in like 30 seconds, I swear!!!” 

Jisung hangs up and hops off his stool, “As you can see I am being forcefully summoned by my manager, I do hope you’ll come to the show later? Thanks for uh- I don’t know, why am I thanking you. But uh..Thanks anyway though, and I-uh hope we can do this again sometime… yeah, bye Minho.” Jisung smiles wide again and scurries out the door, almost at a full sprint. 

Minho really likes his cute smile, and tries to commit the heart shape to memory.

“Hyung, he’s sooo your type it practically hurts.” Hyunjin forms a cheeky look on his face.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Minho retorts, taking another sip of the drink Jisung bought him. 

“Come on, cute, low-key a mess, big eyes, whipped as soon as he saw you. Don't even lie, you love the ones that just fall for you as soon as you smile at them. Practically all your clients were like that, and they all followed you to the restaurant” 

“That’s not true,” Minho denied. 

“It's true our numbers dropped when you left. We had to hire three new guys to make up the loss,” San added, now suddenly a part of the conversation.

“Well now I feel bad,” he did kind of, but it also was a huge ego boost for Minho.

“Don't. You know Momo would let you pick up a shift if you ever needed” San now joining Hyunjin in leaning on the counter. 

“Maybe I don’t know, I'll just boost her drink sales tonight insead to make up for it.” They laugh, and Minho’s cocky smirk returns as more patrons enter the bar, and the two bartenders return to their positions for the night 

-----

Jisung sprinted right into hair and makeup, finding his group mates already being dressed and powdered when he got there. He was able to just barely avoid a scolding from Sana as he ducked into a changing room instead. Switching from his streetwear into something that made him look more like his stage personality ‘J.One’.

By the time it was up for them to perform all three of them shared knowing glances and charged on the stage as their loud and overpowering bass beats flooded the speakers and the entire venue. The venue itself held a couple hundred people and the cheers and energy from the crowd only fueled the rappers as they began their opening song. For the three of them being on stage was like getting a high. 

Jisung felt like he had taken 3 shots at the bar before the performance. He felt drunk on the adrenaline and his ad libs and verses all came out even more powerful than usual. Chan and Changbin took his energetic aura in stride and fed off him to energize their own performances for the whole show. 

When their new track finally starts playing, the verse that Jisung had been agonizing all week appeared in his head as if it had always been there, and he knew that this verse was going to go down as one of his best freestyles yet. Jisung closed out the song with an electric verse that flowed and hit the rhythm in ways he had never thought he could before, and after the last beat echoed throughout the room, the entire venue filled with cheers and screams from the audience. 

Minho watched from the back of the venue witnessing the three boys on stage completely dominate the stage and steal every heart from the audience. He never thought that the big eyed clutz from a few hours ago would be the man he saw on stage. On stage, Jisung practically oozed with charisma, demanding the attention of all those who would listen. At the end of the show the last verse he spit out was so intensely captivating, that it guaranteed that everyone in the audience was now in love with Han Jisung. There was no way anyone would be able to deny it. Not even Minho, even though he would definitely try. 

“I’m CB97” “This has been SpearB” “and I’ve been J.One” 

“and together we are 3racha! See you next time”

---

That night as soon as Minho got home he searched his closet for the only connection he had with the supposed rapstar. Digging into the pockets of his work pants, he pulls out the paper with the boys number and immediately adds in to his contacts before texting him:

[Rich Boy Han Jisung]

This is Lee Minho  

I saw your performance 

at least I think that was you

If it wasn't some rapstar named J.One may be your twin 

Im sure hear you this all the time

But your performance was amazing. Good job Han :)

---

one ~ two ~ three ~ four ~ five ~ six ~ seven ~ eight ~ nine

#stray kids #stray kids fic #skz #skz fic #minsung #lee know #Lee Minho #han jisung #hwang hyunjin #3racha #kpop #this is a mess

[urskekyagvi]

Questions

"-And...And did you know- UrLii, did you know that Drenchen can hold their breath for 3 hours at a time? Good luck trying to drown them!"

He chuckled to himself at his own little joke, gleaned from this new knowledge; The book he had gleaned it from, almost bigger than him, laid spread out on the large table, pages wide open for his viewing. He grinned up at his teacher, eager for a hum of approval, some small gesture that would say: "how smart you are, Amri! Well done!"

But that did not come. UrLii, sorting shelves behind him, paused in his slow labor. His head tilted to the side, and for a moment Amri wasn't certain if UrLii, perhaps too moldered by age, had heard him.

"...UrLii? Did you hear me? I said Drenchen-"

"Yes, yes. I heard you, little one…"

"And what do you think?"

"...What do you think?"

"What?"

UrLii placed his things down and moved to sit across from Amri. He laid two of his arms- folded one atop the other- on the table, the last pair propped upon elbows to support his chin.

"...How do you know that it's truth?"

"Well, because it's right here." He pointed to the line in the book with great emphasis, wondering how UrLii, someone so wise and sagely, could not understand something so simple.

UrLii was not fazed. He sniffed, blinked at the book, and lifted the cover to peek at the title.

"...And who wrote this book? Ah-" he chuckled, his tone adopting a dramatic sir reserved usually for his stories.

"Written by the illustrious SkekOk the Scroll-Keeper…"

He placed the book back down, facing Amri once again.

"Tell me, Amri, do you know him?"

Did Amri know him? What a question! Amri had never even seen the surface, much less met a Skeksis lord; Well, he had met SkekYag, but the Geologist was mean and grumpy and usually wanted to be left alone.

"No, but-"

"So how do you know he's not lying?"

"Well...um...why would he?" It seemed ridiculous to lie about the drenchen.

UrLii shrugged. "He could have his own reasons. You wouldn't know. Maybe he lies because he can't help it...or perhaps he just wants to."

That seemed ludicrous; but the more Amri thought of it, the better sense it made, and the more it terrified him. He himself had lied before; that was natural for any child caught between punishment or a painful confession of guilt- but why should lies stop there, in youth? Adults lied, too.

Why wouldn't one who wrote books also alter them?

But...Amri shook his head furiously. What nonsense! This was nothing more than another one of UrLii's riddles! Madness woven in verse that had no reason at all!

"No," he said, a bit sourly, "it would be dumb to lie about how long the Drenchen can hold their breath. You're confused!"

UrLii chuckled, amused rather than offended by the display.

"Sometimes, yes. Now, no. I wasn't just talking about the lung capacity of drenchen or whether or not they can hold their breath. I was asking a question: why wouldn't SkekOk lie in the books he writes? Especially about clans he has probably never visited himself?"

He glanced away, tapping his chin in thought.

"...How would he know how long Drenchens can hold their breath, anyway? Aren't the Drenchen so deep in the swamp the Skeksis don't bother counting them?- Ask the Geologist, he'd tell you. So how would he accrue such information? Besides that...I believe I read in this book right here, written by the famed Vapra author and explorer Inea, that Drenchen have gills. Why hold their breath?"

He shrugged. "Just seems...rather strange, don't you think?"

Amri felt a lump form in his throat, though he wasn't certain why.

"...A little," he admitted at last, "a little…"

He closed the book and pushed it away. Suddenly, he didn't feel like reading anymore.

UrLii nodded, unaware perhaps of the distress he was causing the child.

"And not only that, but in that same book, SkekOk, who has possibly never seen a Drenchen before in his life, was quick to describe them as 'fat, hairy, and near to ferine'- how would he know that? Why would he want anyone else to think that way about Drenchen? Rather rude, don't you think?" 

"-But SkekOk wouldn't lie!" He snapped, finally unable to control his own outburst. What foolishness was this? Everyone knew- even the Grottan, who only had elusive lord SkekYag as example- knew the Skeksis lords were pious and protected the gelfling. That had been woven into their history and songs since time began. He swallowed. 

"...Skeksis wouldn't lie to us!" 

"Oh? Wouldn't they? Everyone lies, childling." 

"Not you," he murmured, more into his shirt than to the urru across from him. It was the foolish hopefulness of a child, of course, that made him say such a thing. 

"How do you know that? I'm a storyteller. My job is to lie-" 

"Stories aren't lies just because they aren't real-" 

"-and how do you know," UrLii said then, dashing any hope he had, "that I'm not lying to you right now?" 

"Simple," Amri said, though the words came out trembling with uncertainty, stained with tears, "You've never lied before."

UrLii raised his brows, a very rare display of emotion. 

"...And how, dear Amri, do you know that? You very well can't dreamfast with me and discern the truth for yourself." 

He spread his hands, shrugging almost, before folding them all up again as they had been before. It occured to Amri then that he had never even thought of this. Never even thought to consider that UrLii might at any time lie to him. 

He looked at the strange creature sitting across from him, realizing for the first time that this was indeed not gelfling, but a creature- something perhaps even unnatural. Yet, he had taught the Grottan all of these ages...but now Amri wondered, after all these years of knowing him, if he really was just a senile old sage after all. 

If he even really knew him at all.

#The dark crystal #Fanfic #Urlii the Storyteller #Amri #Grottan #Skeksis oc mentioned #In which UrLii accidently gives a child a crisis

[cdyssey]

Miscalculations

Summary: The toll of being in the multiverse for too long finally exacts its price on Olivia Octavius. A/N: I've been babysitting for family friends these past two days, and the little one made us watch *Into the Spider-Verse* five times over, so I wanted to write something.

AO3 Link At the end of Olivia Octavius’s world, there is blood, so much of it, too much—staining her shirt dark around her midsection where old incisions are prying themselves loose, and dribbling warningly down her mouth in a thin line.

Cellular decay.

Accelerated decomposition.

As her erythrocytes continue to implode upon themselves, her organs will shut down one by one until the lack of oxygen finally squeezes upon her tired heart like a vice.

She was out of her own dimension for too long.

If you stay in this dimension too long, your body’s going to disintegrate. Do you know how painful that would be, Peter Parker?

She thought she could have control of the multiverse if only she could stabilize her body with exposure to gamma radiation, theorizing that the treatment would do as it had done for the infamous Bruce Banner and reinforce her cellular structure—but she miscalculated.

And Olivia never miscalculates.

No, that isn’t true, an awful voice in her head says, right here and right now, on her fucking death bed. Her conscience has always gloated rather than informed. You miscalculate all the time.

“No, goddammit,” May Parker growls. “You do not get to leave like this.” 

Surprise jolts through her unpleasantly considering everything that is happening to her body; with an effort that isn’t minimal, the physicist opens her eyes to see a familiar shape kneeling by her side, pressing gnarled hands to her stomach wounds, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding.

But there is so much of it, too much.

Out of the periphery of her eye that isn’t blackened, she can see the shadows of the various Spider-Fools simply standing a few feet away, watching. For they understand, better than maybe most, that there is nothing to be done, no more fight to be had.

May Parker’s hands are vivid with her blood, drowning in it.

“What?” Olivia attempts a bloodied smile that doesn’t quite cut through the pain in her eyes. “You want me to walk away in cuffs? Cheeky, cheeky, May Parker. I thought you were oh-so-straight-laced.”

“Shut up,” May snarls, and the scientist is startled to see that there are tears in her cornflower blue eyes, threatening to spill over, to leak, to pour.

And then she knows.

She knows, she knows, she knows.

That May Parker still loves her, too.

That maybe she never stopped.

And the realization of it takes her breath away, what little of it is that is left.

“May,” she says, her voice surprisingly soft, even though her shivering hands are firm as she slowly brings them up to rest upon the other woman’s. “Cellular decay. Multisystem organ failure. Within a few minutes, I'll likely go into cardiac arrest. It will be quick, maybe even painless.”

“No,” May mutters. “No, no, no. We could get you to a hospital, offset the worst of your symptoms until we can regenerate cellular life in you. An ambulance is coming. ETA five minutes.”

“You’re thinking with that big, ‘ole heart of yours again.” The thing Olivia loves and hates most about the old bat—how much she cares. It’s sickening. It’s stupid. It’s wonderful. “I’ve lost too much blood, and my exoskeleton implants are compromised, which—“

But May cuts across her with an explosive swear.

“—likely means that your spine is also compromised,” she finishes, eyes closing in horror. 

Liv smiles weakly, a gesture which ends in her coughing up phlegm and blood.

“Correct.”

Doc Ock’s comeuppance has finally arrived, both decades late and years too soon. It is quieter than she imagined it would be, less of a kaleidoscope of many colors than it is a coagulated darkness. She can see black beginning to edge upon her vision, eradicating the excess, eliminating anything that isn’t May Parker.

How fitting.

“I went to twenty-seven different dimensions, May,” she whispers, “and they were all so beautiful—vivid, unique, and extraordinary, each a fully realized universe unto its own...”

When she closes her eyes, she can conjure them even now, the shapes of them, their textures, their scientific impossibility... and it is with awful reluctance that she pries them open again. The darkness is so soft and inviting. Oblivion isn’t as scary as she had imagined it to be.

Maybe she can explore its expansive confines, understand it in the same way she does quasi connectivity in dimensional warping.

Or maybe Olivia Octavius can simply rest.

That might be a nice change in pace.

“Liv...” May whispers, though, and it’s more than enough of a reminder for the sole reason she’d ever stay if she had a choice.

(She doesn’t have a choice.)

“And in every world, I did what a scientist just a tiny bit full of herself would naturally do. I searched myself out. In every dimension... and I asked myself, damn, do I really look like that? In eighty-nine percent of the worlds, I had a bowl cut, May! A godawful bowl cut!”

“Is this really what you want to talk about?”

“Yes—I mean no. No.” Olivia’s dark brow furrows as she herself tries to remember the point of bringing up the twenty-seven universes and the self-exploration and the bowl cuts. Her brain’s a little wonky at the moment, dull and heavy, like a rock sunk in a lake.

But then it hits her.

Realization and remembrance.

Dimension 24. Earth C-432.

The cats. The apartment in Brooklyn. The cozy sweaters. The peace.

“In the 24th iteration of Earth I visited, I looked a lot like I do now—geeky, foxy, big hair, and less than enviable eyesight... I was intrigued naturally, and so, when I found out where I lived, I paid myself a little visit.”

She knocked politely on the door before not so politely letting herself in, tentacular extensions swarming.

She always did like a dramatic entrance.

Fuck, Olivia J. Octavius moaned. I invented inter-dimensional travel again.

May E. Parker looked up from her mug of coffee and simply raised an unimpressed brow.

Well, at least you didn’t smash the door this time.

“I'd... she’d never gotten the implants, so she was paralyzed from the waist down... do y’know what that means?”

Of course May does.

Beneath Liv’s hand, her knuckles tense, the ridges warm against her cold palm.

“We never separated then,” she rasps, her voice strained, a hundred emotions thick. “I must have taken you home from the hospital, like I told you I would.”

“Yeah.”

A single tear leaks out of the corner of Olivia’s blackened eye, dripping down her cheek and falling away. If she'd been able to, she would have tried to wipe it away before May Parker could see.

“Were we happy, Liv?” She whispers, and she looks guilty about it. She has never cared much for hypotheticals, while Olivia built her entire career upon them—a delicate balancing act, always doomed to collapse one day.

She just never wanted to admit it.

Indeed, she just wanted to see how high she could go.

She didn't want to touch the stars.

She wanted to rip open the fabric of the fucking universe.

“We have two cats, one called Marie and the other Curie... and we live together in an apartment in Brooklyn. Nice place. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts just around the corner. Parker visits at least three times a week unless he’s busy saving the city or the world or whatever the hell else he has it in his mind to save. He has a kid—a boy named Ben, but everyone calls him Fox because of the hair.”

We like to beat each other at Scrabble, even though we’re both sore losers. Four times a week, we head up to Columbia to do guest lectures on particulate matter and cellular structure and quantum physics. You’ve organized all of our medicines in alphabetical order, and I tease you about it because of course I do. Once a month, we replace the flowers on Ben Parker’s grave and have a picnic in the cemetery. We’re thinking about moving to a tiny house on Long Island that’s more wheelchair accessible, and we can hear the ocean every time we wake up in the morning side by side. There are wedding bands on our fingers, simple, understated, even though I'm pretty fucking sure they're made of anti-metal. In a different world, in an entirely separate universe, we are together forever, as long as we both shall live.

“I think so. I think we were happy,” she finishes quietly, “but I didn’t stay long enough to know for sure.”

“Too bad,” May Parker finally says, her tears falling freely now.

With the last of her strength, Olivia squeezes her hand.

“I... I heard myself say one thing, though, right as I was leaving.” 

By leaving, she left a gaping hole next to their door just for the hell and spite of it. 

“I chose correctly, it seems.”

In that warm apartment, May E. Parker laughed bluntly before she returned, quite dryly, You never miscalculate, do you?

“Never.”

Always.

Olivia Octavius miscalculates all the time.

#olivia octavius #may parker #livmay #into the spider verse #reginianwrites #it felt really good to write again #I'm going to ease back into doing more of it real soon #m: into the spider-verse