#frost backstory drabble

[scoutofmymind]

Hiii, I’m not entirely sure if you do au one shots, but if you do please write a princess x knight trope with Luigi. Him looking out for you during his night shift, watching you with the fiancé your father chose for you despite you two being madly in love.

Your writing is gorgeous, btw! In awe <3

I’m Your Man — {Luigi x Reader}

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI, kissing, p in v, virgin Luigi, fucked up kingdom politics, reader is a princess with an evil king father lol, this is NOT alpha/Omega or whatever, Luigi was raised as a wild animal killing machine, once again inspired by Mitski

Wc: 6,143

Notes: Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

AN: Thank you so so much for this request 💕 I once again took this and ran with it. It actually wasn’t my first Luigi x princess reader request sitting around in my inbox, so come one, come all! I have an inkling I might have questions about this one, so lemme know! I enjoyed writing this very much x

Ps: in order to keep this Drabble length and not fic length, I definitely cut out some backstory . But I hope despite that, it’s easy to follow along xo

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god..

I'll destroy you like I am

— I’m your Man, Mitski

Ironmere lies suffocated beneath its winter shroud, the castle's hundred hearths cold and dark save for one — your father's study. You've no choice but to seek its warmth, sprawled across a leather chair that's seen generations of royal lectures.

The fire pops and hisses, each crack of burning wood another tick in your mental count, anything to dull the familiar sermon.

"I must remind you," your father says, pipe smoke coiling around him. His shadow stretches across the study walls, cast by flames that paint the room in shades of amber and gold. "That the Grims are bred for loyalty, my dear." He turns to study your face, but you keep your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can be no more your equal than a well-trained dog."

The fire swallows his words, and you wonder if it, too, finds them bitter.

Since catching you at your balcony, tracing the Grimguards' movements with hungry eyes, your father has waged his own quiet war; each day brings a new warning, each meal seasoned with thinly veiled threats meant to plant fear where fascination grows.

But seeds of warning find no purchase in frozen earth.

"Speaking of which," he says, abandoning his chair to stand before the frost-kissed window. Beyond the glass, the Ironmere mountains pierce the steel-gray sky, their jagged peaks collecting snow. The ancient evergreens bow beneath their white burden, branches dripping crystal daggers of ice. "We've taken a new pup out of training. Young one, but promising. He'll be stationed near the South Tower."

They're bringing in a new generation again, stealing youth and binding it in black armor and cold metal muzzles.

Your father's cruelty wears a gentleman's mask, polished and pristine as the rings that adorn his fingers. Time has taught you to see beneath it, to recognize the calculated malice hiding behind words like duty and tradition.

The South Tower stands like a frozen sentinel, eternally facing winter's fury. It's where your father plants his fresh seeds of war, watching come morning with clinical interest as frost either hardens them into soldiers or claims them for the grave.

No coincidence leads new Grimguards there.

They either wake to see another dawn, their breath clouding behind their muzzles, or they join the nameless others whose bones might still rest beneath the tower's foundations.

This is how he plays at being divine — selecting who lives and dies with the casual interest of a man trimming roses; Nature's selection, he calls it, as if nature ever intended for young men to be bound in iron and left to freeze.

"Another child?" The words slip past your guard and your head turns toward him, though the fire still claims most of your attention, its warmth a mockery of comfort.

"No younger than yourself, my love." The endearment falls from his lips like frozen honey — sweet, yet somehow wrong. He speaks of sending a boy your age to stand in winter's cruelest depths, guarding a tower that has stood empty since before your grandmother drew breath. "We've discussed this before," he says, finally abandoning his view of his frost-touched kingdom to fix you with that measured stare. "You ceased being a child the moment you became heir to Ironmere."

You answer with silence and the loud protest of leather against leather as you shift in your chair.

Let him interpret the sound as he wishes — rebellion or resignation, it matters little. In this moment, you think of another young man who whose breath will freeze behind a muzzle while you sit before this fire, counting the ways your father fashions cruelty into crown.

"The muzzle ceremony is their rebirth." His voice takes on that familiar, aristocratic lilt—the same tone he uses when discussing wine vintages or the value of old tapestries. As if he speaks of art rather than chains. "This one's training scores are exceptional. He'll serve the crown well."

You've watched these ceremonies before, hidden in gallery shadows. Seen how they strip away names and replace them with numbers, how they forge living flesh into living weapons. The muzzles aren't just metal — they're shackles of status, marking each Grimguard as something less than human but more than beast. A perfect servant for your father's perfect kingdom.

In your mind, you see another humans eyes, bright with unshed tears as cold iron meets warm skin — another soul bound to Ironmere's frozen heart, while your father speaks of service as casually as one might discuss the weather.

Through frosted windows, you've studied their brutal dance since childhood.

The Grimguards train in Wolfdens outer courtyard where the stones are perpetually slick with ice, where one misstep means more than just a fall. They move like shadows given form, their black armor drinking what little sunlight winters here permit.

The training starts before dawn, when breath freezes mid-air and fingers can barely grip steel. They fight with those peculiar curved blades — somewhere between sword and sickle — that have become as much their signature as the muzzles that cage their faces.

The weapons are deliberately unwieldy at first, designed to strain muscle and test resolve.

Many break their own wrists learning to wield them.

You've counted the phases of their training through seasons.

First, the endless drills until their movements become reflex, then the sparring that leaves red droplets crystallizing on white snow. The masks come early — crude training ones at first, heavy iron things that make it hard to breathe, harder still to see. They learn to fight half-blind, to rely on instinct over sight.

To become creatures of pure reaction.

But it's the endurance training that haunts your dreams.

They stand for days in the bitter cold, perfectly still, until ice forms on their armor. They run barefoot through snow until their feet bleed, then run further still, and some disappear during these tests, their names never spoken again, as if Ironmere itself had swallowed them whole.

Your father calls it necessary refinement.

You call it what it is.

The systematic breaking of human beings until all that remains is loyal steel wrapped in obedient flesh.

It was the whimpering that drew you from your chambers — a sound so foreign in these stone halls where weakness dares not echo. Your footsteps fell like fresh snow as you traced that desperate keening, following it until it transformed into a metallic chattering, silver bars rattling as violent tremors wracked a body fighting to remember warmth.

He doesn’t turn when you found him in the South Tower's breezeway, though surely he heard you.

His silhouette matches the template they all conform to eventually — broad shoulders carved by endless drills, frame solid as the mountain itself, training blacks clung like a second skin, running from throat to wrist in an unbroken line of shadow. Only his gloved hands betrayed movement, fingers flexing and unflexing in a rhythm that matched his shivering.

The new muzzle catches what little moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, shaped like a snarling dogs snout, throwing silver patterns across the walls. Too new to have darkened with use, too rigid yet to have molded to his face.

Another wolf being broken to the bit, another hound learning to embrace his cage.

The closer you drift toward him, the more your father's warnings drum against your skull.

Never approach a new Grimguard alone. They're most dangerous before the muzzle takes hold.

The metallic chattering quickens like a death rattle, and the cold seems to deepen, carving into your marrow with ancient teeth, and memory washes over you as you recall exactly what they become — watched them train in the courtyards below your window, witnessed how they move like poetry written in violence, how they strike with the precision of winter's first killing frost.

But this one.

This one still trembles.

His control fractures with each shudder, and you remember how father once told you that a Grimguard is most lethal in the moments they're breaking.

Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

"Are you cold?" The whisper escapes before wisdom can catch it, and the transformation is immediate — his trembling ceases as if frozen in time, muscles locking into place with military precision.

Whether it's training or pure shock that stills him, you can't tell.

These new ones are always unpredictable, balanced on a knife's edge between their old instincts and their new purpose.

"I heard you whimpering," you continue, the words hanging dangerous and delicate in the space between you. Through the silver teeth of his muzzle, his breath comes in short, controlled bursts, each exhale creating ghost-white clouds that dissipate against the metalwork.

The pattern is deliberate now — mechanical — as if he's forcing each breath through a carefully memorized cadence, the same measured rhythm you've watched the veteran Grimguard use during their drills, when they're trying to master pain.

You wonder if he's already learning to lie with his body, or if he's simply too terrified to show weakness.

You hover in the uncertainty, unsure what response you're seeking.

The Grimguard are like shadows given form and function — you've spent years watching them from windows and walkways, learning their peculiar language of violence and restraint.

They move in packs through the fortress halls, all lethal grace and barely contained aggression, but you've also witnessed the moments they think no one sees.

A Grimguard pressing their muzzle against a packmate's shoulder after a brutal training session, the silent comfort shared between two hounds who lost their third to a snow bear's claws at the North Gate, and there’s something almost gentle in how they lean into each other then, these weapons your father has forged, finding warmth in the spaces between their brutal purpose.

But those moments are never meant for outsiders' eyes.

They're certainly not meant for the kings daughter, whose very presence reminds them of the hand that holds their leash.

You've seen how quickly they can shift from deadly grace to deadly intent, how the muzzles hide everything except the truth in their eyes.

He turns — slowly, deliberately — and you catch your first glimpse of eyes behind the silver latticework.

They're brown, almost gold in the dim light, and far too lucid for comfort. Not yet hollowed out by more training, not yet carrying that vacant winter-wolf stare that marks the veteran Grimguard.

These eyes study you with an unsettling clarity, as if cataloging every detail of your presence.

His head tilts, just slightly, reminding you of the hunting hounds when they catch an unfamiliar scent, and the motion is too natural, too human. Somehow that makes it worse, as most Grimguard move like they're reading from a manual of precise angles and measured steps.

The muzzle shifts as his jaw works beneath it, and you realize he's trying to decide if he's allowed to speak to you. New recruits often struggle with this — the complex hierarchy of who can command their voice and who must be met with silence.

The princess falls into a grey area their training hasn't covered yet.

Finally, his gloved hand rises, not toward you but to his own throat, fingers pressing against the high collar of his blacks where you know the control runes are etched.

The control runes are your father's masterwork — ancient symbols seared into the skin at throat and spine, binding each Grimguard to the fortress's will.

You've seen them during the marking ceremonies, watched how they burn with a cold blue light as they're carved, how they fade to silvery scars that pulse with each heartbeat.

They serve as both leash and collar, limiting how far a Grimguard can roam from the fortress walls, how much force they can use, who they can harm.

"My Lady." The words emerge like broken glass wrapped in velvet — smooth on the surface but jagged underneath. His voice carries that telltale distortion all new recruits have, as if speaking through layers of frost, but there's something else there. A tremor of defiance, perhaps, or desperation. "The cold is necessary. Part of our conditioning."

He swallows hard, the muzzle's intricate metalwork shifting with the motion. The runes must be burning now — you can see how his fingers dig deeper into his collar, tendons standing out against the black leather of his gloves, but he holds your gaze, those amber eyes still too present, too aware.

Most pups learn to lower their eyes by now.

You notice a tension in how he stands, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and you recognize the stance from watching new recruits, called the Unblooded, in the training yards.

"Necessary," you echo, tasting the word's bitter edge. You've heard your father use that same justification countless times in his workshops, watching dispassionately as fresh recruits screamed through their first exposure to the killing cold. The cold that reshapes them, hardens them, strips away everything warm and human until only the Grimguard remains.

His breathing hitches — just slightly — at your tone.

The runes pulse again, brighter now, a steady rhythm like heartbeats beneath his collar. You notice how his other hand has curled into a fist at his side, leather creaking with the strain, Fighting the compulsion to kneel, perhaps, or fighting the instinct to run.

Both would be equally futile.

"And who told you that?" The question slips out softer than intended, almost gentle — It's dangerous, this curiosity about their lives before the muzzles, before the markings. Your father has warned you repeatedly about seeing them as anything more than what they are now: tools, weapons.

But there's something about this one's eyes, about the way he still holds himself like he remembers another life, that makes you reckless.

You can hear the slight scrape of metal teeth as his jaw clenches beneath the muzzle. When he finally speaks, his voice has splintered, "The Keeper himself, my Lady. Your father."

You hear the sound of boots approaching, the groundslurkers making their rounds to assure everything is just-so.

"Inside," you murmur, touching the frozen door behind you. Not a command, but an invitation. A dangerous one. No Grimguard is allowed in the royal quarters unless specifically ordered by your father.

The punishment would be severe.

He knows this.

You see the conflict ripple across what's visible of his face, the way his fingers twitch toward his turtleneck collar, but the patrol's footsteps are getting closer, and you've already seen too much.

You push the door open wider, letting candlelight spill onto the frost-rimed stones. "Choose quickly."

For a moment, he's perfectly still, like the ice sculptures in the winter garden, then he moves — one fluid step through the doorway, silent as snow despite his armor, and you close the door just as the patrol rounds the corner, their heavy boots echoing past without pause.

In your chambers, he looks desperately out of place.

The black armor and cruel angles of his muzzle stark against the rich tapestries and furs. He stands rigid, carefully not touching anything, as if afraid his mere presence might taint the warmth of the room.

In all your life in the palace, you've never dared to get this close. The Grimguard are your father's shadows, his weapons — to be glimpsed from afar, never examined.

But now.

You circle him slowly, studying the way frost creeps along the joints of his armor, how it crystallizes in delicate patterns where leather meets metal. Up close, you can hear the soft crackle of ice forming and reforming with each breath, see how the cold radiates from him in barely visible waves that make the air shimmer.

The muzzle is even more intricate than you'd imagined.

Delicate silverwork overlays darker metal, creating a lattice of thorns and frozen vines that cage the lower half of his face. You can see now why they call it a muzzle rather than a mask — it's fitted precisely to his features, allowing just enough movement to speak when commanded, but designed to remind both wearer and observer of its purpose.

Control.

Your hand lifts before you can stop yourself, drawn to the impossible intricacy of it. His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn't step back. This close, you can see the minute tremors running through him — fighting against something you don't fully understand, or reacting to your proximity, or both.

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, fingers hovering just above the metalwork. "All the time, or only when-“

"Yes." The word comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He hasn't spoken this long without a command in who can say exactly how long. "Always. But more when..." He trails off, eyes flickering to your still-raised hand, then away.

More when fighting whatever's been done to him, you realize.

More when showing any trace of humanity.

Your hand trembles slightly, caught between pulling back and closing that final distance. The cold radiates against your skin, a warning or an invitation— you're not sure which.

You've never heard one of them admit to pain before.

They're not supposed to feel anything at all.

But he does feel.

He hurts.

His eyes widen, a flash of something — fear, hope? — breaking through their frozen surface.

"Let me help you," you say softly, reaching for the intricate clasps of the muzzle nestled in his wavy, black hair. "Just while we're here. No one will know."

"You can't," he says, the words strained. Even this small act of refusal seems to cost him. "The cold will hurt you. And if the Keeper—"

"My father isn't here," you interrupt, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounds. "And I'm not afraid of the cold."

You're close enough now to see how the metalwork digs into his skin, how even the simple act of speaking makes the thorns beneath the sides of his muzzle bite deeper.

All these years, you never knew the muzzles were lined.

Never wanted to know.

His breath catches as your fingers brush the first clasp, but he remains perfectly still, caught between what he's been made to be and what you're offering him — a moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

The clasp comes free with a sharp click, and his whole body jerks as if struck. A soft sound escapes him — pain or relief, you can't tell, as frost spreads rapidly across the metal where your fingers made contact, but you refuse to pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, working on the next clasp. "I'll be quick." The cold bites into your fingertips now, sharp and hungry, but you can see how the muzzle's grip has already loosened slightly, allowing him to take a deeper breath. “Are they all like this?”

His hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort to remain still, and each release of a thorn seems to send shockwaves through him, as if the very act of being freed is its own kind of agony. But he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away — and that tells you more than words ever could.

The facade of silver and shadow begins to come apart under your careful touch, revealing glimpses of what lies beneath; you try not to think about how long it's been since anyone has seen his true face, or why your father thought it necessary to cage him so thoroughly.

"No," he manages, voice tight as you work on another clasp. "Not all. This one is special." There's a bitter edge to the word that makes you pause.

The implications sink in slowly. Your father must have designed this one specifically for him — more thorns, more pain, more control. Because he was different somehow. Because he fought back.

You examine the cruel metalwork with new understanding, noting how the thorns are positioned to punish speech, expression, any hint of defiance, your fingers tracing a particularly deep puncture mark, and he goes completely still, hardly breathing.

"Almost done," you promise, though your hands are nearly numb from the cold now. Each clasp reveals more evidence of long-term torture disguised as restraint. The more you see, the more questions burn in your throat, “Why’d they give you one like this?”

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer, the final clasp coming free under your trembling fingers, but he makes no move to remove the muzzle completely.

"I remembered," he finally says, "Something I wasn't supposed to. My name." His eyes meet yours, and there's something terrible in their depths — not just pain, but knowledge. "They take everything when they make us, but I kept one thing."

He stops abruptly, as if even this small confession costs him dearly, and you can see the thorns pressing deeper as he speaks, drawing pinpoints of darkness that might be blood, might be something else entirely, yet he hardly reacts.

The pain hardly registers.

A weapon isn't supposed to remember who it used to be.

But this one does.

“What’s your name?”

His breath catches at your question, and you can see him fighting against years of conditioning, against the very magic that binds him, and the room grows colder, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes.

"L-" he starts, then gasps as if the very attempt causes him physical pain. His hands clench. "Luigi," he finally manages, the name coming out in a rush of frozen air.

You repeat the name softly, testing its weight, and he shudders at the sound of it from another person's lips. How long has it been since anyone has called him by his real name? How many years of being nothing but a number, a weapon, a Grimguard?

This is where it began.

And soon, you find yourself inventing excuses to avoid Duke Aldrich of Brindsborough's tedious evening calls. Instead, your nights belong to these stolen moments; you and Luigi seated on the floor of your chambers, knees touching, sharing whispered confessions in the candlelight.

He teaches you how the Grimguards sleep — bodies intertwined for warmth in the cold stone kennels, finding comfort in the press of limbs and shared breath. The first time he shows you, hesitantly arranging your bodies so your back fits against his chest, you understand.

It's not just for warmth — it's about trust.

You learn to read the minute changes in his expression, the things he can't say even without the muzzle. He learns your tells, too — the way you twist your rings when you're anxious, how your laugh changes when you're truly happy versus when you're playing the perfect princess.

These evenings become your refuge whilst the rest of the castle prepares for your upcoming marriage to a man you barely tolerate, you and Luigi build something fragile and precious in secret candlelight.

You tell him about the time you were seven, and you snuck your injured falcon into your bedroom instead of letting the gamekeeper "take care of it." You'd splinted its wing with strips torn from your favorite dress and fed it scraps from your dinners for weeks. Your father had been furious when he found out — not because you'd ruined the dress, but because you'd shown weakness.

Mercy was unbecoming of a princess.

The next memory stands out sharp and clear — that particular night when everything shifted.

You'd barely managed to secure the door's heavy lock before Luigi abandoned his usual restraint, muzzle yanked off. One moment you were turning, the next your back hit the floor with a soft thump, driving a surprised laugh from your chest.

His movements were pure instinct, almost feral — nothing like the rigid control the Grimguards usually displayed. Cool lips and nose traced your neck once you’d pulled his muzzle away, your collarbone, your hair, erasing every lingering trace of Duke Aldrich's cloying cologne. Each brush of contact sent shivers down your spine, not from cold but from the intensity of his need to claim, to possess.

"Marking your territory, are you?" you whispered through breathless giggles, fingers threading through his hair. The words made him pause, and you felt him tense — caught between embarrassment at his display and a deeper, darker urge to continue.

You could feel his breath against your throat, quick and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "He touched you. I could smell him on you all evening. I couldn't. I can't-“

Instead of pulling away, you tugged him closer, understanding flooding through you. This wasn't just possession — it was protection, desperation, love transformed by whatever magic had remade him into something wild and fierce. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm yours."

A sound rumbled deep in his chest — not quite human, not quite animal—and his grip on you tightened almost painfully. The temperature plummeted, frost blooming across the flagstones in intricate spirals, but you weren't cold.

Not where he touched you.

"Mine," he breathed against your skin, the word holding years of denied wanting. His control, already fragile, splintered further. You felt the magic that bound him surge and twist, fighting against this claiming that went against everything they'd bred him to be.

Grimguards weren't meant to want.

Weren't meant to possess anything but their duty.

Yet here he was, trembling above you, eyes dark with need as they met yours. One hand cradled your face with impossible gentleness, even as the other gripped your waist with bruising intensity. The contradiction of him — deadly weapon and tender protector, ice and burning want — made your heart race.

"Say it again," he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

You reached up, traced the scars where the muzzle had been, and watched his eyes flutter closed at your touch. "I'm yours, Luigi," you whispered. "Only yours."

The moment your fingers trace those scars, Luigi shudders violently, a full-body tremor that sends cascades of ice crystals shimmering through the air. His breath hitches, catches — no one has ever touched him there, not with such tenderness, not since they first bound him.

But then he does something that steals your breath — he leans into your touch. Like a half-wild thing learning trust, he presses his face against your hand, nuzzling into your palm.

His skin is cold as ever, but his breath comes hot against your wrist. When his lips brush your skin — tentative, questioning — you feel the ghost of frost patterns blooming up your arm.

"Warm," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You're so warm." His eyes are half-lidded now, tension melting from his shoulders even as his grip on your waist remains possessive, and the contradiction fascinates you — how he can seem so dangerous and so vulnerable in the same moment.

You trace another scar, and this time he makes a sound that's almost a purr, deep in his chest. The ice spreading across your chambers takes on a soft, pearlescent glow, as if reflecting his pleasure. It's intoxicating, this power to gentle him with just your touch, to make the fearsome Grimguard melt like snow in spring.

When his eyes open to meet yours again, they're heavy with an emotion that makes your heart stutter. The gold in them has darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. "More.” he whispers, and it's both a plea and a demand.

With trembling fingers, you map the constellations of his scars, each touch drawing new sounds from him — soft gasps and broken whimpers that make your chest tight. The marks are smooth beneath your fingertips, silver-white against his olive skin. You trace them all; the deep grooves where the muzzle's straps cut in, the lighter marks across his jaw where they tested different bindings.

His control slips further with each caress, and frost flowers bloom and fade on your skin where his hands roam, leaving trails of delicious cold that make you shiver. When your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth — where the metal once forced his silence — he catches it gently between his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to your fingertip.

"They told us we couldn't feel," he murmurs against your hand. "That the binding stripped everything but duty.” He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged. "With you, I feel everything."

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull him down, eliminating the last space between you. His lips are cool against yours, but they warm quickly as you show him this new way to be close, to trust, to want.

He learns fast, desperate and eager, like a man who's been dying of thirst finally given water.

You feel it in every desperate roll of his hips, that untamed creature beneath his skin — the one the Grimguard could never fully bind. It surfaces in the frost that spreads beneath his palms where they bracket your head, in the way his breath comes in ragged pants against your neck, hot despite his perpetual cold.

He's beautiful like this — composure shattered, cheeks flushed an impossible pink against his beautiful skin, and his eyes are blown wide, that ethereal chestnut brown nearly swallowed by black, and they catch the light like stars when he gazes down at you.

There's something almost painful in his expression — wonder and desperation and disbelief all tangled together.

The friction between you draws broken sounds from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His movements are instinctive, graceless — so different from his usual precise control, each roll of his hips against your thigh becoming more frantic than the last, his whole body trembling with need.

"Please," he gasps, though you're not sure what he's begging for. You’re almost certain he doesn't know either. His fingers curl against the floor, "Please, I can't- I need-"

You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair again, drawing him down until his forehead rests against yours, and he whimpers at the contact, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

This close, you can see every emotion flash across his face — vulnerability and hunger and love so intense it steals your breath.

The wild thing in him recognizes its match in you, and neither of you want to tame it anymore.

His voice trembles as he tries to find the words, years of enforced silence warring with raw need. You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Tell me," you whisper. "I want to hear you say it."

"I-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale.

"I need to be closer.” He whispers, his movements between your legs desperate and juvenile, but there’s something so, so sweet about it.

He’s reduced himself to raw and visceral need, and cares little for how it makes him look, this feared Grimguard, a hound who sleeps in piles with his pack, a weapon of mass destruction, a human being. He’s flayed himself open for you, guts spilling forth, red hot and oxblood — this primeval need, this unfiltered want.

It simply is not something you’d ever find in anyone else.

Specifically the Fiancé your father has hand-selected.

Luigi groans as you guide him where you need him, the sound low and broken against your throat. Your nightgown rides higher, silk cool against fevered skin. His grip on your hip tightens instinctively, and you gasp at the perfect pressure of frost-touched fingers.

Each roll of his hips is hungry, instinctive — like his body remembers what his mind was forced to forget. You wonder if he dreams of this, if behind those crystalline eyes he imagines all the ways he could unravel you. If during those long, cold nights in his chamber, thoughts of you haunted him like this.

The friction builds a delicious heat that makes your head spin. You arch against him, chasing more, and his breath hitches at the way you move. His eyes are wild when they meet yours — desperate and wanting and almost afraid of how much he needs this.

The etiquette mistress would faint if she knew the thoughts that filled your head during lessons now — memories of frost-touched skin and desperate sounds and the way Luigi says your name like a prayer.

You guide Luigi beneath you, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with wonder as you settle above him, his hands tracing paths of up your thighs, mapping you like something precious, something sacred, each touch leaving ghostly patterns on your skin that fade like morning mist.

The silk of your dress whispers between you as his fingers trail higher, catching on your collarbone where your necklace rests, transfixed by the way the pendant rises and falls with your quickening breath, by how the gold warms against your skin while his touch remains winter-cold.

"Closer," you echo, fingers curling in the hem of his black shirt. You draw it up slowly, exposing him inch by inch, the moonlight streaming through the window catching on old scars that map his abdomen like constellations — some precise and surgical, others jagged and cruel.

Your heart aches at their implications, but now isn't the time to count his wounds.

Not when he's looking at you like this, like you're everything he was told he could never have.

His breath hitches as your hands explore the newly exposed skin, and the temperature drops further with each touch, frost spiraling out beneath him in intricate patterns that match his racing pulse.

"Please," he gasps, and you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or never stop. Maybe both. The wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever, making his eyes glow like arctic stars in the darkness. "I need- I don't know how to-"

You lean down until your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the frost-edged space between you. His skin radiates winter's chill everywhere except where his heart beats strong beneath your palm. You can feel him trembling, power barely contained.

"Let me show you," you whisper against his lips, cradling his face. His eyes are luminous in the darkness, filled with vulnerability and desperate trust. The temperature drops as his control frays further, delicate patterns of frost blooming across every surface.

"I've never-" he starts, voice breaking.

You silence him with a gentle kiss. "I know," you breathe. "I've got you. You're safe, Lu."

His fingers flex against your arms as emotions war across his face — years of isolation and fear battling with his need to be known, to be accepted exactly as he is. The wild thing in him strains closer to the surface with each passing moment. "Let go," you tell him softly. "I got you."

You pour all your love into another kiss, wet and hot, showing him that he's worthy of gentleness, of care.

That he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore.

And he doesn’t.

You watch in wonder as his composure fractures, that usually fixed expression melting into something vulnerable and raw, his hands grasping you like an anchor as his careful control slips further.

The temperature drops with each shared breath, but you've never felt warmer.

His face — usually so guarded, bearing scars that speak of battles fought alone - is transformed. Open. Trusting. His lips part on silent pleas as his eyes lock with yours, glowing like arctic stars, and the wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever.

You've never seen anything more beautiful than this proud, powerful man allowing himself to be soft for you. To be vulnerable. His fingers flex against your skin as another tremor runs through him.

"You're safe," you whisper, rocking your hips against his in a slow rhythm that allows the both of you to adjust. "You're mine."

The sound he makes is something between a sob and a prayer, raw with years of loneliness and need. You kiss him deeply, showing him with every touch that he's worthy of this — of pleasure, of care, of love freely given, and he takes just as his heart desires.

It hardly takes him any time before he’s got the hang of it, raw and needy, soft but strong.

He shoves his face in your neck once you’ve been laid on your back again, his teeth biting gently into the soft flesh of the curve in your shoulder, his instincts still lingering, but you welcome them and each mark he leaves against your skin, the rhythm of his hips sloppy and wild but achingly free, your own body cherished as if he’d come undone at your altar.

He worships you, just as the Grimguards are meant to worship their Keeper — his devotion raw and unfiltered, his gaze defiant and steady, “I love you.” He says, the words feeling like a foreign language, but one you had taught him to speak. “So much it hurts.”

[glitch-but-ya]

The hearth that burns through the winter’s frost.

Featuring: Wriothesley

Tags: Angst, backstory, sfw, headcanon, reader isn’t mentioned, drabble, no ships, Sigewinne mentioned

TW: Mentions/descriptions of blood and gore, violence, mentions of death and murder

Summary: Memories from the past resurface in the duke’s mind every now and then. On frosty nights like this, Wriothesley is reminded of the fire from which he was born anew, and the bloody past he is now forced to put behind him. Although, luckily for him, this time, he does not have to bear his burdens alone.

!!Spoiler warnings for Wriothesley’s backstory and story quest!!

Wriothesley was used to the cold. For the longest time, the cold was all he knew. The sheer emptiness of winter resonated with him in a way he would have never anticipated. The roaring frost that froze his heart, the perilous blizzards that screeched and howled, and the stillness of it all after the storm had passed. His love for winter was not misplaced. Winter was a reflection of the cycles of his life. From the moment he was abandoned as a child to the blood-stained podium he stands on today, everything in his life was foretold by the vindictive rhythm of winter. And it was only now that he regained some control of his life.

The one thing Wriothesley could not foretell was his future. How can a boy unwanted by his own parents at birth ever experience the warmth that is love? He believed he wasn’t worthy of it. His hands were coated with crimson. And no matter how hard he rubbed, the blood wouldn’t come off. How could a man like him—an ex-convict, a criminal, and a murderer—ever be chosen and cared for? He was sure that the lack of love he’d grown up with would accompany him on his journey and lie with him on his deathbed.

The first person to shatter his belief was the head nurse. The adorable and juvenile-looking Melusine that had secrets of her own and a past as concealed and dark as his. Wriothesley was only a boy when he first met her. It had been an inevitable meeting, and a horrible setting for a first-time encounter. With a busted knee and bearing one of the many visible scars he now has across his neck, he limped into Sigewinne’s office helplessly. He remembers the way Sigewinne’s countenance distorted: the way her nose scrunched, her pupils contracted, and the mournful noise that escaped her lips.

It was a normal reaction. Anyone who had the honor of witnessing a child half beaten to a pulp would react in the same way. Perhaps, they would react even more dramatically.

The next series of events unfolded swiftly and remain a blur in Wriothesley’s fading memory. But from the fragmented memories scattered about, he can recall the desperation in Sigewinne’s voice. “My goodness, he is a child!” she cried. The worried scoldings and swift dragging about soon followed. And when he reopened his eyes, he was born anew with a wretched scar trailing down his neck up to his chest.

Then began the interrogations, to which Wriothesley had not responded in kind. He admits now, looking back, the harsh verbiage he used was quite immature and indecent of him. But to his defense, how could a delinquent like him know of decency? Throwing his fists was all they taught the children on the streets. It was a cold reality he was forced to adapt to after escaping his home. There, he learned how to pick fights and how to construct weapons from scratch.

That was the life he belonged to. That was the life he deserved.

But then why was she looking at him with those eyes? Why did she take all his words and not fight back? Why did her head droop with shame, as if the sight before her was the most miserable she’d ever seen? Wriothesley couldn’t understand why the Melusine cared so much. He was an orphaned kid, bound to a life of violence and fated to an abrupt end in a dark, cold alley, all alone. He’d never seen someone cry over scrap metal.

Sigewinne gently wrapped the cast around his knee, her eyes never leaving his face. “What are you in for?” she inquired. Wriothesley turned his head away. “Murder,” he replied, “killed my parents.” Contrary to the reaction he’d expected, Sigewinne said nothing. He studied her face for a moment, checking for any signs of disgust or disdain. But he found nothing. She simply continued to tighten the cast around his knee.

After what felt like a decade, Sigewinne looked up at the boy. “Why?”

“Why would I tell you?” he scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. “What’s in it for me?”

“The boy that picked on you. He was a former patient of mine. An unruly one at best.” With newfound sincerity, she gazed deep into Wriothesley’s pale blue eyes. “I’ll bring him to justice. I will make sure he is punished.”

A secret Sigewinne would never tell Wriothesley was that her offer held two purposes. One, to deliver justice where justice was due, and two, to ensure that the boy before her did not go down a dangerous path in search of vengeance. It was only after Wriothesley had become the Duke that he finally understood the double meaning behind her actions.

The offer seemed to tempt the boy. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if you go back on your word, I will make sure you meet your end.” To his threat, Sigewinne only giggled. “Sure, it’s a deal, then.”

From that day onwards, the little Melusine never left Wriothesley’s side. She would watch from afar as he hammered the crooked contraption, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. He knew she was watching, and his attempts at scaring her away sparked the same results. Sigewinne was persistent; that he could tell. Though his predeveloped mind could not fathom why she cared.

Eventually, she left him no choice but to resign himself. And so, Sigewinne became a vital part of young Wriothesley’s everyday life. When he had overworked himself, she would appear, clutching one of her disgusting milkshakes. Every time someone bigger dared to pick on him, she would barge in and break up the fight. And when he grew strong enough to fight in the ring, Sigewinne would be there, standing by the entrance and patiently waiting for him the moment his match ended.

Wriothesley grew up with her. She was a mother to him, despite her small, childlike appearance. Sigewinne raised him, and Wriothesley is forever indebted to her for the selfless care she had shown him all his life in the Fortress.

Even when Wriothesley overtook the Fortress of Meropide, Sigewinne stayed. And to repay her for her years’ worth of kindness, he built Sigewinne her own office—a place where she could change more lives, just as she’d changed his.

Wriothesley held a new belief now. The belief that Sigewinne would be his first and last friend. The belief that his position as a Duke would not attract any more unfortunate people. And alas, his belief was shattered as a flock of people stormed into his heart, desperately chipping away the frost that concealed it.

Perhaps, he did not need to hide any longer. It’s still a thought in its early stages—a thought that required more consideration. But for now, he cannot deny the warmth that began to slowly emerge. Like a bucket of paint splashed across the frames of his monochromatic life, colors suddenly sprang free, and life bloomed. There are parts of him that have not yet (and cannot) be defrosted. But they will learn. The flowers will learn to live in harmony with the ice. The winters will still persist, and spring must harmonize with it.

Despite all that, Wriothesley knows that if he were ever to fall, there would be people to push him back on his feet.

For now, though, he’d like to sit back and enjoy the warmth of the hearth that burns through winter’s frost.

[zrisewrites]

A Gingerly Step - An Anala Backstory Drabble

Summary: While Mrs. Secliff is preparing for a gingerbread house creating party, little Anala is preparing her own surprise.

Inspired by the @daddecember and @fluff-cember events!

Word Count: 900

Content Warnings: Light romance between a married couple, mentions of alcohol.

It happened so quickly. 

I was bustling around the kitchen, setting out candy canes, plates stacked with sheets of gingerbread, piping bags packed with white and red frosting. It was the first year I’d ever hosting the Annual Gingerbread House Party, and naturally it had to be the best one yet.

“Did you ever find the chocolate pearls, dear?” I call to my husband, as I tuck a bowl of m’n’m’s next to the candy canes. Were those too close together? Or would they be better by the sprinkles?

“What?” He calls back. Somewhere upstairs, judging by the faintness of his voice. Prepping to get out of the house before the gaggle of mothers and children arrived, no doubt.

“The chocolate pearls!” I call, grabbing the final pan of little gingerbread men from the oven, and setting it on the drying rack. Those would need to be piped, but that could be done after the children got here. If we weren’t too pre-occupied.

“What?”

Defintelly needed to get the Cabernet.

Anala cooed up at me from the ground as I swished past her towards the wine cabinet. She’d gotten so big, with her father’s rich brown eyes and shining gold curls, like me. And just this week, she’s taken to standing up against every chair and cabinet she can reach. The doctor said it’d only be another month or two for her to start walking. I can hardly imagine that—the power movement would give her. She caused plenty of chaos from her crib alone. “Hold on a moment, ma fleur.” I call to her, smiling as I pull a bottle of Cabernet from the cabinet. “Your friends are almost here.”

She cooes again, then lets out a happy babble of noises. I coo back at her, tapping her nose as I walk over, then setting the wine in an ice bath. 

I turn to survey the table, exhaling and setting my hands on my hips.

A rich brown tablecloth covered the oakwood table. Dozens of little white bowls dotted the table, filled with candies and chocolates, sugared fruits and salted nuts. Two dozen piping bags, filled to the brim, sat in the middle of the table, well away from tiny, curious hands. And the crowning jewel of the setting— a plate stacked high with crisp gingerbread, ready to be molded into child masterpieces.

“What were you saying, dear?” My husband jogs down the stairs, dressed in a smart black suit and a matching tie.

I shake my head, shooting him a smile as I pull off my apron. “The chocolate pearls?”

He freezes, a guilty expression flitting across his eyes. “I knew I was forgetting something. I’m sorry. I can grab some and drop them off, if you’d like.”

I laugh, sweeping towards him. “That’s alright, we have plenty of sugar anyways. It won’t make that much of a difference.” I stop in front of him, raising an eyebrow as I rest my hands on his shoulders. “Now were are you going, dressed so finely?”

He smiled, resting his hands on my hips as he presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “Just to the office, Jerrold still has a whole host of documents he needs finalized before the holidays, and I’m about fed up with it. We might be looking to get a new manager come January.”

“Aw. You won’t come build candy houses with your wife and your daughter?” I fake a pout, tilting my head at him. He laughs, squeezing my waist, then letting go. 

“No way, the party two years ago was enough chaos to last me a lifetime. You two have fun, though.”

I smile, pulling him close and kissing his cheek. “Alright. Don’t be too long, I’ll start to miss you.”

He laughs again, his eyes sparkling with amusement, before he turns to our daughter, crouching down and holding his arms out to her. “I’ll see you soon, ma fleur—don’t you wanna come give me a hug?”

She lets out an excited babble, bouncing and reaching a hand towards us. I smile, stepping over to her. “Come on now, dear, the doctor said it’s still be weeks.”

My husband waves a hand for me to stop. “She’s smart, and strong. She’s got your fire. Let’s just see.”

I shake my head, but pause, crouching down as well as I watch her. Her eyes sparkle, as she coos again, one tiny hand pressed against the seat of the chair.

Her father steps closer, a easy smile on his face. “Come on, Anala… I know you’ve got it.”

She cooes again, woobling.

And then she lets go of the chair.

I gasp softly, my hand flying to my mouth.

She giggles, as if she can sense the excitement in the air. Just standing for a moment,

Before she teeters forward with one tiny foot, one, two steps—

“There we go! My girl!” My husband cheers, as he sweeps forward, catching her before she tumbles over. I laugh, crouching down next to him. He kisses her forehead, grinning up at her. “How’s that for doctor’s orders?”

I shake my head, grinning and tapping Anala’s nose. “So rebellious.” I hum, smiling. “Don’t you let go of that, either.”

She giggles again, clinging to her father’s arm, eyes bright as she babbles up at us. Her father grins, sweeping another kiss against her forehead. “My girl.” He whispers.

[kl-writes]

Zor/Phantom backstory drabble

I am honestly excited for IEYTD4 to come and disprove my theory/headcanon about Zor and the Phantom. In the meantime, it's good fanfic fodder.

Suddenly, the door to the room slammed shut. A mechanical hum reverberated to the room. V felt a pull on her waist, which sent her flying towards a wall. She saw Zor fly towards the other wall, head-first. His head struck it with a sickening crack. He slumped, head held firmly in place.

"Zor!" shouted V, "Zor, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, just… concussed. Probably bleeding. The walls are magnetized, if you undo your belt you should be fine."

The ceiling above them clanged open, revealing spikes. The spikes began to descend with a grinding screech.

"Just hold on, I'll be right there!" V struggled to get at the clasp of her belt.

Excalibur's voice crackled to life over the intercoms. "Oh my, it looks like love on the battlefield really does exist. How disgusting."

"You're going to die slow, Excalibur," spat Zor with a second wind fueled by rage.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, doctor. I suppose this is where I should berate you for choosing personal feelings over loyalty, but I was going to kill you anyways. You're simply too dangerous to keep around. But I should thank you for luring an agent into a death trap. Even if this time wasn't intentional." Excalibur laughed maniacally, then cut the audio.

V unclasped her belt, freeing herself from the wall. "I suppose it's a good thing you took my gun and tools, or else that would've been a lot harder."

"You'll still need them now, to get at the control box." Zor grunted, trying to push off from the wall. "If you can just unscrew the false panel, we can disable it."

"Here, let me unclasp you belt-"

"That won't help, my mask is what's magnetized."

"I thought gold wasn't magnetic."

"It isn't! But it's also expensive, this is gold-frosted steel."

The spikes from the ceiling descended ever closer. With some effort, V shoved Zor down into a sitting position. But with V's tools at Zor's waist, they couldn't maneuver to muscle even a screwdriver away from the wall.

Their last moments alive, and they couldn't even look each other in the eyes because of Zor's mask. V slumped to the ground next to him.

Zor clasped his hand around V's. "I love you."

"Zor, I-"

The spiked ceiling screeched to a halt.

Zor scoffed, "Don't tell me he forgot the launch codes to the doomsday device."

"Doomsday device?"

The knob to the door began to jiggle. Muffled cursing rang out, and finally the door popped open. Agent R walked into the room, smiling when he saw V.

"R! You saved us."

"Of course! We are partners, after all. You have my complete trust and loyalty. I'm not about to let the likes of Excalibur take you out." Agent R looked over at Zor, still pinned to the wall by the magnetic trap. "And you've finally captured Zor, too! Well, it looks like this mission is a success."

"Er, right. That's a bit more complicated," said V. "Look, the walls are still magnetized, you'll have to take your watch and belt off."

"Right-o!" Agent R undid his watch, then his belt with his toolkit in it. He walked over to look Zor in the face. He saw his own face reflected in Zor's golden mask.

V rifled through R's toolkit, then pried the tazer-pen away from the wall.

"Now, I know standard procedure is to wait until extraction for interrogation, but I don't think the Handler would mind if I got a peak under that mask. I've been on the edge of my seat about it this whole time!" Agent R lifted a hand up to Zor's mask. "Now, where is the clasp-"

"I'm sorry, Reggie." V shot Agent R with the tazer-pen. He crumpled to the ground instantly.

Zor let out a sigh of relief as V rifled through the rest of Agent R's toolkit. V finally found Agent R's trusty screwdriver, and used it to pry open the control panel for the magnetic trap.

"Remove the grounding screws and then cut the wires in alphabetical order by color," said Zor. "Otherwise you'll set off the electrified floor."

"And here I thought only you came up with convoluted traps."

Zor paused, "Well, this is one of mine, too. I did most of the security engineering for Excalibur."

V gave him a look, then disabled the magnetic field. Zor pried themself away from the wall, stretching their muscles in relief.

V looked down at Agent R's snoring body. "It's really all over, isn't it?"

"Reggie, huh? I suppose he didn't seem too bad," Zor scratched the back of his head. "For an EOD agent, anyways. I don't mind taking care of him if it's too sensitive for you."

"Take care of-" V stepped back. This wasn't happening. "No! We're not killing R."

"Well, we can't just let him report back to EOD. They'd kill you." Zor scoffed, then leveled his pistol at Agent R. "This is for your own good."

[tinywy-frost]

An Origin of Heroism

Some say that Life has greater meaning. A journey of discovery that leads everyone down their own path, whether through their own making or by following others. Twisting and turning through the days, months, and years of existence, the threads flowing behind them weaving their story. However, there are others who believe that we are all walking the paths that are written for them. Words on a page telling the story of different heroes and villains, while they act everything out as if it is a play. Never straying far from the script, nor editing any of their lines.

"Why waste your time following what others want, when what truly matters is being true to yourself?"

The sound of a cooing pigeon echoes around as it flutters in the sky above a dimly lit alleyway, the morning sun starting to rise and paint its colors over the tall buildings of the city. A bit of ruffling happens in the alley itself, a pile of papers and pieces of cardboard boxes moving to the side as an arm pushes them over. The ruffling is followed by a slight grunt, then a loud yawn as the owner of the arm stretches, a few snaps, crackles, and pops happening from their joints. Slowly blinking in the morning light, a faint hiss falls from their mouth as their bright, icy blue eyes adjust to the brightening sky, their head tilted up slightly to watch the clouds drift past. Silently observing the fluffy white blobs above for a few moments, they stretch once more, a swishing motion from an extra appendage of their causing more of the papers and cardboard to fall over. Looking behind themselves, they narrow their eyes at the matted white cat tail that was the culprit of knocking stuff over. Swiping at it for a moment, they scowl, then shake their head before focusing back on their surroundings. It was day time, which meant that the early morning folks of the city were going to start being active. Something they wanted to avoid....

"A burdened soul wandering the streets alone, searching for a place to call home..."

A loud clatter of bottles being knocked over startles the young street-rat, or should it be said street-cat, their attention immediately snapping to look over at the origin of the sound. Long shadows stretch down the alleyway as a group of three teenagers stood at its entrance, the streetlights behind them concealing their expressions. A glance at their face was not needed, however, as the street-cat was able to sense the malicious intent hanging in the air like a thick fog. Knowing they had been seen, a hiss of warning leaves their mouth as they recoil back further into the alleyway, a pair of cat ears pressed flat against the top of their head. Having hoped to scare the three off, they only end up horrified as the opposite happens. A sickening laugh falls from the center teen's mouth, the scent of booze and cigarette smoke causing them to reel back even more. A pity that the young ones of this city did not treat themselves or others with respect....

"A fire can ignite in everyone, bringing to light the joys of Life, or burning away everything in the search of Death."

Smoke. It filled the air, it filled the room, it filled their lungs... The building they had found refuge in, was slowly collapsing under their very feet as embers and flames spread through the weakened wood. Panic and adrenaline fueled their actions as they fled, coughing horribly as they tried to escape through a partially boarded window. A creak of wood, a crackle of the flames eating away the floor... A loud crash as everything gives way. ... The surrounding area of the street-cat was blurry as their eyes flutter open, a beam from the ceiling above pressed over their stomach as the smoke continues to fill the air. The flames were dying out, shouts heard echoing through the thick void that was trying to take them under. The feeling of hands on their arms gives a renewed life to them. Fighting to pull away, to flee, to hide. The beam was removed, the clunky attire of the firefighters partially surrounding them as they try to offer assistance to get them out of the building. They didn't need their help... they needed to run, flee, escape. They couldn't go back, they couldn't. Their condition was not good, but their fear and renewed adrenaline pushes them to flee into the night, the only trace of where they had gone being the few soot footprints left on the pavement until even that wears away into the night.

"One's kindness reflects their past experiences. To share it with others is a feat of bravery not many can accomplish."

The wind blows through white hair as the young female stands in front of a building with the sign "Jackie's Tattoo Parlor" shining in the setting sunlight, coating the nearby objects with its neon glow. Shifting the bag on her shoulder, she inhales slowly, then exhales before carefully stepping inside the building. A faint jingle is heard as the opening door gently brushes against a small bell, a smile of nostalgia on the woman's face as she looks up at it for a moment. Turning her attention to the rest of the shop, her gaze lingers on one of the waiting area's chairs, the smile fading to a frown. Coughing... Shaking... Cold, so so cold... Everything burned... Squeezing her eyes shut, she shakes her head and turns away. The fire was years ago but it still haunted her to this day... even when the building she now stood in was owned by the one who saved her life, in more ways than one. Adjusting the bag she had once more, she looks around for any sign of the person she came to see, smiling again as a messy brunette haired woman steps out of a room in the back. Once they noticed the woman who walked into the shop, a smile spreads on their face as they quickly run over and pull them into a tight hug. "Frostie, hun, you're alright..." The female hugs back tightly, a tear falling down their face, the smile spread a bit more. "I told you I would be, mom..."

[glazelilyy]

my little world

characters (separately!) - diluc ragnvindr, kaeya alberich, albedo, childe, zhongli, xiao

word count - 1847

genre - fluff

format - drabbles

warnings - mentions of domestic life, spoilers for kaeya's backstory

summary - the genshin guys hold their little babies :)

a/n - in honor of father's day (and me subsequently forgetting that it was father's day pFBFBT-) i decided to write this for all the paternal and father-like figures out there :) aka me being gushy wushy for the guys as dads (also if u catch the hamilton reference i love u)

content under the cut!

diluc's hands have carried the weight of weapons, justice, tears, and death—never before did it ever cross his mind that one day he'd hold something as pure and precious as his child in his arms.

domestic life was never quite his style. for a man who had dedicated all of himself for justice and triumph against evil, there simply was no time to slow down and embrace life in the present. his head was either craned out far into the future, anticipating onslaughts of violence, or stuck sitting in the past unable to move forward. time was a fickle thing for him, either always moving too quickly or not moving at all.

and yet it seemed for the first time in a long time in his life, time had begun to stabilize, neither moving too quickly or too slowly. the quiet babbles from the bundle in his arms grounded him in reality and placed him in the present.

the black slug that swam around his stomach hadn't settled since he first took the bundle into his arms. it clawed its way up to try and infest every crevice and corner of his brain. "you'll fail them," it whispered, among so many other croons of inadequacies. and he'd come so close to believing it if not for the quiet gurgles emitted from the blanket and the soft touch of his baby's fleshy palm on his thumb.

like an antidote, they silenced the rocks that weighed so heavy within his mind. to him they were so tiny, their squishy little hands could barely wrap around his thumb and yet their grip held life within it. he almost couldn't believe that the child in his arms was his, his child.

he brought the bundle closer to his face and held their tiny fist in his large, calloused hand.

"i'll always protect you." he mumbled with a smile, eyes holding nothing but complete and utter love for the life in his arms.

"a father? me? preposterous." at least that's what kaeya recalls saying a long time ago in regards to becoming a parent. it felt a bit ironic to him now, holding the very thing that made him a father up against his chest.

for a man who seemed so well-put-together, this- his baby managed to knock his composure down like a polished bowling ball.

despite his charismatic and "go with the flow" personality, the idea of being a father frightened him beyond comprehension, let alone actually being one. the same blood of the father that scorned him, used him as a tool, weaponized him as a spy, left him, ran through his veins and chilled his body to the core.

being cut from the same cloth, it was as if his father's actions had now become his. and he'd one day make the same errors his father did, after all the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

but this child sought no secrets from him. this child didn't expect him to put on airs to deceive anyone. this child asked nothing of him but to love and cherish them. and he would, he swore to himself he would the minute he held them in his arms.

"you're a cute little thing aren't you?" he chuckled when their little hands reached up to hold his index finger. the frosted barriers around his heart thawed with every second of their touch. a newfound determination sprung up forth, and he knew he'd be nothing like his father. he knew he loved them and would never stop loving them.

he knew he'd strive to be better and give his baby the life they deserve.

life to albedo is an enigma.

from ash and chalk he rose with a purpose: to discover the meaning of life.

it seemed the answer fit snug into his arms swaddled in a soft blanket. a baby that giggled up at him and pawed away at the intricate charms that hung from the front of his coat.

but could such a delicate and tiny thing really be what his master was searching for? what secrets to the world did his baby hold?

his eyes fell back to the bundle in his arms, an affectionate smile crossing his features when their small, warm hands reached up and touched his nose.

"alright, i'll entertain you." he chuckled, raising the bundle closer to his face.

their tiny little hands wandered over the bridge of his nose, the apples of his cheeks, and the edge of his jaw. it was as if they were searching for answers to an unanswerable question in his face.

albedo couldn't help but think that something this gentle, sweet, and tender, shouldn't be in the arms of a monster like him.

he who could lose control of himself at any time and give into the primal desires that lurked within. he who would give life and limb for his objective without even realizing it until the consequences had set in. he who possessed the capacity to be evil.

and yet the baby in his arms made him feel as though he wasn't for the first time in a long while. the reigns were fully in his hands, he was in control, he could lift his baby up and press kisses to their stomach. he could sing them lullabies to lull them back to sleep. he could read them storybooks and entertain both klee and his baby.

he was no monster. for his child, he could never be a monster.

the hands that have slain so many, the hands that drip with invisible blood and carnage, the hands that have snuffed the life out of countless,

now held an ethereal being.

feather light in his arms, his baby lay asleep and perfectly still. childe almost couldn't believe that in his arms lay a new addition to his life. placed snugly between the spaces in his residential heart reserved for tonia and teucer, his beloved child sat cradled by tissue, muscle, dedication, and love.

there's no hesitation with him. no doubts, no reasons not to immediately love his child. in a heartbeat he'd tear celestia down if they only asked politely with a smile on their face.

his baby was tender, soft, delicate, much unlike the fierce protruding edges of the blades he's so used to wielding. where the sharp, jagged water jutted up from the edges like a torrential sea storm, his baby smoothed over like the gentle trickle of a forest creek.

and yet part of him felt sullied. to hold an angel in his blood soaked hands, it was almost as if he were poisoning them with his touch. did someone like him really deserve to be a father?

the baby in his arms chose to answer that question for him by babbling nonsense and wriggling in his arms. childe affectionately smiled and tugged the soft cotton of the blanket over their supple body. "easy now sunshine, daddy's here." he cooed, rocking them back into their slumber, surprised at how easily they fell quiet in his arms.

perhaps he'd first prove his worth as a father before dismissing himself as one.

morax, rex lapis, the lord of geo, the god of war, commerce, contracts. all of his titles, even his human name, pale in comparison to the affectionate title of "dad".

the very same hands that have held weapons of all kinds, mercilessly disposed of gods, and swept lands clean of their existence now held a precious being, something as fragile as a daisy in the midst of rubble and war.

for the longest time, he's only ever had memories to cling to. memories of those he's loved and still loves that lay buried in the past are packed neatly and folded like a napkin in his front breast pocket, always to be snug beside his beating heart.

but this baby, this child of his was no mere memory. they lay breathing, babbling incoherently up at him, their little heart marching onwards in his arms. for a man who's known both bloodshed and books, the weight of his baby felt almost mythical, like being shot in the shoulder with an arrow.

the baby startled him from his thoughts with a small tug of his neatly combed locks. zhongli tutted softly and gently pried their little fingers off of his hair.

"now now little one, you mustn't do that." he quietly muttered, finalizing his words with a kiss on the baby's forehead.

for a moment he wondered if it was alright for him to have such sweet domesticity.

the weight of his titles weighed heavy on his back, as do the memories of those who no longer stand beside him. and one day his baby would potentially be among those who remain forever locked within his memories. but he knew that he'd treasure every single second spent with the bundle of joy in his arms.

to those who knew, he'd forever be rex lapis, prime of the adepti.

but to his baby, he'd be "dad". and that was more than enough for him.

xiao has only known destruction.

whether it be by his own hand, or the hands of others, he's only known death, sacrifice, and service in violent regards.

being someone who fiercely defends the vast lands of liyue, and someone who must constantly struggle to bear the weight of his sins, a child- a family was something xiao never considered having.

and yet despite it all, the hands that have been shackled, freed, and persisted in slaying carried within them new life.

he couldn't bear to hold something so pure, innocent, and untarnished close to him. it was almost as if the karmic debt that slowly ate away at him day by day would slither over past his shoulders, down his forearms and sink their fangs into the darling baby that slumbered peacefully in his arms.

but the needs of the baby went head-to-head with his fears. if he held them too far, they could fall from his arms, and if he held them too close, he worried he may harm them.

as if reading his mind, the baby proceeded to squirm relentlessly, the beginnings of a crying fit coming on. "w-wait hey-! stay still-" xiao frantically looked at the sniffling baby and gently rocked his arms. he heaved a sigh of relief and peered down at the calming baby.

the sins that engraved themselves into his body and soul looked on with contempt. they rose up in wisps of inky smoke and wrapped themselves around his limbs like thick, scaly snakes. and yet his eyes had no desire to leave the pupils of the baby in his arms.

the baby gently tugged on the tooth of his necklace, and he couldn't help but softly smile.

almost hesitantly, xiao brought the baby closer to his chest and pressed a kiss to their soft, tender head.

"when you are within my arms, harm shall never befall you." he mumbled quietly for only their ears.

he'd bear the weight of ten thousand more sins if it only meant their happiness and protection.

date published: june 21st, 2021

[turronwrites]

Come, walk with me❁ཻུ۪۪

Sypnosis: A warm cup of tea after a cold, snowy day sounds like a lovely idea. In which you and Zhongli wander through the harbor and share stories over tea.

Characters: Zhongli x gender neutral reader

Warnings: Spoiler warning for Zhongli’s backstory.

Format: Drabble.

Genre: fluff.

Word count: 705

Petals of frost and ice fell from the sky in perfect harmony over the landscape. The usual commotion of the harbor silenced by a coat of pristine and pure snow. A tranquility worthy of fairy tales only to be disturbed by the crunching of footsteps and the screams of gleeful children. A wandering couple walked through the harbor, enjoying the snowy scenery. 

With your two hands clasped around his arm, you relished in his presence and archaic aura. The both of you strolled through the harbor, no particular destination in mind. 

 “Isn’t it lovely? I have never seen Liyue snowed over. It’s like a one in a million chance!” You remarked, mesmerized by the purity of the spectacle.

“Indeed. This is a rare occurrence. In the millennia I have served these lands, naught in this wise had befallen before, not with such severity." He paused, and he too examined the scene. "An unequivocal demonstration of the beauty of nature. It works in enigmatic ways, such humans can't even begin to fathom. Truly magnificent." He concluded.

You smiled at his words, very profound.

It hadn't been a surprise when he revealed to you he was the Geo Archon, God of contracts and protector of Liyue Harbor. He behaved in a way no human or mortal did. Zhongli was ethereal and elegant. Executing any task with grace and refined skill, as transcendence was written in his every action. 

A connoisseur and master of every element, he has expertise in all aptitudes. It can be attributed to being one of the eldest of the Seven, having lived for many centuries. And to his impeccable memory, capable of remembering a historical event down to the last detail. 

Truly a man well versed in all forms.

He extended a hand, catching the accelerating and thickening flakes. He rubbed his fingers, feeling the moisture seeping through his gloves, his serenity never disturbed by the cold sensation. 

“Hm. Though it seems it’s starting to snow more vigorously. Based on the condition of the climate and the forthcoming gray clouds, it's only going to worsen." Zhongli turned his head to look at you. "It’d be wise if we head home, as we don’t want you catching a cold.” He stated.

You looked up, inspecting the clouded sky. "Yeah, you're right. Best get home quickly before we're caught in the snowstorm." An expression of disappointment crossed your features. "A bother. I really wanted to stay out a bit more, take in the scene before it melts away." You sighed, a bit disappointed.

He was already guiding the two of you the way back to your shared home. His hand made its way to the small of your back, gently pushing you to walk along.

"For that, you needn't worry. I'm certain the snow will bide before it ultimately melts and returns to the flow of water." 

------------

Even sheltered in your warm home, the chill that managed to settle in your bones had not left. And Zhongli, being the caring and considerate person he is. Offered to brew tea to mellow the cold.

"Is the tea up to your liking? I tried to adjust it based upon your preferences, though I wasn't sure if you are more partial to this brew or an alternative." 

You blew on your tea before taking a tentative sip. You raised your eyebrows, a fruity taste flooded your tastebuds with a hint of something akin to a floral savor. You could already feel the lukewarmness seep through your core.

"Mm, you always excel in making tea." 

"Haha, I just have experience." He sat on the couch next to you, a porcelain cup of his own in his hand.

"What is the tea called again?" You asked, raising the cup to your lips.

"It's Oolong tea. It's notorious for having high oxidation levels. It is also particular for its medicinal properties."

You listened to him drone on about the different properties and variations the tea has. Nodding your head, asking questions about the subject, and engaging in whatever he had to say. Meanwhile, the storm raged outside but was not capable of disturbing the calm ambiance inside your abode. 

It was just you, Zhongli, and a warm cup of tea.

The shame.

It seems I’ve made a habit of posting once a month and then leaving huh?

This was supposed to be my Christmas drabble, but motivation left and this was overdue. And since I don’t have the energy to write the other drabbles I’ll just post this one instead of leaving it in my drafts.

[skarsgard-daydreams]

Rules of Engagement

Description: In the adult section of a video store in Shreveport, Louisiana, Eric and Pam are baffled by the merchandise.

Note: Mild spoilers for Eric and Pam’s backstory. HUGE thanks to @stevesharrlngtons for helping me brainstorm. And to @grandpa-sweaters. Also, if you want to be tagged in my historical Eric and Pam stories and drabbles, do let me know. I am compiling a list.

Warnings: 18+, lots of sexual implications

Shreveport, 1986

The fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead as Eric and Pam paused at the bottom of the stairs to survey their new business. Rows of VHS tapes lined the walls just as they did in the room upstairs, except these ones seemed... off-brand. Pam's eyes, rimmed with thick black liner, landed on a case depicting a topless redhead who seemed to gasp as Freddy Krueger's bladed hand reached for her tits.

"Wet Dream on Elm Street," she read aloud.

Eric's footfalls echoed on the concrete floor while he circled the room. The pink light from the neon sign reading CLASSY CO-EDS threw strange shadows on his face.

"This is..." he began, but he couldn't find a word in any language glum enough to finish the sentence.

"Depressing?" Pam offered.

"Mm."

Sandwiched in the gap between Ghost Thrusters and The Sperminator was a display of cheap plastic sex toys of all shapes and sizes. Each one seemed stranger than the next.

Eric arched a skeptical brow. "What is all of this?" he asked. Whenever the vagaries of the modern world eluded him, he relied on his younger companion to explain.

She pressed her frosted lips together into an expression of disgust. “Cheap sex toys for lonely housewives and men who have never seen a real pair of tits,” she said, flicking a pair of rubber breasts that were attached to a dismembered torso with a hole in the bottom of it where a man could pleasure himself.

It was Eric’s turn to look repulsed. What kind of a man needed a contraption like that? He was pondering the question when Pam switched on a vibrator and glanced at him over her padded shoulders. “We had these in my time,” she said in a dry voice. “Doctors used them to cure women of hysteria.” A small smile played at her lips. “I had hysteria a lot.”

Eric tsked in mock disapproval, but he grinned a little as though secretly proud of his progeny’s deviousness. He picked up a red riding crop with a little silicone heart at the end of it and furrowed his brows. “What’s this supposed to be?” he asked, slapping the tip of it against his open palm. “A fly swatter?”

Pam took the crop from his hand and examined it herself. It made a satisfying whoosh as she swung it experimentally, smacking Eric’s arm just below where his black sleeve cut off to reveal his bicep. He didn’t even blink.

“That feels like nothing,” he said. “Hit me as hard as you can.”

The cold smile on Pam’s lips turned deadly. She drew her hand back and whipped him with the riding crop with all her might. There was a loud cracking sound, and the flimsy handle bent in half upon impact. Eric glanced down at his bicep, which bore no marks. “It’s like getting kissed by a mosquito,” he observed.

“What a shame,” Pam said, her flat tone masking her sincerity. “I liked having it in my hand.”

“I could tell.”

Above a glass case full of plastic dildos hung a movie poster for Little Shop of Whores. Pam was searching for the key to the cabinet on the keyring the Magister had thrown at her yesterday. She heard the ratcheting of handcuffs behind her and glanced back to see Eric tear a fuzzy pink pair in half like tissue paper. “You’re ruining the merchandise,” she remarked. The madam within her was always concerned with profit.

“It’s all so flimsy,” Eric said, tossing the ruined handcuffs aside. He glanced around the room, frowning at the low-quality of the items on display. “I know a blacksmith who can make real shackles.”

“I don’t think our human clientele would be interested in the real thing.” Pam’s heels clicked on the floor as she stooped to pick up after him. “They like the illusion of danger.”

Eric sighed. “How boring.”

Pam found the key to the cabinet and took out one of the plastic dildos, turning it over in her hands. Her maker looked at her as if she was handling dog excrement. “Do you remember that craftsman on Crete who made those exquisite hand-carved phalluses?” she asked wistfully.

“Hmm,” Eric hummed in approval. “We could sell those.”

“Somehow I doubt there’s anyone in Shreveport, Louisiana who would pay the asking price for one of his masterpieces.”

“I would not have expected anyone to pay good money for this—” Eric paused to hold up an inflatable doll with a suspicious looking hole in her mouth. “—yet here we are.”

Pam’s long eyelashes fluttered as she blinked several times in stunned silence. “Well...” she said, gathering herself. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

Eric discarded the doll and ran his fingers through his hair. He was amused, but tension pulled at the corner of his mouth, and Pam was suddenly acutely aware of the events that had brought them to this swampy hellhole. She knew he blamed himself both for their circumstances and the loss of his lover. She needed to keep him distracted.

“Can you guess what this is?” she asked, tossing a strap-on harness at him. He caught it instinctively and furrowed his brows as he studied it.

“I have a theory,” he offered with a chuckle. “I can see you’ve used one before, with your girlfriends.”

Pam’s lips curled into a smirk. “And with men,” she said. She took a step closer to him and raised her chin to look him in the eye. Eric lifted both brows in surprise, but the tension in his face melted away with his astonishment.

“Pamela, you surprise me,” he said. He sounded almost proud of her.

“Maybe we could try it sometime,” she added as calmly as if she were asking him to test out a new restaurant.

Eric scoffed. “What, with you wearing this?”

“You certainly don’t need it,” she said evenly.

Several expressions passed over his face before it settled into a mixture of confusion and arrogance. She folded her arms and considered him, puzzled by his reaction. In all the time they had been together, there had been many nights when he’d gone off with a man rather than a woman. Why did he balk now? A few tense moments passed before the realization hit her.

“You’ve never experienced the wonder of the male prostate, have you?” she asked, her voice devoid of judgement. Eric said nothing in reply, but the expression on his face told her that she was right. “Does it go against your Viking code,” Pam continued, “to be on the receiving end?"

"It was not..." Eric paused, searching for the right word. "...seemly."

"Since when do you care if something is 'seemly' or not?" Pam asked. It was the kind of question that could sound insolent, but her tone was mild and her eyes shined with encouragement, as if to say, come on, live a little.

Eric considered her words silently, his blue eyes calculating. "And this is something you would enjoy?"

"Oh, yes," Pam said with a deadly smile, her fangs suddenly appearing. "I would enjoy it very, very much. Almost as much as you."

A long pause stretched between them. Eric passed the harness back to her and cleared his throat. "Anything to make you happy."

@stevesharrlngtons @scxrsgxrd @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @hausofobsession @dreamtherapy @grandpa-sweaters @castiellawolfkissed

[ibiitsu]

The aftermath [genshin impact]

Genshin impact Drabble ft. Kaeya’s backstory [4/12/2021]

Art credit goes to milapsus on Twitter

Warning(s): pain, kaeya’s backstory spoilers

The door slams shut and you turn away, just like how your brother had turned his back against you moments ago.

You could still see those eyes haunting you, filled with such utter hatred and anger in his crimson eyes. They burned into your back; a black hole that ate you up, something that you could never overcome.

And now you were too far in to escape and ever dream of coming over to his side again.

But you accept it. You had know all along that it was your fault.

Because that’s what you deserved.

Because that’s what liars deserved.

Because thats what you did to all the kindness shown to you.

Because you were never there in the moments that mattered. And you deserved it. Alone, soaking wet, injured, and with no last name.

This is what you deserved.

You kneel down and pick up the vision resting on the ground, mocking you with its pulsing glow. But you ignore it, ignore the frost that creeps up your fingers, ignore the pain and aches in your body, ignore the burns and tattered clothing, and you get up.

Because this is what you deserve.

POV: Kaeya Alberich, because Kaeya Ragvindr died when he fought a losing battle of ice versus fire. Kaeya Ragvindr should of died a long time ago when his father abandoned him in a strange land alone and Master Crepus took him in as family. Kaeya Ragvindr should of died when his adoptive father showed him more love than he had ever known and when his father died and he wasn’t fast enough. He should of died when he watched silently as his brother grieved their father’s death.

You are Kaeya Alberich, because everything else is just another lie

Pain 🥲

[speuradair]

Commiseration | Dabi

Word Count: 1.4k

Contains: injury/wound description (not too graphic), injury of a child, abuse mention, Dabi identity spoilers, Endeavor slander, big brother!Dabi, **PLATONIC** sibling dynamic, original character

Requested: Nope, just a platonic drabble for part of my BnHA character’s backstory

Kaiya's skin ached. Every inch of her body stung, feeling as if she was being jabbed with needles all over. It hurt so badly. Slipping in and out of consciousness, that pain was all she could think of. 

She knew she needed to get up, to move away from the mess of ice she'd just created, but her tiny limbs didn't dare to move. Instead they stayed wrapped around her torso in a futile attempt to warm herself. She couldn't move at all. Fear squeezed in on her, pulling tears from her steely grey eyes. 

Touya shifted under the weight of his backpack as he returned home. His head lost in thought after his school day, he let himself into the house expecting to be met with the usual afternoon family commotion. 

Instead, he found his baby sister all alone on the floor, the living space around her encased in a messy, jagged layer of ice. At four years old she was just starting to develop her quirk, and, as usual, her ability was finicky and unpredictable. Quirk mishaps were bound to happen with children, but this? This was intense. It would've been impressive for such a young child to use their quirk in such a powerful way, had it not been for the terrifying sight of the injured preschooler in the middle of it all.

Touya's backpack fell to the ground as he rushed to her, navigating through the patches of particularly slick or sharp ice. The closer he got the more he noticed- the redness of her skin, the tears freezing on her cheeks, the ice stuck in her pale hair, just how still she was. It sent spikes of terror down his back. Was she… unconscious?

He knelt down and reached out for her, pulling her rigid form into his chest. She was so cold, too cold. Kaiya naturally had a cooler body temperature, but this was low, even for her. Her cheeks were a harsh red, and the longer he looked, Touya swore he saw a tinge of black creeping onto her ears and the tip of her nose. 

His grip on her tightened instinctively. "Kaiya? Kai, can you hear me?" He tried his hardest to steady his voice. 

Kaiya had flinched at his touch, but then curled into him. He was so warm. It had burned at first, but as her temperature adjusted, his warmth soothed her frost-nipped skin. 

The sudden comfort paired with that familiar voice was enough to pull her back into fleeting consciousness for a moment. Confused as she was, she still recognized her favorite big brother. 

"T- Touya-nii?" 

"Yeah," he exhaled, "It's me, I've got you."

Why had she been alone? Where were their siblings? Where was their father? 

An all too familiar anger grabbed onto Touya at the thought of him. Of course their father would be stupid enough to leave her alone like this. Enji was too preoccupied with Kaiya's twin to keep an eye on her, which clearly had put her in danger. She may have been the baby of the family, but when it came down to it, Touya knew that she was just as disregarded as he was. 

No, Touya couldn't waste time dwelling on that. He couldn't get distracted, he had to focus on the injured little girl in his arms. She was clearly out of it, and he wasn't sure of what might happen if she fully passed out. The thought scared him too much to even consider. 

He cradled her in one of his arms, trying to keep as much of her small body against him as possible. His free hand came to her cheek and he tried his hardest to use his quirk as carefully as he could. If he wanted to stop the frostbite from setting in, he needed to warm her up as quickly as possible, but he knew first hand how unpredictable his own quirk could be. If he could just heat up his hand a little bit without any actual flames, he might be able to do it.

Kaiya found comfort in just his higher than average body temperature. Even without using his quirk, Touya ran hot. Just his standard body warmth was enough to soothe her stinging skin. 

Instinctively, she leaned into his hand as he heated it against her cheek. 

Touya scanned over her, looking for any sign that he was actually helping. The young girl was still shaking, but she'd stopped whimpering. The deep blue cast had disappeared from her features. She seemed to be warming up, but she was still fading in and out of consciousness. 

A few moments passed in silence. Kaiya wasn't fully awake again, and Touya wasn't about to put her down when she was in that state. 

He was painfully aware of that silence. There were so many times he'd been annoyed by the noise his siblings made, but now he'd give anything for there to be any sound at all to distract him from the worried thoughts pounding in his head. 

What was he supposed to do? What if she had hypothermia? What if he hadn't found her in time? Why wasn't she waking up yet? Where the hell was their father?

He couldn't help but come back to that lingering question. This was Enji's fault, after all; he was supposed to be home with Kaiya and Shouto. Though, since Shouto didn't seem to be here either, Touya could make an educated guess as to what their father was preoccupied with. 

No matter what was happening at home, Enji never gave a shit unless it was about work or training. Touya wasn't surprised that their father was prioritizing Shouto over Kaiya, but to leave such a young child alone was a new low, even for him. 

Touya closed his eyes too. He could feel tears weighing on his lashes, and he refused to let them fall. He had to be able to handle this. He was supposed to be the big brave brother, confident and in control of scary situations like this- even if he was only 13. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice; if he couldn’t take care of her, who would? Enji sure as hell wouldn’t. 

Kaiya's eyes finally flickered open, her hazy gaze focusing upwards to her brother. Confusion crossed over her features as she saw his expression. She hadn’t seen Touya cry many times. She’d seen him angry, of course, but she wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him sad.

 "To.. Touya?" She croaked out, "What happened?" 

His own eyes snapped open at her words. She was awake; he’d actually been able to help her.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing, kid," he let out a weak laugh, "Looks like your quirk did a number on you. You okay?" 

She squirmed a bit in his arms in an attempt to shift closer. "Cold.."

The ice in her hair had started to melt, in turn, dripping cold water onto her clothes and skin. Her white hair stuck flat against her face, and a smattering of bruises and scrapes had begun to emerge from her skin. Clearly she was still hurt, but Touya would be lying if he said he wasn't relieved. Even looking as rough as she did now, she looked so much better than she had just fifteen minutes ago. As long as she was conscious and responsive, he could handle drying her off and bandaging her up.

"I bet," he exhaled. "Let's get you a towel, alright? It's okay now, I've got you."

She nodded in response. Touya may have felt out of character being so gentle, but he found an odd sense of familiarity in his sister. He saw himself in her. While she was physically his antithesis, she had a lot in common with him as well, and that terrified him. 

He recognized the fear in her eyes when her quirk got out of hand, he recognized the way she would silently clean up her own injuries. He recognized that, even at the young age of 4, she was starting to withdraw into herself. 

It made Touya sick to his stomach, both from the memories it stirred in him and from the concern he held for her. No child should have to fend for themselves like that; he knew that first hand. 

Touya may have felt out of character being so gentle, but he knew what it was like to be alone. In a world so focused on flashy quirks and a faulty hero system, he knew how it felt to be written off when you don’t fit a certain mold. 

Touya knew that outcasts have to stick together. As an outcast himself, He would just have to stick with the only other outcast he knew- his favorite younger sister.

[heamatic-aaa]

Name 5 cuties that u recommend and love

Only 5??? That’s so hard because honestly my entire follow list is cuties asbgw But I will try to limit myself to 5 for you nonnie, otherwise we might be here all day XD

@heartrip​

Han is, honestly, such an amazing person and writer? She’s chuckful of talent and I feel like there’s nothing she can’t undertake. Her writing is so good, like, strikingly good, so much so I felt a bit intimidated when we first met XD. Her take on Kano is just... incredible! Her headcanons and drabbles always blow me away – they’re so well thought out and always give Kano more meat to his story: I’m excited whenever I see something new from her pop up on the dash. Not only is her writing and take on her muse TOP NOTCH, but her edits, codes, and art are just breathtaking ;w; She’s so easy to talk to, and is a right sweetheart. Even if you don’t know much about Mortal Kombat, I highly recommend! You will NOT be disappointed, that’s a promise!

@kldblodiige / @fatalistyc​

I have known Sofi for years at this point and never has she failed to impress me. Sofi is kind, funny, and has the kind of drive I wish I could muster lol There is not a muse she cannot undertake, from Frost to Hanzo and more. Her writing is beautiful and poetic, and the fact English is not her first language is enough to make my jaw drop. Her take on each of her muse is unique and well thought out – her drabbles are just as amazing and always keep me on edge. The way she breathes life into every single muse she possesses is breathtaking and so inspiring! Also her art is just wooooow! I loooove seeing new art from her always! In short: I love Sofi sm kthx! Go folloooowww

@frozenbreath / @tsumaa / @cageness / @ledeuill​

Nassy is like… holy shit, whenever I see her on my dash, whenever I see her writing, it’s like I’ve been struck in the gut but in a good way. Her writing is so freakin’ GOOD? I won’t lie, I was a little intimidated at first, but the truth is, Nassy’s a sweetheart and a half! Her take on her muses is unique and so fun! Her narrative is to die for. I love seeing her threads on my dash sm, as well as her beautiful edits. No matter the muse, she understands the assignment and I’m here for it! Do yourself a favor and follow this gem!

@umbrclflame

James is one of my favorite humans okay! As soon as we began chatting, we just clicked and it felt like we’d known each other for years. He’s a joy, a beautiful soul, and an amazing friend. His writing is breathtaking, like hot DAMN. His take on every muse they undertake is wonderful, fun, and all out amazing regardless of the fandom he partakes in at that time. He is SO passionate about his muses, it’s honestly inspiring. Every drabble, every reply, is a blessing. His imagination just knows no bounds and every plot is fun and engaging. EVERLASTING TALENT. Go follow, you will not regret it!

@akari-kiyama​

I could speak about Jasmine and Akari for HOURS! Where do I even begin?? Jasmine is such a sweetheart and beautiful soul, and her passion for her muse is incredible. We met a while back and I just had such a vibrant, soft vibe from her as soon as we began talking. Akari is one of the best OC’s I’ve come across: she’s thoroughly imaginative and unique. I love her soft nature all the while being badass when necessary. I love her backstory, and her connection to my muses is wonderful. Legit they’re all pinning so hard for her lol Jasmine’s writing is also beautiful and soothing, and getting a reply from her is like Christmas every time. Honestly, do yourself a favor and follow this diamond!

Bonus because I can’t only mention 5:  @sanguisfulgur @monstcrmade @hisoki-sato  @asunas-embers @fiery-assassin @kxmbat-veterxn @bastardsunlight @fallesto @gamitai @axrsinal

[cozy-the-overlord]

oof you reblogged that ask from me and I can't remember when I reblogged it lol. Okay, would you ever write a drabble or a one shot about Teki and Loki when they're adults? Or maybe would you write about Loki finding out he's a frost Giant and being afraid how Teki would react to it? I still can't get over Dances and Daggers

Lmao I had it in my drafts forever because I wanted to do it but I didn’t have time at the moment. I think it was the week when *that* chapter of Dances went up 😂

I would totally be down to write either one of those things. Everyone’s probably sick of me saying “iN mY oRiGiNaL dRaFt,” but in my original draft, Loki’s heritage was actually a big part of the story and I’d love to explore that more. It would also be really cool to write them as adults, because I started planning this story picturing them as adults, but now I’m so used to seeing them as kids that the concept seems weird.

Tangentially related, but there’s a commenter on Ao3 who really wants me to write the backstory with Áslaug and Steinn and how all of that nonsense played out from Áslaug’s perspective, and while I don’t know if I’d ever have time to do that, I love the idea of it.

Writer’s Would You Ever

[askjenetiakrole]

Saturnine Liveblog

//Hey, someone at BL remembered Jen exists! She has POV passages! You’re my hero, Dan. So I’m gonna liveblog all the Jen parts of The Horus Heresy: Siege of Terra: Saturnine by Dan Abnett. Everything will be below Read Mores and tagged Saturnine Liveblog. Spoilers!

Part One, Chapter Three

Jen knows how to make an entrance. When she enters the room, candles flicker and a couple go out. She walks straight past a Space Marine and a Custodian without them noticing her. We knew she was hard to see properly from The Master of Mankind, but she’s bordering on invisible here, even to Dorn. “They barely see me. They try. Even with their immortal senses, they struggle.”

Her null-aura is powerful enough to block out Malcador, which we’ve previously seen require dozens of “normal” Silent Sisters. I would very much like to see how the Emperor is affected. Not much, I suspect.

We finally get some backstory which confirms/supports several of my headcanons (links to relevant drabbles/posts/tags):

Jen is from Albia

She refers to her younger self as “the hollow girl”, which is my tag for young Jen

Constantin was the one who brought Jen to the Emperor

Jen is old af. She was at the Battle of the Red Frost, making her older than every Space Marine, the Primarchs, and all but 30 Custodians.

Jen was involved in the Wars of Succession (which may or may not be what I’ve called the Albian Wars of Succession), Compliance 9-13 and the Cataclysm of Pentacanaes, and Skagan (the first deployment of the Ordo Sinister)

Jen knows every Custodian’s full name. Bearing in mind Constantin has 1,932, this is as impressive as it is pointless. “I know him well, too; I know all the Custodians” is an interesting constrast to “no-one could claim that degree of familiarity with Commander Krole” from Ra’s POV in The Master of Mankind.

Of course, it’s not all fun facts in the grim darkness of the far future. I tried to save her, but, alas, Melpomanei is dead. Abnett, you monster. It’s implied to the point of certainty that Jen will die in this book, too. I can’t say I’m surprised, I just hope she goes out with style.

[enderphoenix11]

I want to read fanfiction/stories of my OCs but I don't want to actually write them.

The main thing that stops me from writing is either motivation or the border between an outline/notes and real actual sentences.

But with this summer and quarantine, I guess now is a good time to learn. I think I'll try an write some drabbles/stories and post them here.

About the OCs, I guess, the main ones I'm currently in the mood to write about are my WoW ocs. As for characters/pairings, we got:

Dawn (fury warrior) and Basil (hunter, can do melee or ranged), my worgen/werewolf mercenary combo. Dawn's a bit of a tsundere/kuudere and is not great with her emotions that aren't anger (especially being vunerable with people). Basil, on the otherhand, is more calm and cautious. He been able to get to know her and coax her to open up a little during the couple months they've been travelling together. (Trope: Little bit of mutual betterment and opening up about your trauma, oh and a little bit of mutual pining)

Shar and Sevis are my Illidari (demonhunters) partners in crime. Shar is quite silly and excitable compared to her job and Sevis is just as likely to crack a joke alongside her. They are bestfriends and are legally required to duet Partner in Crime by Set it Off if one of them starts singing it. Eventually though, they start to develop more than platonic feelings for each other. Mutual pinning and "I don't want to ruin our friendship" angst ensues! I'm sure with some serious nudging support from friends, they can come clean and work it out. (oh and they both also have some traumatic/sad backstory stuff they could disccuss. Trope: Friends to Lovers, mutual pining, these dorks probably share two braincells)

Luniia (frost mage) isn't really part of a pairing yet (or at least one I haven't kind of reconned), so she's more here for the group dynamic and communal activities. She's very calm and patient, and will try to help her friends should turmoil arise (physical or relationship). Also, she's quite a good cook.

If any of y'all got any otp prompts or a silly scenario, I'd love to hear them.

[lumonceo]

for the drabble requests how steve and bucky celebrate steve’s first birthday after they reunite

:) this was fun thank youuuu

“Hey,” Bucky says suddenly, looking up mid-spaghetti bite, “what are we doing for your birthday?”

It’s a week before the day in question. Right now, they’re sitting down at the counter eating buttery, cheesy pasta that they’ve just cooked, before they’re going to surf On Demand for a corny movie that will make them forget that in ten days, the trial will begin.

Steve swallows his bite and rolls his eyes. “We don’t need to do anything for my birthday, Buck.” 

Bucky frowns. “Of course we do.”

“Baby, we’ve got enough to think about,” Steve says, which is true. The strain that Bucky is putting on himself to get up every morning after restless, nightmare-plagued sleep and go to cross examination prep and read whatever appalling headlines about hil the tabloids are putting out for sweeteners from Alexander Pierce is unimaginable. “We can order in and watch a movie, for all I care. That’s actually, like, my ideal night.”

Bucky cocks his head. “Stevie,” he says, “c’mon. We haven’t celebrated your birthday in four years.”

Steve sighs and reaches over for Bucky’s hand, because sometimes the physical reminder that he’s there is a privilege Steve won’t pass up. “You up to dinner with Sam and Nat?”

Bucky perks up a little, satisfied. “Yeah! Of course.”

Steve leans in and pecks him on the lips. “Alright. We can go out for sushi, or something.” Bucky smiles and squeezes his hands. “Hey, don’t worry about presents or anything, alright?”

Bucky’s face falls, creases between his eyes deepening. “Um,” he beings, and swallows. “I wanna—obviously, I want to give you presents. Just… Just… I feel weird, uh, buying you stuff with your money.” He looks up, cheeks red, mouth pulled into a worried little line.

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Baby. Everything is yours too, you know. This house, this money, this.” He gestures to himself, and Bucky huffs out a laugh. “Buck, I promise. I—If you don’t buy me gifts ‘cause it’s a stressful time and I really don’t need them, by all means. But—But don’t worry about money, okay? Like I said, and will continue to say, everything is yours, love.” Bucky nods, put at ease, but not entirely convinced. Steve squeezes his hand. “I promise, Buck. Seriously.” Bucky nods again, a little stronger. Steve kisses his thumb and adds, “You’re the only thing I want.”

Bucky giggles. The only acceptable gift, Steve decides, is that sounds, bottled up and soaking every inch of his life. He kisses Bucky’s nose, just so he’ll laugh again.

***

One week later, Steve wakes up alone, which is rare and slightly worrisome. He gets up and stretches and heads out to look for Bucky, and stops when he gets to the kitchen and sees Bucky, hair pulled up, leaning over the stove.

Bucky turns to him, and Steve’s heart flips itself over with emotion; Bucky’s holding a plate, eggs fried to quivering perfection and golden toast with soft butter cooling on top and pancakes stacked perfectly up like Bucky has prepared them for a magazine photo. Steve looks at it, then looks at Bucky, eyes bright, face hopeful, and he can’t find the words to express Bucky’s impossible reality so he moves in and kisses his lips, light and chaste. When he pulls back, Bucky’s blushing.

“I was gonna bring it to you,” Bucky says, biting his lip. 

“Want me to get back in bed?” Steve teases. Bucky laughs and shakes his head. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” Bucky lifts the plate up. “Happy birthday, baby.”

Steve kisses him once more and they sit. The breakfast is delicious, of course, and in the living room, Bucky has stacked up a pile of boxes perfectly wrapped in silver. Steve watches Bucky, his cheeks colored, lips pursed against smiling too hard, and wishes moments of this much happiness could be preserved, the vividness of this joy filed away to be relived later.

Bucky got him gifts anyway, because of course he did, and he watches Steve unwrap them with endearing pride—bright yellow flowers, some tee shirts, new running shoes that Steve had mentioned needing, an engraved easel. Steve finishes unwrapping them and turns to Bucky to thank him and kiss him and generally cherish his existence, and Bucky is pursing his lips.

“I—I also, um, wrote you something. Just… one sec.” He stands and leaves the room briefly and when he returns, hands shaking, he holds out a piece of paper. “Just a little… just a poem, um, it might be—”

Steve squeezes his hands, and he stops talking. Then Steve takes it from him.

When he reads what Bucky’s written, words so lovely in an order so deeply special and so Bucky, Steve’s breath catches. He reads it twice more, then looks up. Bucky’s cheeks are crimson.

Steve stands and kisses him, then his forehead, then both his cheeks, until he’s smiling. “You,” Steve says, “are the loveliest, most brilliant, most astonishing person I’ve ever met in my life.”

The red in Bucky’s cheeks deepens, but he looks mildly delighted. He tilts his chin up and kisses Steve, syrupy and slow. Time could end now, Steve thinks, and he would be crystalized in perfect contentment.

They have a picnic in Central Park for lunch, warm breeze keeping unbearable New York heat at bay as they sip lemonade and lean against each other even though it puts them at closer risk for overheating. Around them, families have begun to gather to see fireworks tonight, and they watch people lazily, flicking their heads in the directions of interesting looking ones and making up backstories to make each other laugh. 

“You’re getting old,” Bucky tells him, shifting so he can kiss Steve’s jaw. Steve snorts.

“I’m a year and a half older than you, jerk.”

Bucky pretends to think this over. “Hm. You seem older.”

Steve fake scowls, too flooded in adoration to come up with a proper dig in response. Giggling, Bucky settles back against his chest.

They stay there for a few hours until dinner; instead of going out, they order sushi and Bucky insists on stringing up paper streamers, making Steve stand on tiptoes to reach the highest crevices of the ceiling and kissing him in thanks. Sam and Natasha and Peggy and Wanda come, thrilled to see them even in the midst of this crisis, giftbags strung over their wrists and enveloping them in hugs. They eat around the coffee table, causally sprawled out over the living room floor, until Steve’s chest is tight from laughing. Bucky, leaned against his chest, gives him a small squeeze on the wrist, gentle and meaningless, a reminder that he’s there.

When he blows the candles out on the cake Bucky made and is rather proud of, he wishes for Bucky to win the case next week. Bucky is watching him closely, face rosy in the tangerine candle light and then fuzzy in the dark again, and Steve grins at him and leans in to kiss him, clumsily, the faint smell of birthday candle smoke sweeping over them.

He opens gifts from his friends and thanks them profusely; even Wanda brings him a sweater. It starts to rain later that evening, warm summer mist that forces them inside from the balcony, laughing. He gets them cabs home and hugs them, and when it’s just him and Bucky again, washing frosting off of dishes and laughing at nothing and occasionally kissing, a giddiness that hasn’t come over them in weeks. Steve wraps both arms around Bucky’s waist and Bucky pushes onto his toes and buries his face in Steve’s neck and they hold each other so tight that when Bucky starts to lose balance, they both sway. Bucky is here. Sometimes it still sweeps over Steve and makes him feel weightless with fortune, his body quivering with it, like the moment a plane lifts off the ground and leaves you momentarily breathless and motionless.

They take showers and get into bed. Steve can see Bucky growing anxious, hands moving worriedly to smooth his shirt down, eyebrows knitted a fraction closer, and he knows Bucky’s waiting to see if Steve expects anything. Swallowing the nausea that elicits, Steve gives him a soft, soft smile and holds his arms open, and Bucky lays against him. 

“Hey,” Steve says, “today was perfect. Thank you, baby.” He kisses Bucky’s forehead. Against the window, warm rain taps insistently above them.

Bucky sighs, some of the tension in his body uncoiling itself. “I’m glad,” he says. Steve moves his hand in figure eights over Bucky’s back, feeling him ease further against him, the familiar slopes and curves of his body comforting against Steve’s. “Happy birthday, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, “I love you so much.”

“Love you too, baby,” Steve says, smiling against his hair. When sleep sweeps over him, Bucky already passed out on his chest, their fingers woven together, he’s perfectly settled, the world gentle and sugar spun, the threats small and flimsy and unimportant.

[ysalamiri-queen]

2019 Fic in Review

Inspired by @myevilmouse I’m going to sum up all the writing I’ve been up to the past year. I’m really proud of what I’ve accomplished, and thanks to you all for the encouragement to put my ideas out into the world! This has been a year of trying new things, and really growing as an author I feel… And wow according to AO3 I’ve written about 400k words in the past 12 months, damn. So let’s get to the list, going from the beginning of the year to the end, and as always please heed the tags on these before reading.

Note: As I go back, I’m realizing a lot of the links were messed up or are just straight missing. I am on the Mobile App so things can get messy. Please visit my works page on AO3 HERE to see all of these on my page under JessKo and my other pseuds.

1 Late Night at the Slab

Idea: Filling a prompt for the Thryce server in which some, uh, unique Chiss anatomy was assigned.

Result: A 3-way with Thrawn, Arihnda, and Eli and my first foray into the more Xeno side of things in a Modern AU setting. Yeehaw!

2 The Trouble With Free-Roaming Ysalamiri

Idea: Based on some adorable ysalamiri cuddles art by @strength-through-order I wanted to write some Thranto fluff.

Result: Ysalamiri-filled Thranto fluff X’D

3 Inquisitor’s Debt

Idea: What if the Grand Inquisitor changed sides at the end of Rebels season 1?

Result: Some fun throwbacks with Obi-Wan and Caleb Dume leading up to Quizzy defecting with Ezra.

4 Ancient Stems

Idea: Eli Week drabbles based on the Vanto Week prompts.

Result: A silly buzz droid narrative with Thrawn and some cute slice of life Eli backstory/Ascendancy days bits.

5 Charnsuka

Idea: Kinky stuff with Lord Garmadon when he’s an Anacondrai.

Result: Kinky stuff with Lord Garmadon when he’s an Anacondrai. Sorry Zane!

6 Caged Like Prized Birds

Idea: Again inspired by the awesome Chiss anatomy and Thrux drawings by @strength-through-order , I wanted to craft a narrative around Armitage, as a young man, stumbling upon a clone of Thrawn.

Result: Man, this might just be one of my favorite things I’ve ever written, had so much fun plotting it out and the smut is mmm! Tentacles everywhere~ I’ve gone back to re-read this a lot, I’ll admit it. I hope you all enjoyed it too.

7 Quiet On Set

Idea: Must. Write. Talos.

Result: A cute little platonic x-reader with everyone’s favorite Skrull. This was my first MCU fic too.

8 Diagnostic

Idea: Wanted to apologize to Zane for the damages done in Charnsuka with some Glacier shipping fluff.

Result: A silly glacier thing leading to a bit of foolery. I’m happy with it!

9 Heron Soaring

Idea: A continuation of the plot line from Heron Rising with Kanan and Thrawn.

Result: Too many feels… but some great sex to soften the blow, Kanera too!

10 Patron

Idea: Responding to a tumblr prompt from @wukeskywalker regarding Thrawn commissioning LOADS of artworks of Eli.

Result: More Thranto fluff! I see a trend here…

11 Black Heron

Idea: Kanan x Pryce for @myevilmouse , I think this was our first ‘collaboration’ on something!

Result: Juahir hires a special someone to show Arihnda a good time!

12 Red Heron

Idea: @star-wars-rebels-4 is always an amazing wealth of ideas for Grand Inquisitor, and encouraged a work featuring him and Kanan.

Result: Delicious back alley smut when an undercover Jedi is caught!

13 Warm Homecoming

Idea: Give my and a friend's OCs some cute fluff.

Result: OC fluff and a vacation to Hoth!

14 sowing the seeds

Idea: Add something cute to the spank war project.

Result: Another contender for my ‘favorite thing I’ve ever written’ rank. Two chapters of pining, cooking lessons, and sweet slick smut.

15 Red Frost

Idea: After watching “The Evil of Frankenstein” with @sneakybunyip ‘s amazing movie night group, I wanted to do something fun with Victor and Hans.

Result: A fun little adventure fic with some huddling for warmth to boot. Victor and Hans are the hammer-horror-verse Thranto send tweet.

16 a setting sun to hide the ruins

Idea: What if I tortured Kanan to the point he turned evil and joined the Inquisitors (and went a little insane in the process)

Result: Instead of torture, let’s just use some serum that drives him mad. Perfect. Smut ahoy, pretty much a dead dove type fic.

17 Pinktown

Idea: When browsing abandoned towns in Florida, I came across Flamingo… what if Thrawn had been exiled here instead.

Result: An alternate history of Thrawn’s exile and eventual discovery by the Empire. Huge thanks for @badgerandk on this one for the perfect epilogue and beta.

18 the sun rises to only illuminate the stranger i have become

Idea: Setting sun… part 2! But it’s actually what happens before sun?

Result: How Kanan ended up where he is for ‘a setting sun’... lots of imp smut and again, it's sort of a dead dove style fic.

19 Frozen Over

Idea: Ar’alani x Eli Vanto

Result: Somehow me and my writing partner ended up at sensory deprivation focus on this one.

20 Shape of Honor

Idea: Well, this one started in 2018 but ‘finished’ in 2019. Still working on the epilogue. Lots of tweaks… If you are not familiar, this is my AU in which it explores how the Thrawn novel and Rebels show would be altered if Palpatine distrusted Thrawn from their first meeting and accused him of being a Chiss spy. Vaguely inspired by the film The Shape of Water.

Result: Well it's nearly a novel now, isn’t it. This was a great adventure in learning how to create compelling story arcs. I’m extremely satisfied with how it is shaping (lol) up.

21 Datura Stamonium

Idea: Thrawnbine ovi smut.

Result: Oops it has plot now, a whole backstory with Eli and such and so fourth. Will need further stories told…

22 Desert Entropy

Idea: Luke/Wedge modern AU shenanigans.

Result: Also pulled Nath/Wyl and the Rogue Squad/Alphabet Squad peeps into this. Set in Vegas, Luke and Wedge meet and have a cute little romance, but some legal troubles set them back (Palpatine, as always, is That Bitch™) Very happy ending!

23 The Great Eli and Thrawn Prank War

Idea: See Chapter 1: Mullet Thrawn

Result: This thing really grew up, and thanks to all the contributors for allowing me to join in! My contributions were: 7-Bombs Away! In which a bit of drama brews and Thrawn makes a paint bomb that forces him and Eli back into being roomates. 11-Tooka Troube 2: Electric Boogaloo in which Eli finds his quarters slowly filling up with Tooka plush toys, and then something huge goes off in supply. 17-The Bitch is Back In which who knew Thrawn could sing?!

24 Clipped Wings to Keep Us from Flying

Idea: Continuing the story line from Caged Like Prized Birds

Result: Dragging Eli and the OG Thrawn into this, seeing that their stories were left untold in the first work. Also Armitage and the clone are up to all sorts of cool things. Still a WIP, on the list to keep working on this year!

25 I’ll do what I can.

Idea: Some Ronan/Krennic feels post Treason

Result: A Ronan character study that I really needed to get out of my system and finally a stable alliance between Krennic and Thrawn!

26 Purple Heron

Idea: @punk--kenobi and I concocted some fun Kanan/Zeb/Hera smut featuring Lasat heat cycles.

Result: Ah this came out so cool, full of emotion and wonderful imagery. Massive kudos to @punk--kenobi for beta-ing my portion and contributing some of the best smut one can find!

27 Ninjago Angst Week 2019

Idea: Do some 1-shots for Ninjago Angst Week

Result: ow right in the feels. Each character got a highlight in their own ‘dark retelling of a canon or canon adjacent event’ chapter.

28 Vertigo

Idea: Thing’s don’t go right planetside for Eli, Pik, and Waffle in Treason.

Result: Big oof. I hope Eli can one day forgive me… I even put strain on the end game Thranto! Bittersweet ending and lots of angst.

29 More Than Just a Treat

Idea: What is Obi Wan up to in the desert…

Result: Aunt Beau and baby Luke baked him cookies obviously!

30 Datura Metel

Idea: Continuing the Datura cycle…

Result: Just how Eli ended up where he did in the first installation.

31 Here & Now

Idea: Some Thranto Fluff! For @jewelliffer

Result: A camping trip for shore leave! And a marriage proposal for extra sugar.

32 Monster Under the Bed

Idea: Benevolent Boogeyman Chiss

Result: Modern AU Thranto spooky sillies. Bit of an intense climax but they talk it out!

33 Haunted by Sentiment

Idea: Nath is in denial of being the Squad Dad for @glassprowlers

Result: Nath’s very bad no good oh so terrible day! It's very silly and I really like how it ended up, the title is way more serious than the story itself XD

34 Pulse

Idea: Werewolf AU Lavashipping

Result: Oops Kai is a werewolf! Good thing Cole is here to help him figure out how to press on.

35 Stories from Area 51

Idea: remember the raid Area 51 meme? I do! Gotta clap them alien cheeks!

Result: Oh no it got PLOTTY! Pretty much all of my favorite characters and ships cherry-picked and plopped down into a Men In Black style facility in the middle of the desert. I really have a thing for the desert huh…

36 Good Day

Idea: The “truth” behind the “Good day, Lieutenant Vanto” from Thrawn in Treason.

Result: Oh stars the FEELS! Thrawn is in deep water and he KNOWS IT! GAH!

37 Fur Ball

Idea: Chiss are mogwai/gremlins…

Result: Silly Thranto fluff. Thrass shows up too! Feeding them after midnight is actually a good idea here… Grow your own ideal man!

38 Came Back Haunted

Idea: A mission fic centered around the @peters-pumpkin-day prompts.

Result: Ice planet survival with Tarkin, Krennic, Galen, and Ronan.

39 Sewn Together

Idea: This drawing actually is what lead to the fic-

Result: A fairly unique reuniting of Thrawn and Eli after both return to the Ascendancy.

40 Spiked Heron

Idea: Oh no… Kanan gets himself in deep poodoo this time.

Result: Devaronians really like humans huh? The next chapter is half way written I swear it is coming soon!

41 A Colder Embrace

Idea: Thrawn/Purrgil/Ezra and Luke/Wampa for SW Rare Pairs.

Result: It's very cold on Hoth… and even colder in space.

42 Surround

Idea: Luke/Wedge for SW Rare Pairs

Result: Luke has to confront Wedge post ESB regarding what is, essentially, his deserting the Rebels.

43 What Happens Planetside…

Idea: Eli/Pik/Waffle for SW Rare Pairs

Result: heheh a scrumptious Eli sandwich! And surprise tentacles because, well, why not?

44 Hesperidium

Idea: Fluffy Kylux for the Kylux Secret Santa event

Result: Ah its so sweet you might get a cavity

45 Reanimator

Idea: Lovecraftian eldritch horror Thranto

Result: This is the sort of project that it takes 2 months to fine tune each chapter, so bear with me, but I can promise a wonderful, creepy ride is ahead!

46 Floral

Idea: Luke/Faro for SW Rare Pairs. Enjoy the Jedi lovin’, @myevilmouse

Result: Sex pollen and accidentally defecting from the Empire. Whoops!

47 The Harch

Idea: Bouncing off of THIS art by @mamidlo , we worked together to create this plot. Very much inspired by the Hammer Horror films, such as Dracula and Frankenstein.

Result: A fun and spooky romp of Kallus and Zeb getting trapped in a creepy castle featuring mind controlled drones and a species-obsessed Harch. This was my first time posting the entire story at once, too!

Wow, I can not believe how much has been written this year. Thank you all again for reading and kudos-ing and your amazing comments. I’d not be here without the support and love <3 Cheers to 2020 and much more fic ahead!