#M. Welte & Sons

[leiascully]

Can I request a smutty/angsty prompt? Mulder initiating more sex because he’s secretly having a bit of baby fever which opens a very serious (fight/?)conversation about having another kid. Set anytime after the truth

Here you go. 1500 angsty words; rated M for sexual situations. Trigger warnings for discussions of infertility, pregnancy, medical interventions, PTSD/trauma, etc.

They’re in South Dakota, maybe, in a small dingy motel room on the bad edge of town. But it doesn’t matter, because they’re together. They’re finally out of the car and she’s pushing her hands under the hem of his t-shirt and he’s unbuttoning her jeans and it hasn’t been that long since they made love (days? A week?) but she’s nipping at him like she wants to devour him. Time loses its meaning on the road, and so does space. But they’re here, both of them, and that’s all he cares about.

He kisses her breasts. They’re different than they were before: softer and lower, the shape of them changed. The breasts that nourished his son. He worships them with his mouth and his hands. She makes wanting little sighs and kisses his head. She’s quieter now than she used to be. Less free, maybe. In his apartment, she used to scream her pleasure. It’s not like the neighbors weren’t used to it.

Her nails prick at his skin. She’s grown them long, painted them red. He doesn’t like it much, but it does disguise her. And he likes the feeling of them scratching welts down his back. After everything, maybe he shouldn’t enjoy the pain, but it’s on his terms now.

He lays her out on the bed. The comforter is scratchy and thin under his belly as he wallows between her thighs. She moans and tangles her fingers in his hair. He’s grown it out. She brushes it tenderly off his forehead sometimes, but it’s better when she tugs at it like she’s doing now. He still can’t feel everywhere. Nerve damage from whatever happened to him. But the scratches, the prickling in his scalp, the slightly damp skin of her palm wrapped around his cock: he can feel those things.

She writhes under him, murmuring his name. He slides up her body. Her body is different too. Her belly is softer, rounder, striped with silver where their son stretched her skin.

He wants to have another baby with her. He wants to be there this time, to hold back her hair when she vomits and feel her belly swell under his splayed fingers. He wants to spill himself inside her. The urge is primal, nearly overpowering. His woman, splayed open under him. He loves her incandescently. He wants to fuck her through the cheap bed until her body goes limp with pleasurable exhaustion.

This urge to plow into her, to put his child inside her, terrifies him. The veneer of civilization is already rubbed thin by their transient life. They don’t need a baby with them in the car. But he wants to hear her call out his name, and he wants to lose himself in her body, and he wants to see the look on her face when she realizes they have been granted another miracle.

He prowls up her body to kiss her mouth. She licks the taste of herself from his tongue, greedy for his kisses. She’s in a wild mood. She sucks at his lip, lips at his nipple. He pushes two fingers into her, thumbs at her clit, makes her squirm under him. She gasps. He takes his cock in hand, rubs it between her folds. The slick head of it rests against her entrance. He can feel himself thick and heavy with need.

“Mulder, wait,” she says. “We need a condom.”

“I thought we could do without one,” he says, withdrawing just a little. His shaft slides against her clit and she arches into him automatically.

“I’m out of birth control,” she says. “We can’t.”

“I thought maybe,” he starts to say. “I thought we could try.”

“Try?” She looks up at him, puzzled, and then her eyes widen. She wriggles out from under him and sits on the bed, pulling her knees up and locking her arms around them. “Mulder, no. We can’t.”

“Why not?” He rolls onto his side. “I know it’s not the best idea.”

“Do you have any idea what I went through?” she asks. Her voice is quiet but it trembles. “Mulder, do you have any idea?”

“I know the birth wasn’t what you wanted,” he says, and trails off. Because the truth is that he doesn’t know. He wasn’t there. He knows she knows that. He was gone, and she suffered alone: not just the nausea but the fear. But he suffered too.

“I didn’t know if I would give birth to a child or a monster,” she says. “Was it a miracle, Mulder, or some strange experiment? I love him - I loved him - beyond all reason, but I still can’t answer that question. Every day, I was afraid. I was sick with it. Every minute I carried him in my body, I was afraid for his life and mine. And I was alone.”

“You wouldn’t be alone,” he offers.

“How can you ask me this?” There are tears in her eyes. “How dare you ask me this now?”

“I thought….” He shakes his head in frustration. “It doesn’t matter.”

She’s crying now, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. One hand is pressed to her belly. The other still clutches her knees.

He rolls out of bed. The moment is gone. His cock is already drooping. He drags on his underwear and a pair of shorts, finds his t-shirt. His socks and sneakers were discarded on the floor in a more hopeful moment. He picks them up and puts them on again.

“Going for a run,” he says, as if it matters what he says, and then he’s out the door.

It’s hot. The air shimmers above the road, and there’s nowhere to run but the shoulder. He starts too fast, relishing the way the air burns in his lungs. He doesn’t have the stamina he used to, but fuck if he’s limping back early. She needs her space. So does he. There’s a chasm between them he’ll never be able to bridge with words. He might have done it with his body if he hadn’t been so rash.

It takes two. But his yearning doesn’t stack up against her avulsion. He remembers the toll the IVF took on her. She can’t learn that William’s conception can’t be replicated outside of a lab. He understands that. She can’t lie on her back with her legs up, stare at a pregnancy test that refuses to reveal the results she wants, track her cycle. He remembers the shots and the mood swings. He remembers the way disappointment crushed her. He remembers the way her back ached the last month of her pregnancy, how she couldn’t sleep.

But god, he wants a child. He wants a family, with her. He wants their child. William.

Leaving felt like erasing their tracks. It felt like starting over. For a moment, he let himself be overwhelmed with the potential of it. Now he plods down the road, legs heavy, and begins to understand the nerve he’s touched. He’s angry, and he’s aching, and he’s mourning the peace they might have known. But she’s aching too, and furious, and guilty, and ashamed.

There’s a hole in their hearts where their family might have been. He can’t fill it. Instead, he runs away, across the baking plains. He runs until he’s tired and then he turns around.

The door is unlocked when he gets back to the motel. Not safe, not their protocol, but he left the key with her. He’s sweaty and covered in dust. He stinks. He’s exhausted. The room is dark when he enters. He looks for her in the bed. She isn’t there. For a moment, panic shoots through him. But the car was in the parking lot - he leaned against it to stretch.

As his eyes adjust to the dim, he realizes she’s curled up in the armchair farthest from the door, her feet tucked up under her. Her lashes are stuck together from crying. Her sleep looks uneasy but deep. His heart breaks a little at the sight of her. It hurts, too, to know he hurt her, and it hurts to feel his own pain unacknowledged. But the ties that bind them have been snarled and knotted for years. He knows the bite of that rope as well as he knows his own heartbeat.

He slides the comforter from the bed and tucks it around her. She murmurs in her sleep but doesn’t stir. The air conditioner rattles and hisses. The air in the room is icy as the blood in his veins. He gazes down at her. She’s made herself so small. That’s his fault. That hurts. Another cut to add to his thousand. Death has already come for him and spit him back up. Now he’s a walking wound, and so is she. He forgets that sometimes, or tries to. It didn’t work this time.

She hasn’t woken by the time he’s finished his shower. He should go find them some dinner, but he’s weary to the bone. He slides into the lumpy bed alone and pulls the thin sheet over himself. It’s cold, but he’s been cold before. He knows the lonely chill of the grave. It’s unwelcome, but so familiar he’s almost comforted. The sheet is a shroud. The room closes them in, a coffin for two, suffocated by the once-fertile earth of their dreams.

[neuvistar]

HONKAI STAR RAIL MEN AS FATHERS! pt two.

— featuring ┊luocha, welt, sampo koski x fem!reader (all separate)

— warnings / content warnings ┊hsr men as fathers pt 2 !! mostly fluff, not proofread, mentions of pregnancy i think?? i forgot, them being absolute sweethearts, DILFS DILFS DILFS! overall just fluff | pt one here. (jing yuan, blade, dan heng, gepard) pt three. (aventurine, dr ratio, argenti, sunday, boothill, gallagher)

— a/n ┊PART TWO OF THE HSR PAPAS!!! luocha n jing yuan prettiest dilfs i’ve ever seen foreal no one can convince me otherwise!

best papa #1 luocha

— LUOCHA would be a loving doting father, i feel like he’d have two boys and one girl (jesus christ) and his two boys would look exactly like him, long blonde hair n same features aaahh ALSO HIS LITTLE PRINCESS WOULD HAVE HER DADDY’S EYES IM CALLIN IT RN! in conclusion his kids would look majestic just like their papa ! when he had his first child he probably shed a tear or two, holding him carefully in his arms :(( he’s a natural dad like jing yuan, it’s like he immediately knew what to do and was a natural at everything! by the time his third child was born he got the hang of taking care of his kids <33

— LUOCHA who’s children got injuries sm as kids n he was always there to aid them <3 during games he would participate in, there would probably be a time where one of them got hurt ATLEAST once, like his son falling over one time n luocha hastily walking over to him and picking him up from the ground + he’s the type to kiss their booboos once he helped disinfect it, putting a bandaid wherever they got injured and kiss it better :(( his children r so lucky to have a father who has good medical skills foreals crying emoji + it’s not only for this, he’s always willing to nurse them back to health!

“does that feel better?”

“m—mhm..” his son nodded, wrapping his small arms around him, sobbing quietly against his neck

“there there, no need to cry my angel. daddy already kissed your boo-boo, you’ll be alright.”

— LUOCHA who would take such good care of his children whenever they were sick, he was a natural at this due to his awesome amazing medical skills! he knew exactly what to do and what to give them, he’s such a caring father it’s insane it’s fun cuz y’all don’t even have 2 go to the doctor to check what’s wrong with your kids, luocha would know what’s going on! a fever? a cold? he knows! and he’s always nursing them back to health like i said !

— LUOCHA who would teach his children about medicine, i feel like all three of his children would have different dreams they wanted to pursue but i feel like his daughter would be interested in medicine just like he is, he found it adorable how she would play with her dolls and pretend to be their doctor, it’s so adorable to see his kids pursuing different dreams and him supporting every single one of them, he’s so chill hearts emoji

— LUOCHA would try his best to be there for his kids. because he’s a merchant, he tries his best not to be absent and wants to be there in their lives :(( he wants to see his kids grow up, y’know??? he loves them sm, and he loves YOUUU <3 i bet he takes his kids out from time to time so he could make new memories with them they could carry with them for the rest of their lives, he knows life is short, yes. that’s why he’s trying to live his life to the fullest with his family, he knows one day he won’t always be there to scoop them back up from the ground to aid their injuries :((

best papa #2 welt

— WELT would be a great father, he’s a lil strict on some ends but he’s not SEVERELY strict, i think he’ll have two sons (maybe a daughter too who knows) he made a promise to himself he’ll protect his two kids until the end of time :(( his sons would have their daddy’s eyes, and some features of him too! but they mostly look like their mommy sososweet

“look, they have daddy’s eyes.”

“do they?”

“mhmmm.. look at him, he looks just like you”

(his heart is slowly starting to melt as u speak)

— WELT who would give one of the best hugs, i feel like he’s that type of dad who’s serious like half of the time but whenever he’s with his family or spending time with his sons, he’s always willing 2 show a smile or two, but back onto it! he gives the best hugs, his favourite thing to do is hug his sons and kiss the temple of their foreheads before he goes out, he may be serious and a lil strict.. but he loves his sons just as much as he loves anything else, behind that strictness he rlly does love a good hug from his sons

— WELT who would bring his wife and kids along to the astral express, it’s so cute bc imagine seeing two pudgy wudgy little babies crawling around, i bet himeko would unofficially be their godmother too LMFAO <33 when they grow into toddlers, his sons would love bothering him at work, climbing on his leg and climbing on his desk, he doesn’t mind it it’s acc so surprising how he manages to keep a straight face! and when he wants to calm them down, he just sets both of them on his lap

“settle down. let papa finish this, okay?” he would pick them up, his sons giggling as they help him work along the way (😭😭😭)

— WELT who works at the astral express a lot so he doesn’t see his kids much :(( but he always comes home to you and them with gifts and souvenirs from other worlds! his kids would always run to him and hug his leg, welt scooping them up with a smile on his face ;; AAAA SO SO SO CUTE!

“papa! papa papaaaa!”

“did you miss me?” the two boys ran to their dad, hugging his leg as welt picked them up from the floor squeezing them into a hug “i got a few things for you both.”

“what is it what is it?!”

“i want to see, papa!”

“alright alright, settle down now. it’s a surprise, you’ll have to behave and guess first.”

— WELT who would give his sons advice on how to be better people, his advice is always so firm and straightforward.. he wants them to be gentlemen, he wants them to be the best they can be! he would teach them exactly how 2 be gentlemen, he would raise his sons to be one of the most respectful and kindest ppl ever <33 when they mature and shape into those kind of ppl one day, sometimes he looks back to when he was still able to carry them around like it was nothing :(( he knows his children r growing up and deep down inside he doesn’t want them to, he truly does love and cherish his sons, he’s so glad he was able to shape his sons into good ppl just like he wanted <33

best papa #3 sampo

— SAMPO is one of the most fun and uplifting dads out of everyone, i’m calling it rn he’s a girl dad n has a daughter, i’m calling that rn! he’s such a fun dad to have, like having him as a dad means everyday is never boring, he always makes everything fun! (u cant tell me that he doesn’t love making dad jokes during dinner in the dinner table, he absolutely loves making them it’s so funny)

— SAMPO who would let his daughter do anything with him, oh she wants to play dress up? he’s putting on a dress that can barely fit him rn! she wants to have tea with her plushies? he’s already setting up the tables, she wants to put makeup on his face and nail polish on his nails? he’ll let her! he’s such a fun girl dad, always willing 2 do what his daughter wants to do :((

“stay still, daddy! i’ll mess up if you keep moving around!” his daughter would pout, holding her mommy’s makeup in her tiny little hands

“sorry princess, the brush is ticklish. gotta’ be more gentle with me, yeah? you’re grabbin’ and brushin’ at my face too roughly” he chuckled, patting her back

“sorry daddy, i just want to make you look pretty! now, still please!” she’s so sassy just like he is, but he loves her sm!

— SAMPO would be such a dumbass. first things first, he has this issue with losing his daughter from time to time at amusement parks or places in general, always finding her crying alone and having to scoop her up in his arms apologizing and showering her with kissies + second he can’t even help her with her homework from school because he “doesn’t remember doing this” he would be complaining more than her! skull emoji it would always be HER teaching him instead of HIM teaching her LMFAOO

“why’re there s’many numbers here, angel?! this is what you learn everyday?”

“do you seriously not know how to do this?” you raised a brow.

“ you can’t blame me! i ain’t ever got good grades, can’t even remember how to calculate nine times ten!”

“you’re lying.”

“.. yeah i am. but there’s so much numbers, babe! look! this is what our princess has to deal with!”

— SAMPO who would show off his daughter to everyone, bragging about her accomplishments and bragging about how lucky he is to be her father, he’s so stupid it’s hilarious he absolutely loves his little princess sm !! he never shuts up abt how much he loves her and how proud he is w how far she’s come in life, he’s just thankful to have a family that’s all :(( he’s such a sweetheart he’s always so proud and supportive hashtag girl dad

— SAMPO who probably has social media accounts dedicated to his whole family, his wife and his little angel <33 he would absolutely love posting pictures of his family all together + his family in general, his phone would be filled with videos of his daughter from loooong ago, showing her the video and teasing her about it! he almost never deletes pictures of his daughter and you from his phone, he cherishes his family sm n it absolutely shows, always vlogging from time to time n documenting his life w you and his princess <33 HES SO ADORABLE IT HURTS MY HEART ALMOST

[bitterchocoo]

Now, welcome to the theater!

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Bungou Stray Dogs/Gaiden

Armed Detective Agency

Osamu Dazai - Falling Behind

Ranpo Edogawa - Coffee

Osamu Dazai - A Seraphim or.. | M. Reader as Sunday [Honkai Star Rail]

Port Mafia

Special Division for Unusual Powers

The Guild

Decay of Angel

Fyodor Dostoevsky - God-ish

Hunting Dogs

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Honkai Star Rail

Astral Express

Dan Heng . Imbibitor Lunae - The Never Ending Rain | M. Reader as Neuvillette [Genshin Impact]

Dan Heng . Imbibitor Lunae - I Hate/Love You

Welt Yang - Love Me, Love Me, Love Me!

Part Two : The Other "You"

Part Three : Yes, Your Excellency

Caelus - General Headcanon | M. Reader as Alastor [Hazbin Hotel]

Dan Heng - Extreme Weather | M. Reader as Neuvillette [Genshin Impact]

Dan Heng - Night Terrors | M. Reader as Xiao [Genshin Impact]

Dan Heng - The Past Defines You | M. Reader as Wanderer [Genshin Impact]

Herta Space Station

Jarilo VI - Belobog

Xianzhou Luofu

Jing Yuan - Everything Stays

Jing Yuan - A Blessing or a Curse? | M. Reader as Baizhu [Genshin Impact]

Jing Yuan - Golden Hour | Reincarnation AU

High-Cloud Quintet Troubles | M. Reader as Xianyun [Genshin Impact] (Platonic)

Penacony

Sunday - Charm You Later~ | M. Reader as Satoru Gojo [Jujutsu Kaisen]

Gallagher - The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide | M. Reader as Wriothesley [Genshin Impact]

Sunday - Like Father Like Son | M. Reader as his child (Platonic)

Others

Blade - Shanti

Argenti - Beauty in All

Dr. Ratio - A Waste of Talent | M. Reader as X [Reverse: 1999]

Dr. Ratio - Sweet Dreams | M. Reader as Layla [Genshin Impact]

Aventurine - Kilmer | Child M. Reader (Platonic)

Part 2 - Shama | Child M. Reader (Platonic)

Aventurine - Lucky Bunny! | M. Reader as Yaoyao [Genshin Impact] (Platonic)

Dr. Ratio - Well Deserved Rest | M. Reader as Medicine Pocket [Reverse: 1999]

Aventurine - Once Upon a Dream | M. Reader as Malleus Draconia [Twisted Wonderland]

Boothill - Absolute | M. Reader as the Absolute Solver [Murder Drones]

Dr. Veritas Ratio - The Prodigy of an Outcast | M. Reader as Middle school Rui Kamishiro [Project SEKAI] (Platonic)

Boothill - The Water is Fine | M. Reader as Arlecchino [Genshin Impact] (Platonic)

Dr. Veritas Ratio - Hitchcock | Gender Neutral Reader (Platonic)

Dr. Veritas Ratio - The Logical Man and the Religious Man | M. Reader as Fyodor Dostoyevsky [Bungou Stray Dogs]

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Zenless Zone Zero

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Wuthering Waves

Jinzhou

Black Shores

The Fractsidus

Scar - A Red Herring | M. Reader as Sparkle [Honkai Star Rail]

Others

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Reverse: 1999

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Genshin Impact

Mondstadt

Liyue

Xiao - The High Elder | M. Reader as Imbibitor Lunae [Honkai Star Rail] [Platonic]

Inazuma

Kabukimono - Homage | M. Reader as C!Philza [Minecraft] (Platonic)

Sumeru

Wanderer - I Remember You | M. Reader as Ice King [Adventure Time] (Platonic)

Fontaine

Wriothesley - Who is He..?

Lyney - Mortals and Fools

Neuvillette - It's Punishment Time!!

Others

Alice in Wonderland | M. Reader

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Twisted Wonderland

Heartslabyul

Savanaclaw

Savanaclaw Characters - Another Lion? | M. Reader as Lingyang [Wuthering Waves] (Platonic)

Octavinelle

Scarabia

Pomefiore

Ignihyde

Ignihyde characters - The Game is On! | M. Reader as Sherlock Holmes [BBC]

Diasomnia

Others

Yuu and Grim - Stray | M. Reader as a Professor (Platonic)

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Moriarty the Patriot

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Project Sekai

More More Jump!

Leo/Need

Vivid Bad Squad

Akito Shinonome - General Headcanon | General Neutral Reader

Wonderland X Showtime

Rui Kamishiro - The Lonely Alchemist

Wonderland X Showtime - It Only Takes a Taste

Nightcord 25

[severedfromthesource]

Heart of the Forge

Part 1| Part 2| Part 3

With Adam in cardiac arrest, Tav scrambles to revive him before the Pennydurren loses power. And before the choice is taken out of his hands.

Original concept by @emptycalories-splitlip . Features M resus, M rescuer, CPR, mouth to mouth, intubation, open heart massage.

In the other cars, the lights had been going haywire. Brightening to terribly hot globes on the walls and ceiling, flickering, going dark and then reigniting with the Forge’s heart struggling to maintain him. The entire Pennydurren knew something was wrong. No one knew more acutely than the seamstress in the upper cars garment manufacturing. There was a great shudder running through the train and the sewing machines went silent for the first time that day.

She stared at the needle buried in cloth and folded her hands over her mouth. She knew better than anyone what that meant. “No,” she whispered, tears springing up before she could even register she was crying. “No, my baby…” The backup generators kicked in and once more the machines came to life and the lights popped back on, but it brought her no relief.

Adam’s heart had stopped. Her son was dying.

—

There was a moment, holding up Adam’s limp head with his shoulder, that Tav couldn’t comprehend what had happened. His brain short circuited. He held him there for- too long. Entirely too long. He couldn’t take a breath. What air remained in his lungs left his mouth in short huffs, his eyes wide and fixed on some inconsequential spot on the floor. He couldn’t look at his charge. He couldn’t begin to understand, or maybe accept the truth, that his Forge’s heart had just stopped.

He was dead weight in his arms. The seizure had faced, replaced with an earth shattering stillness. His hands shook where they had been braced against the larger man’s back. Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, Marsh’s deep timbre was shouting. He realized, feeling something warm slip from his eyelash, that the ringing was the EKG. He’d flatlined. And Marsh was grabbing his shoulder hard enough to hurt.

“Gustav!” He bellowed. “Sit him back!” Why? He wondered at those words, He’s dead. I can at least hold him like this, I can feel his warmth until it’s not there anymore. I- Marsh slapped him hard across the face. Now his ear really was ringing, but only on the left side, a high pitched whine where he’d been struck. His cheek stung, reddened and almost immediately beginning to swell with an angry, hand shaped welt. Any harder and he might have knocked him unconscious. It was enough.

Tav was shoved back into his body and he moved, laying Adam back against the metal throne. Immediately the engineer tipped Adam’s head back into one of his large hands, supporting his neck as he forced air into his body. Adam was big, but Marsh had been working his whole life with machinery weighing twice as much as himself, and he looked like it. Even just pinching his nose for artificial respirations, he covered half of the Forge’s face so his slack mouth was the only thing really visible.

Tav scooted back as far as he dared on his charge’s lap, stacking his hands in the middle of his slick chest. He felt the air welling in his lungs once more, then he started compressing his chest. “One and two and three and four, five, six-“

The light was dimming in Adam’s chest. He tried not to turn back into a stunned bystander, forcing himself to focus instead on the rhythm of CPR and the depth. But even that was hard. Focus was impossible. Not when his fingers bent over Adam’s ribs as he pumped his heart manually. Not when his Forge’s arms swung limply off the arm rests of the chair.

He heard the hollow whoosh when he reached thirty and Marsh filled Adam’s lungs. Tav glanced over at the monitor, seeing the flatline making a comet trail over the display. He once more beat his hands against his sternum and the straight line was broken up by sharp, irregular peaks. It was comforting, as much as anything was comforting right now, to watch the line on the monitor. It was picture proof that he was doing something good. He was actually making his heart beat, and not just fracturing his bones needlessly.

A voice crackled over his comm watch, “Gustav? Gustav, what’s going on?” Father Shep. He ran the entire operation, the Pennydurren’s conductor and king and named protector. The one who had tethered Adam to the engine with ropes and cables. Tav swallowed and managed to huff, “Adam is in cardiac arrest. I’m trying to resuscitate him as we speak.”

“Damn it all.” There was movement on the other end before he continued, “We caught your little viper. He confessed to everything. They used some kind of poisonous mushroom powder from the back cars, distilled a cardiotoxin.” Tav nearly collapsed. He reached a count of thirty again and rested his hand over Adam’s heart as Marsh filled his lungs.

“I’m still waiting on the medic,” he ground out as he took up his task again, forcing his sternum inward.

“I had him diverted,” said Shep.

Tav’s stomach bottomed out. “You… what? Why? I need help here, I’m not a-“ “He’s preparing the next Forge candidate for surgery. The auxiliary power will just barely last two hours, the surgery and instillation of a Forge take a little longer. We’ve never had such short notice of replacement.”

Replacement. The strength nearly went out of Tav’s arms. They were going to let him die. Worse, they were asking his Keeper to let him die. “Sir, I can… I can bring him back, he’s only been in arrest a few minutes-“ “This isn’t a stroke or heart attack, or something we can treat. Even if he recovers, his heart will be considerably weakened. He’s of no use.” Tav felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.

Marsh stared down at him, holding Adam’s head up. Both had paused their efforts to revive him. Something clicked nearby and a panel slid open on the wall. An emergency measure he had only been briefed on his first day. Scalpels, bone saws, and other surgical equipment gleamed behind the glass case, upon which read IN CASE OF EMERGENCY in red block letters. “Go ahead and call him, Gustav,” said Father Shep. “Then retrieve his spark so it can be implanted in the replacement Forge. If we do this right, we should have just enough time before the backup generators go out.”

Tav was shaking. His hands trembled on Adam’s pectoral, his skin cooling under his palm. They weren’t just asking him to let him die. They were asking him to cut him open and peel away the thing that made him special. The device affixed to his left ventricle and glowing dimly now behind his sternum, the thing that had made him a Forge in the first place, and made Tav his Keeper. Marsh had stopped giving him breaths and looked on with an expression of pity.

“I can bring him back,” he rasped lamely, “I can save him. Just let me save him…” “You have your orders. It’s already underway, if you hesitate then you are risking the lives of everyone else on this train. We’re already losing power to the diving bells outside. Do as I’ve asked you, Gustav.”

He looked to the silver instruments, pristine in their glass case, and his own heart hammered painfully in his chest. Butchery. They wanted him to cut open the only person who had ever given a damn about him, who smiled when he smiled and laughed at his stupid jokes. He looked up at the engineer, pleading with his eyes without knowing it. Marsh shook his head, gingerly adjusting Adam’s head so it rested against the back of the chair. His throat made a limp arch and his eyes were closed. He looked small and ordinary.

Tav made a decision. “Get him to the floor,” he muttered, as much on his back as you can manage.” “Should we disconnect him?” “Not yet. Just lay him down.” It took them both to lay him in a heap on the floor. He was partially angled as the cables lifted one of his shoulders a bit off the floor, so he couldn’t lay flat. Tav settled back onto his knees beside him. He interlocked his fingers and began forcefully pounding on his chest again.

Marsh looked at him with wide eyes. “Lad? What’re you doing?” But it was obvious. Tav wasn’t giving up. “I can save him,” he said, his eyes never straying from Adam’s face. “Keep breathing for him.” “Lad,” Marsh said low and sympathetically, like he was trying to explain death to a small child, “We have to get the engine running again. We can’t waste time.”

“He is not some piece of machinery you can just replace when it malfunctions,” Tav snapped, “He’s not useless. Or a waste of time. Fucks sake, he’s a human being!” He threw his weight behind each thrust, forcing Adam’s chest to cave and rocking his body. His impassioned plea made it obvious that Adam was more than a human being to him. He had been his one constant since they were children. He’d protected the Pennydurren since he was a teenager, and Tav had protected him. “I’m not just gonna let him go,” he whispered in hoarse, aching defiance.

Marsh watched him for at least two cycles of CPR. Tav rocked against his chest, Adam’s shoulders shrugging inward with each compression. He pulled open his jaw, making a seal against his pale lips, and blew down his throat. The Keeper had started hyperventilating from adrenaline and exertion by the second round of breaths, and spit bubbled up at the corner of his mouth as he blew. Shiny strings of saliva connected their lips as he drew away to plunge once more against his unmoving heart.

The engineer moved to the other side and gingerly shouldered him out of the way. “Focus on giving him air,” he said in a gruff murmur, locking his hands between the Forge’s nipples. He had a lot more muscle to throw behind each pummeling thrust, and Adam’s entire body shook with them. His head danced back against the floor, his hand, angled against the cables, thumped quietly at his side. Tav did as he asked and focusing on giving him air. “…Twenty-eight- twenty-nine, thirty, breathe.” He breathed for him. The cycle began again, “One, two, three, four…”

In between rescue breaths, he sat on his knees, bent over his charge. He kept a hand on his cheek, panting, his forehead pressed against the other man’s. “Come on,” he whispered to him, “Come on, kid… Take a breath, just breathe… Breathe-“

It had been ten minutes since his heart seized and went still. The light between his ribs was nothing but a faint ember now, and his deep skin was waxy and colorless. Tav kissed his temple, clutched his face. “Anything,” he whispered, “Anything, Adam… just give me something. Tell me you’re not gone…” They beat his chest. They shocked him, the current making him jolt like a puppet shaken by its strings. His heart wouldn’t move. It didn’t budge under the efforts of both men to get him back.

“I have a courier headed your way now,” Father Shep suddenly announced over the comm watch, making them both jump. Tav, for one, had forgotten utterly that he was waiting for them to deliver Adam’s life on a platter. “I trust you’ve got it in hand?”

He didn’t say anything. He looked over at the surgical tools on the far wall, his thumb stroking Adam’s cheek. “Gustav? Do you copy? Have you got-“ He clicked it off. Maybe they’d throw him off the nearest platform for this, but none of that mattered half so much as getting the Forge back.

He went and retrieved the surgical equipment. Gloves, laryngoscopes, intubation tubes, rib spreaders, saws. He laid a few implements he might need on the tray and ferried them over. Adam had been without a pulse for nearly twenty minutes. He’d been without artificial pulse for a little over one. Tav knelt beside him. “Hold compressions.” Marsh warily eyed the surgical tools but obliged and leaned back in his heels.

“You know how to intubate someone?” “My brother’s one of the medics, I seen him do it a few times.” “Good,” said Tav, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He set the ventilation device between them. “Intubate him.”

Marsh huffed, but grabbed the silver laryngoscope blade and slid it over Adam’s tongue. He fed the intubation tube down his throat and kept it in place with a endotracheal tube holder looped around his cheeks and the back of his head. Then he switched on the little portable ventilator Tav had brought over and it hummed as it worked, the accordion like squeezer in the glass tube rising and falling with a seesaw rhythm to his chest now. When it expanded, his chest fell, and when it squeezed down towards the bottom, his chest rose.

Tav liberally slathered iodine over the curve of Adam’s ribs, where they were slightly elevated against the wiring. It dripped in lazy amber rivulets, staining his skin as it went. Then he snatched up a scalpel and slid it over the hollow between two ribs. He kept the incision open with the spreader clamp, wide enough that meat and muscle were visible through the wound.

More importantly, wide enough to slide a gloved hand into Adam’s chest cavity.

His fingers probed blindly through the walls of his organs and ribs until he touched something hard and metal. The spark. Its light was mostly dead by now, but with the open wound, some of its soft orange glow spilled out in weak beams of light. Tav peeked at the outside of his sternum. He could see the shadow of his hand as it closed around the organ in the center of his chest. He felt the rubbery texture of compact muscle even through the gloves he wore, and the disconcerting sensation of his lungs expanding and shuddering with the ventilator, like jellyfish brushing up against his fingers.

He cradled Adam’s heart in his hand. It was bigger than he anticipated, athletic from the years training the cardiac muscle to their peak. Tav swallowed back a sob and a laugh at the same time. He really did have the biggest heart of anyone he knew. He would make it beat again, no matter what it took. He should have felt some kind of nausea or panic at performing a surgery he had little knowledge of, but a cold calm had settled instead.

He worked his thumb in against a ventricle. His fingers made a soft cradle around the organ and he slowly began to massage it, unsure, somewhat timid strokes at first, until finally he worked himself into a steady rhythm. His other hand he braced against Adam’s sternum, watching the shadow play reflected there. He could see the contour of his hand coaxing the silent organ, pumping and squeezing life back into it. And life was going back into it.

The light was beginning to grow hotter, the shapes more distinct in his chest as Tav worked his fingers around the dense muscle. “Come on,” he urged again, “Beat… beat already…” As if hearing his command, there was a brief quiver. The light grew hot for a moment and then dimmed into the dim half light again. Tav resituated himself up on his knees and pat Adam’s chest with his free hand. “I felt that, there we go! Cmon, Adam, gimme another.”

He did. The chambers swelled into his palm and a ripple of movement ran up into his fingertips. The monitor showed a blip, then another, then went still again. He massaged his thumb against it, squeezing it into the space between his thumb and palm. It ballooned and swelled up against him and he loosened his hold, allowing it to fill and empty a few times as he held it. It stuttered and he gingerly soothed it. It beat erratically and he held it still. He could have wept if he had any energy to give to anything but this moment. Adam was trying so hard, even lying there, motionless, looking dead.

Marsh’s attention darted between the grief stricken young man and the moving shadows under Adam’s skin. Tav lowered himself over the unconscious man, wrapping his free arm around his shoulder and half embracing him. He couldn’t hug him fully, but he wanted to so badly. “Come back,” he whispered, lips grazing his arm as he folded himself over the Forge. “Please…”

His heart thumped hard against Tav’s palm. His fingers stilled as he cupped the center of his entire being. It took a moment but it beat again, flexing between his fingers. The ventilator hissing was the only sound in the room, and he felt it expand inside him, again brushing the tips of his fingers. And again his heart moved against him, the chambers sluggishly moving as if remembering how. He brushed his thumb one last time over the left ventricle, as if trying to offer it comfort. You can do it, he told it with touch alone, You can beat again. Then it did.

Tav sat, staring at the strong light cast from the spark in Adam’s sternum. He could see more clearly now the silhouette of his hand, the light shining between his fingers as, for a few moments, he could only marvel at the feeling of his heart coming back to life. Once he was sure it was well and truly beating on its own, he slid his hand from the incision and for a brief second could only sit, stunned, blood up to his forearm. He’d never imagined a world where he failed, yet by the same token he never imagined a world where he’d succeeded either. Torn between a million different reactions, he leaned his forehead down against Adam’s shoulder and wept.

—

The engine room was filled with the quiet hum of machinery when Adam finally started to stir. He suck in a deep breath and his eyes fluttered open. He was in his cot. His limbs felt heavy, they barely obeyed his command as he stretched out his arms and legs, then winced as the motion pulled at something in his ribs. He reached up and pressed blindly at the bandages looped around his chest.

He had no idea how close he’d come to dying, though he had the sense something serious had happened. He remembered air being short in his lungs. The uneven thrum of his heart as it struggled to beat, the air forced in his lungs and the defibrillator on his chest. Then it was all black. In my vague shapes and feelings. He dreamed, and wasn’t entirely sure it was a dream, that Tav had held him and kissed him over and over again. Something had punched him in the chest, then as if in apology, had stroked him there instead. He dreamed of a snake going head first down his throat and constricting his heart.

He became aware in the dark of a warm shape at his side. He looked over and made out a familiar silhouette. His inner spark was the only nightlight he really had, and its light bounced off Tav’s face. He looked exhausted. The cot was barely big enough for Adam’s large frame, and somehow the Keeper had managed to squeeze himself into the space between the Forge and the wall, sleeping there deeply. Deep enough he didn’t stir as Adam touched his cheek.

He would never know the terror he felt. He was unconscious when Father Shep arrived himself and looked for any excuse to declare Adam a lost cause, even when they’d turned the engine back on and his heart had been as strong as ever. Tav would never tell him the full story of those long minutes of death.

But nuzzled against him now, Adam didn’t think of any of that. He slid his arms around the smaller man, ignoring the twinges of pain here and there, and drew him in close. All he knew was that somehow, his Keeper had saved him. Tav hummed in his sleep and nuzzled up against the wall of warm muscle he was dimly aware of. His ear pressed to his Forge’s heart and he sighed, content.

The terror had passed.

[dalliansss]

The child flinches at Finwë’s sudden, vehement tone and starts to cry. Finwë hastily backtracks, though his own infamous temper is beginning to build. “Wait, no… Findekáno, I am not angry at you. I promise. I’m not angry at you. Who did this to you?”

The child is crying ugly now, all tears and snot. “M-m-my t-tutor on—on— l-lo-re….!” He hiccups. Babbles about how so much reading gives him a hard time and the tutor gets annoyed because he can’t memorize things quickly enough, and he fidgets on his seat a lot and then he gets given a rap on both hands. 

Finwë is so, so furious that the king goes pale with it. He wipes Findekáno’s tears, kisses them away, and takes out a little vial of balm from his pocket. He asks Findekáno to show him his hands, and softly rubs it there. Both hands, on the knuckles, have two pink welts on them. “I will have a little talk with this tutor,” Finwë says. He tries for his tone to be gentle but he is in such a rage that his familiar smile is pinched. “I will have a little talk with your Atar. You won't see this tutor again, Findekáno.”

“Haru, haru– please no,” the child begs, still crying. “Atya and Ammë will get angry at me, they will not give me dinner—!”

“No, no, no,” Finwë says. He cups Finno’s cheeks and kisses his tears away. “They won’t be angry, I promise. I promise it to you. Findekáno, if something like this happens to you again you need to tell me or tell your Atar and Ammë, alright? They won’t be angry at you.”

“Atya angry if m slow,” Finno has reverted to slight baby talk as he is truly distressed. “Atta says—says I have to—learn lot— cousins—Maitimo—!

Finwë curses between his teeth. He will grab Nolofinwë by the ear, he swears. He hugs Finno, hoists him up. “You are learning a lot, Findekáno, and you are not your cousins. It is ridiculous. You are doing very well. I will talk to Atar, he won’t be angry.”

[a son's trust / AO3]

[fangruninsimp]

Missing Scenes/Canon Compliant fics

i picture it, soft, and i ache by miyawaki (Rin/Venka, 194)

They were more like two drowning people clinging to each other.

But still, how could she ever know warmth again were Rin to be taken from her?

i got down on my knees and i pretend to pray by Losing_dog (Rin/Nezha, T, 465)

On the day the remnants of opium left Rins body, she did not feel victorious.

the altar is my hips by agnes_writes (Rin/Nezha, E, 3.3k)

It became a game to Rin. A way to feel the same rush that calling her flames once gave her, the power to raze the world to the ground and leave the world trembling with fear or slack-jawed with awe. But she couldn’t do that, so she settled with just Nezha, instead.

i'll show you the way to hurt by memiyawaki (orphan_account) (Chaghan/Altan, 149)

chaghan doesn't fear altan, or his fire.

if i had one night by lemonpepperxx (Rin/Nezha, E, 7.9k)

A soft knock sounded at the door. It was so quiet that at first Rin thought it might have been someone accidentally brushing against her door on their way down the hall. But no – there, a shadow below the bottom edge of the wood. The almost-silent creak of the floors as someone shifted their weight between feet.

She threw the door open with enough force to make the person on the other side jump back, dark eyes widening.

“Nezha?”

“Rin.” He spoke her name quickly, in one breath.

calculated morality by RoryMarx (AuroraKant) (Kitay&Nezha, T, 3.2k)

Nezha learned a lot of things about Kitay in the three weeks he was their prisoner.

He learned that Kitay had nightmares so frequently he barely slept. He learned that Kitay had helped Rin think of some of her more gruesome schemes, and he learned that Kitay might dream of astronomy and mathematics, but that he no longer believed that that future was possible.

They either won or they lost.

OR: The Poppy Wars from Nezha's point of view, focusing on his relationship with Kitay.

Venka by just_a_donut_who_reads (Venka&Original Female Character, G, 2.2k)

Venka's last-ditch attempt to escape an arranged marriage to the son of a Sinegardian aristocrat, as told by one of the attendants at the Sring Estate.

Or, what if Venka's story was more similar to Rin's than we thought?

so long nice to know you i'll be moving on by clairesredfield (Venka, M, 3.3k)

She carried so much fire with her. It would be strange thing indeed for her to leave without setting others aflame. — or; the way they saw her.

far too sacred by livid (Rin/Nezha, E, 5.4k)

He didn’t look triumphant or leering. He looked tired, but content. He was clearly working himself to the bone, but he was well fed and rested. And, equally obviously, well fucked. He was covered in bites and bruises and welts where nails - her nails? - had raked him, layered lurid over translucent skin.

She felt her cheeks heat, and he noticed. Then he did leer.

Tridents and Opportunity by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 1.2k)

"Challenge sparked in her eyes. Walking to the rack of weapons, she unsheathed a practice sword with a worn leather grip. Its edge gleamed like silver as she swung it around in precise, practiced motions before bringing it down to ready position."

Or: If Rin was going to be obstinate about using Altan's trident, Nezha might as well teach her how to wield it before she killed herself.

Knots by TheStarToSteerBy (Rin/Nezha, E, 597)

Quick breathing; anticipatory of a touch, a kiss. His heartbeat pounding like war drums in his ears. He loves her. Of this, he is certain.

Trial by Fire by aalgorithm (Chaghan/Altan, 6.1k)

i want to find you / tear out all of your tenderness

turned into your worst fears by nothing_more_than_hot_leef_juice (Vaisra/Tsolin, G, 1k)

'The Yin family had always looked so wonderful. They made the perfect picture raised above the waves.'

A short and slightly angsty exploration of Nezha's life and his relationship to his family and Rin.

New Beginnings by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 943)

"You call yourself a Sinegard-trained soldier?" Altan's voice had sunk to barely more than a whisper, and it was worse than if he was shouting. She wished he were shouting. Anything would be better than this cold evisceration.

Someone To You by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin&Kitay, M, 1.8k)

The arc of Rin and Kitay's relationship from Kitay's point of view. Some rumination, some arson, and a friendship to last a hundred lifetimes.

Fear and Trust by Booksandanimepls (Chaghan/Altan, T, 1.1k)

Pretty much what the tags said. “She realized Chaghan felt this fear often. She realized Chaghan probably enjoyed it.” Yeah a continuation of that scene but from Chaghan’s POV.

my hollow flesh by haminastu (Jinzha&Su Daji, M, 726) *read the tags!*

Yin Jinzha's last moments before he dies.

still water to my wildest thirst by volantium (Rin/Nezha, E, 3.6k)

The thing about Rin was that she had never been a good person.

Nezha knows this. He always has. Yet still he watches her fall apart beneath his hands with something akin to reverence.

He simply doesn't care.

Just Ask Me To Stop And I Will by DizzyKinesin (Kitay, M, 1.6k)

Rin is out and about doing her girlbossing and murdering while Kitay gets to hang out and relax with Venka (not).

lay me down in ash by mousmoula (Chaghan/Altan, G, 4.7k)

He was already standing on the edge, toeing over the very thin line between admiration and love. If he miscalculated, if he crossed that line, it'd be nothing but a pitiful fall, and he’d be nothing but a woeful ruin.

or, r.f. kuang said that "[altan] took chaghan out into the valleys for three days" and then proceeded to never talk about it again, so i wrote 4.7k words to cope because i'm extremely normal

Summer by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Kitay, G, double drabble)

One-shot of Rin's time with Kitay in his summer estate, AKA one of the few times everyone was actually happy <3

Don't Stop by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, T, drabble)

Rin and Nezha make out. Need I say more?

gods, I hate him by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 244)

Rin hates Nezha. So fucking much.

Or so she thinks, anyway.

Do We Dare To Dream? by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 550)

Aftermath of Rin and Nezha's reunion after she returns from being bonded to Kitay. No plot, just fluff.

went looking for a creation myth (ended up with a pair of cracked lips) by sagittariusmoon (Rin/Nezha, G, 580)

"She’s the only divine thing he’s ever believed in."

Nezha's inner turmoils, and the ways Rin alleviated them and made them worse.

distance to empty by tidesong (Trifecta, E, 7.2k)

The question was never about when it started. It was about when it had ended.

-

Daji and Ziya and Riga, in rises and falls.

Ink, Battle Strategies And History Classes by writingangstyshit (Rin/Nezha, T, 1.5k)

Rin was like fire. Wild and unrestrained. And Nezha hated her. Hated that he loved her. And it was naive to think his love would save them. Their love, forbidden, desperate, and tragic until the end. Because while Rin was like fire in a dry forest, he was like the unforgiving ocean.

altan's sword by fangrunins (Rin&Kitay, G, 1.3k)

Rin's struggling with a new disability. She hates struggling. And for Kitay, watching Rin struggle is worse than any other kind of pain.

Xin'ai by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 1k)

It's another night on the Seagrim (one of the few places where Rin knew peace ;-;) and Rin and Nezha converse in the moonlight.

tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us by loserlovernerd (Rin&Kitay, M, 1.7k)

Chapter 34 of The Burning God from Kitay's POV: his thoughts in the moments leading up to and during his death.

"When he had earlier uttered the words, 'you’re hurting me,' did she realize she had been hurting him all along?"

starry eyes sparking up my darkest night by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, M, 2.6k)

Rin wakes up shaking in her bed on the Seagrim, reeling from the horrors of the Third Poppy war without opium to dull the pain.

She find comfort in an unlikely source: Nezha.

she's so small. by fangrunins (Rin&Kitay, 808)

she's so small, kitay thinks, as he watches rin sleep. she's so much more fragile than she seems.

she's just one girl, one girl who burns more brightly than anything else in the world. how much longer does she have before she burns out?

and if you're on fire, i'll be made of ashes, too by qirongbae (Rin&Kitay, T, 4.4k)

Could she really bid farewell to the safety of him, to the certainty of a soul that steadied hers, that carried Rin through the nightmares and the torment of the Phoenix?

Could Rin continue to inflict pain on his body and mind, over and over and over?

he was a soldier (and he was a boy) by CaineGreyson (Ramsa&Cike, 534)

a study of ramsa and his relationships with the rest of the cike.

major spoilers for TDR, proceed with caution.

you had to kill me (but it killed you just the same) by qirongbae (Rin/Nezha, T, 2.4k)

“It was supposed to be different,” Nezha’s hand reached out to her. He wanted to touch, to hug her and cry and wail until everything disappeared, but he couldn’t bring himself to kneel at her side. His legs remained rooted in place, cursed waves lapping gently at his feet. “I—we were supposed to be different.”

Rin by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 394)

The first time Rin and Nezha see each other after Sinegard. Sparks fly.

Can be read on its own, or as part of the series :)

Two Truths, One Lie by just_a_donut_who_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 1.3k)

Rin and Nezha play Two Truths, One Lie on guard duty. Things that were left unsaid come to light.

humanity by paldogangsaan (Rin&Kitay, T, 2.8k)

Gods are incapable of loving humans. Maybe shamans are too.

i know i am never right by tellmeyoursecrets (Rin/Nezha, 729)

The only constant in Rin's life had been fear.

But then, she became angry. So much that until the day she died, it completely eclipsed the fear she had held so deeply in her heart.

Desperate Plans by Jenosavel (Kitay, M, 7.3k)

Kitay always had a plan. He's never needed one more than now.

A retelling of The Dragon Republic chapters 35-37 from Kitay's perspective. Heavy spoilers for said chapters.

forever the name on my lips by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, T, 3.3k)

just like our last kiss

rewriting scenes and missing scenes from the dragon republic and the burning god but make it lovers to enemies

writing letters addressed to the fire by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, G, 1k)

letters Nezha writes throughout the burning god. all of them get delivered to the fire, one way or another.

the devastating ferocity by byeoleil

It was funny, really, that whenever Nezha was with Venka, he was always apologizing.

TDF inspired, a collection of short stories in Venka's POV.

Transient Fires by Illani (unfinished) (Chaghan/Altan, M, 2.8k)

Beginning with their duel for leadership of the Cike and following to the ultimate end of their relationship, exploring their mutual recognition of each other and themselves

it's with hands that are dying by serendipityinwords (Rin/Nezha, G, 334)

One of the notes Nezha leaves for Rin.

(He never means for her to find it; now she never will)

fire extinguisher by chenkitays (Rin&Kitay, G, 1.1k)

Rin needs to defeat the Dragon of Arlong. She also needs a haircut.

1 step forward, 3 steps back by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, T, 2.3k)

Do you love me, want me, hate me boy I don't understand.

the dragon republic missing scenes.

the world split into two by isola13 (Rin&Kitay, T, 1.8k)

Understanding went through Kitay like a shock.

God, how could he be so stupid?

The aftermaths of the dragon republic chapter 35 from Kitay's POV.

your first steps by chenkitays (Jiang&Rin, G, 1.9k)

Jiang is a shit father. but he's sad. and I'm sad. and you're sad. and here you go.

the heart is an arrow by chenkitays (Nezha, G, 1.1k)

He realizes being burned by the sun is worth it if only you get to feel its warmth for a moment.

just a little study of Nezha envying Rin and Kitay's bond.

altan, you aren't ruined by divinegods (Chaghan/Altan, T, 3k)

But Altan Trengsin. (it always starts with but Altan, Chaghan thought.

Altan Trengsin had a god with him. And his power would never cease to amaze, power beyond all imagination and capability. A mortal should not be able to do that, gleam with such intense light it blinded people.)

Secrets On The Wind by CyclonicJet (Rin&Venka, T, 2.2k)

Venka and Rin share a heart to heart during their trek through the freezing Baolei mountains.

three days, one valley, two people who may or may not hate each other very much by MountainsToRivers (Chaghan/Altan, G, 1.1k)

"Trengsin had appeared in the middle of a mission, dropped at the Night Castle by imperial soldiers. The newest recruit of the Cike, and Tyr’s newest project: a man who could summon the Phoenix’s fire, for the first time since the destruction of Speer. A valuable weapon, a cunning tool—and a pain in the ass for Chaghan, who had cowed every member of their brigade into respect. Except him."

for you, I would ruin myself. by isola13 (Rin&Kitay, T, 1.4k)

Fang Runin hated anyone who was better than her.

Then there was Chen Kitay.

voices by chenkitays (Nezha, G, 1.2k)

what happened after Nezha *stabbed* Rin on the sampan

includes excerpt from the drowning faith in italics

take what you want by chenkitays (Rin&Kitay, G, 1.4k)

Chapter 34 of the Burning God rewritten from Kitay's point of view. Why did I do this? I physically don't know but I was in the mood to cause pain today

son of fire by agnes_writes (Altan, T, 1.4k)

Altan Trengsin is an enigma.

The last Speerly. The commander of the Cike. A legend; a mystery.

But more than anything, he was just a boy who burned too bright, and wanted too much.

please, stay. by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, T, 1.5k)

the dragon republic ch19 from Nezha's pov.

“Kill me.”

“I can’t do that.”

Yes you can, he thought. You're the only one who can.

until death do us part by chenkitays (Chaghan&Qara, G, 1.9k)

Five times Qara thought Chaghan was going to die, and the one time Chaghan saw Qara die

anatomy of a firestarter by tidesong (Rin&Kitay, G, 4.3k)

This is what he learns: she has always played to win.

Kitay, Rin, and the spaces between seconds.

let your god rebuild this roof by baihe (droneheads) (Trifecta, T, 5.7k)

what happens, then, when you are much too old to change it, and it is too much to want it? you have burnt yourself quite badly; if there is a difference between the freezing and the burning.

(or, ziya and daji and riga, and how the brightest stars are just burning balls of gas in the clear cold sky, in the end.)

[midnightshade]

Title: Child of Pyrite

↷Synopsis: Being the Heir and having inherited the Projection Technique, many assumed that made Naoya the golden child of the Zen'in. However, in a family that values power above all else, even those at the top are bound to suffer in a loveless home

Series: Jujutsu Kaisen

Rating: M

Word Count: 1'515

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Depictions of Child Abuse

Author's Note: N/A

Masterlist

reblogs and interactions are incredibly appreciated ♥︎

"Please, Father, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I'll be good, I promise! It was an accident, please don't!"

Naoya's desperate cries ring out across the Zen'in Estate as Naobito drags his son by the wrist towards a building near the edge of the Estate, his face set in cold anger. His cries fall on deaf ears, his father refusing to acknowledge a single word of it.

The servants kept their heads down, ignoring the scene unfolding before them to instead focus on their chores, some of them scurrying away to some other part of the Estate to avoid the situation. They parted before the two, and while some threw Naoya a pitiful look, none made any attempt to step in and help him out of fear of being the next victim of Naobito's wrath.

Naoya looked at them with wide, desperate eyes, nearly tripping over himself as his little legs struggled to keep pace with his father's long, stomping strides. His free hand scrabbled pathetically at his father's iron grip, feeling his wrist already beginning to bruise from the force, but the pain didn't even begin to compare to the icy prongs of fear that gripped his heart as the building in the distance drew ever closer.

Tears blur the young Heir's eyes, and he can't even bring himself to feel shame at the show of weakness.

──────

A punch sends Naoya flying across the room and into the wall. Stars explode behind his eyes as he collapses to the floor, unable to will his aching body to move. He shook, his body covered in welts and bruises from another one of his father's brutal training sessions, but even as he heads Naobito grunt in disapproval, he can't get his body to move.

"Is that the best you can do? You'll never master the Projection Technique at this rate," Naobito said, his gruff voice coated in disappointment as he glared down at his son.

Naoya panted, his eyes squeezing shut as he took in his father's words. He told himself today would be the day he'd impress him, but no matter how hard he pushed himself, he just couldn't do it. He couldn't land a single hit on his father.

Tears stung Naoya's eyes, pain giving way to frustration as he sniffled, trying to hold back the dam of emotions. Being the Heir, tears were a sign of weakness that were not tolerated, even at his young age.

Naobito had yet to notice, stepping closer to Naoya as he continued to ridicule him. "Your movements are still too slow and predictable. How do you expect to be the next Head of the Zen'in if you can't even land a single hit? Your brother's could tag me when they were even younger than you."

Naoya's heart sunk into his chest, his lips trembling at his words. His arms moved clumsily to push his battered body up, but that only proved to be a mistake.

Now that Naobito could better see Naoya's face, he could see the tears begging to fall down the young Heir's face. He frowned, lip curling in disappointment. "Are you crying?"

"No!"

Naoya tried to deny it, but his voice cracked pathetically. Being called out only made the tears come faster as a sob wracked his body, causing him to violently wipe at his face, whining in frustration as he couldn't stop the dam from breaking.

"You'll never succeed as a Sorcerer if you're so soft. Crying is a weakness, boy, and weakness isn't good for the Head of the Clan."

Naobito turned to leave without another word, leaving Naoya alone in the training room to fester in his shame. He curled into a ball, tucking himself into the corner of the room to hide as he cried, his face was hot embarrassment as he hoped no one else would find him like this.

──────

Those cruel lessons had been branded onto his mind, his father beating him into shape like stubborn clay, attempting to mold him into his ideal Heir. Naoya couldn't bring himself to care, all logical thought driven from his mind as fear turned him into little more than a feral animal, thrashing and screaming to escape the approaching danger.

Naoya's screams grew in intensity when they finally stood before the Disciplinary Pit, thrashing so wildly in his father's grip that he almost popped his arm out of place. He watched as his father pushed the double doors open and pulled Naoya inside to his doom.

Naoya's ears began to ring loudly, black spots forming at the edges of his vision as his eyes rolled back. His mouth filled with saliva in preparation to empty his stomach, bile liberally coating the back of his throat.

He made one last, pitiful attempt to plead with his father, but it came out a hysterical mess of crying and begging, completely incoherent. Even if Naobito could understand him, it wouldn't make any difference.

Naobito tossed Naoya forward, sending him tumbling down the stairs and into the circular pit. Even while in hysterics, Naoya had enough sense to curl himself into a ball, attempting to minimize the damage before he hit the floor, sprawling across the hard tile.

Despite his efforts, pain exploded behind his eyes, his body screaming in pain as each hard impact with the stone stairs caused bumps and bruises to form, leaving their mark on him and adding to the torment.

"You can stay here until you learn how to act like the Heir," Naobito called, his booming voice echoing around the chamber as he glared down his nose at his son.

The Head of the Zen'in moved to place seals along the edges of the chamber, keeping the Curses from getting too close to Naoya. Punishment or not, he didn't expect a boy Naoya's age to battle against 2nd Grade Curses.

Naoya ignored the pain in his body. The moment he landed, he pushed himself up and scrambled into the center of the circle, curling himself into a tight ball. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets, locked on the grotesque creatures that laid just beyond the boundary.

He couldn't bring himself to answer his father or to even register when he left, too petrified to even look away from the jeering Curses. The distorted creatures paced around the edges of the circle like hungry tigers, their movements jerky and unnatural. The sounds they made, ranging from growling to human-like wailing, carved into Naoya's skull, drowning out the sound of his own sobs.

──────

Naoya laid on the hard tile, his tears having long since run dry. He stared ahead, motionless as he spaced out, disassociating from the situation.

He didn't know how long he'd been there, just waiting for his punishment to be over. He didn't even register when the door opened, and a figure approached him. The Curses hissed loudly, all of them fleeing deeper into the shadows.

Only then did Naoya look up, vision blurring as he struggled to focus.

Naobito stood over him, face stern as ever as he asked, "Have you learned your lesson?"

Naoya blinked at him, his brain hardly processing his words. After several seconds, he nodded slowly, but Naobito only frowned.

"Naoya, I want to hear you say it. Have you learned your lesson?"

Naoya opened and closed his mouth, his tongue feeling too big and uncoordinated. The first thing he thought was just how thirsty he was. Had he been here for several days, or had he simply cried so hard he dehydrated himself?

After several long seconds, he finally managed to croak out a quiet, "Yes, father. . . .I've learned my lesson."

"What did you learn?" Naobito asked expectantly.

"I won't. . ." Naoya's voice faltered as he spoke, forcing him to clear his throat before continuing. "I won't run in the halls anymore, and I won't break another Vase while playing. I promise. . .I promise I'll act as an heir should."

He watched as his father gave a stern nod before reaching down, picking him up off the stone floor. Naoya hung limp in his grasp, having no strength left in him.

"Good. Let's not repeat this lesson."

Naoya only nodded, exhausted both physically and mentally as he leaned into his father's chest. His body ached from injuries received from the older man, but he couldn't help but instinctively search for the warmth and comfort a father should provide. He closed his eyes, being lulled to sleep by the sound of his father's steady heartbeat.

In his dreams, he imagined the one person who had ever shown him genuine kindness and love, the person who had once protected him from the worst of his father's rage. He sat curled up in his mother's lap, listening to her hum a gentle lullaby as her fingers carded through his hair.

Being the Heir may have made him the Golden Child to onlookers, but to the Zen'in who prized strength over all else; where feelings of love and vulnerability and family were deemed as weaknesses, they'd realize that all Naoya amounted to was fool's gold.

[zorkaya-moved]

Dan Heng finally makes it back to the Express, physically alright, but mentally he's perhaps far from being okay. He was quick to give greetings towards the others, but gives pause when he locked eyes with Zarina. It all made sense now. The moment they met.. there was something about her that made him more hesitate. Wary. As if there were aspects about her that felt too familiar and dangerous for comfort. And now...

His gaze empties at the sight of her. He spares her no word, only turning to retreat back to the Archives and collect himself. He catches it, her motherly comfort has been unable to reach him, and all it does is pains his heart further. He would love nothing more than to sit beside her and be fueled by familiarity, but that seems difficult now. He shouldn't, he of all people shouldn't, but he sees a different face on her head.

@etherealguard

The return of the Luofu Xianzhou's legend seems to have shaken up the lives of too many people she has met. March's concerned about Dan Heng were echoing in the cart in addition to Trailablazer's hums and murmurs of admissions. Himeko said he'll be alright, but Sokolova noticed the tension in the woman's body as much as worry in Welt Yang's eyes. They are all concerned: Dan Heng is a part of Nameless, a part of this family. Zarina cannot call herself a part of this family, but she does wish to somehow... be similar to that for Dan Heng, but it seems that Elio's script continues to reign supreme and the connection she makes will strain, hurt by presence and she cannot control.

When Dan Heng looks at her, Sokolova sees it all on his face right then and there. The wall, the denial, the shock, the recognition of something in her he never recognized before. And it stings, it does sting and Zarina remembers how certain people looked at her, her own children from the orphanage upon learning of her nature. Another fate, another path, another similarity she cannot abandon. Somehow, Dan Heng's reaction causes her reached out hand to fall at her side, limp from being struck with such obvious rejection.

Silence hangs on the Astral Express when Dan Heng returns, or maybe it's just in Sokolova's head as she thinks to herself, ignoring all external noise. The legendary Sword Champion Jingliu... Yes, she's seen her, the striking similarity between them is too obvious through how they carry themselves to their abilities to their laid-back yet strained way of speaking. Does Dan Heng no longer see [her] but see [a ghost from the past]? How... saddening.

"M-Miss Zarina? Are you alright?" March asks, looking at the woman who seemingly got frozen to one space. Himeko's worried glance is now on her but Zarina waves it off right away, offering a subtle and soft smile.

"Don't worry, I'm alright. Dan Heng needs to rest, but make sure you visit him if he stays there for longer than a day. Assist him and let him know he's a part of this family, alright, March, Trailblazer?" The woman speaks calmly, but it's obvious she cares. It's not hard to be honest about genuine care. Despite saying what she does, she can see Welt's and Himeko's face in the corner of her eyes, but her attention is on the younger party members. Their determined nods and looks reassure her that Dan Heng won't be left alone. He's such a stubborn young man, after all. But... The empty look, that slightly widened gaze, that stop, that hesitation, that silence. All of stings but she won't show.

It's not the first time she faced rejection or has been seen as someone else. But it still hurts because it's Dan Heng, someone who she treats as her own son, it hurts. The silverette also knows that she cannot approach him, it'll hurt him more. This frigid touch, it always did. Is that how Kevin suffered, unable to be close to those he cared about so deeply?

[inblogstadt]

A TOUTE B-ERZINGUE M-OTOREN W-ERKE !

Mon cher M-in-M m'a invité dans son humble demeure qui n'est autre qu'une chambre chez l'habitant. J'ai eu alors la chance de pouvoir rencontrer la propriétaire des lieux. Elle était très sympathique, et malgré les conditions hivernales, elle n'a pas voulu faillir et est restée une grande citoyenne, elle n'a donc pas allumé le chauffage. La sobriété énergétique avant tout !

Durant ce petit séjour à Munich, nous avons pu, comme de bons élèves, faire un tour au musée BMW. Ce fut un moment tout à fait charmant. Nous avons vu des modèles historiques et iconiques de la marque, ce qui était assez impressionnant à voir de nos propres yeux. J'ai notamment vu de près une petite M1 ma foi à l'allure fort sympathique. Après s'être baladés dans cet immense puit à trésors ( tel que Martin le premier homme moteur cf photo ), nous avons organisé une soirée, avec nos amis et collègues de Martin, a un bowling non loin d'ici. Mes compétences acquises dans le bowling d'Ingolstadt lors de ces parties endiablées m'ont permis de m'imposer lors de la première partie.

Juste après nous sommes partis manger dans un restaurant avec la ferme intention de nous détruire ce qui nous sert de panse et sommes rentrés respectivement chacun chez soi, sauf pour moi qui suivais de près mon a(l)cco(o)lyte.

Cette deuxième nuit fut on ne peut plus réparatrice car mon lit était terriblement confortable et proche du sol à deux doigts de me rappeler une séance de judo avec David Douillet.

Ce jour-là, nous nous sommes repartis pour aller voir toujours plus de véhicules motorisé en tout genre mais nous avons fait un bond dans le temps pour cette visite. En effet, nous sommes donc allés au BMW Welt où nous avons pu apprécier (ou non. Aucun commentaire. ) les derniers véhicules proposés par l'entreprise et ses partenaires.

Fin du week end à vous les studios :)

[draconicfool]

anonymous asked: Talk about- Welt!

"'m...in love with Welt Yang." They mumbled, ears swiveling downward. "More th'n I think I've loved anyone b'fore..? I feel like we understand each other- more th'n anyone's ever understood me. And he wants- t' be around me even though he knows what I have t' eat and what 'm hidin' from...he- he wants me t' meet his son someday-. Could y'imagine? Meetin' his son and- and bein' with Welt...like a family- a real family..."

-

talk about || accepting

[rustedhearts]

hard learnin’ (gator tillman x fem!reader)

summary: gator punishes you for flaunting what (isn’t) his.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ main masterlist

tags: spanking, oral (m receiving), spitting (a lot of it), canon-compliant misogyny, mean!gator.

for @loveshotzz <3

the tillman barn. early morning.

“I told you—not to—do it.”

Every few words came with the snap of leather on flesh, cracking off the barn walls and exciting the horses stomping in their stables. Your fingers gripped the metal of the corral with all their might, digging into your chest against your will. Every strike of his heavy duty belt had you lurching toward the dirt and hay. Your socked feet were picking up pebbles, unprepared for an assault at such an early hour.

But you did get yourself into this mess.

“M-m so-sorry,” you hiccuped, listening to the corral clang on its hinges after a particularly rough hit.

Gator huffed, glaring down at your swelling, discolored flesh. “Yeah, now you are. Weren’t so sorry last night, were ya?”

And you weren’t. You weren’t sorry when you got dolled up in a tight little black dress and called up your friends. You weren’t sorry when you scampered down to the dive and climbed up on the bar to pour drinks. You weren’t sorry when you let that guy drag you to the dance floor. You weren’t sorry when you drunkenly scrawled some version of your phone number on a napkin and tucked it in his pants.

But you were sorry now. Gator always made sure you were sorry.

“Asked you a question, brat.” Another hard strike, slicing through the air and down on your bare ass. Your pajama pants sat around your ankles.

But the thing about Gator? He acted like you were his. His property, his possession, his girl. Yet when the time came to possess you, to have you—he fell short. Never claimed you as his girlfriend, never promised long term commitment, never made you feel like it was true. He always left you hanging.

You sniffled, willing away hot tears stinging in your eyes. Your nose burned and tingled, and you kept glancing toward the door of the barn in hopes Gator’s daddy wouldn’t come waltzing in to hold witness to your humiliation. He heard the sounds of Gator’s punishments once before and patted his son on the shoulder later at dinner. Gotta keep ‘em in line, son. You despised it. How him and his father thought they could do whatever they wanted because they ran the town.

But you loved him. It was your own damn fault.

“Shakin’ like a fuckin’ leaf, sweetheart,” Gator chuckled. He paused a moment to spit on the dirt: a sharp smack of saliva landing near your feet.

“H-hurts,” you whimpered, knees buckling to ease the sting.

Gator huffed, eyes rolling behind you. He gave you a mild lash on the thigh in reprimand. “Get back up.”

You stomped your socked foot, whining into a pout. “I’ll make it up to you, Gator, please!”

The buckle of his belt—a wide silver embellishment—tinkled as he let the leather droop. He cocked his head, inspecting your welts and swelling bruises as he thought. He fished into the pocket on his thigh and pulled out the strawberry-kiwi vape, taking a quick, hissing hit. He sighed as it furled out, tongue clicking.

“Fine. Since you’re just gonna keep complain’ anyway. C’mere.”

You shakily lifted from the corral bars, spinning around. Reaching down, your fingers curled into the elastic band of your pajama pants, but Gator whistled sharply.

“Hey. Uh-uh, leave ‘em.”

Huffing, you sulked and dropped your hands. “Why can’t I—“

“You talkin’ back?” Gator cocked his head again as he stuck the vape in his mouth.

You watched his cheeks hollow with a deep inhale. The mechanical vape click made your blood boil. You wanted to hike your pants up, march over there, and spit in his face. But his shoulders looked so broad in that stocky black sheriff’s vest. His hair was recently trimmed, lined up neatly around his ears and neck. The way those camo pants hugged his hips made you clench. And the belt still sat in his hand, silver gleaming menacingly in the soft yellow of morning light.

With hot cheeks, you huffed again and looked down. “No.”

Gator tucked his vape back in his pants and spit toward the left. His fingers drummed on the stiff lining of his vest, and he nodded down toward the ground at his feet.

“Well…it ain’t gonna suck itself.”

Your knees thumped to the hard ground instantly. You crawled his way slowly, glaring up at the smirk on his face when he had the audacity to shuffle back just to make you come. He chuckled, but stayed in place until you stopped at his feet. You sat back on your heels in the dirt and unzipped his pants, slipping him out into your palm.

“Ooh, shit. C’mon don’t play w’ it, baby, open your mouth.”

He hooked his hands into his vest when your mouth closed over him, chin tipped back toward the roof of the barn as he groaned. Warm pleasure enveloped him, but on the ground, you were freezing cold. Your ass and thighs ached pressed against your feet, fingers growing numb against his thighs.

But maybe if you did a good job, he’d be sweet again. Maybe he’d hold you tonight when he got home from work. Maybe he’d kiss you all over like he did sometimes, tickle you when you pouted too much. Maybe he’d be kind.

You worked your mouth over him languidly, and Gator groaned without shame. He dropped his belt to the dirt with a thud and wrapped his hand in your hair, guiding you around. You knew just what kind of suction, just how much tongue, how to look at him and where to put your hands—you knew him so insanely well. It was a goddamn shame.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, hips jutting toward your mouth. “Suck that dick.”

He grunted as he thrust in and out of your mouth, reveling in the wet squelches of your constricting throat. He dropped your hair and you heard the click of his vape again. The fruity smoke tickled your nose when he blew it down on you.

You lifted your eyes, blurring hot with tears. And as you found Gator’s pink-cheeked face, his own eyes hazy with pleasure and bliss—he opened his mouth and spat one out.

A wad of warm spit sizzled on your cheek, and you flinched at the smacking impact. Your mouth stilled around him, suction loosening.

“Oops,” Gator chuckled above you, sticking the vape near his mouth again. “Did I getcha, hon?”

Though a humiliated fury surged in your chest, you kept your lips closed around his cock and did your best. He wanted you to get irritated with him. He thought you were so cute when you got all riled up. And he liked being the one riling you.

Gator’s thumb pressed into your cheek, massaging his spit into your skin. Your eyes fluttered closed on their own will, soothed by his touch. He was rarely soft like that. Your involuntary moan had him bucking into your mouth again, hand moving to scrunch in your hair once more.

“Fuck, you’re a dirty bitch. No better than…an animal,” he groaned. “God, fuck ‘m gonna cum.”

You put him as far back in your throat as you could manage, nose nudging the furry patch on his pelvis. The vibrant, neon green of his vape entered your periphery when it pressed against your cheek under his hand, both of them coming to brace your head now. Gator liked you to swallow his seed. He thought it was dirty, disgusting—but that’s what he loved about it.

“B-better—swallow it,” he ordered through tight teeth. You bobbed your head in compliance, watching the veins in his neck strain around the collar of his t-shirt and behind his vest.

He pinched his eyes closed, jaw agape, nose scrunched up—and a strangled moan sliced through the barn as he spilled into your mouth. It slipped down your throat in a thick, sticky coating that had you cringing. He huffed and squirmed as he softened on your tongue, and you suckled at him absentmindedly as he slipped out.

Tucking himself back into his pants, he patted an open palm on your spit-sticky cheek. You swallowed again to ensure it was all down, and waited for him to give you the okay. God, your ass was still burning.

Gator sniffed, reaching down for his belt. He was just slipping it through the loops of his pants when a distant clang caused his head to snap up.

“Fuck, get up. My dad’s gonna be out soon.”

You wobbled as you got to your feet like a brand new fawn. You peeled your pajama pants back over your hips and secured the strings, doing your best to brush off the dirt and hope it didn’t stain. The soft fabric did little to muffle the acute sting of Gator’s strap.

“Come on,” he hissed, yanking your arm to pull you close.

He kept a close eye on the front of the barn as he hurried you out back, dragging you through the dirt the whole way. Roy Tillman would have his few hours on his horse at the ass crack of dawn like he always did, and Gator would wait until he was told what to do to make his daddy happy again.

You wouldn’t see him again until near morning.

“You’ll wait at home,” he instructed, heading toward his truck. “You hear me? No runnin’ around.”

You huffed as you slid in, crossing your arms. The truck jostled when he slammed the door after him, and the engine started up with a coughing growl. He whipped out of the dirt patch driveway, heading down the trail toward your house (where he yanked you from your bed not too long ago).

“Why can’t I just stay at your house?”

Gator scoffed, putting his vape in his mouth again. “Dad don’t like strangers around.”

Stranger somehow stung worse than anything else. He just spent an hour attacking your ass for going out without him—but you were still a stranger?

“Your dad’s an asshole—“

Gator slammed on the brakes, sending you hurtling forward against the seatbelt. Once you fell back, his hand latched to your jaw, fingers pressed tight into your cheeks. The look he fixed you with was sharp and mean.

“You watch your fuckin’ mouth.”

He tossed your head away harshly, and you glared down at your knees. He shook his head toward the windshield as he took his foot off the brake and sped down the street.

“Looks like you still have some learnin’ to do.” Gator hollowed his cheek around that stupid fruity piece of plastic again. The smoke slipped into the cold autumn air.

“Don’t worry. I’ll set ya straight, hon.”

[bildzeichnenlassen]

Erinnerungen festhalten Der zeitlose Reiz ein Porträt zeichnen zu lassen

In einer Zeit, die von digitaler Technologie und sofortiger Befriedigung dominiert wird, k￶nnte die Kunst, ein Portr￤t zeichnen zu lassen, wie eine nostalgische Rckbesinnung auf eine vergangene ￄra erscheinen. Der anhaltende Reiz des Portr￤ts liegt jedoch in seiner F￤higkeit, das Wesen einer Person auf eine Weise einzufangen, die kein Foto wirklich wiedergeben kann. Ganz gleich, ob Sie an einen besonderen Anlass erinnern oder einen Moment festhalten m￶chten: Ein Portr￤t zeichnen zu lassen ist ein zeitloses und bedeutungsvolles Erlebnis, das ber Trends und Technologie hinausgeht.

Die persönliche Note:-

Einer der berzeugendsten Grnde, sich fr ein gezeichnetes Portr￤t gegenber einem Foto zu entscheiden, ist die pers￶nliche Note, die es mit sich bringt. Wenn ein Knstler Bleistift auf Papier oder Pinsel auf Leinwand bringt, verleiht er dem Kunstwerk seine einzigartige Perspektive und Interpretation des Themas. Das Ergebnis ist nicht nur eine visuelle Darstellung, sondern ein Spiegelbild der emotionalen Verbindung des Knstlers zu der dargestellten Person.

Anders als ein kurzer Klick auf den Kameraausl￶ser erfordert die Erstellung eines Portr￤ts Zeit, Geschick und Liebe zum Detail. Der Knstler beobachtet sorgf￤ltig die Merkmale, Ausdrcke und Nuancen des Motivs und versucht, nicht nur seine k￶rperliche Erscheinung, sondern auch seine Pers￶nlichkeit und seinen Geist einzufangen. Dieses Ma￟ an pers￶nlicher Investition macht das Portr￤t von einer blo￟en ￄhnlichkeit zu einem bedeutungsvollen und intimen Kunstwerk.

Momente bewahren:-

Porträts werden seit langem als Mittel geschätzt, um wichtige Momente im Leben festzuhalten. Von Hochzeiten und Jubiläen bis hin zu Schulabschlüssen und Familientreffen – die Erstellung eines Porträts ermöglicht es Einzelpersonen, diese bedeutenden Meilensteine in einer greifbaren und dauerhaften Form zu verewigen. Im Gegensatz zu Fotos, die verblassen oder veraltet sein können, bleibt ein gut gemachtes Porträt eine zeitlose Darstellung eines in der Zeit eingefrorenen Moments.

Darber hinaus k￶nnen Portr￤ts zu gesch￤tzten Erbstcken werden, die ber Generationen weitergegeben werden und als visuelle Verbindung zur Familiengeschichte dienen. Sie verk￶rpern die Essenz des Einzelnen und f￶rdern ein Gefhl der Kontinuit￤t und Verbundenheit ber die Zeit hinweg. Auf diese Weise wird das Zeichnen eines Portr￤ts zu einer Tradition, die ber den unmittelbaren Moment hinausgeht und ein visuelles Erbe fr zuknftige Generationen schafft.

Individualität annehmen:-

In einer Welt voller massenhaft produzierter Bilder und gefilterter Selfies sticht ein handgezeichnetes Portr￤t als Hommage an die Individualit￤t hervor. Jeder Handstrich des Knstlers tr￤gt zur Schaffung eines einzigartigen und einzigartigen Kunstwerks bei. Die Unvollkommenheiten, Nuancen und Feinheiten, die in einem gezeichneten Portr￤t eingefangen werden, betonen den unverwechselbaren Charakter des Motivs und wrdigen das, was es wirklich besonders macht.

Durch die Entscheidung, ein Portr￤t zeichnen zu lassen, akzeptieren Menschen die Sch￶nheit der Unvollkommenheit und lehnen die Homogenisierung ab, die oft mit digitalen Bildern verbunden ist. Das Ergebnis ist ein Kunstwerk, das nicht nur die ￤u￟eren Merkmale des Motivs einf￤ngt, sondern auch ein Gefhl fr dessen innere Essenz und Individualit￤t vermittelt.

In einer schnelllebigen, technologiegetriebenen Welt liegt der bleibende Reiz eines Portr￤ts darin, dass es die Zeit verlangsamt und eine zutiefst pers￶nliche und bedeutungsvolle Verbindung zur Vergangenheit herstellt. Ganz gleich, ob es sich um einen besonderen Anlass handelt oder einfach um die Einzigartigkeit einer Person zu wrdigen, ein handgezeichnetes Portr￤t ist ein zeitloses und gesch￤tztes Andenken, das ber die Flchtigkeit digitaler Bilder hinausgeht. Beim Erstellen und Besitzen eines gezeichneten Portr￤ts finden wir nicht nur eine Darstellung einer Person, sondern eine greifbare und dauerhafte Verbindung zu unserer eigenen Geschichte und den Geschichten, die uns definieren.

FÜR MEHR INFORMATIONEN:-

Portrait zeichnen lassen

[gerphau]

JOURNÉES D'ÉTUDES

" ETHIQUE ET ARCHITECTURE "

Figures et renouveaux éthiques de l’architecture

Journées d’études

GERPHAU / IGAP

9 - 10 novembre 2022 / ENSA Paris la Villette-Paris

23 rue des Ardennes

Nous avons le plaisir de vous annoncer la tenue de deux journées d’études organisées conjointement par le GERPHAU et l’IGAP, le mercredi 9 novembre et le jeudi 10 novembre 2022.

Nous vous adressons ci-dessous le synopsis et le programme, et nous réjouissons de vous accueillir au Laboratoire de recherche de l’ENSA Paris-la-Villette, 23 rue des Ardennes.

synopsis :

Entre les héritages de l’histoire, de la modernité, du néolibéralisme et des nouvelles exigences environnementales, l’architecture est aujourd’hui ballottée entre de nombreuses voies. Des paradoxes et des injonctions contradictoires appellent une réflexion sur de nouvelles postures/attitudes éthiques, à la hauteur des enjeux contemporains. Que peut apporter, en ce domaine, une réflexion philosophique sur l’architecture et son agir, à partir de quelles références, de quelles filiations ? A l’inverse, comment l’architecture peut-elle être interprétée comme expression d’un énoncé éthique sur le monde ? ou encore comme miroir d’une position éthique de la société ?

Zwischen den aus der Geschichte, der Moderne, dem Neo- liberalismus und den neuen Umweltanforderungen resultierenden Gewohnheiten wird die Architektur heute zwischen zahlreichen Wegen, widersprüchlichen Anweisungen und Paradoxen hin und hergeworfen, die wiederum eine Reflexion auf ethische Haltungen erfordern, die den widersprüchlichen Herausforderungen der Gegenwart gewachsen sind. Wie und durch welche ethische Prinzipien ist Architektur einerseits bestimmbar, bzw. Was vermag eine philosophische Reflexion der Architektur zu leisten und inwiefern kann andererseits die Architektur durch sich selbst als Ausdruck und Impuls einer ethischen Aussage über die Welt bzw. als Spiegelbild der jeweiligen Verfasstheit von Gesellschaft gedeutet werden?

9 novembre

14 H : Xavier Bonnaud, ENSAPLV - Mots d’introduction.

14H15 : Chris Younès, ESA - L’engagement architectural éthique et esthétique.

15H: Petra Lohmann, Universität Siegen - Architektur, Ethik und Wissen.

15H45 : Mildred Galland-Szymkowiak, CNRS - Simmel et l’espace.

Pause

16H45: Anke Bitter, Friedrich-Schiller-Universität Jena - Zur Moral der Dinge. Ethische Aspekte des modernen Gebrauchsgegenstandes.

18H : Victor Fraigneau, Université de Strasbourg - L’architecte comme figure engagée : nouvelles formes de postures manifestes dans l’architecture.

10 novembre

9H30 : Oliver Sack, Universität Siegen - M“Making Space – Leaving Space “: Herman Hertzberger’s ethical understanding of architecture.

10H15 : Valérie Helmann, ENSAP Lille - Rendre sensible une valeur à travers le projet architectural ou paysager.

Pause

11H30 : Andrew Benjamin, Monash University - Architecture as the Housing of Life : Notes on Heidegger and Agamben.

Pause dejeuner

14H : Achim Hahn, TU Dresden - Eckpunkte einer kritischen Entwurfslehre.

14H45 : Jean-Philippe Pierron, Université de Bourgogne - Entre bâtir et fabriquer : habiter. Quelle éthique de la responsabilité sociale et environnementale pour l’architecture en anthropocène ?

18H : Assemblée générale de l’IGAP

[scarisd3ad]

The grabbed | vance hopper x f!reader

Chapter four

To be honest I don’t like this one as much as I wish I did, I feel like it’s a bit cheesy but I needed to implement the vance x reader somehow. (Disclaimer this isn’t all cheesy it’s just a portion at the end that I feel like is trying to hard the rest is basically normal tbp creepy middle aged man basement)

Warnings - PEDOPHILIA! A lot of it god I didn’t realize all of the weird shit I made albert say until editing it. Like he’s weird but it’s not much off from his character.

Masterlist

Previous > next

—————————————☏———————————

3 days

𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙙 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙥𝙤𝙫

Max sat at kitchen table, a bowl of cereal sat in front of him. his brother Albert sat across from him news paper in hand. "Where the hell is y/n?" Max said in between bites. "Shit I forget to tell you..she didn't come home last night I think she stayed the night at the yamadas." Max's brain instantly went into panic mode. Y/n wouldn't just not tell anyone she was staying over with Bruce. Y/n wasn't like that, max was panicking. She might've just forgotten, but then again the grabber. So he sprang up from his chair sprinting towards the telephone. What he missed was the psychotic grin on his brother face, that might've given a clue to where his daughter was. He quickly tried to remember the yamada's phone number. 303-756 that's all he could remember, he'd only called the yamadas a handful of times normally albert would do it.

"303-756-2246" albert chuckled. Max sighed pressing in the numbers before listening to the phone ring. Albert smiled at his brothers short lived relief he knew in just a few minutes his brother would become a mess. And albert was going to get a kick out of it.

"Hello?" Mrs yamada said. Max sighed again "is y/n there? She didn't come home last night."

"No"

Max's eyes widened, she was gone. She was really gone. "Oh..I'm sorry for bothering you" he said before quickly hanging up the phone. Max collapsed to his knees. She was gone. He was a shitty dad, he knew that. But he was really trying to work on it. He wanted to be more present in her life. He was really trying.

Hot tears fell down his cheeks before he stood back up. Albert had a sadistic grin on his face. He loved when the entire town went frantic looking for his victims, and getting to see his latest victims dad breaking down in front of him was just amazing.

911.

The phone rang for a good two minutes before the operator picked up.

"911 what's your emergency?"

"My daughter she..she didn't come home last night" he said as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Okay what's her name?"

-

At the yamada mrs yamada was walking up the stairs. Her heart had broken into two, she had to tell her oldest child that his best friend had just gone missing. The yamadas were close with y/n, very close. She spent several nights over at their house, they practically saw her as an extra daughter.

She knocked on Bruce's door a few times before hearing him say "come in!" From the other side. Bruce was standing next his bed stuffing books into his bag.

"Y/n didn't come home last night"

Bruce slowly turned around, she told him she was fine. God she was so stubborn. "W-what?" He stuttered out tears forming in his waterline. "Y/n she didn't come home last night." Mrs yamada repeated. He didn't want to believe he had gotten her. "No.." he whispered as he looked up at his mom. "M-mom" Mrs yamada instantly took her eldest son into her arms as he sobbed. "She said she'd be okay."

-

Y/n's pov

12 hours earlier

My eyes slowly opened as I felt my body drop onto a mattress. The familiar smell dust, and blood. "If you're gonna act like a naughty boy you're gonna be treated like one." Then I heard a large metal door close, and I knew exactly where I was. I was in the fucking basement. I slowly sat up examining the welts and bruises on my arm. Vance was curled up beside me, my emotions started to set in, realizing I was stuck down here. I was going to die. I stood up my bottom lip wobbling as tears formed in my eyes. I walked over to the door. I pulled on it hoping praying that it would somehow open. "No,no, no,no" I sobbed as I sank down onto the ground. Broken sobs shook through my body.

I was going to die, that was the only thing going through my mind. I was going to die, I was never going to see my dad, or mom, or Bruce ever again. I was going to die. I buried my face in my hands, letting my tears fall down onto my palms and trickle down my arm. "Hey? Y/n?" I lifted my head up from my palms to see vance now sat up staring at me. "Holy shit what happened to you?" He whispered, I shook my head tears still flowing down my cheeks. "I don't want to die" I whispered as I stood up walking back over to the mattress. I sat down next to him as he shook his head. "We aren't gonna die, he is" I shook my head "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die" I repeated as i was hyperventilating. My breathing was staggered, my hands were shaking, salty tears rolled down my cheeks eventually pooling into my mouth. "Hey calm the hell down!" He shouted. "C-can't" i muttered, he took my face in his hands, "calm the fuck down!" He said. His thumbs carressing my cheeks wiping at my tears. "If you don't calm the hell down we're never gonna get out of here." I nodded slowly. "Just breath" I inhaled my breathing still shaky, and exhaled. My nerves calming down.

-

"We're gonna have to use things we can find down here" Vance said. I didn't know what time it was I just knew it had been a few hours since I got down here. I could see that it was still dark out so I assumed it was around two or three in the morning. I sat next to vance on the mattress, my hands stuffed in my pockets and my head leaned on his shoulder. It was cold, so cold down here at night. My hands were ice cold. "I found a bit of wire that was pulled out, I think...I think it's from one of the others. We can use that" I hadn't talked much, I just nodded my head along to whatever Vance said. My entire body still stung from the belt. If I talked I'd probably just start to cry. And I knew Vance didn't want to deal with me crying again. For some reason I just wanted my dad right now. He had never been present in my life but I just needed comfort. I just wanted to hug someone I trusted. Why didn't I just go to my moms house. If I went I wouldn't be stuck down here. I was regretting every life choice I had ever made. If I went to my moms I'd probably be spending time with my grandpa watching cartoons, or baking. I wouldn't be down here with giant bruises covering my arms and legs.

"Hey? Are you listening?"

I snapped out of my thoughts and stared back up at vance. "Goddammit!" He groaned as he buried his face into his right hand rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry" I said quietly, my voice meek and small. I was kind of scared of vance. I feel like everyone was scared of vance, no one wanted to piss him off. And I just pissed him off. "It's fine..it's fine" he said lifting his head back up and rolled his eyes. Wow, he didn't even cuss me out? What the fuck? I knew he wouldn't able to beat me up but he didn't even call me a dumbass.

Both our heads quickly turned towards the door as we heard the metal squeak and the large door hitting against the wall.

"Awe look how cute you two are" Albert said the same mask with the devil horns covering his face as he walked towards us. He sat crissed crossed in front of us. "Don't touch her" Vance said in a very protective tone. Alberts loud chuckle was muffled by his mask. "You think I care what you say..."

"She's my niece..."

"You don't think I've already touched her?"

I didn't even remember him touching me, in a sexual or abusive manner. He laughed loudly like he was just shoving it in my face. Vance's eyes were widened his fist clenched. Vance used all his strength kicking albert right in the chest. Albert fell back laughing he was a fucking psycho. FUCKING PSYCHO. "You like her that much, that you're getting tough again?" Vance's face was scrunched up in anger. "I'm not gonna hurt her anymore calm down" Albert whispered.

-

Bruce's pov

She was gone, she was really gone. Y/n was gone. I'd probably never see her again. I sat in math class staring at the empty seat next to me. "Bruce?" I turned around in my seat to see stacy standing there a small smile on her face. she walked around the desk behind me and sat in y/n's seat. She was sitting in y/n's seat. "You wanna come over to my house later?" She asked twisting a piece of her hair on her pointer finger. "No thanks I just wanna go home later" I mumbled, "oh.." Stacy frowned "maybe I could come over later?"

I shook my head "can't sorry." I missed y/n so much, and it had only been a day! How was i going to get through the rest of my life if they didn't find her. I hadn't spent a day without here since the third grade when she ended up going to school in Durango instead of here. I had to find y/n, even if it was the last think I did. I needed to find her. I leaned my head onto my palm closing my eyes. I was worried about y/n all last night, I just had this gut feeling that something had happened to her. But she was strong, I had seen her beat the shit out of moose until he couldn't see straight. How come she couldn't fight off the grabber. My eyes slowly closed causing me to drift off into slumber.

Suddenly there I was standing at the edge of elm and wrangler. Watching as y/n walked slowly down the street. She noticed a black van up at the end of the road. "God dammit" I heard her groan. I followed after her slowly. The van really seemed to scare her. Then once she passed the van the person inside began to shout at her. Telling her to get into the van, I'd recognize that voice anywhere. It was her uncle! It was Albert. She wouldn't look up at him she just shook her head before she began to sprint. She ran and ran. Alberts van following after her getting faster and faster.

Until it past her taking a sharp turn and stopping in front of her. She had no time to stop. She slammed right into it and fell right back onto the ground. Her head slamming against the ground with a loud BANG! She wimpered as she held her head in her hand trying to stop the blood that was pouring out of her head. I tried to scream, scream at her to get up and run. But I couldn't she couldn't hear me. Albert go out of his car a large belt in hand as he approached her.

He kneeled down next to her and smirked. "I thought you were smarter than that...oh well" before raising the belt over his head. Y/n cried and wimpered asking him not to hurt her and that she wouldn't tell anyone. He didn't listen he just brought the belt back down onto her thigh.

"Bruce?" I gasped as I sat up to see Mrs Thompson kneeled down next to me. "You're needed in the principals office" I nodded as I stood up groggily and made my way to the door. Is that why she had been scared of Albert yesterday. What was I kidding it was just a dream. Just a dream.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets as I walked slowly down the hallway. Kids that were late sped past me sending me soft smiles and waves as they did so. News spread fast, especially when kids had gone missing. It was a small world..small town everybody knew in a matter of a couple hours. New curfews were being put into place already, the last one getting revoked after about a month after Vance hopper went missing. People were already beginning to drive their kids to and from school instead of letting them walk. This had always happened since griffin stagg gotten abducted. He was only seven at the time so the curfews and walking home business was only geared towards the elementary school students. Then everything went silent for a couple years. No one had found griffin but no other kids had gone missing so everything went back to normal. Well until billy showalter went missing he was my age 12 or 13 at the time. No one knew if it was the same guy who took griffin people just assumed. Then just a few months later vance hopper went missing. That's when the police knew it was serial. A man in a black van abducting boys from the ages of 7 to 15. If he took boys then why the hell did he take y/n. Why the hell did he have to take her away from me.

Why? Why? Why?

I now stood in front of the principals office. I took a deep breath in before pushing open the door. Mrs Keller stood in front of two men who looked about in they're mid forty's. "Bruce yamada this is detective wright and detective walker" she said pointing to each man. I nodded "Mr yamada" they pointed toward a chair in front of two others. "They would like to talk to you about something" she said before returning to her seat.

"Is it true you're friends with y/n Shaw?" Detective wright asked. I nodded "yeah" detective walker had a pen and notepad in his hands. "Okay so when was the last time you saw y/n?" Each of my hands sat in each arm rest, my finger tapping against the leather. "Last night..she walked me home at about 7:30..I think" they both nodded detective walker jotting down something on his notepad. "Okay..was she acting any out of the ordinary?" I nodded "yeah.." I sighed before placing both of my hands in my lap fidgeting with my fingers. "Okay..how was she acting?"

"Just weird I guess. She told me about something she found in her house...And I asked about it" both men nodded "she told me she couldn't tell me..and of course I pried at bit until she told me.." detective walker continued to write, and detective wright nodded "what did she tell you?"

"She told me...th-that if she told me what she found. He'd hurt her..or me I don't know" I mumbled "who's he?" I shrugged my shoulders "I don't really know..but I think she was talking about her uncle. They were acting really weird around each other last night."

-

Y/n's pov

My entire body ached, just shifting my body around was uncomfortable. My head felt like it was being squeezed to oblivion, and my ears rang. Every bruise and welt on my body had began to turn a deep purple or red color. Just touching the splotches felt like I was dying. I wanted to die, I just wanted him to finish me off. Kill me already.

I was curled up on the mattress, my hand stuffed between my thighs as I tried to warm them up. The sudden feeling of nausea washed over me. "I feel like I'm gonna puke" i muttered. I could practically feel Vance's eyes roll "don't get it on me" he said back. I groaned rolling myself onto my back. "I swear to god if you puke on me-"

"I'm not gonna puke I just feel like it" i grumbled "same thing" he muttered back. I rolled my eyes and scooted my body up a bit so my head sat in his lap. His eyebrows knitted together as he stared down at me. "What the hell are you doing?" He muttered, "it's cold...you're warm."

-

3rd person pov

Vance now stared down at the sleeping girl laying in his lap. He never felt like this way towards anyone. It had felt like his heart stopped. Why the hell did he feel like this? She was just cold, and sad. She didn't even like him like that. He hesitantly moved his hand towards her head before slowly running his hands through her hair. She smiled softly in her sleep before burying her head further into his thigh. God the just made the butterflies in his stomach go rampant.

"She's pretty isn't she"

Vance's head snapped up to see the grabber. The grabber was disgusting, he was a murderous, pedophilic man who had a crush on his underage niece. He stood at the door with his mouth less mask on. Was Vance that distracted that he didn't hear the door open? "What are you doing here?" Vance muttered lowly. "Just wanted to look at you guys" the grabber said as he began to approach the two. Vance tensed up, it wasn't often that Vance was scared of anyone. Normally people were scared of him, even grown men and women. But Vance was terrified of the grabber. Ever since the first time the grabber beat him. At first vance wasn't scared, he was confident in his ability to be able to beat the shit out of the grabber and escape. But that wasn't the case, some how the grabber was 10x strong than vance, easily knocking him out and hurting him.

In several different ways.

"I'm not gonna hurt her anymore. I already said that" the grabber said in false sweetness. The grabber always talked like that he used a sweet high pitched voice while talking to any of his victims trying to reel them in. Make them believe they were safe, that they weren't going to die. But it was always somehow just a bit to sinister. The grabber never actual was going to keep any of his victims alive, he just said that he was. He even planned on killing y/n. He always planned on killing them no matter what.

“Hey Albert!”

The grabber quickly snapped his head around towards the door. He said “I’ll be back” before standing up and sprinting towards the door. Finally he left, but vance was still angry. His fists were clenched and his face was scrunched up obviously unhappy.

That’s when Vance knew they had to kill him. He had to get out of here. If he wasn’t able to kill him then what was he worth anyways. So Vance decided that if he wasnt able to kill the grabber he wanted to be dead. If he wasn’t able to do it at least the grabber would kill him for trying.

Taglist

@ellemfaoh @lanadelraystan @crustlover @graywrites20 @eddiesange1 @colbysbrocks @dopepersonacloudllama @ahmya-4

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 5,921 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: prison era Warnings: language, serious injury, violence, gore, angst A/N: SURPRISE ONE SHOT! I LOVE being able to roll two requests into one for ya'll! Hope you love this! Requested by:Anon and anon! Summary: The group goes to rescue Daryl from Woodbury and must deal with the consequences.

Your name: submit What is this?

“Jesus Christ. Rick…” Your eyes were fixed on the makeshift arena, ringed with elevated torches. Boisterous and angry crowds were screaming and waving their fists. “They’re gonna kill each other.” Your stomach turned.

Rick watched with disgust as Daryl and Merle threw punches and tussled in the arena.

“Are those walkers?!” Maggie asked urgently in a harsh whisper.

Men with long grappling tools were bringing in some of the dead, closing in around Daryl and Merle. “Yeah,” Rick growled, his jaw clenching.

Your heart was pounding so fast it was just a whir in your chest. Your hands clenched on your weapon. “Fuck this,” you said, squeezing off a few rounds which caused several of the walkers’ heads to explode and the bodies to crumple to the ground. Screams and chaos broke out but you could still make out Merle and Daryl back-to-back in the center. Rick tossed a flash-bang smoke bomb into the arena and more shooting started in earnest.

You dashed across the narrow space from the dumpster you were all using as cover and took up a position behind a concrete balustrade, squinting as you tried to see through the drifting clouds of smoke. But even with your eye to the scope of your gun, it was nearly impossible to focus on anything. The crowds of people running were just a blur of colors and dim shapes. “Where are you, you son of a bitch?” You growled through gritted teeth. You were looking for him, the Governor. But you were also looking for Daryl. “Fuck!” You dropped the scope and squinted again into the darkness. There was more shooting as Rick and Maggie dropped a few of the Woodbury militia toting weapons.

You couldn’t see Daryl. Where was Daryl? Rick must have known what was on your mind because he glanced across the gap at you. You were on your feet but still hunched over, looking like you were ready to run. “Y/N. Don’t! Y/N!” But it was too late. You made a dash out from your cover, dodging bullets being fired almost blindly from some of the Governor’s men, and rushed toward the arena.

“DARYL!” You yelled it into the smoke and ducked behind a low concrete wall. Pressing your back into the rough material was almost grounding. You could almost feel some of the bullets whizzing past your hiding place. “DARYL!” The ringing in your ears from all the gunfire was so loud it was hard to even hear which direction the shooting was coming from.

Somewhere in the smoke, he heard you and straightened up from a figure he’d just thrown to the ground. “Y/N?!”

You heard his voice. “DARYL?” You fired off a few rounds and took out a walker and a woman with an assault rifle. “OVER HERE!”

“Merle! Let’s go! This way!” The archer spotted a guard with his crossbow and surprised him, grabbing it from him without slowing. “Y/N?!”

You popped up to shout to him again, but a spray of bullets in your direction had you dropping down again and swearing under your breath, gasping a little from the close call. “Fuck! Oh, shit…”

You heard Rick calling to you and Daryl, and looking back toward the dumpster you saw the beam of his flashlight. You unstuck yourself from the concrete behind you and, keeping low, dashed back to Rick and Maggie. “Daryl?” you asked urgently as Rick’s hand on your back pushed you toward the darkness ahead.

“He’s right there! Go!” Rick said.

Glancing over your shoulder, you saw Daryl running full-speed toward you, his crossbow in his hand. You couldn’t help smiling at him as he finally slowed beside you. “Are you alright?!” you asked, searching him for injuries. “Daryl, your face—” He had red welts raising on his face from Merle’s hits.

“‘M fine. Are you?” he drawled back.

That’s when Merle finally spoke up and the smile on your face completely disappeared. “We ain’t got time for a goddamn cozy catch up! Follow me!”

Daryl hazarded a glance at your face and it seemed to darken before his eyes. “C’mon,” he prodded you gently, adjusting his bow in his hands. “We gotta get outta here.”

Your group followed Merle to a section of the outer wall, which he bashed open with his metal prosthetic arm. You felt a hot stitch in your side and your eyes whirred anxiously over the street ahead until Rick whistled for you to follow the others out and through the wall. Daryl was the last out, covering your back as you stepped out of Woodbury.

Then it was a frantic run to get away and back to Michonne and Glenn. You soon felt like you couldn’t run anymore and your lungs felt tight, burning from exertion. But you kept pushing, clutching an arm around your middle to press at the stitch which was threatening to double you over. At last, the vehicle and Glenn and Michonne came into view. But the next moment it was all chaos as they realized who had come back with Daryl.

Daryl planted himself in front of his brother as he and Rick tried to talk them down. Gun and sword drawn, there was so much yelling you couldn’t even make out the words. You and Maggie stood slightly apart, both sickened at the sight of Merle after the role he’d played in serving you up to the Governor, but unwilling to engage in any physical altercation after the intensity of the scrape you’d just gotten out of.

Suddenly, the stitch in your side became a stabbing, hot pain. You wrapped your arm around yourself and pressed your hand to it and then your knees hit the forest floor. Your gun dropped off your shoulder and clattered to the ground. This finally shut everyone up and redirected their attention. Daryl was beside you in an instant, all thought of his brother vanishing immediately, his face clouded with concern. He watched as you peeled your hand away from your side revealing that your palm was sticky with deep crimson. It was then that you realized that your shirt was soaked with blood. The stitch in your side wasn’t a stitch: you’d been shot.

You collapsed back onto the ground and the fire in your lungs seemed to increase, and suddenly you were having trouble breathing. Your heartbeat was pounding loudly in your ears, almost dorwning out any other sound. Daryl’s face was pale above yours.

“Shit. Shit! Alrigh’. Alrigh’,” he murmured, examining the wound. “It ain’t that bad, okay? Yer—yer gonna be fine.” The others were suddenly all around you, too, everyone except Merle, who was still standing with his back leaned up against a tree, watching the scene before him unfold, his eyes fixed mainly on his brother.

Your eyes widened as your lungs seemed to stop drawing air. You reached out and gripped onto Daryl’s arm hard. “Can’t—breathe—” you gasped. You were barely able to get the words out and your voice was constricted and raspy. You felt like you were suffocating. Daryl saw growing panic in your eyes.

“Just relax—s’okay! Y/N! Listen t’me. S’gonna be alright. Yer gonna be fine!” But you could read your own panic reflecting in his eyes now. He grabbed your hand and squeezed it tight.

Maggie dropped to her knees beside you and looked at the wound and your pale face which now seemed to be graying. “I need a clean knife and some tubing or somethin’. A pen, a water bottle nozzle, anythin’!”

“I think there’s something in the car!” Glenn said, rushing clumsily to his feet.

Daryl had your hand pressed between his and was leaning over you looking desperate. You flinched as Maggie applied pressure to the bullet wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Your breathing was coming in shallow gasps as you looked up at Daryl. You tried as hard as you could to get the most important words out. “Keep—going—” you gasped. Your voice was thin.

Daryl shook his head. “No. No, Y/N. Yer gonna be fine. Yer gonna be fine!” His blue eyes glistened with tears.

You couldn’t draw any more air and clutched your free hand to your chest. The pain was excruciating.

“Y/N! Y/N, ya gotta make it. Ya gotta fight! If ya die and I live—I got nothin’! Yer gonna be—yer gonna be fine—”

“Got it!” Glenn skidded back to the ground beside Maggie, a pen in hand. She hurriedly disassembled it.

“Knife,” she said. Rick handed her his small hunting knife. She cut through your shirt so she could better see the wound. There was the bullet hole, right in the middle of your ribs on your side. She prodded just below it with her fingers and Daryl watched as she lined up the tip of the knife between two of your ribs.

“What the hell are ya doin’?” He asked urgently. “Maggie! What the hell are ya—”

“Hold her still,” Maggie snapped.

“What’re ya—”

“Daryl! Hold her still!”

He gulped and obeyed, realizing suddenly that you seemed to be heading toward unconsciousness, your head lolling to the side. Your face was an alarming shade of grey-blue. You couldn’t breathe. Daryl grasped your shoulders and pressed your back into the ground. With a quick jab, Maggie stuck the knife into your side, below the wound, which was still bleeding heavily. You jerked once and then fell unconscious. “Glenn, gimme that pen!” Maggie inserted the tube from the pen into the incision she’d just made and there was the sound of a rush of air and some blood came trickling out. But Daryl watched in relief as your chest started to rise and fall again and slowly the color returned to your face, although your brow remained clammy with sweat.

“Wh—what the hell was that?” he asked Maggie.

“She has a punctured lung. Air built up around her lungs until they collapsed and she couldn’t breathe anymore. I’ve seen my dad do this,” she explained. “On our neighbor once after he fell off a horse.” She climbed to her feet and turned to Rick. “We gotta get her back to my dad now.”

Rick nodded and everyone was a blur of action. Daryl scooped you up as gently as he could and carried you to the vehicle, slipping into the middle seats with you still across his lap. Everyone else was throwing gear in the back and piling in where they could. Merle finally straightened up and paced toward the vehicle. “Well, hey! What ‘bout me?” he asked, arms extended.

Glenn moved toward him like he was about to pick a fight but Maggie grabbed his arm gently. “We ain’t got time for this. She ain’t got time.” Glenn stopped and climbed into the back beside Maggie. Michonne slid into the front passenger seat.

Rick shot a glare at Merle as he finished loading the gear and slammed the trunk. “You can walk. If you make it, we’ll think about what to do with you,” he growled.

“Hey, now! Little brother, you ain’t just gonna let them leave me out here? Hey!” But it seemed as if Daryl didn’t hear anything. He was too busy accepting a spare bit of fabric from Maggie and trying to press it to the bullet wound in your side to stop the bleeding.

He stared down at you desperately, totally silent, as Rick floored the vehicle as fast as he dared and it leapt over the asphalt. Every bump jostled your head and your body stayed limp in his arms. The ride felt both infinitely long and abruptly short. He couldn’t help brushing his fingers through your hair, wiping the beads of sweat on your clammy skin. He felt suspended above himself, looking down at this nightmare of a scene. The vehicle finally slowed and Daryl glanced up, away from your face, to see the prison beyond the gates. Carol and Carl pulled them open and the car rumbled through. Rick sped up to the prison and everyone rushed to climb out.

“I’ll get my dad and we’ll start gettin’ ready. Bring her in,” Maggie said, her feet barely on the ground.

“Do you need help?” Rick asked Daryl.

“I got her,” he drawled as he carefully climbed out with you in his arms, your body still limp and the crimson on your shirt now shockingly obvious. His blue eyes finally lifted and met Rick’s. He looked terrified. Rick had never seen that intense look of fear in Daryl’s eyes before and it twisted his stomach into a knot.

He led the way into the prison, holding the doors so Daryl could pass through easily with you in his arms, and soon you met Hershel, Glenn, and Maggie with a stretcher. Daryl rested you down so gently you barely moved as his arms slipped from you. Glenn and Maggie hurriedly pushed the stretched back into the cellblock and into the area where they kept all the medical supplies. Daryl was standing beside you, his hands clenched together with white knuckles as he watched helplessly as chaos erupted around you. You were the only thing not moving. Hershel grabbed a tank of oxygen and a mask and secured it over your face. Daryl shifted anxiously, feeling sick and lost as he watched Hershel listen to your lungs and take your pulse before examining the wound in your side.

His expression was grim when he looked up at Rick and the sheriff gulped and glanced over at Daryl. Daryl seemed to be in a daze, his eyes fixed on your face. “How bad?” Rick asked in an undertone.

“Maggie did the right thing with the chest tube. She has a punctured lung. Whether that’s because of the bullet itself or a fragment of bone as a result of the bullet I can’t say. And I need to stop the bleeding soon. Her pulse is weakening and she’s losing color. She needs surgery, but—” he broke off.

Rick straightened up and nodded, encouraging him to go on, even with the bad news.

“It’s unlikely I can repair her lung without more advanced medical imaging and better supplies, and with the severity her symptoms suggest it most likely won’t heal on it’s own. But we have no way to really know how substantial the damage is and where exactly the bullet is. If she doesn’t die from blood loss or the punctured lung, I’m worried about infection.”

Daryl’s head snapped up and his face clouded with a shadow. “What do you need to make sure she—? I’ll get it. I’ll go out right now and get it.”

Hershel frowned. “It’s not that simple, son. We need an operating theater. X-ray machine, ventilator, and electricity to run it. And we don’t have time to wait. I need to do this surgery now as best I can with what we have. We’ve got antibiotics, sterile instruments, gauze… the best I can do is stop the bleeding and try to get any fragments of bone and bullet out that I can reach. After that, it’ll be up to her.”

Daryl felt his heart tighten into a pit and his eyes drifted back to your still form on the cot. “Then do it. She’s a fighter. She’s tough. She’ll make it.” He wanted to reach for your hand, but he was afraid of how cold it might feel. “She has to make it…” he trailed off.

After that, the chaos resumed. Rick guided Daryl out and away from you with some effort. “You don’t want to see that,” he said. “And they need room to work.” The archer began pacing the length of the room endlessly, chewing on his thumbnail until his finger bled. Carol had arrived from the gate with Carl, and she and Maggie were assisting Hershel. The only thing that Daryl could be grateful for was that they had the supplies from the infirmary to make sure you stayed unconscious and to give you antibiotics in hopes of staving off an infection. But everything else—all the uncertainty—it was crushing him. They had gotten you, Glenn, and Maggie out, but he’d been taken because he’d gone to look for Merle. The whole reason you got shot was because you all had come back to look for him. This was his fault. If you died, it was his fault…

The guilt was making him feel nauseous and he simply couldn’t sit still. It felt like an eternity before Carol came out from the other part of the cellblock. He froze and felt light-headed as she approached. She was wringing her hands.

Daryl couldn’t breathe and was trying to decode her expression before she even spoke.

“She’s made it through the surgery. We got the bleeding stopped and Hershel got a couple fragments of the bullet out, but we didn’t get all of them. The last ones are too deep and he can’t see enough to get to them safely. She has a broken rib, too but he stabilized it. We just have to wait and see now,” she told him.

His throat felt constricted and he was having trouble trying to get any words out. “And—and her lung?”

Tears burned in Carol’s eyes as she thought of your condition and watched Daryl struggling in front of her. She shook her head. “He couldn’t do anything for it. So, we have to hope that her body can heal from that on its own.”

Daryl felt his eyes burning and blinked the tears away, chewing on his bottom lip, biting the inside of his cheek hard to stop himself from breaking down. He nodded, unable to speak at all now from the blockage in his throat. He rubbed a hand over his face and stared desperately at Carol.

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know…” She grabbed him into a hug, but he just stood there, tense under her arms until she straightened up again. She pushed some of his hair away from his eyes affectionately. “You’re right. She’s tough. She’ll fight. We’re going to bring her into a cell, okay?”

Daryl nodded and stepped back from Carol right as Maggie came through pushing you on a stretcher. Glenn was still using a bag to ventilate you as the anesthetic wore off. They pushed the stretcher into the nearest cell and Daryl stepped inside. Maggie gave his arm a gentle squeeze as she passed him, and her eyes lingered on your face for a moment. She was worried. Daryl could feel Glenn’s eyes on him too and he glanced up. “Lemme do that,” Daryl said. “Yer beat up. Go rest.”

Glenn hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Mhm. I got it.” Daryl took the bag from him and squeezed, pushing air into your lungs. Hershel came in beside him.

“She should be starting to come off the anesthesia soon,” he said in a low voice to the archer. “She’ll start to fight the tube and I’ll need to remove it.”

Daryl gulped. “Ya sure she’ll be able to breathe on her on?” He felt somehow both numb and intense pain at the same time. It felt like someone else’s voice asking the questions.

“She should be able to. We left the chest tube in so no pressure builds up around her lungs again,” Hershel explained.

He was right. It wasn’t five more minutes before Hershel needed to remove your intubation tube and Daryl no longer had to help you breathe, but the oxygen mask remained on your face and Hershel switched over to a new bag on your IV. You didn’t wake up and Daryl stood beside you, finally daring to gently take hold of your hand and warm it in his. Your skin still felt chilled. He turned and pulled a heavier blanket from the bunk behind him and draped it over you. Hershel placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“If anything changes, come and get me,” he said gently. Daryl nodded. When he glanced up, his family was clustered around the door, everyone looking in with the same grim expressions. And that’s when he suddenly realized; Merle. He looked at Rick and unstuck his tongue from the room of his mouth.

“Merle?” he asked. His voice was raspy with emotion.

Rick’s face darkened. “He knows where to find us. We’ll deal with that when it’s time.”

Daryl’s mind raced for a moment as he imagined something happening to his brother while he tried to make it to the prison, but then he came to a realization; none of this would have happened if Merle hadn’t taken you, Glenn, and Maggie to Woodbury. And as much as he was blaming himself, maybe he should be blaming his brother.

_ _ _ _ _ _

It was sometime in the middle of the night and Daryl was still sitting awake beside you. Beth had brought in a chair for him so he could at least sit down while he held vigil. He was fingering the hilt of his knife aimlessly, watching you carefully for any change. Everyone else was either outside on watch or in their cells asleep. The first thing he noticed was that your breath hitched in your chest. He sat up straighter, panic already growing as he stared, willing you to take another breath. Finally, you did, but it was accompanied by you stirring on the pillow, your face contorting a little in a pained expression.

Daryl shot to his feet. “Y/N?” He grabbed your hand and squeezed it. “Y/N?”

Your eyes dragged open with great effort and you struggled to focus on anything in the darkness. It took you a long moment to get your bearings and then you lifted a hand and began to pull at the oxygen mask on your face.

Daryl stopped you. “Hey—s’ok,” Daryl said, barely containing his emotion at seeing your eyes open and you moving after so many hours of stillness. “Leave that on. Ya need it.”

You ceased trying to pull it off and turned to try and look over at him. You could barely make him out in the darkness. “Hi,” you rasped out. Your throat was dry and hot, like you’d swallowed a coal.

Daryl pressed your hand more firmly between his. “Hey. How—how’re ya feelin’?”

You considered his question for a moment, trying to determine that for yourself. “Foggy,” you said. “Hurts. Tired.”

The archer’s expression flinched into a pained one briefly before he managed to control it. He nodded. “Lemme get Hershel,” he said. He tried to drop your hand but you squeezed his hard and it stopped him in his tracks. He gave you a questioning look.

“You heard what I said, right?” you managed. “No matter what happens to me, you have to keep going.”

Daryl felt like a hot poker had been shoved between his lungs. He shook his head. “Nothin’ is gonna happen to ya. Hershel fixed ya up. Yer gonna be fine. Ya just need some time to heal up.”

Your eyes flickered between his, which looked deeply blue in the shadow of the evening. “Don’t lie to me.” He ducked his head. “I might be fine, but I can tell there’s a greater chance I won’t be.”

“Y/N—”

“No, listen to me,” you said, pulling the oxygen mask from your face. Daryl could hear a wheeze in your breathing with the effort of talking.

“Put yer mask back on,” he begged, reaching for it. “Y/N—”

“Listen. Promise me, Daryl. You're my favorite person in the world. And I need you to promise me,” you pulled in another wheezy breath and your face contorted in pain again. “You’ll go on and be fine. Better than fine. Promise.”

Daryl finally succeeded in getting the oxygen mask back over your nose and mouth gently and he struggled to suppress the upwelling of emotion in his chest from the way you were talking. But he shook his head. “I ain’t promising that, alrigh’? ‘Cuz yer gonna be fine. And yer my favorite person in the world, too.” His heart was pounding as he hesitated to tell you what had been on his mind since he’d laid eyes on you during the chaos back at Woodbury. “Yer—” he ducked his head and let out a shaky sigh. “I—” But he couldn’t get the damn words out.

Miraculously, it seemed he didn’t need to. You gave his hand a squeeze, strong and firm, and looked up at him with a peaceful expression on your face. “I know,” you said. “Me too.”

You drifted in and out of sleep, and Daryl insisted on keeping watch over you. The others tried to convince him to lay down on the bunk and sleep, but he refused. He was too afraid that if he closed his eyes, you’d slip away.

And then later that day there was a commotion. Merle had found the prison, arriving down at the gate and being marched in at gunpoint by Rick and Carol. They locked him up in a cell and Carol marched straight to Daryl.

One look and he was on his feet. “He’s in the other cell block,” she explained. Daryl glanced down at you. You were asleep and your breathing, though a bit shallow, seemed steady. “Go on. I’ll stay with her.”

Daryl gently rested your hand down on the bed and rushed through the prison. Merle smirked from where he was leaning up against the bars at the far end of the cellblock. “Well, shit, baby brother! Nice of you to come visit little old me.”

Daryl’s chest was heaving with anger.

“What’s the matter with you, sourpuss? Did your little skirt kick the bucket?”

Daryl lunged toward the bars and tried to grab Merle through them but he moved back just in time and let out a whistle and some wry laughter. “Ya best be glad these fuckin’ bars are in the way!” Daryl spat.

Merle smirked. “Or what? You really think you could whoop me, Darylina? Way I see it, we’ve settled that you can’t time and time again.”

“Shut the fuck up, Merle! Yer lucky my people didn’t shoot you on fuckin’ sight for what you’ve done! This shit is all yer damn fault!”

Merle rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Daryl. The archer’s fists were clenched and his chest was still heaving with fury. “I didn’t shoot your beau. Way I see it that’s on you. They came back for your sorry ass.” Merle knew he was striking a nerve as Daryl turned away abruptly and started to stride quickly back to the doorway. “She’s got you wrapped round her little finger, don’t she?” He laughed. Daryl had to resist throwing a punch into the wall as he left his brother behind.

One week later

“Whoa—what’re ya doin’?” Daryl said, quickly climbing to his feet and blocking you from climbing down off the bed. You were weak and Daryl thought you seemed fragile, but you were alive and Hershel had told him this was longer than he thought you’d last. Your lung must be healing. But you still had a chest tube in and you were still on oxygen. Rick and Michonne had had to make a supply run to get more tanks from a nearby clinic. But you were healing.

Daryl slept on the bunk beside your stretcher in case you needed anything in the middle of the night, and he seemed unwilling to leave your side for more than a few minutes at a time.

You gripped onto the rolling IV bag stand which also held the oxygen tank and gave him a long look. “I want to walk around,” you said. Your voice was a little muffled behind the mask.

Daryl scratched his head anxiously. “I ain’t—I ain’t sure that’s a good idea. What if ya fall?”

You cocked your head at him. “Daryl, we both know you’d never let me fall.”

“I—I dunno… Lemme go check with Hershel,” he drawled.

“Don’t check with Hershel. Just help me walk around for a minute. I can’t keep sitting in this bed.” You gave him your best puppy dog eyes and he caved, sighing and offering you his hand a little nervously as you climbed out of bed.

“Alrigh’, just—take it easy. Don’t rush. Nice and slow…” You could hear the worry in his voice and you glanced over at him, a small smile on your lips, crinkling the corners of your eyes.

You pulled the oxygen mask away from your face for a moment and looked at him. “What would I do without you?”

He ducked his head and just started to lead the way out of the cell. You stopped him at the threshold.

“Daryl. Wait. There’s something I need to say.” He turned back and met your eyes. Your expression was serious and his heart panged at the sight of you still connected to the IV and oxygen with a tangle of tubes and you still seemed somewhat diminished from all your time in bed. “This isn’t your fault, you know.”

Daryl felt his breath catch in his throat. He’d never told you he blamed himself but somehow you just knew.

“It’s not,” you insisted. “I’m—I’m not even sure that I should be blaming Merle as much as I am… It’s his fault. The Governor.”

Daryl gulped and his heart started to race. He still had your hand lightly in his. “When I thought ya were gonna—we thought ya weren’t—” He still couldn’t speak about it. But he didn’t need to. Even when he wasn’t good with words, you always seemed to know what he was trying to say.

“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s not your fault. You have to know that.”

He met your eyes again and turned to square his shoulders with yours. There was something in his expression, some emotion on his face, a softness that seemed to send your entire body tingling. You pulled the oxygen mask off and stared at him. “Kiss me,” you said softly, nervous but also standing on the edge of a precipice you were too happy to plummet into if he’d just give you a nudge. “Please.”

Daryl’s heart jumped and fluttered in his chest. He gulped nervously. “Are—are ya sure?”

You smiled at him and nodded, your eyes looking a little starry and perhaps even glistening a little more than they should have been from the dim light coming in through the high windows. He nervously stepped toward you and you watched as his lips parted a little. He shifted anxiously on his feet and drank in the expectant expression on your face, the shade of your irises, as you looked up at him. Your eyes fluttered closed as he clasped your face, gently like he was cradling thin porcelain he was afraid would crack beneath his touch. His lips met yours softly and you kissed him back eagerly.

It was soft and slow and sweet, but it kindled fires in both your chests and it was far too soon when he pulled back. He took in your expression again and brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Then he stepped back a little begrudgingly, but he didn’t look away from you. You felt your cheeks flushing with warmth and laughed as you pulled the oxygen mask back on over your nose and mouth. “Gotta say,” you said, drawing in a deep breath, “it’s a good thing I have this oxygen right now. I feel a little lightheaded,” you said in a daze.

Daryl’s brow furrowed with concern and you laughed. “In a good way, Daryl,” you said softly. “I’m fine. Better than fine.”

He cleared his throat and awkwardly rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Ya still wanna go on this walk?” he drawled nervously. He felt a little shaky and a little dazed himself…

“Duh,” you said. You let him help you through the cellblock and your family beamed at you to see you up and about, but it wasn’t long before you were tired and sore again and had settled back into bed to rest.

Daryl gave you one final look and couldn’t help a small smile that grew on his lips. “I’ll be back in a bit, alrigh’? Just rest.”

The archer wandered outside and was surprised to see Merle soaking in the sunshine. Daryl had hardly said two words to him since their fight. Merle still got locked into a different cellblock at night, non-negotiable in Glenn’s opinion, but he was starting to earn more and more freedom at least. Daryl’s jaw clenched as his brother started to wander over.

“Hey there, baby brother,” Merle drawled. He seemed to be trying to read Daryl’s mood. “Don’t you think it’s about time we bury the hatchet?”

Daryl faced him, his expression serious. “You best be glad Y/N is getting better. Or you’d be outta here in a second,” he growled.

Merle seemed taken aback for a moment, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Daryl. He held his hands up. “It was just business, Darylina.”

“Nah. I don’t wanna hear anymore bullshit from you. How the fuck could ya do what ya did for that guy? Huh? Ya better fuckin’ find some way to make up for it. ‘Cuz you ain’t my only family anymore,” he spat. “They are.”

Merle let out an exhale that was half amusement and half surprise. “Seems like you’ve grown some great big cojones since Hot-lanta!” He glanced back toward the prison. “This all to do with that skirt? I heard what ya said back then, out there in the woods. That if she died you’d have ‘nothin’,” he said, almost mockingly. “Guess that makes me chopped liver.”

Daryl shook his head. “You’ll always be my brother, but that don’t change the fact that you’ve been a real piece of shit sometimes. And Y/N? She is everything. And she’s always treated me like—like I’m worth somethin’ to her. Tha’s more than I can say for you.” Daryl turned and headed back inside, eagerly making his way back to the cellblock and sinking down at your bedside. You were asleep and he sighed contentedly at the sight of you peaceful on the pillow. Just that sight seemed to take away all the anger and tension from his interaction with Merle. You were everything. And you made him feel like he was too.

[jeonqqin]

man up. [m] | pt. 5

h. jisung x reader | netflix rom-com au

— ❝Even with classes, annoying brothers, and an unrequited crush, you still figured your first year of college was going pretty well. Until you managed to get your first boyfriend, and suddenly your brother and his stupidly attractive best friend were attached to your hip for the whole damn ride.

or alternatively;

Why did Jisung care about you so much, and had his eyes always been that pretty?❞

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

CONTAINS: brothers best friend au, teen rom-com au, sorta crack fic, love triangle au, college au

WARNING: future smut, language, very brief mention of past child abuse (they were pushed and got hurt), panic attack

a/n: I have no idea how this chapter got this real? THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A STUPID SILLY FIC

▸ request

CHAPTERS:  01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 +

blog masterlist | ⟲ fic song 

© jeonqqin 2020

—UNEDITED

“Just fucking leave me alone Jisung.”

“Hyunae, hold on—”

Jisung sighed, his palm rubbing harshly into his eye to soothe the sting of oncoming tears. 

He was both devastated and relieved after his night with Hyunae. Granted, he hadn’t gotten any sleep whatsoever last night, but it was done, he really did it. Minho said he didn’t have the balls, but he fucking did, so fuck Minho. 

“No! Just… get out.”

But there was the other side of his mind that was screaming at him for ruining a relationship that he put so much time into. It kept asking him why. Why did he do it? What pushed him to end it? 

The true answer stared him in the face, but just as he had done for his whole like, he denied it. 

“I knew this was going to happen anyway. I was just waiting for you to open your fucking eyes, Jisung.”

It had nothing to do with you. Why would it? 

There was no romantic feeling between you and him, none at all. So there would be no reason for him to break up with his girlfriend on your accord. But he couldn’t ignore the way you ran out of the diner, and how terrified he had been all night with the absence of you. You hadn’t called him or Felix to let them know that you were fine, so of course he was worried, pacing back and forth around his girlfriend’s dorm until she snapped at him. It was possibly the worst timing for them to get into a fight, but it was also an opportunity for Jisung to just say it. 

He wanted to break up. 

He wouldn’t be quieted or controlled anymore. 

He was no longer going to listen to her bicker with his friends over the smallest things. 

Jisung had officially grown a backbone. 

And that had nothing to do with the comment Hyunae made after you left. A comment that she had no place to make. She was the one in the wrong that night, but he was the one being scolded and cursed at. It was always him that was at fault in the end, no matter what happened or how it happened. It was always stupid Han Jisung. 

Stupid stupid Han Jisung.

To say that his dormmate was surprised to see him after months of never sleeping in his assigned bed would’ve been an understatement. But thankfully Haechan didn’t ask any questions about why Jisung’s eyes were puffy or what he was doing showing up so late at night. Jisung respected that about the normally eccentric boy. 

That night he hadn’t been plagued with nightmares of his now ex-girlfriend, but a memory of his childhood, leaving his chest feeling heavy the next morning. He remembered how scorching hot the summer sun was on the back of his neck as he sat idle on the steps of his best friend’s house. He could hear the screaming and yelling of Minho’s cracking voice, another—deeper—baritone booming over it. Jisung has always wondered how Minho could be so brazen, staring into the eyes of every new man that walked into his house. 

Minho never really talked about it, but Jisung had picked up enough over the years to know that your dad was no longer in the picture, and that caused some conflicts between Minho and the men that he thought was trying to fill that position. Jisung never met your father, as he was barely six years old and hadn’t yet met Minho, but he grew to learn how much Minho idolized the absent man. 

Jisung remembered the loud thud before the crash of something breaking. He also remembered the way his neck heated and legs trembled. But he would do as promised and wait for his friend to walk out the door so they could hop on their bikes and just get away. Minho always asked Jisung to wait for him while he planned a confrontation. 

It was taking longer than usual.

Jisung met Lee Minho when he was eight years old, during an attempt to catch frogs in a small pond in the neighborhood. His family had just moved into the area and Jisung was too shy to really approach any of the children in the houses around him so he opted to play on his own. His brother was too old to play with him, and he honestly didn’t mind. 

He got used to it and learned to entertain himself. 

Minho approached all high and mighty, asking why Jisung was trying to catch the frogs in his special frog hunting spot, but was cut short by the smaller boy apologizing profusely and stumbling over his feet to stand. Only to find himself landing on his ass and soaking his green cargo shorts in mud. Minho had barked a laugh, his mouth opening to say something, but slamming closed as a frog jumped up and collided with Jisung’s cheek, nearly scaring the life out of the already petrified boy. Minho had then jumped into the pond with giggles falling out of his lips as Jisung laughed alongside him despite the tears falling down his face. 

The night ended with your mother peeling leeches from both of the crying boys, and you making them a poorly executed cup of hot (lukewarm at best) chocolate to get rid of the sting. 

Why you thought that was going to help—Jisung didn’t know. 

Though, Minho still drank it in one breath and thanked you for making the pain go away with uneven sniffs. That was the first moment Jisung witnessed Minho suppress his feelings on your accord, and it certainly hadn’t been the last. Jisung didn’t blame his new friend at the time though, since he found himself eager to gulp down the drink to witness the same toothy smile you sent to your brother—but only directed at him. 

It was worth the small stomach ache. 

“Don’t touch him! Don’t you fucking dare touch my son.” 

The voice or your mother rang clear as a bell in Jisung’s head, the usual calming tone was missing and urgency was all he could hear at that moment. The air only read “get away” as he continued to listen carefully to what was happening behind the closed door. He had listened to many fights, but even after knowing Minho for three whole years none of them had escalated beyond shouting. 

Jisung’s instincts tried to kick him into gear, but he still sat there, his loyalty outweighing his better judgement.

The argument shifted between your mother and the man, Minho’s voice suddenly eerily absent. Jisung felt his heart pulse for his friend, his mind wandering to only the worst scenarios and his eyes welling up with irritating tears. But his gaze stayed unwavering, locked on the swaying tire swing he and Minho had put up themselves earlier that summer. 

The door swung open, letting the voices be heard clear from the kitchen. Jisung’s head swung around carefully to watch as Minho rushed outside, his face bright red, almost unnaturally so. He left the door open, not even bothering to close it behind him. 

“—he tripped. I didn’t know he was going to fall, honey. I’m sorry—”

“If you ever lay another hand on my child, you will never see the light of day again.” Your mother’s voice threatened, plaguing Jisung’s young mind. 

“I would never purposefully hurt Minho—”

Jisung had shut the door, turning on his heel to follow his friend. 

Minho had been fuming. His cheeks red—though one more red than the other, but Jisung wouldn’t once ask about it—and drenched with fresh tears, his hand furiously whipping it all away. 

Jisung watched as Minho punched and kicked at the trees and flower beds in the backyard, making a mess of the once tidy space. But he just let his friend go, not saying one word to the boy. Jisung knew that he would be acting like a baby in Minho’s situation and was baffled by his friend’s strength. Minho was Jisung’s hero back then, and he sometimes missed that feeling when he took the time to reminisce. 

It was only when Minho was somewhat calmed down, that you walked out to check on your brother. Your eyes were rimmed with red and your hands fisted the fabric of your shirt. 

Every fight, you were always there to catch it all; a bystander like Jisung. 

And despite his state—a steadily swelling cheek and a darkening welt on his forehead—Minho still pulled you into his arms to comfort your hiccuping form. He denied every worry and question that fell from your wobbly lips, and Jisung had a sense of dejavu each time. 

It had been a rinse and repeat process for years; Minho would cause trouble and get into fights, and he would console you each and every time you showed any worry. 

Neither you or Minho spoke about it, but Jisung knew that it was only Minho’s way of trying to protect you. With your dad gone, Minho moved to fill that gap, just trying too hard without a complete understanding of the line he shouldn’t cross. 

Jisung had no idea why he had that dream, but the heavy weight in his chest began to push him in wanting to see Minho.

You couldn’t tell if you were having a good morning or not. 

The date with Chan had gone incredibly well, that was for sure. He was sweet, such a gentleman, and the time you spent with him wasn’t at all boring by any means. He was absolutely perfect. 

So why were you panicking?

Of course, there was the initial fear when you woke up in the morning to see that your little make out in his car wasn’t so little after all, and that your neck looked as if someone had tried to maul you. And the more makeup you piled over it barely made a difference, so the fact that you told Chan that you would go over to the apartment in the morning so he could show you the track he had put so much effort into, wasn’t exactly as exciting as it had been last night. 

At the apartment you could run into Minho—or Jisung. 

God, you completely forgot about Jisung. 

You hadn’t seen him in a few days for classes, the small break in your school schedule being a true blessing, and you suddenly felt guilt crawl up into your chest. The situation with Hyunae wasn’t necessarily his fault, and you realized that after a few days to yourself. They were dating, of course they were going to act like a couple. You were simply being a big baby about a bit of PDA. 

He had a girlfriend. 

Right, why were you so worried about a few hickies when he had a girlfriend?

Why were you even bringing up that fact that he had a girlfriend when that didn’t even matter?

Why were you still so terrified that you had visible evidence of Chan’s lips on your neck when Jisung wasn’t in love with you and you weren’t in love with Jisung?

Why did you feel so guilty? 

Staring at the purple marks on your neck had your mind flickering back to the moment when you first saw Jisung with the same little round spots on his own collar. Back in your first years of secondary school when Jisung basically lived at your house, him and Minho stopped paying much attention to you. It was a phase in your brother's life where he was getting into too many fights with his peers, and spending less time with you. And when you were that age you were pretty butt-hurt about it. 

Jisung and Minho had just returned back from a party, one that you hadn’t received an invitation to—not that Minho would allow you to go anyway—and they trampled up the stairs at two in the morning without a care in the world or a second thought about you nor your mother that were trying to sleep. How your mom managed to stay sleeping that night was beyond you.

And with your brother’s room right next door to yours, it was impossible to get back to sleep, their loud excitement too much for the thin wall between you to block out. So, you peeled your covers off your body and stomped into their room to give them a deadly glare and a good smack to the backs of their heads. 

Grumpily, Minho apologized and promised to be quieter, but Jisung simply smirked and tugged you down onto his lap to coo at how cute your puffy and tired face was. It was around the same time of your life when Jisung learned to push back his anxieties and began gaining self confidence, since that was something he desperately lacked when he was younger. But with confidence came the flirting. 

He chalked it up to “sibling like teasing” but you couldn’t deny the massive crush you had on the boy back then. So the feeling of his skinny arms wrapping tightly around you and his (then blonde) fringe ticking your cheeks, was almost too much for your poor heart to take. 

And then you saw the red spots lining his neck and momentarily froze, confusion haunting your train of thought and throwing you for a loop. You weren’t stupid, you knew exactly what those were, but for some reason, it didn’t occur to you that Jisung would ever get them. 

But there they were and it had definitely punched a small hole in your heart that night. 

You were all adults now though, surely they knew that you were bound to grow up sooner or later. It would be ridiculous if they decided to throw a fit now, right? You were in college for god sake, you were allowed to have a boyfriend.

Or—a Chan. Whatever you and Chan were, you were allowed to have it dammit.

So why was your hand shaking as it lifted to grab the door knob?

Amongst your inner turmoil you hadn’t heard the heavy step of Jisung walking up the stairs. He was so exhausted that he hadn’t even noticed you until he was scaling the last few steps of the three story apartment complex. He paused for a moment as he watched you hesitate at the door, your eyes glued down on your hand. 

A sudden wave of so many emotions rushed through him at the sight of you in a baggy sweater that fell around your thighs, the black spandex of your shorts peeking out from underneath. Even from behind, Jisung could tell that you were tired, your hair all messy and cute. His heart swelled in his chest. 

Of course you would be the one to dissolve all of his stress. He should’ve known. 

With a deep sigh, Jisung felt himself smile. He ascended the last few steps and sidled up behind you, eyes heavy from lack of sleep. You still had yet to notice his presence, and that had him chuckling under his breath. Your obliviousness was going to get you killed. 

Jisung slid his arms around your waist, only feeling you flinch for a second before you were relaxing back into his chest. He didn’t have room for any confusion, as he was too elated to actually hold you again. He couldn’t remember the last time he could just walk up to you and grab you without there being a fuss. Jisung missed you. 

Jisung took the opportunity to lean his jaw against your shoulder and tuck his face into the fabric of your sweater, only holding you closer. Your body wash had always been his favorite, not too intense that it had him nauseous, but sweet and soft enough to tempt him into placing a line of gentle pecks along the expanse of your skin—

That settled it, the break up was officially driving him insane. 

With a sigh and a curt laugh, you closed your eyes and leaned your head to the other side. Jisung’s eyes widened for those few moments when the invitation was right there in front of him, and some sick part of him wanted to scatter marks over the soft plane of your skin. In his daze, he wondered what kind of noises you would make if he bit down and made a mess of your pretty collar; if you would beg and whine or release little breathless gasps. He was right there—so damn close. 

His tongue ran along his bottom lip at the thought. 

What was happening to him?

“I’m sorry for just standing out here. I must look crazy.” You breathed, hands wrapping around his forearms. 

Jisung huffed a laugh, nudging your shoulder with his chin, just enough to shift your sweater off to the side. “No, you—”

Both of you froze at the same moment—complete different reasons why. 

The warm body behind you wasn’t Chan. 

Your mind was screaming at you to get away, telling you that you shouldn’t feel so comfortable with Han Jisung pressed intimately against your back. With his hands gripping your waist and chin resting on your shoulder where some other man's lips had kissed you, where Chan had—

Jisung saw the angry purple bruises before he could process the rest of what he wanted to say. They had been hidden behind the strategic collar of your sweater, and he suddenly felt a wave of an emotion that hadn’t risen to the surface for years climb up into his chest. 

He quickly unraveled himself from you, face flushing red as he took multiple steps backwards, his back colliding harshly against the door of the apartment across from Minho’s. Jisung couldn’t care less about the sudden pain that rocketed up his spine, his attention locked onto the massacre on your clavicle. 

Speechless, Jisung could feel his chest tightening and breathing quicken within his ribcage. Everything was so much worse than it had been before. At least he had a form of relief from breaking things off with Hyunae, now all he could feel was the crippling weight of your eyes on him. He felt completely exposed and dejected.

He couldn’t breathe. 

“Ji—” You attempted to lean forward and grab his arm, brows pulled into a worried frown. 

He felt stupid. 

“I—shit. I’m sorry,” he whispered, shrinking away from your reaching hand and hurrying past you to shove his extra key into the lock, twisting it open faster than he had ever done in his life. It was a miracle that he could even get the key into the hole with how badly his hands were shaking. 

Stupid stupid Jisung. 

Jisung barely registered the confused concern that flashed across Changbin’s face as he sped past him, his sights set solely on the last room on the left. Slamming the door behind him, Jisung couldn’t help but feel like he was dying, his chest aching and body suddenly warm. 

“Sung?” A groggy Minho lifted from under his sheets, his chest bare and bedhead wild. “What the hell?”

“I’m so stupid,” Jisung rasped, tugging at the collar of his shirt and collapsing back against Minho’s desk chair. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

“What happened?”

But Jisung could barely hear anything over the sound of his heart beating, the echoing drum in his skull. 

Minho frowned, lifting from his bed and pulling a shirt over his head in order to cross over to his best friend. Jisung looked absolutely exhausted, heavy-lidded eyes staring out at nothing as his hands raked through his gelled hair, ruining the style he had probably spent his whole morning on. 

It had been years since Minho had seen Jisung in such a state. There had been brief moments where Jisung got uncomfortable going to crowded parties or big lectures, but there was nothing small about how he was acting now. 

A brief memory of a crying boy covered in mud and soaked to the bone flashed through his head. 

Minho sighed, rubbing a palm over his face as he took a seat on the floor beside the desk chair that Jisung had claimed. Minho’s hand moved up to pat Jisung’s knee, “Well, Sung… Let’s get over this bitch together, okay?”

You felt your face pale as you took a slow step into the apartment, closing the door behind you. The look of fear that Jisung sent you was heartbreaking, his eyes wide and jaw clenched so hard that you knew for sure that it had to hurt. 

“The hell happened out there?” Changbin asked, tone stern but confused. 

You cringed, feeling your face heat up. 

“He…” You debated telling him—perhaps he already knew? Either way, it wasn’t your place to say anything. The last thing you wanted was to get even further on Jisung’s bad side. 

What did you even do to set him off?

“He what, Y/n? What happened?” Changbin placed down the cook utensil that had been gripped tightly in his fist. 

It felt weird to see Changbin distressed, as he was usually the calm during the storm, keeping a level head even when things took a turn for the worst. But you figured you’d be the same way if you just saw one of your best friends in such a state and not have any prior knowledge of the situation. 

“He started freaking out,” you finally said, voice low. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

But you really weren’t sure, and it was easy to tell that Changbin didn’t believe you.

“Are you sure you want to leave it at that, Y/n?” 

Your lip wobbled for a quick second as your eyes locked on something off to your right. It was difficult to sit still under the heavy gaze of Changbin, but really, there was nothing else you could say. You wouldn’t tell him anything that could reveal too much, and if that meant you would have to endure his interrogation with sealed lips, then that was what you had to do. 

You nodded slowly, “Mhm.” 

Changbin’s eyebrows rose in shock, his arms moving to cross over his chest. “Seriously? You’re not going to tell me why Jisung just ran in here breathing like he was in fucking labor?” 

You nodded again, more sure than the last time. 

“He’s with Minho. He’ll be fine.”

“You’re just going to be super cryptic and annoying then.” Changbin said, frustration clear on his face. “No explanation at all.”

“Sorry.” 

He looked at you as if he didn’t believe you, but you honestly were. You knew how shitty it felt to have people you care about hide things from you, since you went through a whole phase of it with Minho—hell, he still hid shit from you half the time. But if anyone was going to tell Changbin what was going on, it was going to be Jisung. 

Because there was no way in hell that you were going to break all rules of trust and tell someone that Jisung suffered from panic attacks. 

Granted, he used to get them all the time when he was young, therefore they were less of a secret and more of a “who possibly didn’t know?” type of deal. A lot of things set him off, and the fact that his parents completely uprooted their lives every two years didn’t help. Thankfully, they had gotten the hint and decided to hold off on moving until Jisung was out of school and ready to go off on his own. 

But it had been a long time since you witnessed one so bad, and you didn’t want to share that secret with anyone. You knew Changbin was one of the most trustworthy people you knew, but it wasn’t your news to spread. 

Changbin’s eyes scanned your form for a moment, his gaze only pausing on your neck for a fraction of a second, and if you hadn’t known what he was looking at, you wouldn’t have noticed anything different. 

“Fine.” He said, spinning on his heel and returning to the small kitchen. He was frustrated and you felt bad about that, but he would hopefully know soon enough. 

And like clockwork, the bathroom door then opened, Chan emerging with damp hair and thankfully fully clothed. It wasn’t the time to get distracted by his incredible body, you’d probably just feel even more guilty if that was even possible. 

“Y/n,” Chan chimed, voice full of life and excitement as he all but blinded to your side like an excited puppy. Though, his cheery nature wouldn’t be enough to raise your spirits—if anything he dampened them further, even more guilt gnawing at your chest. 

He grabbed your limp arms and rugged you forward, nearly pulling you into his chest. You felt your brows furrow and your head tilt away as he leaned forward to place a kiss on your lips, only to miss and land on the side of your head. Chan immediately pulled away with blinking eyes, his pretty lips open in slight surprise. 

You cringed. 

The universe was really against you today, huh?

“Is something wrong?” Chan asked, voice full of concern. 

What a perfect guy. 

You nodded, lips pulling in a tight line. “The morning has just been a little crazy…” 

Eyes flickering up they landed on Changbin, who was already glancing your way, his own gaze skipping back and forth between you and Chan. Though, without a word he turned back to whatever breakfast he was cooking. 

“Anything I can do to help?”

Leave—

You seriously wanted to punch yourself in the face. It wasn’t Chan’s fault for what happened, and you couldn’t ever think that. He was just caught in the middle of some messed up situation that wouldn’t have even happened if you just kept your stupid heart in line. Maybe if you had never met Jisung, everything would’ve turned out fine. 

Because that would’ve solved all of your petty problems. 

“No, Channie,” you managed to send a smile to the boy. “But we should probably get out of here before things get worse.”

Chan nodded, carefully lifting his hand to cradle your jaw. 

“Okay. No problem.” 

You sighed as he gave you the most patient smile you’d ever seen. Your guilt only grew.

Could things get any worse?

As if answering your question, the door to your brother’s room swung open and quietly shut after your grey haired sibling stepped out. His face was set, jaw squared and brows furrowed. 

It was the same face that he went into every conflict with. That was the same expression he wore every time he threw a punch or when he used to pick fights with your mother’s old boyfriends. Minho was angry—with who, you weren’t yet sure. 

But he didn’t miss a beat as he stepped around Chan and took his place in front of you, his calloused and scarred hand reaching up to the neck of your tousled sweater. You didn’t even bother to pull away or wiggle out of his reach, you just kept your unwavering gaze on Minho’s face as he tugged your collar down to expose the patches upon patches of bruises that spread lower than most would consider to be modest. 

Minho kept his gaze down, refusing to look up into the wide eyes of his baby sister. He didn’t believe it when Jisung began babbling about hickies and teeth marks on your skin, his head in his hands as he finally came down from his inner panic. But there it was, clear as fucking day. 

Minho wanted to spin around and sock Chan square in the jaw, but there was something deeper seeded in his chest that kept him from doing so. He bit the skin on the inside of his cheek inside, his mouth filling with copper as he dropped his hold on your sweater and spun around. He met eyes with Chan for only a moment, getting a hard look back as he bumped past and back into his room. This time the door had slammed behind him, all caution to the wind. 

You expected yelling and screaming, a fight you were willing to endure and take. Minho was your brother—as much as he wanted to fill the hole that your dad left empty—he was just your older brother. He could scream and punch things, but you weren’t a baby anymore. What you hadn’t expected was complete silence from him, it was almost worse than him screaming… 

No, your mind flickered back to the way he refused to even look into your eyes, it was much worse.