#and within an hour i could feel the burden lifted off my mind

[starbuck]

well… just went from my worst mental health crisis in seven years to completely fine in the course of a day, so we’re doing great on that front.

[childeel]

"THE BLOOD OF ANOTHER."

✦ childe, diluc.

'when the blood of another stains his hands'

notes — mentions of murder, violence, angst / comfort.

childe ⟢

tartaglia is a fatui harbinger, he's familiar with gruesome violence, and faces it head-on regularly within his work. he 's taken more lives than he can count on fingers; and he tries not to think about it. hey, he's a harbinger — he 's just doing his job, if he needs to take a few people out on the way, then so be it; if it weren't them, then it was him — it 's just self defence. he tries to excuse himself, but he can't. how could a such a kind and innocent girl like you, end up with a man-made killing machine? he doesn't want that for you, he doesn't want your life to take the sudden turn that his did.

"do you ever wish things were different?" asks childe one night while you're both laid in bed together. your eyes are heavy, and your mind is beginning to tune out your surroundings. but childe is wide awake, his body is tense, and he's restless — and it's really pissing him off. your ear pressed against the beat of his heart, you quirk an eyebrow upwards. you're accustomed to tartaglia throwing questions at you in the dead of night, and so you don't think much of it at first. 'mm..? in what way?' you'd mumble back, slurring your words in a slight haze of sleepiness.

"just... y'know. the fact you ended up with me." he replies after a few moments of silence. his voice is monotone and dreary, but with your ear pressed so close to his chest, you can hear the slight shake in his breath. tartaglia will never be truly honest with you about his feelings, and so realistically, there's no point in asking him about it. tartaglia feels no need to share his negative emotions — he doesn't like vulnerability, and giving people an open chance to rip his heart right from his chest. and so, what it is that made this thought occur for him, was something that you could never be 100% sure about.

tartaglia doesn't want your pity, and you know that. your arms wrap tighter around his torso — pressing yourself closer into him, if you'd left any room between you to begin with. you lift your head that rests on his chest, your eyes desperately searching for his in the thick darkness of the room. your hand reaches to cup one side of his face, and your thumb traces over his bottom lip.

"no. that's never a thought that's even so much as crossed my mind," you begin, simply. one of his hands holds your own, and his other hovers on the lower of your back — and although you can't see them, you can feel your lover staring into you; drinking in every and any sense of you that he can. "whatever goes on in that, crazy, little mind of yours — it's not always right." you tell him, and you can hear him laugh softly. your voice becomes gentler, and you lower yourself, so that your lips barely brush against his own — "i love everything that makes you, you — no matter the reason, or the circumstances. id accept you in any way." you finish, pressing your lips forwards, capturing tartaglia's.

diluc ⟢

diluc has a dark past — one that will haunt him until his very last breath, every day is an aching reminder of those many years ago. his life was bleak and dull, he busied himself with work, his nightly duties; he could go days without sleeping — purely out of choice, as the nightmares he endured were much too a burden to deal with. and then, you came along. his longly wretched and desolate days were put to an abrupt end the day you stepped foot into his life, blazing a bright light into his moonless life. you were kind, and astonishingly beautiful — you had a heart and gold and fought for what was right, and you were notably skilled in fighting too — diluc though that you were just utterly perfect, and he didn't deserve that.

you'd dawdle into the angel 's share late one night — far beyond the closing hours. diluc was behind the bar, washing the glasses, finishing off for the night... or at least, that's what he was meant to be doing. when you'd walked in, you found him seated behind the bar with his head in his heads. the tavern was dim, the lights had been shut off all but one above the bar. you couldn't hear anything, not a sniffle nor a breath — but visually, it was obvious diluc was crying; which was an uncommon sight for you.

"luc..?" you uttered out, cautiously stepping towards him. you weren't entirely sure what to do, or what to say. you'd never seen diluc in such a sorry state in your life. "my love... what's the matter?" you'd ask again after a few moments of silence. diluc had not moved a muscle upon your entrance, he was undisputedly humiliated — he'd been caught, he was vulnerable to the core. besides, he didn't know what to say, talking out his feelings wasn't his forte being strictly honest — the words would get caught in his throat, scratching and clawing, leaving a burning in his throat, and words unsaid. but, he couldn't sit frozen and act like he wasn't there forever — not when you were stood, so beautifully in-front of him, eyes wide, lips parted, one of your soft hands rested against his forearm. you looked frantic, and hugely concerned.

"oh. it's you, dear." he'd clear his throat, trying to rid of the strain in his voice, but to no avail — there was a croak in his glum words. he lifted his head from his hands, his eyes weighted down — glossy and bloodshot, blotches of red painting his face. "it- uhm, it really is nothing dear." he manages to say, when his heart feels as if it were clenched in the palm of your hand. "i really do apologise for the delay — let 's head home, you must be tired."

and like that, he 's hastily clearing out, shutting off the remaining lights and locking the tavern door behind him. he takes your hand in his whilst the two of you walk back to your home, in a heavy and uncomfortable silence. the silence continues when you get home, when he's holding you in his arms — so tight. you understand that diluc may not ever tell you what's going on up there, and if he does — it'll be when he's ready. all you can do in the moment, is make sure you show him just how much he means to you.

[banjjakz]

Seven Days at Granny Orimoto's Flower Shop ; Yuuta x F!Reader

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden. As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service. Please think of me kindly.

Or: An odd boy shows up every night begging for a job offer. Did you mention that he gives you handwritten letters? Do you have to report a workplace romance if the only other employee is your boss, who is currently dying? Asking for a friend.

notes: commission for the lovely mielle! thank you very kindly for 1) commissioning me!!!!!! and 2) putting up with my compulsion to surpass any and all word count specifications

warnings: general off-putting vibes, casual discussions of child death, implied stalking (at the very least), unethical(…? maybe ethically gray?) necromancy, etc. y'all know what's about to go down

♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

Life as a florist is every bit the dream that you’d hoped it would be.

The thought of working from nine to five in some cubicle for the rest of your life was enough to drive you out of university before even completing the feeble attempt you’d half-assedly made at a degree. While the path to your current state of employment had not been linear, easy, or even recommended, you cannot imagine ending up anywhere else.

You’re lucky enough as it is that Granny Orimoto was willing to take you on – perhaps, at first, out of pity – as a shop-hand. That day, all those months, is still as clear as unmarred waters in your mind. What a pitiful image you must have made: underfed, poorly clothed, with roving, vacant eyes.

Nevertheless, you adjusted quickly and gratefully to your new place of employment. Within months, your sense of self and purpose in life had been restored, watered and nurtured underneath the guiding light of Granny Orimoto’s flower shop. Like a corpse risen again, your days were once more filled with hope and aspirations.

Eventually, Granny Orimoto began bestowing upon you more and more responsibilities. You tend to think of your daily tasks as privileges more than anything else. You’ve graduated far beyond merely ringing customers up on the till – at this point, you’re somewhat of a budding horticulturalist. Or, at least, that’s what you’d like to think on your good days.

Recently, Granny Orimoto has even begun to entrust you to manage the shop on your lonesome for several days out of the week. It used to be the case that she would require you to work only hours that coincided with her own availability, so that you might fall under her constant supervision. Of course, this was back when you could barely keep a plant alive. Nowadays, things are quite different.

Quite different, indeed.

On this slow, Monday evening, managerial status finds its way to you once more. Closing the shop used to feel weird, without Granny Orimoto there to lay into you about your posture, or your clumsiness, or your naturally shy, stuttering nature. Now, it’s starting to feel eerily more and more like business as usual.

When the bell above the front door rings, you don’t think too much of it – this town is a bit of a tourist trap, so there are quite a few out-of-towners who aren’t used to respecting closing times. Usually, you’re too nice to shoo them out, but the weight of the day bears heavily upon your apron-clad shoulders.

But when you spin around on your heel, the polite-yet-firm “we closed four minutes ago” withers on your tongue like dead leaves crumbling away upon the unrepentant, earthen ground.

The most disturbing thing is not that he’s exactly your type of handsome: tall, gaunt, malnourished, with a strange, lost look in his wideset eyes. It would be easier, somehow, if your immediate and arresting attraction to the gangly stranger was the most of your worries.

Perhaps what unnerves you so, is the fact that you are powerless to do anything but devote the entirety of your attention to the odd young man. The terra cotta pot once in your grasp has suddenly been placed on the nearest shelf. The gardener’s gloves on your hands have now been stripped away and flung carelessly to the ground, the delicate flesh of your fingers on display for the world to see.

“Are you hiring?” He asks. The lights flicker. Granny Orimoto should really stop fighting you about calling an electrician – they aren’t that expensive.

No, is what you should say, because you don’t have the authority to answer this question and also the thought of having to train someone else when you are just barely getting the hang of your newfound managerial status is a terrifying prospect.

And yet, what ends up leaving your mouth is:

“Yes.”

His black hair is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The bangs are in a liminal state: too short to part, too long for comfort. It dangles limply in his eyes. Those eyes. Big and glassy and dark, like a dead doe gazing up, unseeingly, at the sky.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there an application that I could fill out?”

Is he not cold? The weather chills significantly at night, and his layers look rather thin. Or maybe that’s just the way the clothes hang off of him. “No, it’s alright. You can just – um, you’re good.”

“I’m…?”

“You’re good,” you repeat and then you have to fight for control over your own body, so that you can turn around and break eye contact before it actually kills you.  “When can you start? Do you have a phone number? Um, so we can get in touch with you about scheduling and training and verify your location and such and so forth.”

Okay, that last sentence was hastily tacked on. You’ll be the first to admit that much. But what kind of girl would you look like, asking a random stranger for his number out of the blue?

You hear more than you see him shuffle his feet, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t have a phone.”

“E-mail?”

“Ah..no…would communication via letter be alright?”

What is his problem?

He shows up, four minutes past closing, poorly dressed and clearly in poor health, as well, to inquire about a job opening, and doesn’t even have a phone or any form of contact to provide other than handwritten correspondence?

Is this a prank? Are you being pranked, right now? You pause your fastidious, frustrated handling of today’s arranged bouquets just to surreptitiously scan your surroundings for any hidden cameras.

It’s like the man of your dreams has walked through the door. It’s almost too good to be true. You know you have eclectic tastes—and this is exactly why you’ve never had a boyfriend, before.

Because what living man could possibly compare to the fictional freakshows you stay up late at night reading about? Who would be worth fawning over, when you are already well equipped with a wealth of off-putting – and, quite frankly, disturbing – characters of ill-repute? Never has there been a living, breathing vessel capable of catching your jaded, heavy eyes.

Until now, that is.

“Sure,” you say, allowing the brain-rot to take control of your faculties. “Give me one second to write down our mailing information.”

But before you can cling desperately to another excuse to evade his magnetic presence, the strange boy speaks up, alluring you with the unsettlingly tranquil timbre of his voice: “That won’t be necessary. I can hand deliver the letters every day, around this time.”

You blink, sizing him up once more. Any normal human being would find this situation incredibly odd and even worth of a police report.

However, you’re comfortable in your own skin and are able to recognize that the screws you’ve knocked loose over time have, for better or worse, permanently altered your threshold for “red” or “green” flag recognition. For all you care, the flag could be purple. You aren’t thinking about flags right now. You’re thinking about his murky bangs, dark and deep, a rich obsidian, metastasizing over the smooth expanse of his alabaster forehead like a natural disaster.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at this time every night, then.”

For the first time this evening, his gaunt face split into a tender grin, pink lips parting like spliced flesh. Somehow, he’s able to make the act of smiling something gory, something haunting. Your eyes are glued to the bone-white of his teeth. It’s like watching a car crash. You want, desperately, to look away. You cannot.

“I’m glad,” says the strange boy. “I’ll be here every night, right on time.”

A soft breeze stirs outside, just restless enough to tickle teasingly at the windchimes which dangle from the shop’s awning. Usually, the barrier of the front door dulls the melody. Tonight, you can hear the bells loud and clear.

Before you can think to demand (beg) that he reveal additional identifying information about himself – like, say, his name – the boy has all but disappeared from sight. Incredulously, you whirl around on your heel, scanning every visible inch of the shop for any possible clue as to where he went. But your searching is all for naught. It seems that he is, both in presence and absence, a complete mystery to you.

Well. There are certainly worse things that have happened to you. At least you got to chat with a cute, creepy guy for your trouble.

;

The next day, Granny Orimoto abstains from work yet again. Her modest apartment sitting atop the flower shop has kept her out of sight for many days, now. You’re no stranger to her fits and bursts of ill health, but you cannot recall the last time the brusque, full-hearted old lady has been bedridden for such a prolonged length of time.

You almost consider trying to drop by unannounced to bring her some soup and vitamins, but the thought dies immediately upon arrival. Memories of the last time you’d tried to caretake for her and were subsequently thrown out with indignant, irate gusto are enough to curb your momentary sympathy.

This means that you are effectively head of shop, once more. Over time, it gets easier to deal with the random accidents prone to any small, self-run business: leaks, clogs, jams, flickering lights, disappearing items, strange sounds at odd hours with an unlocatable source. All of it, you handle with def improvisational methods.

Even the spontaneously shattering bathroom mirror is no match for your handywoman capabilities! Really, Granny Orimoto should be lucky that it is you who happened to show up on her doorstep just as her health began to take a dive.

These are the kinds of thoughts buzzing around your skull as twilight descends upon the horizon like flies to a carcass. The death of the day is, as usual, a bloody affair: hues of bright vermillion spill across the sky, setting everything in the shop a brilliant, flagrant shade of fresh-burning red. The terracotta pots seem almost to be radiating with internal heat.

Night comes soon enough, bringing with it a brisk chill in the air. The wind rustles the windchimes, a forewarning of what is to come.

And sure enough, at 8:04 P.M., there he is, lingering in the doorway, daring to take not one step past the threshold, just as he’d done yesterday, that first night.

“Good evening.”

Clutched in his fingers is a wrinkled letter, wrapped in plain stationery. He offers it to you with both hands, politely.  

The space between the both of you evaporates in the fraction of a second it takes for you to cross the shop and greet him back, accepting the letter with greedy hands and a greedier heart. “Good evening. Thank you for the correspondence.”

“Thank you for receiving it,” he replies, scratching the back of his head in a stupidly endearing self-conscious gesture. “I know the manner of communication is a bit unconventional… sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.” And it really is. You, of all people, are no stranger to unforeseen and harrowing life circumstances. That the young man does not possess a phone or email address is not so uncommon, anyways – you’ve had time to reflect on the situation, and for all his off-putting looks and strangely formal manner of speaking, he could easily be a country mouse who has recently relocated to a more urban area. Who are you to judge?

“Shall I have a response waiting for you tomorrow night?”

He bows, then, for a bit longer and a bit deeper than what is normally appropriate for two virtual strangers. “I’d be grateful. Thank you for the trouble.”  

Once more, he evaporates seemingly into thin air, leaving behind not even the faintest trace of his existence. He appears to possess an uncanny ability to slip out of sight just as your eyes fall shut in the millisecond it takes to blink, to breathe.

Taken in stride with his dark-circled eyes and general aura of mysterious tragedy, the whole schtick is a little bit sexy, you have to admit. His vibe is that of a haunted family heirloom: beautiful, priceless, stained in generations of blood and cursed to doom those who dare to draw too near.

Your eagerness is almost feral as you tear apart the seal to the envelope in your hands, greedily pawing at the innards. What awaits you is a handwritten letter, complete with smudged pencil marks obscuring some of the more intricate kanji scribbled onto the page. Some of his radicals waver, lines bending or sprawling in odd and abnormal ways, as though he’d been shaking when we wrote it.

 As though he’d been nervous. So nervous, in fact, that upon handing you the thing, he had to immediately abscond from the premises without another word.

Cute.

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you very kindly for your willingness to take me on as an apprentice to your shop. Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden.

As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service.

Please think of me kindly.

Upon reading the very last word of the very last line, you discover that your bottom lip has been bitten so severely that a fine trickle of blood is descending down your chin.

There is no resume or CV in sight – just this handwritten, strangle little letter in which he divulges some most interesting truths.

Is he playing mind games with you? “Accustomed to taking orders”? “Eager to be of service”? Is he trying to tell you something? Outside of the hiring process, that is.

The note itself is perfectly polite and proper. It’s you whose mind succumbs hedonistically to the gutter. Oh, for shame.

 At night, the shop tends to turn into a gnarly jungle of pots and leaves and vines and poorly-placed smatterings of soil; you wade through theses trenches, aided by no more than the moonlight attempting to feebly infiltrate through the shutters – as the lights are out, again. Should probably call someone about that.

In your frantic haste, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t sliced by a spare pair of shears lying forgotten on some counter or another. Before injury occurs, you’ve already located what you’ve been searching for: a usable pen and some clean, uncrumpled paper.

The matchbox in your back pocket proves useful as you strike up a flame and light a nearby candle, paying no mind to the potential danger of the wobbly column of fire in a room full of fauna.

Like a woman possessed, you feverishly scribble away at your reply. It takes you longer to draft this one particular letter than it had to complete your college entrance exams.

But it’s alright – the candle beside you burns throughout the night, neither the wick nor the wax diminishing even a wink.

Dear Okkotsu,

Your eagerness to work hard is clearly evident. Color me impressed.

As fate would have it, I am in dire need of some help with running the shop. The owner has been absent with illness for quite some time and the workload is starting to get unmanageable. The addition of a strong set of arms is more than welcome. Even when it was the two of us putzing around, we still wouldn’t have been able to do some of the heavier lifting.

I’m curious to hear more about your passion to serve. Was this instilled in you during your time at vocational school? What does “being of service” mean to you?

While we are ultimately a public-facing shop, the stream of customers is slow, and your daily tasks will often look like physical labor and horticultural activities. But, from your letter, it sounds like this will pose no object.

Overall, your enthusiasm is appreciated and your hard-working attitude is attractive to future employers.

You could start as early as tomorrow.

Please do respond at your convenience.

It was rather quickly with only a slight bit of panic running through your veins that you tacked on “to future employers.” Even while reading it back, you cringe a little bit. Too forward? Oh well. It’s written in ink and it’s much too late to go for hunting for another clean piece of paper in the shop’s opaque blackness.

Speaking of which… you really should call an electrician. And a plumber. And some sort of handy man, to help you clean up all the broken glass from the shattered bathroom mirror. And maybe it may also me a good idea to get in touch with a security footage company and inquire about their installation rates. It certainly can’t be normal; how many things go missing so frequently. Although you’ve spent most of your waking hours with an aging elderly woman up until very recently, you’re quite sure that dementia isn’t contagious.

Ah, well. These are all things to take care of tomorrow. Sighing, you tuck away the letter into your back pocket for safe keeping before you go about locking up.

You try not to think too hard about the lingering gaze you feel on the back of your neck. If anything, it feels better than being completely alone.

;

The fragrant scent of okayu fills your nose as you climb the stairs to reach Granny Orimoto’s apartment.

Usually, you would not dare to trespass inside her abode, despite it’s close proximity to the shop. She is a grouchy old lady who does not take kindly to meddling. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seed of worry in the pit of your belly, which had blossomed over the course of the past few weeks into full-blown concern for her wellbeing. Besides her once-daily text message in the evening confirming the status of shop operations, you have not seen or heard from the old woman in what must be almost half a month at this point.

So, you’ve bitten back your pride and prepared a meal to personally deliver to her.

You are moderately concerned when there is no response to your three separate attempts at knocking on the door. Granny Orimoto hadn’t responded to any of your text messages, so you’d naively assumed she’d been asleep and hadn’t seen them. But is it possible to sleep through the ruckus that you’re creating?

The tension in your body only heightens when you try to the doorknob and realize, in shock and slight horror, that it’s open.

“Granny Orimoto?” You call out, haltingly yet loudly – loud enough to reach her wizened ears. “Granny, I’m sorry, I’ll be coming in now! Pardon the intrusion!”

Taking care not to jostle the still-hot bowl of rice porridge in your hands, you slip off your shoes at the Genkan and make your way inside of the apartment. Although you’ve only been here once before – and it had been an extremely brief stay before Granny Orimoto had shooed you off the premises – it still doesn’t feel all that unfamiliar to you.

It’s a traditional set-up, that much is for sure. Not much has changed, either. Same old floral blankets folded in various assortments and piles around the tiny room, same old plastic draining rack laid across the kitchen sink.

And, of course, there is that strange pair of guest slippers by the front door.

A bright, childish pink with the width and depth to accompany the foot of a young girl no older than six, these slippers had given you pause the first time you’d set foot in Granny Orimoto’s apartment. As far as you know, the old lady doesn’t have any living relatives with which she maintains contact. She spends every holiday alone, in her room, and refuses any offers of companionship between the two of you. You’ve always assumed something tragic must have happened, for a woman this advanced in age to have no one to visit or host during the New Year.

So why, then, does she keep a pair of children’s house slippers by the front door?

Although they are neatly placed and carefully aligned, the heels of the slippers face the direction of the household – as though they’ve been recently taken off and exchanged for outside shoes. Like someone has been here and left. Were they in that position when you stopped by before? Perhaps Granny Orimoto set them that way during her last cleaning.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you move past the entrance area and towards where you know the bedroom awaits. There is no overt stench of death and decay, so you aren’t afraid of walking in on her corpse. You’re, like, 85% sure that you could mentally recover from handling that situation, but it would be unfortunate and would likely mean an endless night for you and the poor EMTs who would be dispatched to the scene.

The bedroom door, too, is slightly ajar, and when you push it open all the way, you’re greeted by a sight that hits you squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs, stealing your voice, marring your eyes with shock and sympathy.

Granny Orimoto lies on her back, skin so pale that it is a near perfect match to the futon covers draped around her frail body. Even from this distance, you are able to clearly track the pathway of her veins as they course across her, the deep blues and greens standing out abnormally against the thin, alabaster flesh. Her hair, significantly grayer than the last time you’d seen her, has escaped from it’s usual, customary low-slung bun. You’ve never seen Granny Orimoto in any other kind of style – in fact, you’d begun to think – somewhat mischievously – that her hair had been surgically arranged to the nape of her neck.

But now, it sprawls around her skull in scraggly spirals, spilling across the pillow like leaking liquid. Thin and brittle, you’re sure that if she tried to gather it into a bun as she once had, it would split and break into a million fine pieces of ash.

“So, you’ve come.”

That hoarse voice snaps you out of your trance. You hadn’t even noticed that she was awake. One moment, you’d been gazing at her motionless body – and the next, you find her entirely unchanged except for the fact that her eyes are now open, peering at you. Unblinking. It’s disconcerting.

It looks like the effort pains her, to lift one hand and pat weakly at the comforter. “You came all the way here, silly girl. Might as well sit.”

You aren’t being kicked out?

Wow. She really must be dying.

Gingerly, you fold your legs beneath you and linger at the edge of the futon. “Granny, how are you feeling? I brought okayu. If you are feeling up to it, please eat. You must take care of your health.”

“Alright then,” says Granny Orimoto, mildly. “You’ll have to help me.”

“Of course.”

There is ultimately an insignificant amount of spillage down the front of her shirt, in the end. Still, you take it as an opportunity to encourage her to take a bath and change into fresh clothes, which you expect she has not done in far too long. This, too, requires your assistance. You don’t mind it at all. In fact, it brings you peace – to be able to care for the woman who had most probably saved your life by taking you in, all that time ago.

When it’s all said and done, Granny Orimoto lays back in the bed. The sheets could use some washing and the futon itself should surely be hung out in the sun to dry, but you recognize that this might be a bit too much excitement for her today. Having eaten and bathed, Granny Orimoto appears ready to return to her slumber.

You decide not to push your luck by overstaying your welcome. “Please rest well, Granny Orimoto. I will come back soon.”

It is when you are almost past the threshold of the bedroom door that you hear Granny’s whisper, faint as smoke and so soft it almost doesn’t sound like the stubborn, strong-willed woman you once knew:

“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

As though you’ve been struck by lightning, your body is immediately paralyzed, muscles helpless to do anything but twitch in confusion, overstimulation. “Oh…? I hope she is well…”

“She’s dead,” says Granny Orimoto. “The stench of death follows you.”

Ironic, coming from a woman who is quite obviously preparing to approach the far shore herself. “I see.”

“Whatever is hanging around you, get it taken care of. You’ll stink up the shop and the plants will wither.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Are you taking care of my zinnias?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Better be. How can you own a flower shop if you can’t take care of zinnias…”

You want to whip around and ask her what the hell she means by that, but the rumbling of her soft snores fill the space before you can get another word in edgewise.

As you make your way downstairs, Granny’s words continue to marinate in your mind – and not just her implication that the shop would be left to you. That she thought it fit to tell you that you remind her of her dead granddaughter was certainly an event that occurred in your life. But what exactly had she been on about, telling you that you smell like death?

In absentminded thought, your hand fiddles around in your jacket pocket with the latest letter from Okkotsu. You can’t stop thinking about his response to your last letter.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Are you taking care? The seasons are changing during this time, so I hope your health is faring well.

I’m glad that my enthusiasm comes across as clearly as my physical capabilities.  Sometimes I struggle to convey my intentions and inner thoughts. It seems like we can understand each other well, even while communicating through letters, which makes me happy.

To me, being of service means unobstructed and clear-minded dedication of the self, body and mind, to another’s fulfillment. Not dissimilar to pure love. This “pure” element is important to me. In fact, I believe total service is a form of pure love. Would you agree?

Maybe this is a bit strange to say, and you might hate me for it, but you remind me of a girl I once knew. She is long gone now. It has been nice to see some of her, again. Of course, it has been even nicer to get to know you.

Regretfully, I cannot begin formal employment just yet. The country re-entry procedures are taking longer than expected and things are a bit complicated right now. It is burdensome, but if you could please kindly allow for some additional time I would be very grateful. I’m sorry to trouble you.

In the meantime, it’s fun to chat together, like this. I’d be happy if we could continue.

Take care not to catch a cold.

The first time you’d read it practically had you squealing into your hands like a schoolgirl. Pure love? Expressing concern for your health? Expressing his desire to continue exchanging letters, even if he can’t formally start the training process?

At this rate, you’re on track towards a confession.

Which, of course, is the ultimate goal. You could never forgive yourself for letting the physical manifestation of all your wildest fantasies slip away. No, you’ve got to reel him in. You’ve got to ensnare him in a web of infatuation, so convoluted and intense that he won’t be able to find his way out. You’ve already decided that he is yours. It’s only a matter of time before things fall into place.

As has become customary, Okkotsu drops by the shop at precisely 8:04 p.m. and not one moment sooner or later. You’ve grown to anticipate the tinkling of the windchimes which herald his otherwise soundless arrival. Like an apparition, his visage manifests in the front door.

There’s something different about tonight: uncertain, he chances a foot past the threshold. “Could I trouble you to come inside?”

Oh. Oh! Are you finally past the stage of contactless letter exchange? You could cry tears of joy. “Please come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion…”

When he breaks past the entry area, it’s as though a wave of heat pulses throughout not just your own body, but the entire shop, as well. A light sweat breaks out at the crest of your brow. Is this seasonally appropriate? You aren’t sure if there is any season wherein a heatwave past sundown is normal.

Okkotsu looks at you like a lost puppy, floundering at what to do, what to say next. You yourself are no less awkward, but you take on the burden of breaking the silence first:

“It’s funny, you mentioned in your letter that I remind you of a girl you once knew. Today, my boss said that I remind her of her dead granddaughter. Wouldn’t happen to be the same girl, huh?”

You’re trying for lighthearted, but the joke falls flat when Okkotsu pales, white as a ghost.

Damage control, damage control! “Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, raising a hand. “I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. You aren’t too far off from the truth.”

Huh?

Okkotsu continues, “When I was a little boy, Mrs. Orimoto’s granddaughter and I were best friends. Her name was Rika. When she was six, Rika died in a car accident. I was with her at the time and failed to do anything to stop it from happening, or to save her. I’ve always been very sorry to Mrs. Orimoto, who raised Rika from a young age. By working at her shop, I hoped to repay some of that debt…”

You blink once, twice. Time seems to fall apart and reconstruct itself in the space it takes you to conjure up a response. What can you possibly say, to a story like that?

“You don’t, er, have to say anything,” mutters Okkotsu, as though he’s read your mind. “I know it’s heavy. But that’s the truth…”

“Okkotsu,” you say, voice tinny and faraway to your own ears. “You have a good heart.”

His downcast face shoots upwards, wide eyes seeking out your own with a desperate sheen to their dark, bottomless depths. “Huh…?”

“I mean it,” you press on, stepping closer as you do. He doesn’t even flinch or waver. You know this, because your senses are acutely aware of every fiber of his being. “Not many people would be that brave, or honor that sense of duty. You’re an admirable man. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

It seems you’ll be staying well past closing tonight to mop up the puddle that Okkotsu is about to melt into. His ears burn such a bright red that they almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop.

“I- I--!”

“So that’s the depth of your service,” you muse, your toes stopping just shy of his own, “or your ‘pure love’?”

Okkotsu’s eyes flutter shut. The sound of his gulp echoes like a gunshot. “Ah… er, miss manager, I—”

“Call me by my name. I’ve written it to you for a reason.”

Obeying your direct command, he feebly whispers your name, invoking you like he’s scared of what he’s about to summon. It sets a live wire alight at the base of your spine. Sparks fly throughout your body and it’s all you can do not to pounce on him then and there in this very shop, sleeping Granny upstairs be damned.

“Good. It seems you really are skilled at taking direction.”

His eyes are still closed when you nods, face flushed. Cute. You can’t help but want to tease him more, push him further. “Good job.”

His head all but hangs, now, as he resolutely refuses to make eye contact with you. In front of him, his hands are clasped suspiciously in front of his crotch – a detail which you take in ravenously, hungrily.

Curbing the overwhelming desire to do more, you settle with pushing your sealed envelope into his firm, solid chest with both hands, letting your fingernails press lightly into the muscle. “Here’s today’s letter. Read it and respond well.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says, eyes still shut, head still hung.

It requires you to stand on your tiptoes, when you try to lean into his ear and whisper: “You deserve a chance to make things right. Let me help you with this.”

You let him go, then, because you’re sure he’s about ready to burst at the seams. The last thing you throw his way is yet another bit of praise, because you’re a little bit awful: “I admire your idea of pure love, Okkotsu.”

Before tonight, you’ve never seen a grown man walk straight into a windowpane. Okkotsu reels back, nods and bows to you in acknowledgement before hightailing it out of the shop so fast that, as usual, you fail to actually see him go through the motions of stepping out and leaving. He’s always in such a rush. An odd one, he is.

Good thing “odd” just your type.

From that night onwards, Okkotsu starts making himself more available outside of his usual 8:04 p.m. haunting. Now, he’ll drop by early enough in the afternoons for his shadow to be visible against the door. Still, he resolutely avoids any times when current customers are present. You tease him, lightly, for this, asking how he plans to work partially as a sales attendant if he is afraid to interact with the customer base.

His response?

“I want to work here for two reasons,” he’d stated simply. “For you, and for Rika.”

Normal women would probably find an issue with their ideal man likening them to his dead childhood sweetheart. Fortunately, you are not normal. It’s flattering, even.

Clearly, Rika was another manifestation of his pure love. That you can even approach that category, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as her, is, to you, a vibrant green flag. You must be doing something right here.

So you continue intertwining yourself deeper and deeper with Okkotsu Yuuta: the letters are a constant in both of your daily lives, as well as his visits become more frequent. As an interesting development, he’s started to bring you homecooked food. Usually, it is you who does the caregiving. The first time he shows up with an obento made specially for you – complete with a heart made out of specially cut seaweed set atop the fresh rice – you almost start crying.

Admittedly, it’s all moving very fast. Hasn’t it only been four days, now, since he’d first darkened your doorway, pitifully asking for a job with no form of communication? And now, here he is, feeding you the food he’d prepared for you to enjoy as you go about your closing shift.

“Would you ever want to go out?” You blurt, and then pause, mortified at the overtly forward implication to your words. “Like! To a restaurant! Or a café! You always bring me stuff. Let me treat you.”

“Hmmm…”

Okkotsu’s wide, dark eyes roll upwards in thought. “But I really like staying here. I like eating here. No one else gets to see your pleased, comfortable face while eating except me. I don’t think I can share that. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, dizzy. “You don’t have to.”

This is the right answer. Despite his soft, youthful features, the ginger grin he offers you is undercut by the ominous glint in his intense gaze. “I don’t have to share?” He gathers some pickled plum in the chopsticks, bringing them to your open, waiting mouth. “It’s all for me?”

“I am,” you say, and accept the bitter, delicious fruit on the tip of your tongue. It is pungent. It is sweet. It is overwhelming. You almost aren’t able to swallow.

Time spent with Okkotsu makes life seem so fantastical that it almost blinds you to the world of the living. That night, you cannot find it within yourself to leave the shop and go home after closing, instead opting to chat with this gaunt, ghoulish boy until you are startled awake in the morning by your phone’s automatic alarm.

When you come to, you discover that you’d all but passed out behind the front desk, where the two of you had sat, talking, for hours into the night. Okkotsu is nowhere to be found, but in his absence is a crisply folded piece of paper lying innocently upon the desk. Hastily, you scrub at your eyes and smack your lips, trying to wake yourself up as much as is possible before you unfurl the letter and dive into its contents.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be apart from you?

If I could have, I would have stayed with you all throughout the night. I’m sorry to have left you by yourself. But you aren’t really alone. If you ever feel lonely, in the shop, please remember that I’m always there with you. Watching over you. Can you feel me?

Thanks for listening to me last night. It was a heavy story to tell, but now that I’ve confessed it, I feel so much lighter. And you accept me! Words can’t express how I feel, so please allow me to keep showing you.

Also, since Mrs. Orimoto isn’t well these days, can I ask that you don’t share with her that I’m here? The shock may worsen her condition. When she is no longer bedridden, I will tell her myself that I wish to remain and work in the shop. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of my situation.

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you so much already, and I haven’t even left the shop yet. I’m writing this as I watch you sleep. Did you know that you snore a little bit? It’s cute.

Please think of me often.

On the one hand, you want to bury your face in your hands and scream and cry and maybe roll around and die a little bit. A love note! It’s a proper love note, this time. The thought makes your insides feel as though they’re being set alight with a bright, brilliant, inextinguishable flame.

On the other hand, Okkotsu’s mention of Granny Orimoto has brought to mind the fact that you haven’t heard from her in what is now two days. Usually, she’ll send you a message or two at the end of every day, making sure that things are in order and that you haven’t burned down the shop yet. But the last time you’d spoken to her had been when you brought over the okayu to soothe her sickly stomach…

Inexplicably, a chill overtakes your body.

Operating on autopilot, you pull yourself together – running a hand through your hair, smoothing your wrinkled clothes – and make your way out of the shop, to the external set of stairs running along the west wall.

With haste, you climb the steps, nearly tripping over yourself to reach the front door which has been left, once again, unlocked. The sense of wrongness occupying your faculties only heightens when you realize this must mean that Granny Orimoto has not been up out of bed since you’d last visited.

When you stop to toe off your shoes at the genkan, you notice that the bright pink pair of children’s house slippers are nowhere to be found, absent from their perpetual perch by the front door, as though someone – or something – has stepped inside.

Mind whirling a mile a minute, you push into the apartment and immediately reel back at the offensive scent of pure, unadulterated rot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It could be the spoiled ingredients in the fridge, you think, desperately, as you hustle towards the bedroom. It could be anything. Anything but what it is you’re most afraid of.

Dazed, confused, scared, and still freshly woken up, your clumsy limbs somehow manage to collide with one of the low-sitting tables filling the living space. The abundance of knick-knacks and keepsakes cluttering the surface clatter in indignation, making an obscene ruckus as they fall over and to the floor. Upon closer inspection, you realize, to your horror, that it is an altar which you’d disturbed.

The only things left unshaken by your blundering blight are two framed photos: one of which displays the portrait of a young girl, no older than six, with long, dark hair and a serene smile. She seems to peer at you through the barriers of the picture frame, through the barrier of time. Her gaze hooks into your soul and invites you to step closer, to look harder. The longer you stare, the higher the gooseflesh on your skin raises in alarm. It’s an uphill battle to slide your gaze over to the picture beside her, which displays the likeness of a young boy close to her in age – presumably unrelated to her, given their distinct features, and yet, he is placed next to her on what is surely a memorial altar meant to honor and house the deceased.

While the personal effects and other supplicating items have all been disrupted and thrown off by your collision, the incense in front of the two picture frames still burns brightly, steadfastly. Oddly, it does nothing to quell the horrid stench of decay in the apartment. If anything, the altar seems to be exasperating the smell, which brings involuntary tears to your eyes and a pucker to your lips.

It's less so that the stench itself is what drives you to such a reaction; rather, the sensation invading your olfactory senses fills you with an abominable concoction of violent emotions: rage, pity, sorrow, envy, despair. You are drawn follow the source of these feelings, and your feet lead you to the bedroom, hands trembling underneath the sheer weight of all that you are experiencing as they push the slightly ajar door all the way open.

A gasp escapes you, unbidden. There, in that same, white futon adorned with layers and layers of her signature floral blankets, lies the corpse of Granny Orimoto. You can tell she’s dead because her skin has started to sag and bloat in strange and inhuman ways. This is the least surprising thing before your eyes.

Next to Granny sits a little girl – the spitting image of the girl in the portrait you’d glimpsed mere moments ago. Her gaze had once been trained steadfastly on Granny’s body, but now she looks up at you, unblinking, all-seeing.

“Hello,” says the girl, with a little girl’s voice.

“Hi,” you respond. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “This is my granny.”

You remind me of my granddaughter.

She’s dead.

Granny Orimoto’s parting words to you echo in your head, rattling your brain, fizzling your consciousness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rika. Granny Orimoto told me about you.”

Slowly, cautiously, as though you are approaching a spooked animal (ironic, given the fact that it is you who is shaking like a leaf), you crouch down and kneel on the floor, sitting on your haunches in a polite manner, mirroring the girl before you. Granny Orimoto’s body is the only thing separating you as you both sit, face to face, hands clasped in your laps, peering curiously at one another.

“I know,” says Rika. “Yuuta told you about me, too.”

Of course she would know about the conversations you and Yuuta have. This also might as well happen. At this point, after all you’ve just witnessed – first, the fresh corpse of your former employer, and now, the physical manifestation of a girl who died over ten years ago – there is very little left that could happen which would truly shock you out of your wits.

“Yes, he did. Have you been hanging out in the shop? Have you been lonely?”

The girl sticks out her bottom lip. “Yeah. You guys didn’t pay attention to me. Even when I was really loud, or turned the lights off, or broke the mirror. Sorry for breaking the mirror. I was mad.”

“It’s okay to be mad, but we mustn’t break things, or hurt others. I’m sorry for not noticing you sooner. Do you like plants and gardening? Like your granny?”

Rika nods. “Mhm, yeah. But Granny never lets me into the shop. Granny says all I do is mess things up. Granny says I’m no good. Granny says people died because of me. Did you know my dad is dead, too?”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” says Rika. “I wanted him to die.”

You blink. “Did you want Granny Orimoto to die, too?”

She takes a moment to contemplate before answering. “Granny had to die if I was going to play with Yuuta again.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, desperate to understand. When she begins to explain, you lean forward, forgetful of the fact that it is an old woman’s corpse which lies beneath you.

“Granny has already lived for so long. I wanted to come back. I died before my seventh birthday. Yuuta and I were supposed to spend it together. Yuuta never forgot about me. Yuuta talks to me every day. Yuuta went to Africa. Have you ever been to Africa? I went with Yuuta because he made a shrine for me there. Now Yuuta is back in Japan. Yuuta promised that we would play together again. Yuuta said he needed some time to prepare things. Yuuta is good at things like that – Yuuta can fight and do magic. Yuuta does jujutsu. Do you know jujutsu?”

“I know it,” you tell her.

“Yeah, Yuuta has powers. Yuuta knows a lot about dying and things like that. So, anyways, Yuuta said he would use his powers to help me come back so we can play together again. Yuuta said that me and granny have to switch places. I said ‘OK, Yuuta!’ and then Yuuta said he needed seven days. What day is it today?”

Somehow, you know the answer, even without looking at your phone’s calendar. “Monday.”

“Oh, so it’s been seven days. Yay! We can play together again. Do you want to play with us, too?”

“I would like to play together, yes.”

Abruptly, Rika unfurls from her graceful little seated position and makes her way over to you, crawling over Granny Orimoto’s corpse. You try not to think too hard about the graphic squelching that occurs underneath the childish palms of Rika’s tiny hands.

“Yay! Let’s go downstairs. Maybe Yuuta will be there.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that Yuuta only swings by when the sun is out of sight. Her arms raise, clearly indicating that she’d like to be carried, and you are content to oblige her, as you scoop her up in your arms and make good on her direction. You exit Granny Orimoto’s apartment with Rika in your arms, her little feet dangling from your hip. The bright pink pair of slippers almost fall off as you make your way down the stairs, and you take care to remind her to make sure not to lose them.

When you get back to the shop, you must admit that you were mistaken in thinking Yuuta would not be there. As though he’d been anticipating this – which, you realize, he absolutely was, as this marks seven days from the first time he’d set foot in the shop – Yuuta stands by the front desk, wringing his hands before him nervously, sweat visible at his temples.

The both of you lock eyes, and he smiles, warm and fuzzy and entirely ill-fitting for the increasingly absurd scenario in which you find yourself. But you have little time to interrogate him about what the hell is going on – for Rika leaps from your arms and hits the ground running, screaming at the top of her little lungs, Yuuta!! Yuuta!!!, excited and so full of life, in only the way that children can scream in pure joy. Pure love.

He crouches and readily meets her, scooping the little girl up in his arms and sweeping her into the air, spinning round and round with Rika in his arms. Rika-chan!! Rika-chan!!! he cries – literally cries, that is, as you cannot help but spot the stray tear or two running down the swells of his flushed cheeks.

It is right as you are starting to feel a bit voyeuristic that Yuuta slows to a stop and finds your eyes once more. He comes to you, then, with Rika still perched on his hip, a chafingly tender smile splitting his face into two.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers with charged intensity, voice potent with unspoken feeling. “I knew you were special. I’ve always known. You never judge me. You always listen. You accepted me. And you accepted Rika, too.”

Have you? Accepted them, that is.

You shock yourself when you realize that you really have accepted all that’s transpired. Granny Orimoto saved your life when she’d taken you in and, for that, you must always be grateful. But from what Rika shared with you about how she’d been treated as a small child, and from what you’ve observed from Yuuta’s generally traumatized disposition and extreme reluctance to come face-to-face with the old woman, you realize, now, that there is a reason why Granny Orimoto had no living family to speak to or rely on when she was in her final days.

Whether or not her death had something to do with Yuuta’s apparent preternatural abilities (you remind yourself to ask about that later), it remains clear that she’d been in ill health long before you’d arrived at the flower shop. With no one to talk to. No one to care for her. You’d always felt pity. But, now, you realize that it may have been a situation of her own doing.

How could you argue with the living, breathing testament to that fact, who stand before you in fresh-faced, smiling glee?

“Of course I accept you both,” you say, earnestly, and mean it. “Rika is too cute not to love!” The young girl giggles, bashfully burying her face in Yuuta’s neck.

“And what about me?” Yuuta’s brows are quirked, his smile dipping into something a bit more cutting, a touch more heated than his simple joy from moments ago. “Am I cute enough to love, too?”

The answer is simple and requires no effort on your part: “I love you, Yuuta.”

You had more to say after that, but it proves a bit challenging to monologue your undying devotion to this man while said man is currently enveloping your mouth inside of his own. He kisses like a black hole: devouring, dark, impossibly comprehensive, and providing you without hope for possible escape.

He really is your type.

;

After those first seven days, Yuuta finally begins training at the shop. And Rika joins in, as well.

The three of you make an odd, adorable little family unit. After Yuuta had taken care of cleaning and renovating the apartment space upstairs, the three of you moved in without further delay. Your days are filled with home-cooking, raising Rika, maintaining the shop, and working alongside the man who has quickly made himself to be your life partner in every endeavor.

In fact, so much of your life is consumed with this newfound domesticity that there is little reason for you to leave the shop in the first place. Whenever you stray too far outside, you are prone to headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and even fever. It’s best to stay where is familiar, you reason. And Yuuta’s cooking is too good for you to want to eat anywhere else. He makes sure you eat three times a day, at least, and insists you finish your plate every time. Perhaps this is why you can’t stand life outside of this four, cozy walls – where else could you possibly find contentment such as this?

The business is re-named to “Rika’s Flower Shop,” which all three of you find quite agreeable given the current state of affairs. More customers than ever flow in, attracted by the colorful designs hand-painted by Rika herself on the building exterior. You generate enough revenue for additional renovations to be made on the shop. There is enough room in the budget to hire some part-time shop hands – local university students in the area looking to support themselves.

Everything is coming to fruition. For once, you truly feel as though life is blossoming.

And you can attribute all of it, every last bit of happiness, to them: Granny Orimoto, Rika, and Yuuta. The happiness is so overwhelming that you don’t ever want to leave their side, not even to run to the konbini, or to visit the post office. Why would you need to leave, when everything you’ve ever wanted is right here?

You have a family, a home, a life. You’ll remain in this shop with your loves until the day you grow as old and sickly as Granny Orimoto, and you’ll likely die upstairs, lying next to Yuuta, the both of you wrinkled and gray, curled together atop the futon, exactly where Granny had wheezed her last, bitter breath.

You wonder if Rika was there to watch it happen. You wonder if Rika will be there to see the both of you off, too.

You hope so. You really, really hope so.

You’re sure death will be every bit the dream you’re hoping it will be.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

I have a request for some Bodhi comforting reader after a trauma

Fear of water

You told everyone else that it was nothing. That you had gotten over it. That it was long in the past. No demons hunted you anymore. But Bodhi knew better he didn’t want to go behind your back so he kept it to himself. He watched you getting out of the bathroom pale as paper and knocking at least five times to ensure you were well when your time there would cross an hour.

And now he found you in your shared room. Eyes empty as you stared ahead. It killed him seeing you like this. It killed him even more so that he had been too slow. Too slow to find you. Too slow to kill the group who ambushed the camp. All of it was a blur. All but the image of you on your knees with your head deep within the lapping river flow.

“Hey”, Bodhi slowly shrugged off his leathers making your tired eyes lift to him. You acknowledged him with a slow blink. “What are you doing?”, it wasn’t accusatory in any way. He just heard from Imogen that you had left training to shower and Bodhi had dropped everything he was doing to go back. “I just…”, you started frowning slightly, “I…”, with a deep sigh you let your fingers run through your messy, oily hair. “You want to wash it”, Bodhi asked, crossing the distance between you both. Your jaw clenched as you watched him.

“We can do it and I can help”, he offered hands slowly squeezing your thighs as he knelt in front of you. “I can do it alone”, you whispered. “Of course, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t help”, Bodhi smiled up at you, “Let me help. We share burdens, remember?”, reaching out he cupped your cheek. “I’m just… I don’t like it”, you muttered shaking your head. “You can lean against me and we can just sit there for a bit”, he offered quietly, knowing that getting you even close would be an achievement.

He’s getting into the tub first, after adjusting the water temperature. The whole time holding your hand. Your whole body gets ridged the moment your toes meet the water but Bodhi is quick to brush his fingers up and down your thigh. “Good job”, he muses, “You’re doing so good”. You step inside fully before you both are squatting in a bath. And you’re sure that you weren’t so scared you two would be laughing at how silly that looks. Your big eyes watching him. The moment your knees graze the surface of the tub your whole body seizes up, and only Bodhi’s arms manage to break the fall.

“Shhhh”, he shushes you, “You’re safe”, your fingers dig into his shoulders as you cry, body shaking, “Bo”, you whimper. “I know, baby, but you’re so brave, and here no one will hurt you”, he promises you, pushing your face deeper into the crook of his neck.

You two stay like that for a while. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t tell you to do anything. Not until your fingers reach for the surface of the water. “Do you mind if I’ll wash your hair?”, he asks, pushing loose strands away from your face. He knows that you trust him. Somewhere deep beneath that fear, you do. So you nod. His lips meet your temple before he cups some water on just the ends of your hair, not dropping his eyes from your face.

“I feel so insane”, you huff in frustration, “Can’t wash my hair, can’t shower”. “You are doing both of those things now”, he points out, “You went through…”, Bodhi’s voice dies down this time as his mind swirls. “It was an error on my behalf”, you shook your head. “We were outnumbered, we did what we could”, Bodhi says firmly, “The important thing is that you’re here alive and breathing”, nuzzling his face closer to yours, he kisses the very tip of your nose.

“Will you let me wash your hair?”, he asked once more, letting her make a decision. You were quiet for a moment, thoughts battling before nodding weakly making Bodhi nod alongside you. Reaching for a cup he filled it with warm water. Your hand instantly reached out for his free hand as you gripped it with mighty force.

Bodhi halted, lowering the cup and reaching for you. “What are you doing?” You muttered, wild eyes watching him. “Straddle my lap and lean against me”, he muttered, bringing your legs around him as your bodies lined as one. Naked bodies pressed against one another, something that always prompted nothing but love. His warmth, his scent filling every fiber of you. “You know my hands”, he continued. Slowly reaching your shoulder before brushing his fingers through your hair. You flinched slightly but feeling him so close helped you relax a lot quicker.

“I love you”, he leaned in to kiss your cheek, before nuzzling again your neck, placing a kiss there as well. All while his hand reached for the cup once more. Slowly pouring the water onto your hair . You curled into him when the sensation washed over you. Silent tears painting your cheeks, making Bodhi hold you even closer as he whispered words of reassurance over and over again. He knew it would take time. But he was here and he was ready to do anything it took to help you heal.

[prythianpages]

ACOSM | The Night Azriel found out her secret

azriel x rhysand's sister (oc)

warnings: angst, mention of injuries and slight abuse

summary: Azriel is concerned over Val's strange behavior and when he sees she is hurt, he demands to know who hurt her only to find an answer he had never thought to expect.

A/N: this is an imagine among my collection of imagines that follow Rhysand's sister, Valeria. while I'm still working on them, you can find the masterlist for it here. this takes place months after the Solstice imagine. I'm excited bc now that they're all older, we can get into the more romance/angsty bits :)

**

Azriel sat in a cozy armchair in the living room of the house. He tried to immerse himself into the words in the book but could not focus. Lady Yvaine was with her husband, Rhysand was with Andrina and Cassian was with Tanwyn.

But Valeria was nowhere in sight and the lateness of the hour only heightened his concern.

Over the past few weeks, a newfound worry had taken root within Azriel, gnawing at his thoughts and leaving him restless.  Valeria, usually vibrant and full of energy, now seemed burdened, her spirit dimmed.

Azriel had noticed the change the same she had on him last Solstice. The fatigue etched on her face and then, there was the wince in her walk some days. He once confronted her about a bruise that marred her skin the other day only for her to laugh and brush it off. He knew something was wrong. He had sent his shadows after her but even they couldn't discern the secret she so closely guarded.

As he closed his book, readying himself to go search for her, his shadows whirled around him, a silent alarm rippling through them. His senses sharpened, attuned to the faint sounds of a soft, uneven gait approaching. 

A moment later, Valeria emerged into the room, her face contorted in pain, failing to conceal her discomfort. As she lifted her gaze, her steps paused and her violet eyes widened.

 It was evident she hadn't anticipated finding Azriel awake at this late hour. She took a moment to catch her breath, her gaze shifting from the Shadowsinger and then to her injured ankle. "Az" she almost stammered, "I didn't expect anyone to be up."

Azriel immediately closed his book and set it aside, his attention fully on her. Concern etched his features as he rushed to her. "What happened?" 

“I was skating and fell.” Valeria replied, wincing as she leaned against the armrest of the couch, her ankle clearly in pain.

“At this hour?” Azriel’s voice was a mix of worry and reproach. Valeria never skated alone and he was certain that Mallory was not allowed to be out this late in the camp.

"Yeah." Valeria replied, attempting to brush his concern off the same way she had the other day when he saw her bruise. But the pain in her eyes betrayed her stoicism. 

Azriel knelt beside her, his touch gentle as he examined her ankle. His shadows were also concerned. Some of them left his side and rushed to her, inspecting her for other injuries. They shuddered when they sensed more bruises on her arm.

Rage surged within him as he realized her ankle was broken, further fueled by the information from his shadows. He did not believe her story one bit. The gentleness that had initially marked his expression was replaced by a fierce determination as he looked up at her, his fingers loosening their grip on her ankle.

“Tell me who did this.”

“No.”

“I’m not asking.” 

“No one.” Valeria replied.

Azriel’s patience wore thin, a storm brewing in his eyes. Anger flashed, not directed at Valeria, but at the person who came to mind. “It was Damien, wasn’t it?”

The two had grown close in the past four weeks and three days. Azriel was acutely aware of the time as each day had been miserable for him. He despised Damien for the way he made her smile, the way he made her laugh.

It was a fierce envy– an ache that gnawed at Azriel. He yearned to be the one to bring such joy to Valeria. He always had a bad feeling about Damien, an unsettling intuition that prickled at his senses. If Damien so much as touched her…

“No!” Valeria's quick response cut through the room.

Azriel took her denial with a bitter twist in his heart, turning away with heavy steps as he made his way to the door. His thoughts were a tempest, a raging storm barely contained, fueled by the mere notion of someone daring to harm Valeria.

“Wait!” Valeria lunged forward, her fingers reaching for Azriel’s hand. She winced as it caused her further pain, steps faltering.

Azriel caught her with his ease, his hands at her sides. Her violet eyes were desperate, glistening with tears as she looked up at him. “I’ll tell you the truth but you have to promise not to tell anyone. Not even my mother or Rhys.”

She found herself hesitating for a moment, her gaze dropping to the ground. She knew she couldn't hide it any longer from Azriel. She knew that despite his distance the past couple of weeks, he still cared for her well-being. 

He reached out for her face, forcing her to look back at him. His hazel eyes pleaded with her. “Tell me. Please.” His fingertips brushed her cheek.

"I've been sneaking off to train with someone," Valeria confessed, her words rushed and shoulders slumping as she was released from the weight of the secret. "I met Tanwyn and she introduced me to some of her friends. The valkyries have been teaching me how to fight, to defend myself.”

Azriel’s eyes widened in surprise and concern, realization dawning on him. “Does Cassian know?”

“Not at first.” Valeria admitted. “I sought out the valkyries on my own. I had been training with them for three months when he caught me. I made him promise not to tell anyone.”

“Months?” Azriel echoed.

“It’s been a whole year now.” Valeria replied sheepishly.

Azriel did not know which of the two was more surprising: Valeria sneaking off to train with the valkyries for a year or Cassian keeping her secret well for months. He wanted to express his disapproval. It was not a good idea for her to be sneaking out, especially not in Windhaven. But he knew Valeria had made her choice.

"At first, the training exercises were simple and focused on maintaining balance and building endurance," Valeria said. "But Zeila, Tanwyn’s instructor, said I was ready to start sparring, so I did, and I was doing so well--" her eyes conveyed her joy, and Az couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride swell in his heart. There was also a sense of relief that her injuries were not a result of malice "--but today, I underestimated my sparring partner’s strength and lost my footing, and well, now my ankle is broken."

Azriel’s gaze softened. “Why keep this from Rhys?”

"Rhys worries about me," Valeria explained, her eyes reflecting her inner turmoil. "He wouldn’t want me to get involved in dangerous activities. He would try to stop me. Besides, if I get caught by my father and he finds out that Rhys knew…”

Azriel sighed, torn between his loyalty to Rhysand and his desire to protect Valeria.

 "I'll keep your secret.” He finally decided. 

Valeria beamed up at him and she threw her arms around him. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Azriel’s lips curved into a smile as he returned her embrace, his shadows doing somersaults at the closeness. “Just please promise me to be careful. You can’t afford to get hurt like this.”

“Of course.”

Azriel pulled back to look at her again, his hand reaching to brush a loose hair away from her face and then resting on her cheek. He felt the warmth of her skin. His shadows danced around, echoing his fondness and protectiveness. “Now, let’s get you healed. I’m afraid I’m going to have to snap your ankle back into place for it to heal properly.”

"Okay," Valeria smiled back at him, her trust in him evident in her eyes as she allowed him to guide her to the couch.

As he attended to her, he was aware of their closeness and the soft looks they exchanged stirred a longing within Azriel. It was a longing he had buried deep, afraid of what it meant, but now it was impossible to deny. His shadows whispered that it was more than friendship, and his heart dared to agree.

Little did he know that Valeria mirrored his feelings. 

She watched him intently, his gentle touch sending both comfort and thrills through her. The play of emotions on his face was a symphony she yearned to decode.

She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming when he set her ankle back into place. The pain was sharp and sudden, making her gasp for breath. Azriel's eyes locked onto hers in that moment, his concern palpable.

Valeria didn’t know if it was the pain searing through her leg or the look he was giving her, but she felt dizzy. His gaze held a depth that stirred something deep within her, a connection she'd never felt so strongly before. It was a look that left her hopeful with a longing she couldn’t put into words.

The pain subsided, leaving behind a lingering ache, not just in her ankle, but also in her heart.

**

tag list: @justrepostandlove @kemillyfreitas

[masterprocrastiwriter]

It's been a long, long while since I posted a fic. Also I've been hesitant for writing fanfics for a while because perfectionism, outside life and all that. I was quite conscious over this hurt-comfort story, but fuck it, I'm posting it here now. Hope you like it!

frail, yet brave.

a francis mosses story.

"I don't know, Francis." I murmured. "I honestly don't know what to do now."

Silence filled the entire room. Everything was dark except for the faint glow of hallway lights passing through the windows. I chose to keep the lights off tonight, and I'm relieved Francis didn't mind.

Even if I hardly see the surroundings as much, I could clearly see his brows and lips curve down into a somber expression. He's seen me like this for days—if it weren't for my tongue knotting up to say what bothered me so much to be like this, no matter how much I wanted to let it all out.

But I had to hold it until the weekend. Perhaps, by then, I'll tell him everything.

I quietly gasped when he suddenly pulled me into a hug, wrapping my body so evenly with his arms as he laid on the crook of my neck. I blinked a few times, my timid arms resting across the middle of his back.

He moved away to gaze at me again and my chest tightened at a closer look of his face. A hinting smile curved on his lips as he inched forward and carefully planted a soft, long, delicate kiss on my forehead. He parted, and kissed me there again, turning into a few more in slow intervals across it until he gradually moves down to my cheek.

Every single one of these kisses laid warmth on my skin like dabs of paint on the canvas that is my paled body. For most of the days feeling nothing, these marks of affection from his lips proved once again I could still feel something. I felt like trembling from within, hands closing into fists as I resist the urge to cry.

"Don't hold back, darling." His hand cupped my cheek like it was fragile. "Let it all out. It's just you and me."

Francis paused to gently rub the side of my face with his thumb, his eyes so full of affection and care. I couldn't bring myself to look away from it, because why turn away from something I longingly needed to see?

I quickly realized the tears blurring my vision, and the whimper in my throat and the tension of my body.

And his low, consoling hum was enough to break the dam and collapse myself onto his shoulder, holding him tight like I'm afraid to lose him.

I couldn't handle it. I just can't. Here I am emotionally shattering into pieces as I poured all of my pains, fears, and frustrations through the streams in my face and my loud, choking sobs that almost sounded like a dying howl.

"I don't understand!" I almost shouted between gasping my breaths, "I've ruined everything! I messed it all up, Francis, I swear I didn't mean to! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…" My words fade into a hard bawl.

I felt his head shake as he tightened his grip around my waist and grazed his hand across my hair, both faces laying directly on each other's shoulders.

It's surreal how incredibly vulnerable I am, at this hour, in front of Francis. My sobs were echoing throughout the silence, and the walls may have been thin enough that the neighbors could hear me, but what mattered at the moment was letting it all out.

I used to deal with all of this alone and it was a hurricane. I was scared and in pity of myself a lot, hurting my body and hurling things in rage and regret.

But Francis was here beside me now, comforting me.

Slowly but surely, the burdening weight lifted off of my chest that I was able to breathe normally. Francis left for a quick trip to the kitchen and went back, handing over a glass of water. I took it and poured the cold liquid down my drying throat, sighing as I put the glass down and looked at him.

"Feeling better, darling?" He asked with a gentle smile. I nodded in silence. He sat down and ran his hand across my skin, pulling me into a full embrace once again. I closed my eyes and savored the warmth radiating from his body, reminding me once again that I'm not in a lone, dark room, consoling myself in the way I wished someone would do so for me.

"You still have you." He cut the silence that made me look up. "And you still have me." He slightly shifted back to take the shape of my cheek. "Talk me to me about it if you can. I am here with you. Always."

[scratchandplaster]

FEBUWHUMP DAY 12 - Semi-conscious

CW: conditioning, parental Whumper, amnesia, emotional manipulation

Previous | [Masterlist] | Next

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

.

..

...

"...easy to return here whenever I..."

"My words...you know how to..."

"...slowly coming back to the waking world."

Someone was speaking to him, though Ben was still far too gone to register it.

"Eight. Feeling the tranquility join you from within, always following my voice."

Not yet, he wanted to stay in the pleasant darkness.

"Nine. Coming back to me now, and ten: Wake up!"

With a snap, Bens eyes plopped open, searching confused for the origin of this command. There he was again: Dad, rubbing up and down his spine to help him stir back to the present. The warm smile Ben all too gladly returned only helped to hold on to it.

"Well then, how are we feeling?"

Blinking a few times made the fog in his head partially vanish, but the airy, sticky presence at the back of his head never budged. Yet Ben didn't just feel okay, he felt great! Like a heavy burden was lifted from his chest.

Not strong enough to use his voice again, he simply hugged his dad as tight as he could. Oh, Ben missed him so-so much, it was killing him. Shepard, too, was freed of the heavy pressure inside his heart, never stopping the calming pets that kept his son's mind warm and pliable.

"Ben, do you have any questions about what we discussed?"

Questions? What did they talk about? Maybe Ben spaced out again, like he always did if his wits weren't required... Well, it couldn't have been very dicey if his thoughts already jumped to another topic.

"No, thanks."

Dad's smirk told him that this was somehow the right answer: "Perfect. Dinner will be ready soon, so let's get you to freshen up a bit."

Though Ben had no idea nor clue about what was happening to him, he trusted his dad to guide him. Shepard always knew what to do.

During the past few hours spent together, the sun had begun to set again. The dim twilight didn't really help in getting rid of the fuzziness adorning the world around the edges - focussing felt impossibly hard.

Only as a damp wash cloth wiped through Ben's weary face, his mind began to clear up further, yesterday's worries nothing more than a bad dream.

Cleaning up the crumbs of sleep from Reuben's eyes let Shepard reminisce of how it used to be between him and his sons, just the three of them hand in hand. Since then, everything had just become more complicated. Maybe too complicated, seeing how the boys saw themselves as abandoned and unloved enough to leave one after another. A mistake he had to correct.

After getting the debris off Ben, Shepard picked up a wooden brush to comb through his untamed hair. As far as his dad could tell, Ben enjoyed the endless attention, nearly whining when it stopped.

"It's chilly outside," Shepard whispered and eyed Ben's unusual outfit; too much polyester for his taste, "I don't want you to get a cold, so I made a little something."

Rummaging around behind himself, Shepard pulled out a cardigan and unfolded it to let Ben be the judge of it: it was brand new, mustard-yellow yarn loosely knit into itself. Ben found it beautiful, especially the little cherries stitched on it.

Cherries…just like Sam gave him. Ben hoped they wouldn't join them for dinner too, and cursed himself for it instantly. A cracked ego was no reason to be rude.

"I tried a new pattern. You still grow like a weed, so I had to tweak the measurements a bit," Dad explained and helped him into it, beaming with joy.

Ben, fuzzy and floaty, was also handed a shiny bar of chocolate from a trunk besides them.

"What's that?"

"The present you bought for us," Shepard responded confused, arranging Ben's hairdo into a neat side parting.

"Uhm-"

"At the store? You said you wanted to hand it out at dinner. Shawn couldn't sit still because of all the anticipation."

"Oh, sure." Dinner - there was a stray memory about a gift, though escorted by the faint impression that something was off. This fugue state Shepard recognized only grudgingly.

"You don't have to share, it's yours. You're free to decide."

"No-no, it’s okay. I'm just a bit lost." A clear understatement, dear Ben would forget his own head if it wasn't screwed on. Biting his lip, he had a question for him after all: "Dad, I-I want to know beforehand: how - what will be my punishment?"

Shepard's face twisted painfully: "Punishment? Punish - no! We are so thankful that you came back to us, none of us would ever punish you for that."

Reuben doubted his candor again, as if Shepard didn't just spend hours educating him otherwise. Soft words were not enough this time, it seemed, as Ben kept on dodging his shocked gaze: "Luke said you'd hate me for leaving."

"Oh sweetheart, come on," Shepard sighed and gently took his hand, "I'll show you the truth."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Febuwhump 2024 Masterlist]

@febuwhump

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 31: Betrayal

Continuation of Day 29

Read it on Ao3

- First & the Chain

- Summary: The heroes are forced to fight First

CW for temporary character deaths (two to be exact), blood and injury, and possession

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

Sky awakens to the sound of someone crying out.

He shoots upward, eyes wide, searching in the darkness for the disturbance. It is difficult to make out anything for a few long moments. His vision is blurred with the remnants of the deep slumber he had been drifting in, mind fuzzy with the pulsing panic of adrenaline. But then he turns toward where Time had lain down hours ago, a short ways from the others, and his heart stutters.

The hero is no longer sleeping peacefully on his bed mat. It lies in a crumpled mess of strewn blankets. And not far from it, Time has fallen flat on his back, arms spread out on either side of him. When Sky leans forward, he can make out what looks like a dagger embedded in the palm of each hand. The hero struggles against them, breath ragged with pain, eye bright. 

He casts Sky a look that screams to run, to get far away. But Sky isn’t about to. Especially once his gaze drags upward to take in this new attacker.

A familiar figure looms just above Time, tall and lean and gripping a gleaming sword in his hand. His blonde hair is illuminated by the crimson glow of the fire, turning it the golden color of a rupee. His blue eyes are as dark as the night sky, glinting with a look Sky has never seen within them before. His prized red cape drapes over his shoulder to flow out behind him, softly lifted by the breeze. 

Sky gasps. 

“First?”

He croaks the name, almost unable to bring himself to speak it.

Those eyes flit to him, lips curving in a grin that looks nothing like the smiles Sky usually sees on his friend’s face. 

(His brother’s face. His predecessor’s face.)

“Surprised, Knight of Skyloft?”

Sky pushes off his blankets, rising slowly. He feels as though he is moving through mud, trying and failing to comprehend what is happening. 

First had shown up several months ago, stumbling into their camp severely wounded, weak, and confused. He was a hero, he had explained while Hyrule and Warriors had bandaged and healed his many injuries. The first of them all. After dying in a brutal war in his own time the Shadow had dragged him back to the land of the living.

“He meant to use me,” First had said, eyes flashing with bitter hatred. “He attempted to invade my mind to make me his pawn. That way, through me he could do all of you in.”

But Hylia had protected him, strengthened his mind and body long enough for him to escape, and make it here — to where his spirit had led his failing feet.

Since then, First had remained with them, healing and getting to know them. The heroes had come to trust him and he them. And Sky, Sky had been the closest to him of them all. 

At last, he had someone with which to share the burden of being one of the first. At last, he had a mentor of his own, someone he shared a connection with like Legend and Hyrule or Twilight and Wild and Time. 

And when he had broken down one night beneath the weight of the curse, First had comforted him, holding him close as he sobbed years worth of pain into his worn cape.

So, reconciling that man with a kind heart and a brave soul, reconciling someone he had come to admire with this…this monster is incredibly difficult.

“What are you doing?” He chokes, fists clenching at his sides. 

First grins. In the dim glow of a crescent moon Sky can just make out a dark trail of blood trickling from his lips down to his chin. 

“I am erasing you all from history. Just as he wanted me to.”

Sky’s hands itch for a weapon and he hates himself for it. 

“The Shadow?”

“No.”

First lifts his sword. Time drags in a gasp, still struggling vainly, weakly against the bloodied knives pinning him and First’s foot pressing against his chest. Eyes wide, Sky snatches the Master Sword up from her place beside his bed mat and lunges.

He is too late.

First utters one word, one name Sky never thought he would have to hear again. 

“Demise.”

And he plunges his sword into Time’s chest. 

The hero gives a choked cry, blood bubbling from his lips. And abruptly, goes still. 

Everyone is awake now, rubbing sleep from their eyes, asking questions in the slurred voices of those still half-asleep. 

But Sky can’t reply to any of them. He stands there, sword in hand, mouth open in disbelief, tears beginning to well in his eyes. And Time gazes back. His stare is empty. His chest doesn’t rise or fall.

When First yanks his weapon out of him with a sickening sound, the hero doesn’t even twitch. 

Sky blinks rapidly, fury and pain tearing his insides apart.

“Time!”

Wind’s heartbroken cry rends the air. Running footsteps sound and suddenly the heroes are all rushing forward, falling to their knees beside their fallen leader. 

“He’s not gone,” the sailor chokes, even as Warriors’ trembling fingers find Time’s wrist, shoulders hunching with a brokenness Sky has never witnessed in the knight before. Even as Twilight looks up at First, face deathly pale and rage in his eyes.  

“He can’t be.”

“He’s gone, sailor.” Warriors puts his arms around Wind, holding him close as he cries. “Sprite’s gone.”

“What’re we gonna tell Malon?” It’s Legend now, defeat practically emanating from him. Though he is trying to restrain himself, his eyes are red-rimmed and brimming over with tears.

A laugh rings out over the clearing, splitting through the thick haze of grief and anger and paralyzing disbelief. Though it emanates from First, it sounds nothing at all like him.

“Cry over him,” he growls. “Weep and wail like wandering wraiths. It won’t bring him back to you.”

“You did this.” Wild’s voice trembles with the weight of his anger. He rises, hands clenched into fists “Why? We trusted you, protected you, healed you. You’re our brother! A fellow hero! And-and yet…you kill him just like that?!”

First chuckles. Blood travels down his cheek in a grim line, strangely reminiscent of a tear trail.

“I killed him because it is what Demise wishes for me to do. Please, do not misunderstand. I have no desires of my own. Only his.”

Legend’s eyes narrow. “So what? You want us to believe this isn’t your fault? That – I don’t know – you’re still dead? Nothing more than a corpse for him to use?”

Twilight makes a choked noise. “He’s not dead. This…this Demise is inside of him. Inside his mind.” 

He raises his eyes to First again and another emotion has joined the anger in their stormy gray depths. Sky can’t identify it. He can hardly bring his thoughts into submission as it is. Can hardly comprehend anything past the fury and sorrow breaking his heart into a million pieces. 

“Isn’t he?” The rancher asks. “He’s possessed you? Made you his puppet?”

First’s eyes glint in the darkness. “Ah, you have seen it before, haven’t you, Hero of Twilight? It was Zelda, wasn’t it? Your precious princess. Have you told your friends how you had to plunge your sword into her?”

Sky’s eyes widen as a sudden realization hits him.

First is stalling, they all know it, waiting for the best moment to take them all out. But if he is telling the truth about Demise possessing him there might be a way to protect his brothers from a terrible fate. He looks down at the Master Sword, heart in his throat. 

There might be a way to set First free.

“We don’t care what rancher did or didn’t do,” Wild snaps. “We care about what we just saw you do.” He draws a dagger from his belt and jabs it in First’s direction. His hand trembles. “You killed Time. You took him from us. I won’t let you touch anyone else.”

“Neither will I.”

Sky rushes forward just as First raises his sword, ready to strike Wild down. His weapon collides with First’s, sending searing pain through Sky’s palm.

Sorry, Fi. But I have to do this. 

The hero’s eyes blow wide in surprise, then narrow. He laughs, darkly.

“Ah, you’re a quick one. I should have expected as much.” He parries Sky’s next blow, movements smooth and swift. “However, you cannot raise that against me. I am a hero remember? The pain will overcome you before you manage to land even a strike on my skin.”

Sky grits his teeth, lunging again, every swipe deadly and vicious. The hilt burns into his flesh and the acrid scent of it burning reaches his nose. He does his best to ignore it. 

The others drag themselves up now, grabbing weapons and tools, and wiping away tears. They rush forward, determination in their movements, anger in their eyes. 

There will be time for grief later. Now is the time to fight. For their lives. For the life Time lost. 

First is every bit as fast and skilled as Sky had thought he was. But even he cannot hold out forever, especially not against multiple opponents. Opponents as experienced as him and one hundred times more driven.

He just has to bide his time, Sky thinks as First just barely dodges a skyward strike and nearly ends up skewered on Twilight’s sword. And endure the pain as best he can. An opening will present itself. Sooner rather than later, more than likely. It doesn’t take an experienced eye to tell that the hero is losing his advantage and fast.

And when finally, he stumbles, trying to evade a well-timed attack by Wind, and loses his balance Sky is ready for him.

Agony splitting through his hand, vision bleeding white, he brings the sword down. It goes against everything within him. His very soul cries out against it. But he solidifies the sight of Time lying limp and lifeless in his mind, and forces his arms to move.

With deadly accuracy, the Master Sword pierces First’s shoulder through.

First screams, a wretched sound that echoes in Sky’s ears and bounces around in his skull. Back arching, body trembling, his eyes go an unsettling pupil-less black. And in the next moment a cloud of smothering, soul-crushing darkness flees his body.

Sky leaps back just in time to evade its reach. It soars upward to dissipate into the sky. 

The hero goes still. Everything is quiet, save for the sounds of the heroes sheathing their weapons. Slowly, Sky steps forward. Grasping the hilt, he drags the Master Sword out of his brother, feeling horribly ill. 

I’m so sorry.

No sooner is the blade free, than First awakens with a gasp. Blue eyes flit about, searching for answers where there are none. Calloused hands grapple for purchase as he shoves himself upward. No one dares stop him, though Sky can’t help rushing to his side when he lets out a low groan. 

“What…” First glances at him, then at the other heroes, who gaze down upon him with broken expressions. “What happened?” 

His gaze lands on Time’s body, still lying there spread out like a fallen star, basking in a pool of blood and he chokes, face going white.

“What did I do?”

It’s a whisper, broken beyond belief. Sky closes his eyes. Reaching out, he lays a hand on the knight’s shoulder. He is trembling, violently, breath coming in haggard gasps.

“It wasn’t you,” Sky says with all the strength he can conjure. It isn’t much, but he believes it nonetheless. This is his brother, sitting before him, his true brother. And that cursed god had used him like a lifeless pawn.

“Demise possessed you,” Twilight pipes up. His voice is hoarse and there are tears in his eyes. But there is conviction in them too, now. None of them can deny what has happened. None of them can stand to pin the guilt on someone whose own hands had betrayed his very spirit.

Sky knows for a fact many of them have seen things like this before. And while he himself hasn’t, he has witnessed Demise’s cruelty and power. What horrors First must have endured at his hand to break him so completely… He doesn’t even want to imagine it.

“I killed him.” First’s voice is dull now, almost eerily emotionless. “Did I not? Though it was Demise who held my mind and soul captive, it was I who did the deed. That cannot be denied.”

“H-he used you,” Wind hiccups. “You…you can’t blame your-yourself.”

“Sprite wouldn’t want you to.” Warriors says it so low Sky can hardly catch the words. But First hears them. He looks up at the captain, expression a mask that is rapidly breaking.

“You do not deserve such pain.” Gently, he nudges Sky’s hand off and rises on shaky legs. “None of you do.”

“He’s dead, though,” Legend mumbles. There is no bite in his tone. Only sorrow. “Sorry, but nothing you do can change that.”

First smiles, small and sad. “That is not necessarily true.”

He walks to Time’s side and kneels down, heedless of the blood that seeps into his trousers. Slowly, he reaches out and lays a hand on the hero’s shoulder. Beneath his palm golden light begins to glow.

“I know a spell. I can bring him back.”

Hyrule raises his head, frowning. “But the only spells that can bring…bring back the dead are – ” His eyes widen. “First, no!”

The hero closes his eyes, that horrible smile still lifting his lips. 

“Forgive me.”

The glow grows until it is blinding. Sky pushes through it anyway, panic eating away at him. Hyrule doesn’t even have to speak the words. He knows enough about magic to know nothing that deals in life and death ever ends well.

Just as he reaches his side, First crumples.

…and Time begins to breathe.

Sky falls to his knees. The others are talking in panicked tones around him, but he can’t hear their words. All he hears is an incessant ringing, mingled with the sound of his own breathing, too loud, much too loud. All he feels is First’s body, limp in his hands as he lifts it from the ground. 

Why? He asks, in the form of the tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks, in the shaking of his hands, the defeated exhaustion creeping in to pull him down, down, down. We could’ve figured out another way. Why?

But even as he thinks it he knows. There was no other way. Fairies and potions are powerful. They cannot, however, revive the dead. Once your heart stops beating it is over. All that is left is to start over again or embrace endless rest.

Time would still be dead if not for First’s sacrifice. Sky only wishes that one brother had not been traded for another.

If he had been faster, stronger, perhaps he could have prevented all of this. But it is over now. Nothing more can be done.

So, as the sun peeks out over the horizon, Sky buries his face in First’s cape, just as he did what feels like an eternity ago. And he sobs. Sobs out the fury that eats him alive. Sobs out the anguish that tears him apart. 

He doesn’t see it when First begins to glow. It is not until a voice murmurs on the wings of the wind that he looks up, breath hitching.

“Your time is not yet finished, hero. Rise and embrace those who call you one of their own.”

And in the next moment, First drags in a strangled gasp.

He blinks his eyes open, staring up at Sky with a dazed expression and Sky stares back. Then, Legend shouts, “hey, he’s alive!” and his world bursts back into light and color.

“You’re alive,” he chokes, and pulls the hero into a hug. 

First goes rigid for a moment, then practically melts into him, releasing a shaky sigh.

“I am,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

[some-tings-they-hurt]

In the depths of my despair,

I told myself a lie,

that the world was out to get me,

and everyone had passed me by.

But the truth i could not face,

was a harder pill to swallow,

that the only one who hurt me

was the one I couldn't follow.

I’ve always been at war,

with the darkness in my mind,

the thoughts that make me doubt,

the ones that make me blind.

I’ve struggled and I’ve stumbled,

on this road that I call life,

and every time I fell,

I thought it was from strife.

But now I see the truth,

I’ve been my own worst foe,

and the pain I feel inside,

is something I can't let go.

I hate myself and wonder why,

I’ve gone through so much pain,

but the answer lies within me

Bowing and breaking this chain

The weight of my sorrow

is too much to bear,

and the thought of tomorrow,

fills me with despair.

I feel so alone,

in this world that's so unkind,

and the hope that once shone,

is fading from my mind.

I cry out for help,

but no one seems to hear,

and the darkness engulfs me,

Enveloped in fear.

I long for an escape,

from the pain that i feel,

but the thought of my fate,

seems all too real.

I wonder if it's worth it,

to keep fighting day by day,

when the weight of my burden,

seems too heavy to sway.

But I’ll hold on tight to hope,

even in the darkest of hours,

for the sun will rise again,

and chase away the showers.

I am not alone,

and there is love to be found,

If I hold tight to this life,

and let it lift me off the ground.

For though the road is long,

and the journey may be tough,

I am stronger than I thought.

and I will make it through, enough.

[imagineimpact]

Could i request Diluc angst oneshot where reader and him get into a big disagreement or argument where Diluc makes them cry and feel really bad about themself so they go and end up hanging out with Kaeya a bit much cause he offered to cheer reader up and Diluc won't apologize. until he see's his s/o hanging out with Kaeya

I actually wrote 2 different versions of the ending for this, but this is the one I decided to go with! If you want the more angsty version do let me know.

Anyway,

Harsh Words

Diluc x Reader

Screaming. Yelling that could be heard throughout the Dawn Winery residence late into the night, heard only by the maids, the night security, and perhaps a late worker or two.

And of course, by the two individuals who held the voices.

It was rather unusual for the two of you to be at odds; and, on the occasion in which you were, it wasn’t nearly to this degree.

But the two of you were outright screaming at each other. It wasn’t even about one thing anymore - it was everything. Whatever you had been arguing about had reached the point of irrelevance; It never should have reached this point and you knew that, but you were under fire and you couldn’t stop.

All you knew was that this was Diluc’s fault, and that you couldn’t take this kind of argument.

“If you just thought about your actions for once-”

You cut him off, “Oh don’t try me with that, you’re the one treating me like I’m an idiot and trying to control my-”

“If you had just listened for once and been less of a selfish bitch then I wouldn’t have to!”

His words had cut far deeper than either of you had expected, and you physically recoiled at the words, a sudden wave washing over you which forced tears from your eyes. The truth in his words was irrelevant - It felt true, even if it wasn’t.

You turn away from him. In spite of your state, he makes no move toward you. None, not even to give you the slightest feel of any comfort. You knew - he wanted the words to cut through you.

You go to the door and slip on your shoes, leaving the room as fast as you humanly could.

You can’t take this anymore.

But you don’t make it past the front door. As if by telepathy, Diluc has two of his night security waiting by the door in a stance showing you that they’re ready to make sure you don’t leave. They block your path, silent in their menace. When you turn around, only then do you notice Adelinde and Hille quietly staring at you. Diluc’s footsteps down the stairs are a slow horror, an even pace which served to only emphasize that feeling of dread; Very easily, this felt like the perfect time to be murdered.

The drawl of footsteps approach, yet cease a few meters away - he’s far too distant to do anything himself. His eyes lock on yours, quietly assessing you.

“Diluc, let me leave.” You hiss through streaming tears. You nearly choke on the tension in the air.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes don’t show any expression, show any remorse or guilt, or even happiness. Truly, there is nothing in his eyes.

“Let me make myself clear: You are not leaving this premises in the middle of the night. Do you understand me?”

“Not even slightly.”

Silence. His eyes flicker, the way they do when he sees an abyss mage, or when Kaeya makes a comment that goes a little too far - pure anger.

“Adelinde, fix up the guest room.”

“No need. I’ll be leaving now.” You scoff.

Diluc tilts his head, peering over you and towards his security as if to say ‘don’t you fucking dare let them through’.

Then another look, and you feel yourself being pushed into the house again, the slam of the doors behind you.

A wave of anger washes over you, and you can’t help the excess of tears that fall, harder now than they had been before.

Diluc holds his ground, staring at you silently. You shake your head and look away, not sure what to do with yourself. Their staring puts you in pure disarray.

“Adelinde.”

“Yes, sorry.” She mutters, bowing and taking her leave in the direction of the guest bedroom in order to prepare it for you.

When she’s gone, you shake your head. “I’m not going to be sleeping.”

“Then stay in your room. I don’t care.” He huffs, turning away and wandering back up the stairs, his footsteps seeming less menacing now.

The argument was done.

Your eyes catch a light outside the window, seeming to exist a far distance away. Maybe it was the fire of a hilichurl camp.

What time was it? Surely the sun would be up soon anyway.

Fine. You would leave then, no matter what.

When you got to your room, you actually did manage to sleep. Not nearly enough; An hour was nothing in the long run, but it was still just slightly enough to not feel entirely exhausted.

Still, the sun was up when you arose, and you lay in the bed, uncertain as to what would happen when you left the room.

If Diluc wasn’t going to apologise, you wanted nothing to do with him.

So, after a little while of resting, it was a surprise to hear a knock at the door. You were summoned to breakfast. Nearly the entire time, you and Diluc sat across from each other - an oddity indeed considering he would always insist that he wanted you seated beside him - this time, however, you were as far from his as possible within the confines of the seated table. The usually empty seat felt hard beneath you, not softened by an everyday presence. Your usual seat to his right - where your plate had been placed before you had taken it to where you were now - was empty.

Neither of you could look into each other’s eyes. The silence, broken only by the light clinks of cutlery, felt burdenous.

You expected him to say something, anything really. You could barely eat the food on your breakfast plate, and without any words, you didn’t feel all too comfortable anyway. You let out a quiet sigh and stood up, tucking in your chair and lifting your plate to take it back to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Diluc’s voice was quiet but the harshness in it was unmistakable.

“I’m not hungry.” You looked down at the plate in your hands. “I’m going to Mondstadt.”

Diluc stood up suddenly, pushing back his chair and stepping close to you. The sudden movement caused you to shutter slightly, and he pulled back a bit. Still, he tore the plate from your hands and placed it on the table. “When you return, be ready to have a serious conversation.”

Oh.

You opened your mouth to speak, but then huffed and turned away. “Right. I’ll look forward to getting yelled at again.”

Diluc scoffed, “Stop acting like a petulant child.”

“I’m not doing this right now, Diluc.” Your feet are moving before you can even think about it. This time, as you approached the door, no one was there to stop you. You left with no present company to watch over you, and you knew that today was going to be a long, long day.

——

Mondstadt thrives with life, as per usual. Because of how bright and pleasant the place is, any spec of gloom is extremely obvious on a day like this.

You took to the adventurers guild to take some commissions. Maybe killing some hilichurls or slimes would take your mind off of it all, or maybe just delivering some needed materials to someone.

The entire time you had been speaking to Katheryn, you felt eyes watching you, but you didn’t want to make it obvious you knew. Alas, it was only moments later that you startled at the feeling of a hand on your shoulder.

“No need to be so surprised.” The familiar voice chuckles beside you.

“Good morning, Kaeya.” You let out a soft sigh, the exhaustion of the day before wearing into you. You thanked Katheryn and turned your attention to Kaeya. His eyebrows twitched and his expression shifted as he studied you.

“What happened?” He asks rather blatantly, eyes clouding over. “Was it Diluc?”

You took a deep breath. “Wanna join me for commissions?”

Kaeya scans your eyes. “As long as you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Come on.” You nod, wandering out of Mondstadt with him.

The slowly falling night brought you back to Mondstadt. You agreed to go to the tavern with Kaeya, a subtle kind of thank you for spending time with you today. It wasn’t like you were doing anything else anyway.

The tavern was already busy before you got there, people crowding around for a nights drink. You subconsciously step towards Kaeya as if shading yourself away from the crowded atmosphere and he is wary of your proximity. He draws you to his side, a friendly notion, and steps inside before you.

Charles waves at you both from behind the counter. Kaeya quickly orders a round of drinks and takes you to a table away from the bar.

“Hey, look who’s been dragged in.” Rosaria wanders over, quietly making soft chatter with you. It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to spend some time together.

Kaeya eventually wanders away, grabbing your drinks and bringing them back over.

Time seemed to dwindle away, the mindless chatter with your friends giving you more than ample distraction from anything else that might have been happening.

“Master Diluc! Didn’t expect to see you here today.” Charles’ voice rings out.

Of course, that wasn’t going to last long.

You lift your head slightly, tensing up. Diluc is scanning the room, twisting his wrist lightly as he speaks quietly to Charles; The words miss you. You freeze as your eyes lock. For just a moment you’re caught in that discerning gaze before he nods at you and turns back to talk to Charles. Kaeya draws your attention back away, and you slip back into your conversation, not wanting to deal with anything else.

“I’ll get another round.” Rosaria gets up and makes her way through the tavern, leaning over the bar and making another order for the table.

“How many are we on?” You ask, already flushed from the… how many glasses had you even had?

“Five.” Kaeya laughs, leaning on your shoulder. “But now that the killjoy’s here, he’ll stop us from having our well-earned fun.”

“I heard that.” Diluc scoffed, passing by you.

“Good.” Kaeya wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him, more out of a delicate affection than anything else. Diluc’s eyes narrow at his brother, who just laughs in response.

“Get your hands off of-“

“Oh don’t worry, brother. I would never keep them somewhere they don’t want to be.” Kaeya mocks. “You, on the other hand, can’t say the same.” Even with his words, he loosens his hold on you and leans back a bit.

Rosaria returns with your round, greeting Diluc casually as she slips back into her seat. Your pissed off boyfriend wanders away back to his work.

It clicks in your hazy mind that the only reason he’s here is likely because you are. You laugh at the thought, then clink your tankard to the group and drink.

—

As the evening wears down, many people in the bar until it’s pretty much only your group and a few others left there. Diluc lets out a soft sigh as he watches you, trying to soften that jealous pounding of his heart. He takes a sip of his own drink - apple cider, of course. He could never slam back drinks the way that your group currently were. Where had the hours gone?

Oh, no. How many drinks had you had? Whatever was next, he swore to himself that he would make sure that it was watered down. At this rate, you were pretty much welcoming alcohol poisoning with open arms.

Kaeya, wobbly as ever, decides to be the one to approach the bar this time (mostly because Rosaria was leaning against the table, head folded into her arms as she groaned). Diluc shook his head. “No, no. The three of you will drink this whole tavern dry if I don’t stop you.”

“Oh, I’m not here to get any more.” He leans on the countertop. “I just want to know what the hell you did.” Kaeya motions over to you. You’re just giggling at Rosaria’s complaining, leaning over and patting her on the head.

“I’m not talking to you about this.” Diluc leans back, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“Suit yourself.” He straights up. “I should probably get her out of here before you say something stupid.”

“I’m not going to be saying anything stupid.” Diluc shakes his head, looking over the list of all the drinks you’ve had this evening. “You’re all wasted.”

“And yet, you haven’t said last call.”

Seemingly to spite him, DIluc immediately does. He signals over to Charles to round up the remaining people. He knew to leave you last.

Kaeya’s laugh is enough to haunt him. “You make this right, Diluc.” He runs his finger over the counter. “Otherwise I will.”

“Get out of my sight.”

The cavalry captain laughs again, then wanders over to your table. He practically drags Rosaria back up, but she pushes away from him and made her own way to the counter - always a good spirit, she paid for her own portion of drinks and left. Being a nun, she probably didn’t need to use the money elsewhere.

Kaeya was two steps away from just carrying you out the door, but through his drunk mind he finds the clarity to understand just how absolutely inappropriate that would be to do, especially in front of Diluc. Alas, you lean on his shoulder as he assists your steps.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Diluc’s voice calls out, as if to stop you both.

“Usual billing.” Kaeya calls back.

“No, no.” You both look back at him. He shifts on his feet, eyes locking with yours. “I’ll be damned if you go home with him.”

“Then damned you are.” You roll your eyes, turning away.

He calls your name softly. “Step away from him. Come here.”

You take a deep breath. “I am so glad I don’t have to remember any of this.”

Diluc places a glass of water in front of you. “Drink this. You wreak of alcohol.”

“And you wreak of your hatred.” You sit down in front of him, knowing that it wasn’t about to get better.

Diluc’s eyes flicker up to Kaeya. “Get out.”

“Not happening.”

“Kaeya, this doesn’t concern you.”

“Their safety is more than enough concern.”

“It’s alright, Kaeya, just wait outside.” You pipe in, not wanting even more stress.

Kaeya agrees, quietly slipping out the door. Charles is told to escort him away, an act which may have varying success.

Either way, you sat in front of Diluc, not sure what exactly to say to him.

“I’m tired, Diluc. I’m tired of this. I can’t put up with-“

“I’m sorry.” He blurts out, interrupting you. “Please, hear me out.”

“I’m not going to remember-“

“Then I’ll tell you again when you will.” He leans over the counter, not wanting to be apart from you. He calls your name again, as if to hold your attention, “Can we talk about this?”

“I think we talked about this already.” You groan. “Yesterday, plenty of yelling. The Maids and guards can confirm.”

Diluc takes a long breath out. You lift the glass of water and take an even longer sip.

Maybe the barrier of the counter between you made you feel better. But, as tears sprung to your eyes, you felt so, so much worse.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, your voice squeaking. “Do you want to break up with me.”

“No, Y/N.” He reaches for your hands, but you had pushed your stool too far away from him beforehand that he couldn’t. He circles around the bar and gently grabs both of your hands, soft enough in his hold for you to be able to pull away. “Don’t ever say that. I love you.”

“Then, why?” You sob, turning your face away from him, hands still in his. “Why did you yell at me? Why wouldn’t you talk to me this morning?”

“I…“ Diluc stops himself, taking a deep breath. “I was angry. We were both angry.” He shifts, pulling out a stool and sitting in front of you. “I wasn’t acting rationally.”

“When you said you wanted to talk this morning, what were you going to say?”

Diluc hesitates, gripping your hands just a little bit harder. “I was going to ask… I was going to ask if you were happy.” He admitted, quietly. “But I can’t do that. I can’t put you through that.”

You tug him toward you, pulling his hands close to your face. “Why would you say that? I love you.” You sob into his soft skin.

He takes his hands away from your gently, slipping them around your waist and pulling you close to him, into his lap. He tightens his grip. “I’m sorry.” He repeats. “I’m so sorry. I never want you to cry.” He feels his heartbeat heavily in his chest, a distraught washing over him. “Don’t ever destroy yourself like this again.” He runs a hand over your back.

You don’t say anything. You’re way too drunk for many more coherent thoughts to pass your lips. You lift your head and plant a soft kiss on his cheek, and he softly kisses your forehead, pulling you back to his chest so that you don’t try to kiss him anymore - He wasn’t about to let that happen, you were far too drunk.

Diluc was ashamed of his thoughts. His guilt, rising only when he saw you in the present company of his brother, showing affection and finding comfort anywhere except for him. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, nor to you, but as you cried into his shoulder, he couldn’t help the wave of disappointment in himself that washed over. Why could he never be there for the people who needed him most?

“Come on, finish your water, let’s get you home.” He insists, though he holds you tightly still until you stir.

You take the water, sipping it with a slight indignance. He would have to apologize to you again in the morning, but he would do anything to get you to trust him again.

(Part 2 here)

[lavendermin]

when it storms (2) | kazuha

pairing | kazuha/reader

word count | 2.2k

genre | light angst, soft, implied nsfw

warnings | alcohol, spoilers for kazuha’s background, inazuma lore mentioned, not explicit smut, just a little spicy because I love him

[previous]

Tranquil waters were fortunate enough to be plenty. With the moon glowing high in the sky, the sea, too, had turned in for sleep. Everything is a deep blue all around you, a delicate moment of solitude on deck. The Alcor had been anchored for the night, the waves a gentle lullaby for its inhabitants.

After an evening of drinking and a hearty meal, all sailors have turned in for the night to their quarters. Only you were left out of place and to your own devices, sharing your quiet doubts with the stars.

“I was wondering where you would be, if not asleep. Still, somehow I had a feeling I’d find you here of all places.”

From the lightness of his footsteps to the gentle tone you grew to know, you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Kazuha… I hope I didn’t worry you. I just couldn’t seem to fall asleep,” you quietly confess. A distant smile remains on your lips despite your predicament and your gaze returns to the dark sea.

“Your sorrows are drifting back home with the sea���s breeze. Are you regretting leaving?” Kazuha asks as he sits next to you on the deck.

The moon stares back at you as you wonder, and with a loud sigh you let yourself fall back against the deck.

“I don't,” you start, eyes searching the stars above you as if they would whisper a more eloquent answer to you. “I’ve come to terms with the fact that Inazuma, with the way things are now, will never be home to me. It’s all I knew but… Yeah… Yeah, you know why.”

Memories of alcohol high on your cheeks as you pour your heart out to him flash briefly in his mind. Family torn apart, losing your mother, repossession of what your family owned, and starting from ground zero… it was an outpouring of cries for the unjust, the sound of heartbreak that you hadn’t had time to properly process. The way you sobbed quietly into your hands, entire form trembling—it was an emotional moment of vulnerability burned into his memory.

Embarrassment was still high in your spirits as you averted your gaze to the rippling reflection of the moon over gentle waves. There was still a lot on your mind, but that night he could tell a small burden was lifted from your shoulders when you poured your heart out to him.

Maybe that’s what you both needed—someone who would listen.

There’s a moment of silence between you both, only the sea speaking in gentle whispers.

“You’re planning something,” you quietly mumble with a lighthearted frown.

Kazuha’s chuckle is light—melodic with amusement at just how quickly you managed to pick up on things.

“Unpredictable, as is nature,” he jokes, standing up and offering you his outstretched hand. “I had planned to take up camp under the stars on the beach. Care to join?”

There isn’t the slightest bit of hesitation in your movement, and you easily agree. The stars above you both twinkle in anticipation of your encampment under the dark sky.

“If you don’t mind my company.”

“I wouldn’t be complete without you,” he replies easily.

The words cause a stutter in your heart, a flutter in your chest. And for a second, you doubt your sharp sense of hearing wondering if you heard his words incorrectly. You don’t get a chance to ask further when you turn to see him disappear below deck.

After tip-toeing past sailors fast asleep and gathering the few items you need from your quarters, you meet up on shore. Kazuha catches you easily as you hop off the ship, your smile bright as your heart leaps at this small freedom he’s offered you.

Within the hour you’re both comfortably lying beneath the stars. The crackle of the bonfire nearby is comforting, the warmth just enough to keep the cold of the seaside at bay. There’s a vivid scent that sticks to you both, the thick smell of smoke from the wood that keeps the fire aflame. It goes ignored as you both happily chat under twinkling stars.

“What do you think?” you ask at the end of a long ramble, eyes shining as you poke at the firewood with a long branch. “And the harbor isn’t too far from here from the maps Beidou has shown me.”

Kazuha hums, idly tracing his thumb over the roughness of a shell’s surface. “The City of Commerce, huh… We can go tomorrow.”

“That soon?” you squeaked, eyes wide.

He shrugs with a carefree smile. “A wanderer may go anywhere that nature takes up root. Beidou wouldn’t mind if we headed out for a bit. We’re going to be docked here for quite some time, after all.”

It instantly lifts your spirits, and you smile gratefully.

“Liyue Harbor… Come to think of it, Yoimiya has a friend there she’s told me about.” Your voice trails off, mind worriedly slipping back into our cloud of doubt. “I wonder if she’s alright. I…”

Your hand halts in its movements, the cracks in the wood of the branch glowing red from the lick of flames you’ve touched. Suddenly you feel a heaviness in your chest, mind flashing with all the possibilities of what end could befall your dear friend if she was reprimanded for her pyro vision. You’ve witnessed what it’s done to people, how it’s left them an empty shell of their former self. Ambitions erased, mind scattered and left in fragments.

Your lip quivers, and the glistening ashes of bright red that dance up into the night from the crackling logs fill you with nostalgic longing. It brings memories of the beautiful fireworks that adorned the quiet skies of Inazuma.

“I hope she’s alright,” you quietly add.

And with a shake of your head, you shove those feelings into the tiny bottle of pent up emotion you refuse to open. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Kazuha. These feelings are expected—you had a lot that you left behind when you both escaped months ago.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kazuha asks softly. His tone is patient, and you know he won’t pry you if you don’t feel like opening that can of worms.

“I…” The words are there, stuck in your throat by emotions that well up and refuse to be let out. “I’d like that but… I don’t know where to start. Thinking about Inazuma makes my head feel fuzzy.”

“That’s perfectly alright.”

You let out a frustrated sigh. It’s cute, Kazuha thinks as he watches you pout at yourself.

“Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not avoiding it. I just—don’t know where to start.”

Kazuha hums, and reaches behind him to rustle through a bag he brought from the ship. The sake flask he presents makes you laugh in disbelief. His grin does nothing to hide the proud, sly glint in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, it’s from my own personal cabinet,” he reassures as he pours you a drink.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” you chuckle, and humbly accept the drink. “Thank you.”

“Not just you. I also haven’t found it in me to speak of my friend from home,” Kazuha admits. He downs his drink in one go, swirling the remnants of the liquid in the small cup as it burns his throat lightly. “But laying one’s heart out takes immense courage. It’s a vulnerability not many wish for others to see—I admire you for that.”

A soft pink dusts your cheeks at the sincerity of his praise. It mixes well with the rising heat on your face from the alcohol that swirls in your system.

You laugh in disbelief, but believe wholeheartedly in his perspective. “You think me crying was something brave?”

He nods, pouring himself another drink from the sake flask. “Undeniably so. The thought of being emotionally vulnerable, of sharing my pain with someone—it’s one fear that's hard for me to shake off. But you inspire me to do so, because I trust you with my life.”

His words bring a warm grin to your face, and for a moment you don’t bother to distinguish whether the sudden burst of warmth was from the alcohol or the feelings in your chest.

“And I trust you with mine,” you reassure with a sip of your drink.

‘Liquid Courage’ they called it. And as the night progressed, you both poured out your hearts in an unexpected way. He told you of his dear friend and their untimely demise at the hands of the Raiden Shogun. It made your heart sink, yet he remained composed as he retold the events.

Your worries were a softer blow, focusing more on the dearest friends and family you missed. Laying out your feelings with the tingles of alcohol loosening your tongue was freeing.

“But… You’re with me, so I’m never so lonely. I think since that day we met in the rain, you’ve become my reason to keep going.” Gods, you sounded so cheesy but the words wouldn’t stop running out of your mouth. Your cheeks were intense with warmth you hoped could pass off as effects from the sake.

When you peer at him through your lashes to see his reaction, there’s a content smile on his lips. Admiration, adoration, and something else—they were written clearly in his eyes that glittered like crimson gemstones with reflections of the bonfire’s flames.

It’s a little hazy in your memory who exactly confessed first. All you knew was that with the way he looked at you—the way he softly pressed his lips to yours as he closed the distance between you—the next second you were hurriedly both scrambling to scope out the abandoned cottage behind you.

The stars would wait for you both to return. For now, the alcohol in your systems had you both a little too honest with each other.

With a quick look around, the little hut was confirmed to be abandoned and mostly empty save for some old furniture.

Kazuha wasted no time in pulling you against him as soon as the coast was clear, both your breaths filling the room with quiet pants. Though his kisses were insistent and quick-paced, his hold was gentle as his thumb rubbed soothing circles where they gripped your hips. His tongue was hot against yours and left a thin string of saliva connecting you both when he pulled away briefly. With both hands fervently roaming each other’s bodies, your top was partway unbuttoned and practically off your shoulders. The smooth expanse of your exposed shoulders was his to claim.

At your dazed whimper, Kazuha was at your neck with a hot trail of nips and kisses. “Do you need me to stop?” he asked against the skin of your shoulder.

You shook your head in a frenzy, legs desperately trying to rub together despite his knee keeping them apart.

“Gods, no—“ you moaned softly, body trembling against his touch. “Pl–Please don’t stop.”

He laughs breathily against your skin and places a tender kiss against the pulse of your neck. There’s a moment of confusion that scrunches your brows as you feel his hands fix your shirt and pull away.

He places a kiss on your forehead with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I don’t mean to leave you like this. The winds have changed. Someone’s approaching.”

Your eyes widen slightly at this, your blood running cold despite the embarrassment high on your cheeks. “An… intruder?” you whisper worriedly.

“Nothing of the sort. The winds they carry are from onboard the Alcor.” He stands up straight, fixing his attire before checking back up on you. “It’s Sea Drake.”

“Why is he here?” you whisper harshly.

Kazuha can’t help but feel amused by your disappointment, your small hands still clinging onto his sleeve.

“I’ll check the situation. Stay here if you’d like,” he offers. His bandaged thumb gently runs over the skin just above your exposed collarbone, and with a satisfied smile he doesn’t try to hide he adds, “Apologies, I seemed to have left some marks.”

“Apologies, my ass,” you huff, red dusting your cheeks.

With a deceivingly innocent smile, he places one more quick peck on your temple. “Punish me later for it if you’d like.”

Oh? This was a side of him that was new to you.

The suggestion has you raising your eyebrows, a mischievous glint in your eyes. There’s a distant call from outside as Sea Drake searches for your whereabouts. It gives a moment's chance for you to pull Kazuha back by his sleeve, the alcohol slowly leaving your system still giving a last burst of sultry courage.

“You’re asking for a fight against raging tides. Is this what you meant by showing your more vulnerable side?” you hum low by his ear.

The tickle of your breath near his ear sends a shiver down his spine, and it takes his all to keep composed.

“The only way to know the severity of a storm is to walk into it’s rage. Why don’t we find out?” Kazuha challenges.

“Only if you come back soon.”

That chance was all he needed.

[firelxdykatara]

ppl love to forget that katara: 1. has her own taste, 2. developed around aang, he needed her for his development and vice versa, 3. ZUTARA IS SHIP BETWEEN AN OPPRESOR X OPPRESSED!!! Ignoring all of the development they had with their respective partners and the trauma Zuko caused Katara!!

In the infamous words of one Luke Skywalker: amazing. every word of what you just said was wrong.

It’s actually kind of ironic that you bring up Katara’s taste, since, throughout the show, we have examples of the guys she likes, to greater or lesser extents in canon--Jet (explicit romantic feelings on her part, word of god that jet was her first kiss--a kiss that would have been consensual, incidentally, something you should keep in mind for later) and Haru (she denies the crush, but that could just as easily have been because of the abomination he’d been growing on his lip rather than denying those feelings ever existed), both of whom have much more in common (in terms of both emotional and physical maturity, and physical appearance) with Zuko than either of them has with Aang.

Zuko’s book 3 hairstyle is almost exactly reminiscent of Jet’s, even, if not quite as floofy.

(This is probably in part because of Jet’s function as a foil of Zuko within the narrative, particularly given their book 2 encounters, which I think just further solidifies my point that, were it not for extenuating circumstances [like the fact that Zuko was introduced as an enemy and they had significant obstacles to hurdle before they could be friends], Zuko would have been exactly Katara’s type. Had they met under different circumstances, she could have been the girl he went on a date with in Ba Sing Se. Just something to think about.)

So, yes, we’ve established that Katara has her own taste. Her tastes seem to be boys with great hair who are taller than her, the same age or older, and of a similar maturity level.

Aang falls short (heh, short) on all counts. So it isn’t Katara’s taste in boys that led her to be interested in him. Hm!

Next, you claim that Katara ‘developed around Aang’--that she was necessary for his development, and that he was necessary for hers.

Let’s take a moment to examine that, shall we?

I will absolutely grant you that Katara was necessary for Aang’s development--only to a point, of course, but we’ll get to that later--but was he really necessary for Katara‘s growth? I suppose I could grant you this on a generous technicality--he did, after all, provide her with the means to finally leave the South Pole and find a waterbending master to teach her (although she wound up largely self-taught anyway). But that had nothing to do with his relationship to Katara and everything to do with the structure of the plot--Katara and Sokka find Aang (and he never would have gotten out of that iceberg without Katara’s own righteous anger, so even that leads back to her own power), and then they go on a quest to find teachers for the Chosen One and save the world.

The story could not have begun without first finding Aang and then providing means for the other main characters to travel with him (or, in Zuko’s case, chase him), but this has nothing at all to do with Aang’s relationship to Katara. Aang was not a mover in Katara’s developmental arc--if anything, he acted as an obstacle more often than not, his actions ranging from innocent but obnoxious (playing and flirting with girls rather than helping with chores like picking up vital supplies, leaving Katara to do all of the quite literal heavy lifting and keeping her stuck in the role of caretaker that she’d been thrust into following the death of her mother), to deliberate and harmful (hiding the map to Katara and Sokka’s father, a truly selfish action, regardless of his lack of malicious intent, and one for which he never actually apologized), to somewhere in between (”she didn’t really mean that” he says to the man refusing to train Katara because she’s a girl, when yes, she very much did mean that, and Aang was no help in finally getting the old codger to eat his words--Katara had to shove them down his throat her own damn self).

While Katara’s overall arc wasn’t exactly big and dynamic (like Zuko’s redemption arc), or in-your-face (like Sokka getting force-fed Respect Women Juice and his eventual growth into a tactician and leader), it was very much present and woven into her character--and Aang had almost no part in it. He provided her with the means to get to the North Pole, but left Katara alone to fight the patriarchy herself. He messed around while Katara took it on herself to do the chores and keep the Gaang alive, but he did almost nothing to decrease that burden so she could grow out of the caretaker role. (Contrary to popular shipper claims, Aang didn’t actually teach Katara to have fun. She already knew how to have fun. But she couldn’t indulge, because she had a responsibility to her family and her tribe, and later to her brother and Aang and Toph, and Aang goofing off and trying to get her to do the same only added to her burdens rather than subtracting from them.) He provided Katara with the necessary motive to learn to heal herself, but he certainly didn’t seem to learn from the experience of accidentally burning her, preferring instead to claim he was never going to firebend again, despite already knowing, at that point, that he was going to need to master fire along with the other elements to become a fully realized Avatar and defeat the Firelord.

He didn’t help Katara keep them alive during The Desert. (In fact, he ran off, leaving her to desperately try to keep Sokka and Toph from succumbing to the heat while worrying for his safety.) In The Painted Lady, Katara makes the decision to stall the Gaang and do what she can to help the Fire Nation villagers on her own--Aang agrees to help her when he finds out, but he wasn’t actually instrumental in her making that choice. The Puppetmaster was, again, Katara finding a master of her own, and having to deal with the fallout from that. And in The Southern Raiders, Aang was--perhaps unknowingly, if I’m being generous, because he is a child and could not reasonably be expected to fully understand the implications of what he was asking her to do or why it was impossible--actively impeding Katara’s development! She desperately needed closure, something he could not understand and actively belittled and dismissed. The only reason he relented in the end (but not without a condescending ‘I forgive you! Does that give you any ideas???’ parting shot lmao) was because Katara was planning to take Appa anyway, and letting her go (and hoping she’d just magically wind up doing things his way) was easier than trying to fight her on it.

While Aang’s existence was necessary for Katara to start down her own path, she needed neither his guidance nor his approval to follow it--and absolutely nothing would change about Katara’s arc if you removed their romantic relationship entirely.

Possibly because the only changes needed to do so would be to remove the two times Aang kissed Katara without her consent (which, hopefully, no one would actually miss), and the epilogue kiss (which was awkward and unnecessary to begin with, since ending the entire show on a romantic kiss as the final shot kind of missed the point of the story to begin with, but that’s another discussion). None of these kisses (which are the only moments in which Katara’s feelings for Aang are so much as addressed; do note that addressing them, or hinting that they needed to be, is not the same as saying she exhibited any sign of reciprocating them) altered anything about Katara’s behavior, her personal arc, or (and perhaps most critically) her relationship with Aang.

It’s that last point that is really damning, as far as ‘Katara obviously had feelings for Aang, she kissed him in the finale!’ goes. Because she didn’t ‘obviously’ have feelings for him. And the fact that he kissed her before the invasion and then she forgot about it (she literally had no idea what he was talking about during the play’s intermission until he reminded her that he’d kissed her) is pretty clear evidence that she didn’t actually have feelings for him. Not the kind he had for her.

I’ve been a teenage girl. I know what it’s like to be surprise!kissed by your crush. And I absolutely for a full fact know that I had not completely forgotten about that kiss three months later and had, in fact, spent most of my waking hours thinking about it and remembering it and trying to talk to him about it. Now, granted, I was not in the middle of a war, but even if I had been, I doubt I would have needed reminding about the fact that the boy I’ve supposedly been developing feelings for had kissed me and showed clearly that he had those feelings for me too.

At the very least, if Katara was harboring feelings that she was worried about approaching until after the war, her relationship dynamic with Aang should have shifted. But it didn’t. She acted the exact same way with him after the Day of Black Sun as she did before it--that is, as a mother figure and a caretaker, responsible for his wellbeing. (And it’s clear she never took him down off the pedestal she needed him to occupy, either--let it not be said that the unhealthy aspects of their relationship only went one way.)

And book 3 is, incidentally, where Katara went from being vital to Aang’s development to being detrimental to it--or, rather, Aang’s refusal to let go of his attachment to her (despite ostensibly having done as much at the end of book 2) was. Because despite having been told by, perhaps, the greatest authority left in the world on Air Nomad culture (even more than Aang, who had left his temple with a child’s understanding of his culture that was never able to mature because he got stuck in the ice berg while his people were wiped out) that he had to let go of his possessive attachment to this girl who never even expressed the possibility that she might harbor romantic feelings for him to begin with, after Azula killed him and Katara brought him back, he went right back into the mindset of Katara is mine, it’s just a matter of time.

And the narrative validated him for it.

Notice how, during Ember Island Players, Aang says the following (emphasis mine):

“We kissed at the invasion, and I thought we were gonna be together. But we’re not.”

First of all, if you go back and watch the scene, it’s clear it wasn’t a mutual kiss. Aang sprang a surprise kiss on Katara, which left her shocked and unhappy after he flew off. (The decision to have her looking away and frowning was a deliberate one on the part of Bryke, who wanted Katara’s feelings kept ambiguous. Heaven forbid you allow the animators to make it clear that this fourteen-year-old girl who was just kissed without her consent by someone she’d never once demonstrated romantic feelings toward might actually have some. Heaven forbid she have a little agency in her own romantic narrative. But whatever.)

Second, he says he thought they were gonna be together.

He thought.

He never once even asked Katara what she thought--or even how she felt. He just assumes. He assumes that if he kisses her, she’ll kiss him back and they’ll get together. He assumes that she must have feelings for him, even though her body language is closed off and she told him with her words that she did not want to talk or think about this right now, and kisses her regardless of those signals, upsetting her and leading her to storm off.

And the narrative rewards him, because despite the fact that they don’t have a single significant scene together after that second disastrous kiss, Katara just decides off-screen that she Does Love Him Really and walks onto the balcony to make out with him.

The upshot of all this being that, while Katara was indeed instrumental to a lot of Aang’s early growth and development, Aang was not necessary for her own arc, and their romantic relationship (such as it was) actively hampered Aang’s development in book 3, while removing it would change absolutely nothing for Katara (except saving her from some painfully embarrassing memories).

As far as your third point, I’m simply not going to get baited into explaining how reducing Zutara to an ‘oppressor/oppressed’ relationship is not only insulting to interracial couples irl (not to mention any other couple with a potentially unbalanced dynamic of societal power, since there are many more axis of oppression than just racial), but demeaning to Zuko and Katara, their personal arcs as well as their relationship development together.

However, I will point out that Zuko was not responsible for any of Katara’s trauma. She did not find violence and fighting in bending battles to be traumatic--in fact, she reveled in it. She enjoyed fighting against Zuko at multiple points (especially noticeable in their battle at the end of book 1), because she wanted to fight--she always had--and once she had the ability, she was ready to throw down with anyone who gave her the slightest reason. (Including, by the way, her own potential waterbending master.) Aang’s death at the end of book 2 was Azula’s doing, and while I think that contributed to Katara’s extreme reaction to Zuko joining the gaang, it was not something for which she actively blamed him, and it wasn’t something she believed would be repeated--she let him go off alone on a journey to find the original firebending masters with Aang well before she chose to forgive him. So she already trusted Zuko’s intentions and that Aang would be safe with him.

Finally, because this has gotten long enough already, I hope you now understand that Zuko and Katara getting together would not require ignoring any of their development with their canonical romantic partners. We’ve already established that Katara’s arc wouldn’t change in the slightest if all of Aang’s romantic advances were removed, and I haven’t even gotten into how Mai meant nothing in the grand scheme of Zuko’s development because I’m pretty sure that’s just self-evident. I mean, the video compilation put together by Nick showcasing Zuko’s journey throughout the series doesn’t include a single scene with Mai, though it does include several with Katara, and even Jin makes an appearance--because Katara, and even Jin, played key roles in Zuko’s personal journey, while his relationship with Mai happened entirely off-screen and her only real function was to showcase just how unhealthy trying to force himself back into the role of the Crown Prince was for him.

What development, exactly, is there between them to even ignore?

At any rate, I’ve gone on long enough--I hope you enjoy the fact that you activated my wordvomit trap card right when i was about to go to bed, anon, because I just spent two hours writing this instead. In case you’re interested in the TL;DR: at the end of the day, there was no meaningful, mutual development in Kataang’s romantic relationship, and those romantic feelings that did exist were largely one-sided and ultimately detrimental to Aang’s development in the final third of his overall arc. Meanwhile, Mai meant nothing to Zuko’s journey--rather like Aang’s romantic overtures, she could be removed from the show completely and nothing about his story would change--while Zuko and Katara were both vital to each other’s overall storylines, arcs and development. This, coupled with the fact that Zuko never actually traumatized Katara and, in fact, helped her achieve closure from the biggest source of her own trauma, means that Zuko and Katara have better and more believable build up that could potentially lead to a romantic relationship than either of them have with their canon romantic partners.

So no, anon, I didn’t forget anything--I think you may have, though. Perhaps a rewatch is in order? Make sure not to close your eyes for the back half of book 3 this time.

[booksweet]

Could I request a Gojo fic/drabble/whatever based around Halsey’s song Colors?? I feel like it fits Gojo perfectly. Angsty. Fluffy. Whatever you’re feeling.

Hollow Purple

starring: sorcerer!Gojo x human!reader

synopsis: there was happiness when blue and red met, but they didn't know grey would claim their place in between them.

contents/warnings: ANGST, SFW, slightly mention of blood, trauma, violence (if I miss something, please warn me), both reader and Gojo are 18+

WC: + 2k

A/N: hello, anon! I swear to god I tried to make it a fluff, but I coulnd't, it screamed angst on my mind. This request reminded me I'm into writing pain stuff like my heart was broken a thousand times, and I wish I could say sorry for the pain, but I'm NOT hahaha no regrets. Enjoy!

tags @noritoshiikamo

main navi | masterlist

You were gone. You were gone and destroyed every piece of him, every inch of him were carved by you.

He knew by the first time he saw you that you'd have so much power over him, you could end him without even using words.

And that's what happened.

You with your beautiful eyes, and beautiful red dress. You broke him.

His blue eyes now devoid of bright, of color.

But he knew it was his fault.

His fault to insist bringing you to his world while you should've had stayed in yours, oblivion to everything related to jujutsu. Yet, he couldn't regret it. He would never regret meeting you, and being with you this whole time until you got apart.

There he was, above the skies, searching for cursed spirits who ran away from him, their fear reasoned since he was the strongest above all. He couldn't care less about their feelings. Within the curtain, without non-jujutsu sorceres, he just wanted to finish that spirits as fast as he could to call his day off and eat some sweets.

"Guess I'll have to go a little rough now, uh?" With a movement of his hands, he felt his cursed energy shaking inside him like an ocean of power, such powers had he overwhelmed by years until he could plenty control them.

But suddenly he felt another presence, aside cursed spirits and jujutsu sorcerers, he felt a human presence. With a frown of his browns, he took off his blindfolds, revealing beautiful blue eyes, in order to find out who or what was that feeling. His flowing energy all at once disrupted.

And then, he found you. He found you walking calmly through the lonely streets wearing a red dress he could never forget. "What an interesting..." He muttered checking out if you were truly human, six-eyes working hard to find it and, when he was certainly of it, his interest on you just grew even harder.

You were about to cross an alley between two buildings and he took the chance to teleport there by connecting his hands. You took a few steps and stopped to admire some store's window and he couldn't help but wonder how you were still there in that chaotic place so relaxed and withou fear.

"Who are you?" He came closer to you and you stepped back with surprise, staring at that tall white-haired man with suspicious eyes and a smirk on his lips.

"Who's wanna know?" Your hands ready to punch his face if he dared to try something on you. His growing interest reached alarming levels as his heart bumped hard on his chest.

"I'm Gojo Satoru," He said without approaching you, and with a bow, he added. "The strongest above all. At your service."

"The strongest?" You said while lifting your chin up to him in defiance. "Oddly of you to say that, isn't?"

And he at that right moment, he knew he was lost. He was lost to you.

- x -

He was supposed to protect you, he was supposed to take care of you ever since you met. Instead, he brought you danger, he brought you pain, he brought you despair.

What's the point of being blessed with six-eyes if he couldn't protect the only one he cared the most?

Not a bless, but a curse. A sin held upon his shoulders. A burden so heavy he couldn't breath.

A sin so harmful that had stained you. Your naive soul. Innocent. Heavenly.

And he missed you. He missed your red lips. You red clothes. He missed how your smile seemed to warm him just like the red sunset you two watched once. His blue eyes missed staring at your for hours, drowning in yours.

Blue and red.

Red and blue.

Two parts independent from each other, yet they floated against them, their souls wiling to be one.

Convergence and divergence.

Divergence and convergence.

And when both opposites reunite...

The second time you met, Gojo wasn't on a mission and you weren't in danger at all. You had an average day and stopped by a coffee shop to drink some hot coffee, eat your favorite sweet and maybe read your favorite book just to get away from craziness of your life, you wanted to relax. You were at your favorite table, alone, and the costumers were passing around you and you weren't giving them attention when the doorbell left out a "ring!".

He couldn't help but desire some sweets, it was his nature as sweet-eater. He knew he would bring attention to him, he was tall, handsome as hell and was wearing a blindfold, of course everyone would've looked at him.

But you hadn't looked at him. You didn't even take your eyes out of the pages to check what happend at the cafe. Nevertheless, once again you caught his attention and he recognized you from your first meeting. "What do we have here?" He muttered with a glimpse of a smile on the corner of his lips.

He ordered a chocolate cake and signed the waiter to take it to your table. Meanwhile, he moved his long legs on tour way, like you were a force bringing him closer and closer each step. He moved the chair loudly and had his seat in front of you. "Hello, Y/N! Long time no see, ugh?"

Surprised by his suddenly entrance, you put your book down and looked straight at him. That weird man you met months ago, still you felt different about him. "Long time no see, strongest above all" you replied playfully. "What bring your majesty up here?"

— x —

When you third met, it was your first date. That turned into a second, and then a third, a fourth... And suddenly you were about all his life, above your weird friendship. All at once you became the one he needed the most to feel himself.

Yet he chose not to tell you about jujutsu. He chose not to tell you about his powers. About why he couldn't stay a little longer with you at your place. About where he would've been travel out of city for weeks without giving any news if he was okay.

He dissapeared for weeks in a roll. And you worried about him. About his blue eyes. You worried about never going to see him again, even though you didn't figure out what you feared at all.

Once, he came back of one of those long trips, after several weeks of nothing about him, but what he gave you to remind of him — his shirt, a photograph of you two, one of his blindfolds.

And you couldn't help but cry while kissing him. You couldn't help but to say you loved him you never wanted for him to disappear. And he would retrieve, he would say he loved you so hard you had him in your hands. He was yours to be loved, to be destroyed.

The strongest on his knees at a human's mercy.

Had never his eyes sight such a colorful being, such a colorful existence. He was at your mercy, his existence, his entire being was yours to paint, to stain, to rip him apart if you wanted.

And then, when you two lay down together, messy sheets and pillows. Blue and red met once again, but not apart, they were together. That time blue and red turned into a beautiful tone of purple.

— x —

Someday you would find out, he knew it. Yet, he still longed for time to be with you, time to be himself without necessarily being the strongest, the head of his clan, the balance between cursed spirits and jujutsu sorcerers.

But he knew he had no time, you had no time with him. There wasn't enough time with jujutsu and curses. They would've come for you by anytime.

He masked his worries from you. He always seemed so happy in his nonchalant and playful way. Always trying to annoy you and make you laugh everytime you spent together.

You mocked the "strongest above all" out of him every opportunity you had. And this had him caring about you more and more.

But then it wasn't a joke anymore.

Jujutsu were real.

Cursed spirits were real.

And you were just a human.

Alone.

Blood. Red. Everything is red. Everything is blood. Pain. You were in pain screaming. You couldn't see what hurt you, but that ominous feeling was still there in your place. "What happened? What happened? Who are you? Who are you?" You couldn't help keep muttering it like a prayer, thinking of Gojo who was to come by and see your hurt state.

But Gojo Satoru felt the overflowed cursed energy arisen from your place. His bare eyes naked with worry and, for the first time, fear. And then he broke. Every piece of him.

He found you on the floor, muttering non-sense words — including his name in your dizzy state — blood running over you limbs, torso and head. A cut on your beautiful face. And above you, at the ceiling, that goddamn cursed spirit laughing out loud mocking you. Mocking your pain. Your despair.

He ran out of control. He released this powers untamed, uncontrolled. In a blink of an eye he exorcised that cursed spirit from existence. He was furious, feral. He could bring fire to the world if it means to keep you safe, to keep you alive. "Y/N?" He came closer to you, checking out your pulse as his hand held your wrist. It was so weak his heart almost stopped. "Don't leave me, please. You don't deserve to die."

— x —

When everything fell apart, he took you to Shoko at Jujutsu High nursery. She healed your physical wounds in silence while he stayed by your side. You kept unconscious the process, sometimes mumbling while your expression turned into a painful one.

When you woke up at his place, you said nothing. Nothing came out from your mouth, even though he tried to make you speak. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks. You could hear him say "Love, love, love, please, talk to me" in a desperate broken tone.

Yet you couldn't say a thing.

When purple turned into grey, everything faded away. Everything blurred.

Happiness overpowered by despair and pain. You were broken such as the beautiful thing you two had.

"Y/N, please, please, I'm begging," Once more his voice muffled on your ears. Why they hold such pain? "I'm on my knees, Y/N, please, come back, come back to me."

He told you the truth about him so many times expecting some reaction, something from you. Yet he received anything at all. You were numb to reality, there was nothing he could do about that.

But one day, after weeks and weeks of him trying to call you back, you spoke for the first time. Pale eyes meeting him lifeless. And he felt his world falling apart again. "I want to go" You whispered and he widened his pretty eyes full of tears.

"What, Y/N?"

"I want to leave. I wanto to go away from here. Take me out, take me out, take me out..." You kept saying repeatdly, each time a knife stabbing his heart.

"Y/N, love..." He tried to touch your hair, but you moved away from him.

"No, no," You muttered afraid. "It's your fault. The monsters. The blood. The pain..." You shrunk yourself in your bed, crying. "The nightmares. It's your fault." Your crying getting louder and louder. "I wish I could forget you."

"Y/N, I-I," He struggled his words, afraid and crying. "You know I can protect you, you know I will."

Your voice cold in his ears aside your tears. "No, you can't."

— x —

Blue bright eyes once, but not anymore. Not when the reason they shone for now It's gone. When you've chosen to forget him since your accident.

That was what you asked, to forget. To forget the pain, the blood the nightmares, him...

It was quite easy to manipulate your memories, cursed energy manipulation and then it's done. Not that it means it did not hurt him, but it had to be done.

When light came back to your eyes, Gojo's bright faded away.

When you smiled red, blue was not his color anymore.

When your life was colorful, his was grey and devoid of any color.

Red and blue turned into purple. His heart was craved by yours, when you were together.

Purple danced in front of his eyes as his memories overflowed his mind. Blue eyes crying because of red.

Blue eyes seeing grey because now red is gone forever and blue is alone.

[jt-artsandfics]

could you write Raiden and Shinnok being jealous and protective too?

Jealous and protective Pt2

Just a heads up I'm not to good at Shinnok just becuase I've never done stuff for him really or knwo much, so I just did a 3 hour study of him so I could try this he may not be in charcater but I hope I did him well. And well i wanted a fic of Raiden getting a massage from his partner too becuase man's stressed 25/8 and jealous makes him sad. So I hope it all goes well.

Warnings: talk of killing, stripping. About it I think.

Shinnok: jealous and protective.

Shinnok has a very short list or mortals he like let alone ones he trust. His S/o is one of them. He Himself doesn't know how they came go be close, but one thing is for sure.

He hates raiden being within the same building as them. And now Raiden stood trying to convince his S/o that Shinnok was only using them and in the end would kill them and their world, after all that's who he is. The God of death.

"Stay away from my Lover Raiden" Shinnok hisses as he stands infornt of His S/o. Raiden takes a step closer.

"Leave Raiden!, I am not interested in what you have to say" (y/n) replys moving to stand beside their lover.

"You would let him destroy you're world?, they place with your family and friends" the thunder God ask taking his stance ready to fight.

"Shinnok has done more for me they anyone else ever has, and I'll be damned if I let you hurt the man I love" they hiss taking hold of Shinnok's hand. Shinnok yells something to Quan Chi, the next moment we are walking back into the neather realm.

"My soul?, are you alright" Shinnok ask as he places his hand under his lovers chin bring them to look at Him. Their eyes flick up to his as they smile.

"I'm fine, just glad we got out of there" they say before resting their head against his shoulder. Shinnok closes his eyes as he holds them close.

"Tho I must know is it true, would you kill me?" Its quite for a moment. Ad he contemplates if he tells them the truth. In the end he doesn't like to his lover.

"At start, I saw you as little but hired muscle, someone to be disposed of once we were finished. But as time continued I grew to enjoy your company, your input and banter, I would only kill you if you betrayed me." He says looking away from them.

His lover places their hands on his face bringing him back to look at them. "I wouldn't expect anything else under those circumstances" they say leaning in to press their lips to his. Shinnok hums lightly holding them closer before they pull away.

"I am glad to hear that Raiden will not sway you, it has been a fear of my for a while" he admits. "I hate the God of thunder with a passion, he's ruined my plans on many occasions and I will not let him take you" he grumbles into his S/o shoulder.

"If much rather my God of death over earthrealms God of thunder" they reply and press a kiss to his cheek.

"I'm glad to hear that my love"

Raiden: jealous and protective

Raiden unlike what he tells people. He gets jealous very easily. He knows as much and it happens we he sees his S/o around his brother. Most times it's harmless but it effects him a little, he will see his brother hanging our wirh his partner and think that they are better off with Fujin then himself.

but they always come back to him with a bright smile and reassurance that they love him, and it helps lighten the burden of not being there all the time. All though there are other people who do invoke a more fight or flight reflex out of him when they are near his S/o most times he will be quite about it.

Raiden sits meditating trying to clear his mind of these thoughts, it did him no good feeling jealous of others, he was the one who is lucky to have the beautiful person that he is with. He tries to relax and release the tension in his body. His shoulders hurt and he has a slight headache from all the tension.

It doesn't help that of recent days things have become more calm then he is used to but be tries to enjoy the peace while he can. His eyes open and flick to the spot of pillows and blankets where his partner normally sat while he mediated becuase they enjoyed being near him. It sat empty at the moment.

"Raiden, Raiden?" He can hear his S/o calling out to him. He smiles lightly as he stands up from his spot that he was meditating in.

"I am in here sweet one" He calls out making his way over to them. He can hear the pitter patter of their bare feet as they make their way to him. He smiles gentle at them.

"Hey Rai, was looking for you" his S/o says wrapping their arms around his middle. He lets out a soft chuckle before pulling them in for a hug. "Forgive me, I thought you were out with the others. I did not know you would be back yet"

They pull away and look up into his pale glowing eyes. "You look tired babe, are you alright?" They ask lifting their hand up to the side of his face. Raiden leans into his S/o hand humming lightly.

"I'm alright, have a bit of a headache and shoulders hurt a little but nothing to cause worry" he reassures them. His S/o grabs his hand before leading him able over to his spot where a small collection of pillow lay from last time they were there. "Ok hot stuff, loose the hat, cowl and top half. Them lay down on your stomach" they say earning a rasied eyebrow from the thunder God.

"Please, I promise you'll enjoy it" he sighs before doing as asked. He removes his hat placing his gently down and undoes his cowl. His So watches as his white hair falls down his shoulders and back.

Raiden disrobes and moves to lay down on his stomach agaisnt the pillows and blankets. "Ok cross your arms infornt of you and rest your head against them" his s/o says. He does as he is told.

(Y/n) moves to rest on his back sitting gentle as the run their hands up his back. Raiden's breath hitches as his partner's hands run up his back and begin to massage his muscles around his neck, shoulders and back. He hums lightly closing his eyes as his S/o runs one hand thought his hair, pulling gentle at the knots and tangles before pressing soft kisses to his to skin.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you ok?" He hums lightly in response feeling his body loosen and not hurt as much as earlier. They stay like this for a while. Soft hands against hard muscle.

"How do you feel now Raiden?" Y/n ask as they move off of Raiden's back. His eyes open gentle as he smiles at them. "Relaxed, I don't wish to move now" he says and pulls his love into an embrace, They both laugh gentle.

"Your hairs so fluffy, you should wear it down more often. Give me a chance to braid and play with it" Y/N says running their hand thought it again.

" perhaps I will, just for you" he presses a gentle kiss to thier lips as they lay in each other's company.

"Glad your feeling better handsome"

[kroerms]

Lifeline

Oneshot || pairing: kenma x reader (gender neutral, but I tried to stay clear of any pronouns)|| genre: angstisch, hurt/comfort ||

warnings: depiction of depression/ symptoms of a depression || if I forgot to mention something, please feel free to tell me...

a/n: sooo, this is my very first fanfic since like 2013, please be gentle with me haha

y/n: “I’m sorry, but I can’t make it to our date today…”

Kenma: “What do you mean you can’t make it? We planned this for over a week and are supposed to meet up in an hour...I’m already out of my house…”

y/n: “I’m really sorry, I just can’t.”

You sighed, tossed your phone next to you on the bed and pressed the pillow closer to your chest.

You couldn’t really pinpoint what triggered all these negative feelings. But your whole life there have always been these days where you felt completely drained of energy and the negativity of your own mind played tricks on you. You had always called it your “social battery” being empty. But in reality, it was more than just that. It was more than just not wanting to see your friends or family. It was a consuming tiredness paired with negative thoughts and sadness rooted deep within your very heart. Days like these would come and go, you learned that over the years, which is why you preferred to be alone on those days because you didn’t want to burden anyone with your pointless feelings. Sure, sometimes those feelings would almost consume you completely and would persist for weeks, but you always managed to handle them one way or another. You knew this all too well, you had had to deal with this part of yourself since your early teens after all and now that you were 28 it just didn’t seem like you were ever to grow out of it like your parents used to say you would. It wasn’t their fault though, since you never really talked about what it felt like to anyone after your so called friends seemed to dismiss it as just you being lazy and so your parents thought your tendency to hang in your room and lay in bed all day was just due to hormones. And you always felt like no one would believe you anyways and you weren’t prepared for all the follow up questions that would drain the last bit of energy you had, and so you stopped explaining yourself altogether.

You’ve known Kenma for a while now. The two of you started to form a friendship after you accidentally took his coffee order from the barista because he had ordered your usual. And with your head always being in the clouds you had just heard “vanilla latte” and without waiting for your name to follow the order you’d taken the beverage.

“Uhm, excuse me but I think this is supposed to be mine - well unless your name is Kenma as well, but I highly doubt that”, a monotone voice next to you spoke. Your gaze shifted from the to-go-cup in your hand to the man beside you. The faux blonde with the dark roots and the almost bored facial expression stood next to the take-out section of the coffeeshop, switch in one hand and the other in the pocket of his red tracksuit.

“Oh, I’m very sorry, I must have zoned out again. I sometimes get stressed in overly crowded places and tend to lose myself in my thoughts to calm down aaaand I just overshared, didn’t I?” You bowed slightly and handed the man in front of you his drink just as the barista called out your name with a “vanilla latte” attached to it. You quickly turned around to take the coffee so that Kenma wouldn’t notice the slight blush that spread over your cheeks from the embarrassment.

“y/n’s a pretty name, suits you.”, Kenma said, flashing a slight blush of his own as the words left his lips. “Well thank you...Kenma was it?”. The faux blonde nodded slightly. An awkward silence infolded the two of you. Just as you wanted to excuse yourself so that you could finally leave this utterly embarrassing situation, Kenma spoke up again: “well if you want to make it up to me for almost stealing my drink, I’d really appreciate a piece of apple pie from the bakery down the road. If that’s not too crowded for you.”

After that encounter, the two of you quickly grew closer and developed a bond to one another. Just like you, Kenma enjoyed lazy days at home gaming or watching movies together more than going out on adventures. So the two of you would often hang out at his house playing Mario Kart together or you’d watch movies on your projektor at yours. Sure, occasionally the two of you would go out to get something to eat or to watch his friends at a volleyball game, but these outings were rare. And it was because of those cozy little hangouts that you never once had to cancel plans with him, thus not once did you have to explain to him why you didn’t have the energy to go out and do stuff….well at least until today.

The familiar wave of guilt washed over you for not telling him why you had to cancel on such short notice. But you really didn’t have the energy to explain that your inner demons had taken control over your body and mind today. You were already feeling exhausted because work had been hell the last couple of weeks and it didn’t help that seemingly everyone in your family needed something from you which resulted in you spending your off-time after work either at your fathers house or your mothers. This left little to no you-time to relax and recharge yourself.

It was now near lunchtime on your well deserved day off and Kenma and you had plans to check out the new cat café that opened up just a few blocks from your home. But you hadn’t even made it out of bed, let alone under the shower yet. The comfort of the warm blankets was just too good. The mere thought of leaving this safe haven stressed you out and you had to hold yourself back from crying. You felt so overwhelmed with the world today that you couldn’t entertain the thought of participating in anything right now. All you wanted - no - needed to do was sleep until that heavy feeling on your chest would lift off and let you breathe again.

Just as you were dozing off, you heard your doorbell ring. You didn’t expect a package or anything today, so you didn’t exactly know who would want something from you right now.

Wrapped in your pink aristocats pijama and your very wild bedhead you padded to your door. What you didn’t expect while looking through your peephole was Kenma, standing in front of your apartment, arms full of paper bags.

“Open up, these are heavy you know! I know you’re standing behind the door.”

You took a deep breath before opening the door to let Kenma in. He immediately made his way to the kitchen, where he placed all the bags on the countertop before looking at you.

His gaze was intense. With what seemed like worry in his eyes, he scanned over your tired form.

“What’s wrong y/n?”, he asked.

“Nothing, I’m just tired, didn’t sleep enough last night I guess, but it’ll be better by tomorrow, so you really don’t have to worry about little old me”, you meekly said in an attempt to lighten the mood. You tried giving him the most reassuring smile you could manage, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You knew he noticed by the way his gaze softened. In one swift motion Kenma pulled you into his chest and cradled your head with one hand, while the other found its way around your waist, pulling you closer into him in the process. This took you by surprise, since Kenma and you didn’t really hug a lot.

“Tell me what’s really wrong y/n. I can clearly tell that you are not okay. You are a measly liar”, he whispered into your hair. Damn him and his observation skills, you thought. Well, this is it, you couldn’t hide that part of yourself from him any longer. You were scared to open up to him about that part of yourself, the fear of losing him because he didn’t want to deal with someone as broken as you are was immense.

“y/n?” Kenma spoke up again. You must’ve lost yourself in thought again, you didn’t even notice the tears that slipped past your eyelids and were making their way down your cheeks, before coming to a halt at your chin.

“I’m s-sorry, I - I don’t want to w-worry you… I just, I feel so tired and I f-feel like my battery is completely e-empty. I don’t feel like I c-can handle anyone, including m-myself right now. I j-just want everything to s-stop. I am exhausted, I feel like I a-am drowning within m-myself and t-there seems to b-be no lifeline”, you sniffled into Kenma’s chest. His hold on you tightened at that. He knew you got overwhelmed in crowds sometimes and that you preferred quiet, lazy meet-ups at home over going out. It was one of the reasons why he liked you so much, you didn’t expect him to be outgoing and you always accepted him for the person he was. He knew you were someone who liked their personal time and that the world, especially the people living in it would overwhelm you sometimes, but he had never seen you like this. Small, so fragile, almost as if you crumbled within yourself. As if the slightest blow of wind could knock you over and break you.

“Do you want me to leave? I brought food from that new café. I can just leave it here and go, if you need time to yourself…” Kenma said.

You were torn. On one hand, you really didn’t have the energy to entertain someone right now. But Kenma felt so warm and his embrace made you feel secure. As if the world couldn’t get to you as long as he held you like this. So you tightened your hold on him and shook your head lightly.

A small smile appeared on Kenma’s face.

“Alright, how about you go lay down on the couch then, while I unpack the food and we watch some cheesy movie together?”

The thought of leaving Kenma’s arms didn’t please you at all but you obliged and went to your couch in the open living room. You watched as Kenma started unpacking of cake slices, sandwiches and chocolates out of the bags. He even brought avocado-onigiri. Your favorite. After he displayed everything on plates he came over to put the food and two lemonades on the coffee table. He sat down next to you and turned on your TV. He started your favorite rom-com before he pulled you close to him again so that your head was resting on his chest. As the movie went on, he started to stroke your hair with his hand, while the other was on top of your arm that was draped over his torso. This was still very unfamiliar to you, but it felt nice.

“You know, you never have to hide your feelings from me. Not even the negative ones. I know I sometimes seem a little distant and I am not very open about my own feelings either but you mean a great deal to me and I’m always gonna be here for you. Even when you feel like drowning, I’ll always be a lifeline for you to hold on to. And I know I can’t fix everything, but I’ll try my best to help you with fixing what needs to be fixed.” he whispered softly. You closed your eyes, new tears forming in them making your eyelids heavy. Even if all those inner demons were loud within you, Kenma’s voice and reassuring words slowly drowned them out and you finally felt a bit of the weight on your chest getting lighter. You knew you had to work on these things and you would need more than just Kenma, you’d need professional help to cope with all of this, but with Kenma by your side like this, you felt like anything was possible. Before you dozed off in Kenma’s embrace you whispered back: “thank you so much for being here”.

[infinitewarden]

Osiris & OCD

I’ve had this post on my mind for a while but I never got around to sitting down and writing it. So here we are.

Osiris has OCD.

Yes, you read that right. Osiris has OCD and I’ll be going into depth here why he can be read that way.

To start off I would like to clarify what, exactly, OCD is since there are many misconceptions about it perpetuated by pop culture. OCD is different for everyone who has it, at least the way the symptoms present themselves. It’s not entirely about “ew yuck I hate germs.”

OCD is a long-lasting disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, reoccurring thoughts (obsessions) and/or behaviors (compulsions) that they feel the urge to repeat over and over.

Obsessions are repeated thoughts, urges, or mental images that cause anxiety. Compulsions are repetitive behaviors  that a person with OCD feels the urge to do in response to an obsessive thought.

Not all rituals or habits are compulsions. Everyone double checks things sometimes. But a person with OCD generally:        

Can't control their thoughts or behaviors, even when those thoughts or behaviors are recognized as excessive

Spends at least 1 hour a day on these thoughts or behaviors

Doesn’t get pleasure when performing the behaviors or rituals, but may feel brief relief from the anxiety the thoughts cause

Experiences significant problems in their daily life due to these thoughts or behaviors.

Source.

Now, with this clarified I can go into detail about how these symptoms present themselves with Osiris. Let’s start with bringing up a couple of instances that stood out to me (as local OCD haver.)

Bodies in the rubble.

Evacuees from the Eastern breach caught in the blast.

Their deaths filled his mind through twenty gilded eyes, capturing the scene in its totality.

Osiris would scour the Northern front in golden Light.

He looked to the shattered wall. Through the gap, mind inutile, overshadowed by the eternal precipice. Crowded with menace. Eyes peering down, seeping over, hungry, waiting to flood this last hope with plunging depth. Even now, as Fallen lines break against the Light, others stand watching from deep starless hollows. If not this, another. The dam will fail, as all do in time.

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 9: Thin

Osiris is absent; preoccupied with insatiable predilections that drive him to worry. 

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 11: Breathe

His mind is still taxed from his last visit. He remembers—camouflaged against the rushing atmospheric bands of Jupiter—how he drifted alongside its evergreen moon. He remembers the deep wedge that sunk between the two bodies, dividing them.

The Pyramid before him, lascivious tendrils of wildfire hue flowed from it like a grasping hand across the Cradle. The image as clear as relived trauma. Io had been dwarfed against the black angular pit seated in its atmosphere. His eyes could not leave it then; even now, he feels himself falling into its gravity as they approach again.

“Have you sent it  to Saint yet?” Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space. 

Immolant Pt. 1

Osiris tenses his jaw in forced silence. He twiddles with code. “I’m worried about what Vance found.”

Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest. “Let go of your obsession. Do not leave chasing phantoms again.”

“Phantoms… You think the Darkness is satisfied? This is just the first move. I need to know the next before it’s made.”

“If there is something you fear, let me help you. We face this together.”

Osiris’s mind drifts to the Dark anomalies. Saint doesn’t need another burden.

“The safest place for you is the Tower, Saint. Time... tends to renege on its gifts.” 

Immolant Pt. 1

So.

Obsessions: Upsetting focus about the dark future he tries to avoid, of the Vex, of the Darkness, and of death.

There is another instance in the Tomb Rider lore where he starts down an “OCD Spiral” of obsessions, starting off with his worry over Mercury. In which Saint promptly shuts him down by grounding (lifting him by the shoulders), and diverting attention (feeding him candy.)

Let’s look at his compulsions.

“He’s dead because of me. I’ve made every precaution. I’ve had my Echoes check against trillions of disaster scenarios.” He turned to look at the fluctuating glow of the exposed chronometric core. “Mercury is the only planet that will be affected. Because that’s where he died.” 

The Sundial.

Without thinking, Osiris pulled off his gloves. Freed of the metal gauntlets, his hands looked old. He wrung them together, his fingers worrying at the edges of his ragged nails. "If the Darkness is able to claim Mars… if they take Mercury—"

"Quiet your mouth," commanded Saint-14, and Osiris did.

Saint-14 stood and then moved toward Osiris in two enormous strides. He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris's hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.

Osiris obediently placed a few in his mouth and chewed silently.

Tomb Rider.

I see infinity.

An infinity of possible worlds, so perfectly simulated as to be indistinguishable from the experiences I once called "reality." I can touch them, taste them, pass lifetimes in them! They grow within this machine like fruit upon a tree—no, a forest of trees, its fractal expansion nigh unmeasurable.

I said that to Sagira and she replied, "Sounds like a challenge."

This Ghost of mine knows me too well.

It strikes me now that I could find in this Infinite Forest a reality in which Ikora accompanied me into its endless mysteries.

What an awful, destructive machine this is.

I must know everything about it.

Kairos Function (Chest)

Osiris nods, realizing he had no right to demand action. “I apologize. Thank you.” He motions toward the windows’ reinforced glass. “The Traveler’s reforging was  a sight to behold.” His words have a faint reverence to them.

Zavala turns away from the Traveler’s pale light, his face dimmed. “Indeed. I wish it was more than just that.”

“These events were beyond us all, Zavala. I should have seen it… I just want to correct my error.”

“I’ll help you where I can, Osiris. Remain in contact, and if it is dire, I will point every gun at whatever fiend you uncover.”

Immolant Pt. 1

Compulsions: Checking and double checking again and again, picking at his nails (picking is another common OCD Thing), learning everything he can about an Upsetting Thing, chasing “loose ends” to correct stuff he considers his fault.

Interestingly enough it seems that both Saint and Sagira are aware of his tendencies and respond to them by either physically grounding him or distracting him. ( “Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest.”  -  “Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space.”  -   “He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris’s hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.” -  “Sagira darted down as if to dive bomb her chosen, but stopped just short and met him eye to eyes.” )

Let’s also not forget that Ikora, the Speaker, and Saint have described Osiris to be obsessive, and though Osiris denies this it’s hard not to see that he is. Thus… “Obsession” part of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

So there you have it. There’s quite a bit of lore that points towards or at least allows it to be read as him having OCD.