#fic: these violent delights

[sprnklersplashes]

these violent delights (2/?) (ao3)

Someone is calling his name, the sound just about audible over the late-night ruckus in the Six. Jesper looks up immediately, expecting to see Wylan coming back in. His grin falters when he doesn’t make an appearance and grows steadily smaller when he hears the alarm in whoever’s voice it is. His shuffling hands slow down, uneasiness replacing the giddiness the cards had given him. Then, Annika skids to a halt at his table, her eyes wide, her chest heaving, and dread settles like a stone in Jesper’s stomach.

“It’s Wylan,” she gasps, leaning heavily against the table. “He’s hurt.”

Jesper shoots from the seat, the cards falling like dust from the table.

He throws himself through the front doors and out onto the street, turning wildly in circles as he searches for Wylan. He’s vaguely aware of Kaz’s presence, but for once the infamous Bastard is just another face. The streets are full to the brim; Barrel rats looking for a good con, tourists looking for good fun, kids looking for a good opportunity. Boys, girls, tall, short, young old, they all blur into one thing around him. One large, terrible thing surrounds them, flooding the streets. Terrible because none of them is Wylan, and because they’re stopping him from getting to him. Annika’s words play over and over again, in time to the beat of his heart.

Wylan’s hurt. 

Despite his religious scepticism, he says a small prayer every time he looks around. That was a misunderstanding. That it was just a boy who looks like Wylan. That it’s a different Wylan. It’s awful, and he’ll do his penance ten times over, but right now he just needs, he needs Wylan to be okay.

“Jesper.” Someone-Kaz- tugs sharply on his coat, yanking Jesper around so that he faces the front of the Silver Six. There, as the crowd begins to part, Kaz points with his cane, and Jesper’s heart freezes. “I found him.”

He’s sunk to his knees beside one of the outdoor tables. His head is bent over and his hands are buried in his hair. It only takes one look to see the tightness in his body, and as they get closer they see how badly he’s trembling. It might be cold out, but this shaking is beyond that. It’s more like he’s fighting to hold on to something, and whatever he’s fighting is far stronger than him.

Jesper is already beyond scared by the sight. But then Wylan crumples and gives a weak cry as his shoulder strikes the ground, and he can’t breathe.

Saints, please let this be a dream.

“Wylan!”

A cough wracks his body as Jesper and Kaz kneel next to him, and blood trickles from his lips to the pavement. His skin is almost translucent, his hair starkly dark against it. The blood covers his lips now, oozing like oil from an engine. His body twitches, his face contorted in pain. He almost looks unrecognisable. He almost doesn’t look human. 

“Wylan?” he says again. He touches his cheek, wincing at how cold the skin is beneath his hand. “Wylan, can you hear me?” He pushes his hair away from his scrunched-up eyes. But then Wylan bucks, his breathing frantic and jagged, and he pulls his hand away. He does something, a groan or a grunt or some attempt at speech, and blood leaks from his nose and runs down his pale face.

“What’s happening to him?” he asks. Kaz’s gaze is as dark and stormy as ever; thunderclouds rolling behind his pupils. Wylan thrashes again and a helpless cry is wrenched from him. His head hits the cobblestones with an audible, horrible thunk.

“He’s going to hurt himself,” is all Kaz says.

Jesper slides his hands under Wylan’s shoulders and lifts him. This he can do. His touch is careful as though he’s cradling lit grenades. Gently, he rests Wylan’s head on his lap. It doesn’t stop the seizing, but at least his head isn’t hitting the ground any more. 

At some point, Nina and Matthias came running out after them, and both of them kneel on either side of Wylan. Jesper looks at Nina, not trusting himself to speak. Find out what’s wrong, and fix this, he asks her silently. Nina just looks back at him, tears glinting in her eyes, and Jesper’s shoulders shake. 

She’s not the same as she used to be, and whatever this is, it’s beyond her.

He wishes he could tell her it’s okay, but all he can think about is Wylan convulsing in his lap.

“Jesper.” Kaz’s voice is sharp, pulling him back to the moment. His dark eyes are trained on something above them, his jaw tight. Jesper has only seen this expression a handful of times before; in the depths of the Ice Court, on Vallegulk, when Van Eck took Inej. It ignites something in him, and he follows Kaz’s gaze above. 

At first, he sees nothing, just the outlines of rooftops. But then the lights grow brighter, and it’s there, silhouetted against the night sky. A hooded figure stands atop the roof of the Silver Six. He can’t see them that well, just that their hands are moving in controlled jerks, and they’re staring down directly at Wylan.

“Jesper,” Kaz says again, but he doesn’t need to. The gun is in his hand and pointing up at the roof before he even realises it. His shooting arm is the only part of him that isn’t shaking and locks his aim at the figure above. If they notice, they don’t do anything, but Jesper suspects they don’t. Wylan cries out again, like an animal caught in a trap and he clicks the off the safety.

“We need them alive,” Kaz says. Jesper hears it, and it must click with him because when he sends off the bullet, he feels it fly a little lower than its initial trajectory. It’ll lodge in their hip, rather than their chest. He’s not particularly happy about it, but at least some part of him is thinking past this moment.

The figure on the roof falls soundlessly, and the next second, Wylan goes slack. The tension that had held wrought through his slight frame flees and he sinks into Jesper’s lap, taking heavy gulps of air. Carefully, Jesper runs his fingers across his face, brushing away a smudge on his cheekbone.

“Jes?” His voice is broken, strained, barely a whisper. Wylan is beside him, but he sounds like he’s coming from miles away.

“I’m here,” he whispers, afraid to hurt him again. He takes Wylan’s hand in his and squeezes it to warm it up. “I’m here, darling, everything’s going to be okay.”

Before he realises, he’s cupping Wylan’s cold cheek with his hand. He waits for the signal to pull away, that his touch is hurting him, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Wylan leans into his touch, and for a heart-stopping moment, Jesper thinks it’s over. 

“Jes,” he says again. Droplets of blood trickle down to his chin. He takes a deep, uneven, desperate breath.

Then his eyes close, and he doesn’t say anything. 

It’s Kaz who moves first. Of course, it’s Kaz. Jesper is busy not feeling anything and is still trying to process Wylan’s limp body laying against his legs. Jesper, for all the bravado he puts up, feels like his limbs are disconnecting and floating away from his body, but Kaz is the one pulling them together again. Or, pushing them aggressively until they pop back into place.

“We need to get him back to the Slat,” is his first command. “Keeping him out in the open is an invitation for trouble.” His dark eyes snap up. “Matthias, stay with Wylan and Jesper. If you can, find a Healer. Nina, you’re with me. If Jesper made the shot right, they’ll still be alive.”

If Jesper made the shot right. He looks down at Wylan again and brushes his hair away from his face. Their best (and maybe only) chance to find out what happened rests on whether he made the shot.

He bites his tongue and swallows the bile in his throat. 

Nina brushes his shoulder before she goes, a whispered “It’s okay” in his ear. It’s both sweet and wrong because no part of this is okay. Those words have rarely felt as hollow as they do now. 

Matthias appears in front of him, his eyes firm and his sleeves rolled up. He presses two fingers to Wylan’s neck, then his wrist. He exhales softly as he does, the worry not leaving his face. But his shoulders drop, and he gives a single, steady nod.

“His pulse is okay,” he says. “And he’s still breathing.” The Fjerdan grabs Jesper’s shoulder then, and his grip is so tight it sends a jolt through Jesper’s body. If Kaz pushed him back together, then Matthis pulls him firmly back to the present. “Jesper,” Matthias says. “Kaz was right. We need to get him back to the Slat. I’ll follow behind and try to grab a Healer. All right?”

“Right,” he hears himself say. He gathers Wylan into his arms and stands up. His head rests against Jesper’s shoulder, and he’s reminded of a few nights ago when Wylan fell asleep in his study and Jesper had carried him to bed. He’d woken up halfway there, but a soft murmur from Jesper and his head on his shoulder and fall back to sleep.

That was when Jesper started thinking Wylan needed a night off.

If he’d known-

“Matthias,” he says. “Try to be subtle. If word gets to the wrong person that Kaz Brekker’s demolition man got hurt-”

“I understand,” he says. He looks at Wylan, his blue eyes torn. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” Jesper chokes out. He turns, keeping Wylan pressed against his chest, and holds him as tightly as he can all the way back to the Slat.

There’s a visible change when Jesper kicks the door open, his arms still firmly wrapped around Wylan. Those Dregs who haven’t gone out tonight spring into action the instant they see him; one closes the door behind him, several ask him what happened. One even has the foresight to run up ahead of him and use Jesper’s key to open their room. Another lights the lamps, bathing the room in a dull orange hue. 

He carries him to the bed and lays him out, making sure to brace the back of his head. The sound of his skull hitting the pavement still ricochets through Jesper’s head. Wylan doesn’t react as Jesper sets him down; not even when he tucks a blanket around his cold body. He just lies there, and if it weren’t for his faint breaths, he’d be forgiven for thinking he was-

No, he thinks. No.

Matthias rushes in before he can go any further. Jesper has never been happier to see him, especially when he sees the girl standing at his side, whose brown eyes are trained on Wylan and whose hands are already poised to work.  

“Healer?” he asks. Matthias looks half-apologetic, and the girl clears her throat.

“Heartrender,” she corrects. “But I can heal.”

“She’s a friend of Nina’s,” Matthias explains. “A sort of friend. It’s- I couldn’t find anyone-”

“It’s okay,” Jesper cuts off. Matthias nods at that. He looks over at the Heartrender, his own heart beating so loudly he can hardly hear himself ask, “Can you fix him?”

The girl rolls up her sleeves. “I can try.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and holds her hands over Wylan. Jesper hovers back, Matthias standing solidly at his shoulder. The other boy’s hands are clasped in front of his face in a way that vaguely looks like a prayer. Jesper almost envies him. He had never properly prayed before and instead relied on luck until it ran out. Now he watches this girl he barely knows move her hand over Wylan’s prone body and he realises he’s pinning all of his hopes on her.

He wouldn’t call it a prayer exactly, but he swears his allegiance to the first god or saint that saves him.

The girl holds her hand over Wylan’s heart, her fingers moving slowly before travelling up his chest. Unlike Nina and the slow, carefully controlled way she used to move, this girl almost forces her hand up Wylan’s body, her arm so stiff it looks like it could crack. He wants to believe it doesn’t mean anything, what would he know about the best way to be a Grisha?

Wylan moves, finally, when her hand hovers over his head. His face tightens and a pained gasp breaks the silence in the room. It’s nowhere near the agonised screaming they’d heard from him earlier, the one that floods Jesper’s head now. 

“Careful,” he hears himself say. The Heartrender turns to look at him, her eyebrow raised. The expression is irritated at best and offended at worst, and Jesper clears his throat. “When I-When I touched his head earlier, it hurt him.” He pulls at his waistcoat. “Just… be careful.”

“How is he?” Matthias asks. “Can you heal him?”

“It’s hard to say,” she replies. “I’m not a trained Healer and even if I was… head injuries are tricky. Especially ones this severe.”

Jesper’s heart drops.

“How severe is it?” he asks. The Heartrender looks at him again, her hand still hovering over his head. Wylan groans again, this time with a little more force behind it, and shifts against the mattress. “I don’t know. I’ve fixed some of the surface-level damage, but…” She shakes her head. “There’s not much else I can do.”

“Will he wake?” Matthias asks. The stiffens, and the look on her face strikes Jesper’s heart. He knows that look. He’s spent the better part of his life trying to forget that look, that mix of pity and sorrow and not-knowing-what-to-say.

He turns, his shaking hands pressed to his mouth. Behind him, Matthias speaks to the Heartrender, their voices low and hushed. Or maybe that’s just the ringing in his ears. He forces himself to breathe out, to flex his fingers, to run his hands over his revolvers. None of it helps, his veins still spark like lit fuses around his body. The cracked plaster feels like it’s clawing at him, scratching down his skin. He needs to get out of here, to run up and down the streets and fire his guns until he runs out of bullets. Some deep, buried part of him wants to use whoever the fuck did this as target practice. The thought brings something, not relief but something close. Maybe it would help, but he’s not doing it. Kaz kept that person alive for a reason and he’s not leaving this room until Wylan’s awake.

A hand grazes his shoulder, and after he flinches he sees Matthias walking the Heartrender girl outside. He mumbles a “thank you” to the girl before she leaves. Colm Fahey raised a liar and a thief, but a polite one.  

With nowhere else to go, he pulls the chair beside the bed and sits down. 

It doesn’t feel right; seeing Wylan so still. Everyone thinks he’s the bouncy one out of the two of them, but they don’t see Wylan the way he does. At his workshop, he’ll wriggle his nose when he’s concentrating, or his shoulders when he’s on the verge of a breakthrough. At Merchant Council meetings, he’ll tug on his hair when he’s growing overwhelmed, or tap his nails together when he’s thinking. And when they’re in bed together, drifting slowly into sleep, he’ll trace patterns on Jesper’s arms, tattoos that exist only in his mind.

How can all of that be gone now, and how can he be so still?

Blood still stains his face, scarlet against paper-white skin. Slowly, Jesper stands and fetches the towel from the hook on the door, then runs it under the faucet in the corner. He doesn’t take his eyes off Wylan, walking backwards when he needs to. When he sits back down, he dabs the towel carefully against the bloodstains. 

The last time Jesper cleaned something off Wylan, it was flour from a baking attempt gone wrong. Wylan had wriggled in his grasp, his eyes glittering, his laughter filling the kitchen like the sweetest music Jesper had ever heard. Now, he doesn’t even flinch.

He throws the stained towel over the bedpost.

“There you go, darling,” he whispers. “That’s better isn’t it?” He breathes out slowly. Purple bags. have appeared under Wylan’s eyes, or maybe they were always there. It’s been such a heavy week for him, long hours at the Council and late nights in his office. There were so many demands to meet in such little time. His side of the bed had been so cold, with him waking at the crack of dawn to work and not getting in until late. 

All Jesper had wanted was for him to blow off some steam. To go someplace where he was just Wylan, and leave the burden of the Van Eck name in his office. 

Wylan was reluctant, but Jesper had insisted. Of course, he did, because he’s like a freaking dog with a bone sometimes and maybe he wanted a night out too and now… now they’re here. Wylan is cold and unmoving in the bed they planned to share tonight.

“Wylan, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. He reaches over and slides his fingers between his. The heat from his hand bleeds into Wylan’s, and he hopes he feels it. “We should’ve just stayed in tonight like you wanted. And I promise as soon as you’re better, I’m spending my life making it up to you.” He kisses the back of Wylan’s hand. He hadn’t realised he was crying until the tears wet Wylan’s skin. “Get all those fantasies ready, merchling, because nothing is off-limits.”

The door creaks open then. He doesn’t turn around but the rhythmic thumping behind him means he doesn’t need to. A flash of black appears in his peripheral vision, hands folded over a crow’s head cane.

Neither speaks for a few seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, Jesper sees his gloved fingers curl.

“It was a Heartrender,” he finally says. “Using parem.”

“Parem?” Jesper echoes. He does look up at Kaz, just for a second, to make sure he heard him right. He nods once, slowly, and Jesper sinks into his chair. “Saints. Do we know anything else?”

“Not yet,” he replies. “After you shot her, she wasn’t in a very talkative mood. Nina’s taking care of her. ” He turns toward Jesper. “Lodged it right in her hip. Good shot.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, though he forgets what he’s thanking for. His mind is too focused on the words Heartrender and parem, and all the implications that has. Who sent her? Why did they send her? Where did they get parem from?

“How is he?” Kaz asks. He steps forward and lowers himself onto the bed. Something flashes across his face, and for once Jesper can’t be bothered to try to work it out. The question is hard enough; he can’t answer and try to fathom Kaz’s carefully guarded emotions.

“Matthias found a Heartrender. She said it was a head injury.” His chest tightens and his voice falls to a croak as he continues. “A bad one.” He holds Wylan tighter, pushing away the grief looming over him. He won’t mourn Wylan while he’s still breathing. 

Kaz says nothing. His hand tightens on the head of his cane, and his hair falls in front of his unreadable eyes.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “Get some rest. I can take over for a while.”

“No.” Kaz blinks in surprise. Jesper honestly hadn’t expected it to sound so forceful, but he means it. He’s not leaving Wylan’s side. He’s not even taking his eyes off him.

He took his eyes off Ma. He spent all night with her hand on his cheek and his face in the mattress. When he woke up, it was too late. 

He’s not making that mistake again and Kaz will have to knock him out himself if he has to.

He doesn’t though. Instead, he gives a simple “All right” and pulls the spare chair up beside him. Up close, Jesper catches the dark blue blanket folded in Kaz’s lap. He waits for him to cover Wylan with it, but it stays folded beneath his hands.

They sit in silence. Jesper’s breathing slows to match Kaz’s, and with it, the events of the past hour fall over him like dust over a shelf. A Heartrender. Using parem. Wylan’s head injury. The expression on the girl’s face when she looked at him.

The grief resurfaces, swirling like dark cloud over the prairie. He remembers how helpless those storm clouds made him feel as a kid. He feels that now, magnified tenfold. This time they’re pressing down on him, and no-one will pet his hair and tell him that it will pass.

“He’s not dying,” Kaz says suddenly. Jesper looks at him, wild hope flickering inside him. If there was ever a person who could fix the unfixable, it would be Kaz. He’s dragged himself back from death once or twice, surely he could for someone else.

Kaz leans forward, just a little, and Jesper holds his breath. He waits for Kaz to pull something out of his sleeve, or for Wylan to sit up and say it was all part of Kaz’s master plan. Neither happen. Kaz only bows his head and trains his eyes on Wylan’s sleeping form.

“He isn’t mean to die like this,” he says roughly. Jesper swallows. Even on a good day, Wylan dying is the last thing he’d want to think about. Not when the unspoken truth of their relationship is that Wylan might go before Jesper does. But Kaz is right. Whatever way Wylan is meant to die, it’s not here in this broken bed in the Slat, just turned twenty-three. 

“No,” Jesper replies. “He’s not.” He squeezes Wylan’s hand. “There’s not even a bomb around.”

It’s a horrible joke, but they laugh. anyway 

The night goes on. Wylan doesn’t move at all, bar the slow rise and fall of his chest. Nina puts her head around the door and asks about him. She puts a plate of bread and cheese in front of them and squeezes Jesper’s shoulder. 

Kaz gets up and catches her just as she reaches the door. He hears Kaz’s hushed voice as he speaks to her, inaudible over the late-night rumblings of the Barrel. Presumably, it’s about the Heartrender they have in custody; Jesper is sure he hears the words ‘parem’ and ‘Heartrender’ used somewhere. He should probably ask Nina what’s going on. He’s also a Crow and he should be on the same page as everyone else. 

The thought crosses his mind, but he doesn’t act on it. Kaz will catch him up if he needs to. He just focuses on holding Wylan’s hand, and dimly questions why the room is getting darker. 

Morning brightness pokes at his eyelids, dragging him out of his sleep. He’s reminded of being back on the farm; his Ma used to pull the curtains open to wake him up, pestering him as he groaned and asked for five more minutes. The memory lingers for a few seconds, lulling him into the sweet lie that he’s back home, and that nothing has gone wrong yet.

Unfortunately, he’s not back home. He’s not greeted by endless blue skies when he opens his eyes. Instead, he sees Wylan, just as he was before, now bathed in a weak Ketterdam sunlight and Kaz rolling his cane between his hands. The blanket he had last night is nowhere to be seen, and Jesper realises blearily that it was draped over his shoulders.

“There’s been no change,” he says roughly. The crow on his cane spins. “His pulse and his breathing are still fine.”

“How long’s it been?” Jesper asks.

“About six hours.” Jesper bites his tongue, his shoulders shaking beneath the wool. Six hours he spent not with Wylan. Anything could have happened in that time. He shoves the blanket off and balls it between his fists. He wants to drop it to the floor and kick it under the bed, the feel of it makes his skin crawl. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just keeps pressing it, as if the pressure he pours will turn it into a diamond. 

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” is all he says. Kaz doesn’t respond. Jesper shifts to the edge of his seat and waits for him to press on it. Or maybe he will. Maybe he’ll start a stupid fight just so the blaze in his chest can go somewhere-

Then Wylan gasps.

He frowns, delicate features scrunching like he’s waking from a long sleep. Quiet murmurs drift through the air, reminiscent of late weekend mornings spent in their bed. His slender pianist’s fingers curl and uncurl on the sheets, bitten nails scratching the coarse fabric.

“Wylan?” Slowly, Jesper rises from the chair and perches on the edge of the bed. His palm is cold as he lays it atop Wylan’s blanket. His breath comes in short, anxious puffs, his heartbeat echoing in his empty chest. “Wylan, it’s okay, I’m here.”

“Mm?” comes Wylan’s reply. His weight shifts, another sight familiar from their bed. He breathes out heavily, his long-lashed eyes fluttering. Jesper’s heart does a similar motion, and before he knows what he’s doing his hand comes up to cup Wylan’s face. Wylan leans into his touch, his cheek not nearly as cold as it was last night, and Jesper could collapse there and then.

He sighs, his nose scrunches, and Jesper holds so tightly to his patience. It could be seconds or hours, Jesper doesn’t know, but he waits and whispers and finally, Wylan’s eyes flutter open, and relief sweeps through Jesper like a spring wind over the fields. 

“Hi.” The words squeeze out from his tight throat. The tears flow down his cheeks, but he’ll wipe them away later. He just wants to hold Wylan’s face and never let him go. “Welcome back, darling.”

Wylan frowns, his brown eyes still glazed, unfocused. Jesper nods encouragingly, his thumb rubbing circles beneath his eye. It’s okay, he wants to say. I’m here, everything’s going to be okay. 

Before he can, Wylan jerks out of his grasp. He scrambles across the mattress and leaves Jesper’s cold hands hovering in the air. Jesper swallows down his panic as Wylan presses himself into the wall, his eyes widening and darting around the room.

“Where am I?” he stammers. Jesper notices the rapid rise and fall of Wylan’s chest then and shares an uneasy look with Kaz. The Heartrender’s words come back to him, “severe” and “tricky” breaking through his relief.

“You’re in the Slat, Wylan,” Jesper tells him. Wylan shakes his head, his hair falling in front of his face. 

“The-the Slat?” he asks. His voice trembles and Jesper eases himself closer to him, his hand slightly raised. He’s found Wylan in dysregulated states before and brought him back, but something about this feels off.

“In the Barrel,” he says, his voice like an autumn breeze. 

“The Barrel?” His voice is so high it scratches Jesper’s ear, and panic seeped deep into the two words. He shakes his head again, wilder this time, and he’s going to hurt himself if he keeps going. 

“Yes,” he says again. He reaches for Wylan’s hand, only to grasp at thin air. He looks up and sees Wylan’s hand curled against his chest. Then he looks again and sees the feral look in his boyfriend’s eye. Behind him, Kaz stiffens, and a lump forms in Jesper’s throat. “Last night. Remember we went out, we went to the Barrel-”

“No!” he cries.

Wyaln falls from the bed, landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor. He pulls himself hastily to his feet, runs a hand through his hair, and steps back, the bed acting as a barrier between them and him. Jesper tries not to scream. He’s never seen Wylan like this, not even at the Ice Court. Hell, not even his father struck such fear in him. One trembling hand is raised, half curled into a fist, and his panic-stricken eyes dart from Jesper to Kaz. He looks ready to either start a fight or hurl himself through the far window. Jesper feels he should be ready to grab him, whichever he does.

Kaz steps out from behind Jesper, exuding a coolness that he wishes he felt. His cane touches the floor once, twice, and Jesper waits for the miracle. 

“Wylan-”

“How do you know my name?”

Jesper freezes. Kaz freezes. They turn and look at each other. Their movements are slow like old doors on rusted hinges. As one, they look back at Wylan, his quick gasps filling the air, his whole body shaking. Jesper reaches out to him, but Kaz’s cane blocks his path. 

“Who the hell are you?” Wylan asks. “And where have you taken me?”

The storm clouds return and when they open, Jesper lets them drown him. 

[wangxianficrecs]

violent delights by justdoityoufucker

violent delights

by justdoityoufucker (orphan_account)

T, 4k, Wangxian

Summary: Wen Qing is fairly confident in her own skills. She knows the theory—wrote the theory—and has performed many surgeries before, has worked with broken cores and devoted her life to the study of it. But there’s something different about this. - Or, the one where the Golden Core transfer goes...sideways. Kay's comments: This story explores an idea that I find super interesting, what if the Golden Core Transfer just didn't work? The odds weren't in their favour after all and here it just doesn't work, Wei Wuxian's core says nope and returns to Wei Wuxian, no matter what Wen Qing attempts. It changes things and for the better, at least for Wei Wuxian and the Wens and I love that and love their relationship especially. You know I'm so weak for Wei-Wen found family vibes. Ah, and now I'm sad again that justdoityoufucker left the fandom. I adore their fics so much. Excerpt: Except, a half shichen later, it disappears. It disappears. The core disappears out of Jiang Wanyin’s body. It’s an instantaneous happening—one second it’s there, channeling the remnants of Jiang Wanyin’s spiritual energy along with Wei Wuxian’s, and then there’s an abrupt, gaping emptiness that is familiar only because it’s how his dantian felt before the transfer. “J-jie?” a-Ning asks at the same moment that Wei Wuxian makes a rough noise of abject confusion, an emotion that is mirrored on her didi’s face. “What’s h-happening?” She forces some of her spiritual energy to remain in Jiang Wanyin’s meridians, cycling to ensure nothing goes wrong, and rushes over to Wei Wuxian, who has suddenly regained some color in his face. It’s hard to focus on splitting her energy, cycling it in two other bodies, but immediately she can tell what’s wrong. Wei Wuxian’s golden core is back in Wei Wuxian, like she never took it out. His meridians are perfectly reconnected, spiritual energy cycling as if it had never been stripped out.

pov wen qing, pov wei wuxian, canon divergence, no golden core transfer, jiang cheng has no golden core, not jiang cheng friendly, pre-sunshot campaign, sunshot campaign, post-sunshot campaign, wei wuxian lives, wen remnants live, families of choice, hurt/comfort, rogue cultivator wei wuxian, angst with a happy ending, everybody lives, wei wuxian leaves the yunmeng jiang sect

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[tadaxii-i]

I’ve been absolutely devastated by this fic all day so I took 30 minutes of my time to make it because the image burns in my head.

@imdamagecontrol

[therealvinelle]

Do you think any vampires use dating apps? Like if twilight was set today

Violent Delights Have Violent Ends by myself and @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin

[peachesofteal]

🪐 Rewatched The Force Awakens so I guess it’s time to re read this.

[mythicalltea]

“I will always find my way to you.”

Regulus inhales a shaky breath. “Not this time, James. I don’t think—Not in this lifetime.”

“In every lifetime, Regulus. I will find you in every single one.”

GOD.

[supermassivebutthole]

hey remember how sometimes i publish chapters of a midnight sun rewrite? violent delights, it's called? butch edith cullen etc? if theres anyone still alive who wants to read it, heres a new chapter

[sprnklersplashes]

these violent delights (1/?) ao3 

A stroke of darkness comes for the Crows, and now Wylan can't remember who he is.

Jesper watches the love of his life look at him like he's a stranger.

They fell in love once. Can they do it again?

The sun is slowly sinking behind the buildings of the financial district, its rays casting the illusions of thousands of gold coins sprinkled on the water. Ketterdam might not be known for its sunny days, but summer has been kind to them so far. At least out in the Geldstraat. Warm air, gentle sunbeams and faded blue skies have filled their days, and they seem to be lingering longer each night.

Wylan takes a step back from the edge, his hands still wrapped around the railing. He rolls his shoulders back, the muscles in his arms almost screaming in gratitude. After the long nights spent at his desk this week, he felt more like an abandoned door than a human being; his joints creaking and groaning with every step. Salt water splashes from the canal and sprays his knuckles, cooling his hot skin. He hadn’t realised how much he needed it, but he guesses it was only logical. After spending the week either cooped up in his office with the windows shut or in the equally-stuffy meeting rooms of the Merchant Council, he was bound to overheat. Especially in the black wool and tight cotton shirt that he makes himself wear to meetings.

Both are gone now, discarded in a laundry basket and deemed ‘tomorrow’s problem’. Putting aside the incredible discomfort of his mercher clothes, walking into the Barrel in such an outfit would be asking for trouble. He may as well wear a sign that says “I’M FILTHY RICH, PLEASE MUG ME”. And knowing their luck, someone would have nabbed a spare vial of phosphorus from the inner pocket, and then where would they be?

He hastily checks his coat pockets and looks back out at the water. The finer houses of their district begin to pass them by, the streets becoming more densely packed and pressing closer to the edge of the canal. Wylan had thought- and hoped- that he’d feel better the further away they got from the financial district. Now though, he watches the mansion turn into toys on the horizon, and the knot in his stomach tightens.

He resolved to hold onto the good thoughts, to the excitement of seeing his friends tonight. He counted them like they were coins. The thing is though, his anxiety has a frustrating habit of sticking around. It slid into the corners of his mind as he got ready and it grew, persistently. He watches the canal waters, but his mind can’t escape the box of papers in his desk drawer or the pile of letters that need to be responded to. Or his mother, alone in that cast house with only her maid for company tonight. His many responsibilities pile up around him, and with them come the faded but unmistakable voice of his father.

“Wasting time with frivolous games… partying with Barrel rats rather than tending to our fortune… a proper heir would spend the night working… I left my fortune to this…”

The voice recedes when he feels Jesper’s breath tickle his ear. Strong arms wrap around his torso and he’s pulled against a solid, warm chest. He rocks as Jesper sways back and forth with him, and they do so until a small, honest smile breaks across Wylan’s face.

“You all right?” Jesper asks. “You’ve barely said a word since we left the house.” In someone else’s mouth, the words would come with a sting of accusation. Not in Jesper’s though. Instead, his slender fingers run through Wylan’s hair, his pinky tickling his temple. 

“I’m fine,” he replies. He turns so his back is to the railing and faces his boyfriend properly, giving him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Either he’s gotten worse at putting up a mask, or Jesper knows him too well. Concern flickers like twin candles in Jesper’s eyes and he tugs on Wylan’s jacket to pull him closer. 

“Wy… I know this whole thing was my idea. But we don’t have to go out tonight,” he tells him. “We can go home… spend the night in. Get the piano going… or do something a little more strenuous, if you want.” His mouth curls into a devilish grin at that, and heat floods Wylan’s cheeks. 

“Save your strenuous activity for tomorrow,” he tells him. He shakes his head. “And no, we’re going out tonight. You’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

“Wy-”

“And,” he cuts off. “You know as well as I do that if we went home, I’d find my way back to the office, and you’d end up shut in there with me.” He jabs Jesper’s chest with his finger. “And our strenuous activity would be you rewriting my draft proposal for a fifth time.”

“I’d like to think I could get you out of there.”

“You’ve tried.” He tugs lightly on Jesper’s tie, soothing himself with the purple silk beneath his hands. “No, you were right Jes.” With a heavy sigh, he looks back in the direction of the Geldstraat. “Maybe I am putting myself under too much pressure.”

It’s half true. He honestly doesn’t care much about the pressure he puts on himself. Hell, he probably needs it. But it’s when Jesper has to come up with him, and write what he dictates or read a stack of files to him. It’s unnatural, to take a Jesper and lock him in an office like that. That’s when the guilt starts eating at him. 

Jesper deserved a night off, and apparently, the only way to give him one was for Wylan to tag along too.

“Well,” Jesper replies. “I’m always up for hearing I was right.” He presses his lips to Wylan’s hair. “Maybe you can say it again later, slowly, while taking my shirt off.”

He rolls his eyes and digs Jesper in the ribs. Their giggles hang in the air as he turns around, and Jesper’s arm wraps around his shoulders. The boat weaves dips and turns a corner, and Jesper pulls him against Wylan against his chest and nuzzles his hair. They stand in silence and the boat rights itself against the water. 

“How was Marya?” Jesper asks after a while. He toys with one of his rings, his eyes cast down towards the canal. 

“She was good.” He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, his hands tightening over the railing. His work wasn’t the only reason he was reluctant to leave the house tonight. It’s also that tonight will be the first night he spends out of the house since he brought his mother home, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s abandoning her. No matter how many provisions he arranges, he still feels that he’s no better than his father.

He never said anything to Jesper, not explicitly, but he never needed to. 

She was in the parlour when he came to say goodbye, her hair in a loose braid and an auburn shawl around her shoulders. She had looked up when Wylan entered, alerted by his soft knock on the door. It was more than he could have hoped for.

“You look nice,” she had said. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. I-I’m going out with some friends,” he told her. He didn’t say where. One day, when she’s closer to herself, he’ll tell her everything. For now, certain things she doesn’t have to know.

“Lovely,” she replied. He moved to the couch and sat down beside her, as careful as Inej on her tightrope. She’d been drawing; a landscape of their garden, coloured with gentle pinks and greens.

“It’s beautiful,” he told her. He cleared his throat, hoping to dislodge the lump in it. “So Talia will be with you tonight. She’ll be taking care of you. And I won’t be any later than midnight. I promise.”

“Midnight?” she echoed. “Isn’t that awfully late for a young boy like you?”

I’m twenty-three now, Mother. The response crossed his mind briefly, but he didn’t say it. 

“Jesper will be with me,” he said instead. “And I’m not going anywhere dangerous.” 

Just the Barrel. 

Talia opened the door just as he hugged Marya goodbye, a silver tea tray balanced in her hand. 

He hired Talia just before bringing Marya home; coming recommended from Saint Hilde’s. Her wages are greater than the average maid, but she’s more than worth it. For the companionship that she brings his mother, and the grace with which she treats her. Wylan would gladly empty all the coffers for her. 

“Don’t you worry, Mister Wylan,” she had told him sweetly. “She and I will have a lovely night together. Have a nice evening now. Saints know you deserve it.”

He nodded tightly and thanked Talia again before taking his leave. He’s still not a betting man, but he’d bet the entire fortune he wouldn’t be able to go out tonight if not for the fact his mother was being so well looked after. If he hadn’t seen the tenderness in Talia’s face, or the graceful arc of Marya’s arm as she sketched, he may have planted himself in that parlour and never moved.

That’s what separates him and his father, he reminds himself. Jan Van Eck would never have taken such care.

On the prow of the browboat, Wylan takes a deep breath and runs through his little list of assurances. 

His mother is safe and happy and being looked after. His work will still be there tomorrow. He’ll be with his friends, who he hasn’t seen properly in months. This will be fine. They will be fine. He will have fine, Jesper will have fun and everything will be fine.

He whispers it like a prayer, through the East Stave, around another corner, and all the way up the narrow waterways of the Barrel. 

The tightness in his chest loosens as they come off the browboat. It’s a strange reversal; Wylan remembers how terrified he felt when he first crawled out of the canal, the threat of the dark corners and the impossibility that felt baked into every brick. But something happened; the Crows happened. He walked around the Barrel beside its Bastard, and he learned to act as if he owned it. The dark corners became his hiding spots, then they became something more. He learned not to fear the Barrel, but to let it embrace him. Now when he steps off the browboat with Jesper, it feels like he’s coming home.

The feeling grows stronger as they approach the glittering doorway of the Silver Six, the pieces inside him slotting into place. Patrons pass him and Jesper on all sides, coming and going between the various dens. Some Dregs nod and wave and even chat with them, while other gangs pass them with cautious respect. Wylan grins and his slumped spine straightens as they cross the threshold. 

Here, he isn’t Wylan Van Eck, impossibly young merchant with everything to prove. Here, he is Wylan Van Eck, demolition expert for the Crows. His respect wasn’t reluctantly handed to him because of his name. It was claimed by gunpowder and bombs, and no one expects anything more than what he is.

They pass their coats to Annika and promise to save her a drink before they find the rest of their crew. Or, to be more accurate, Nina finds them, shouting across the club and waving frantically from a corner table. 

Saints, has Wylan missed her. 

“Well look what the browboat dragged in,” she declares when they’re still a little bit off from the table. Her cheeks are rosy, and Wylan wonders how many of the empty glasses are hers. Regardless, he accepts her tight hug eagerly before she pulls him into the seat beside her. “Glad you could come to slum it with us.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Jesper replies. He slides into the seat opposite Wylan, and it’s then that Wylan notices Kaz sitting in the corner. His gloved hand is wrapped around a half-filled wine glass, which he uses to toast to the two of them.

“The place looks amazing Kaz,” Wylan says. He means it; he’s only managed to come here one other time, when the place opened. It looks just as magnificent now as it did then; the chandeliers overhead create what looks like a flood of diamonds over the walls and the dark floor, and the dark wood tables and plush red chairs would put any other club to shame. Hell, it would put his father’s mansion to shame. The steady flow of patrons and staff makes it feel like a living thing, a beating heart powering the Barrel. Wylan feels a surge of pride as he looks around. If this is his legacy, the name of a gambling hall on East Stave, it’s better than any empire he’ll pass on.

Kaz motions with his hand. Within a minute, a young girl comes to the table with a black tray. A glass of red wine is set in front of Wylan and brandy in front of Jesper, who looks at Kaz with open-mouthed awe.

“Are you rolling out the five-star treatment just for us?” he teases.

“Well, we do have Mercher royalty,” Kaz replies, motioning to Wylan before knocking back his glass. “And I would hate to incur the Council’s wrath.”

“I think the Council will have a heart attack if they find out Kaz Brekker is giving their man free drinks,” Jesper replies. “These are free, right? Because otherwise, we will have problems.” Kaz raises his eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Will you be like this all night?” he mumbles. Wylan smiles into his wine. Years ago, that would have made him shudder. But he’s changed, and so has Kaz, and he can just about hear the fondness in Kaz’s voice. It’s subtle, like the single flute in a vast orchestra, but they all hear it.

And so the night goes on. The glasses on the table increase and decrease in number as they order more and the staff clear them away. He catches up with Nina, and they take turns throwing spiced nuts in each other’s mouths. He lets Matthias buy him a drink and ends up sampling Fjerdan larger (surprisingly good). He sits down with Kaz at one point, and the anxiety that Kaz used to bring with his presence is a mere memory. Sure, Brekker is still one hundred unanswered questions wrapped in a long coat. But the conversation is natural as breathing and he even consults Wylan on whether he should get some live music in here.

“Dance floors are very in right now,” Kaz explains, refilling Wylan’s glass.

“Never knew you to follow a trend, Kaz,” is his reply and when Kaz glowers at him, he just laughs. 

Inej’s absence is felt by everyone. Kaz gives them the details of her latest letter; that she’s expecting to land in Shu Han soon, and her sights are set on a particular trafficking ring she tracked from East Ravka. Kaz says she got the initial info from a runaway, and then when that ran out, she asked at the inn where the girl had been taken.

“Just asked?” Jesper questions, sitting expectantly on the edge of his seat. Kaz shrugs, although the curl of his lip is seen by everyone.

“I expect her knives made a brief appearance,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass. “For persuasion’s sake.”

“Well, the Wraith is certainly persuasive,” Nina says. They drink to that, and to her.

It’s a little after ten bells when the night catches up with him. He’s sitting at one of the many gaming tables with yet another glass. Jesper is, of course, in his element. Kaz had been a little reluctant to let Jes play and only relented after a long, hushed conversation with his former lieutenant. Jesper had practically bounced to the table, and if he noticed that Kaz hasn’t been more than five feet from them since he start, he’s not said anything. 

“You okay, darling?” Jes whispers after his turn. Wylan has somehow found himself with his chin on Jesper’s shoulder and his arm wrapped around his chair. He thanks Ghezen he’s learned decent self-control. Otherwise, he’s have pressed his head onto Jesper’s collarbone and clung to him like a bearcub. The wine has made his head fuzzy, but it’s also dropped his defences. He’s become increasingly aware of the number of people crowding around them, and what started as a low hum of conversation now feels like a swarm of bees buzzing at the back of his neck. He’s making a conscious effort to breathe, to not punch the table or crawl right under it. 

“I’m going to step outside for a second,” he says softly. “I need some air.”

“O-okay,” Jesper replies. “Do you need me to come with you?” Wylan shakes his head. His mind might be softened, but he still saw the hesitation on Jesper’s face, and how his eyes shifted to his deck. It’s nothing personal; Jesper just came here for a good time, and going outside takes him out of one.

“I’m fine,” he says, “I’ll just be a minute. Keep the seat warm for me?” 

“Deal.” He gives Wylan a quick, shameless kiss. “And once I win, I’ll order a basket of waffles for us to share.”

“Perfect.” With his cheeks rosy, he rises from the table and hugs Jes around the shoulders before making his way back through the crowd. His gait is slightly unsteady, and he keeps his head down in an attempt to block out some of the noise around him. He just about registers Annika handing him back his coat. He remembers to thank her, and then he slips out onto the street.

There’s something about this kind of quiet that Wylan loves. Barrel quiet. The quiet lingers outside the gambling halls. Silent night air mixed with the muted ruckus of the gambling halls, the faded shouts from a brawl two streets over. He may have stepped outside, but life is still going on, all around them. You can’t find it on the Geldstraat. 

Maybe it’s his wine talking, but as he lingers outside, it feels like a reminder that they’re still here, all of them. The noise coming from the club acts as proof that they not only survived the impossible, but they’re thriving in its aftermath. The Barrel survived, because they made it so. 

“Sentimental fool,” he mutters to himself, but he’s smiling. He takes a deep breath. The air isn’t exactly clean. Rather, it tastes of smoke and liquor, and it sits heavily in Wylan’s lungs. He leans back on the table, his face tilted up to the ink-blue sky and waits for his head to clear. 

Minutes pass, and he slowly realises that the usual process of his disconnected brain knitting back together isn’t happening yet. He’s sat outside for long enough, and while the low-level discomfort from inside has receded, he now notices a dull throb in the back of his head. 

When did that start? Before he stepped out?

He decides to wait a few minutes more, hoping it won’t be too long before he and Jesper are demolishing a plate of waffles between them. He taps his knees, simply waiting to be ready. But as he waits, the pain doesn’t lessen. Instead, it persists and sharpens, and he’s forced to acknowledge that going back might not be an option.

Careful, he lifts an unsteady hand and touches his temple, trying to locate the source of it. What he can only describe as wet sparks of pain flare beneath his fingers, and his whole body shudders. He’s never felt a pain like this before; starting in one corner of his head and then blooming across his brain. It’s alive, and growing, and it’s everywhere. He grits his teeth, saliva foaming in his mouth, and the pain jumps. He cries out then, the sound weak and coming from a place deep inside of him. He hears, rather than feels, himself breathing raggedly, and tastes copper bursting across his tongue. Thoughts come and go like fleeting birds, never perching on anything, because all there is the now all-encompassing, relentless wave of pain. It roars behind his eyes, at the back of his head, beneath his hair. Everything hurts, everything fucking hurts. Somewhere, in the one lucid corner of his mind, he thinks this isn’t normal, and that’s when he starts to panic.

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

His shoulder strikes something hard. Did he fall? When did he stand up? His body jerks. His chest heaves, and something wet coats his lips, his tongue. Warmth trickles down his face. He hadn’t realised how cold his skin was until now. He jerks once more, and then his whole body curls inward. He blinks, but the world is little more than a swirl of dark, muted colours.

Then, through the haze of agony clouding his mind, he hears something. Footsteps beside him. Something-a hand?- brushes against his cheek, his shoulder, his head. The pain spikes at the touch and his body twitches again. He must have said something because his throat burns. Warm, wetness coats his lips, and he feels he should know what it is. Someone, several someones, are saying something to him. His name? It feels like his name, but it could be anything.

He’s lifted, his head placed against something. He doesn’t know, can’t think beyond the new stream of pain hissing through his head. Voices keep fluttering past him; they rise and fall and fade and come back, but he can’t catch anything. They might as well ask him to read. 

One voice stands out though, even though the words are nothing. There’s something safe in it like it could protect him from the hot pain enveloping him. He holds onto it, or he tries to. It slips through his grip like water through his fingers. He might open his eyes, or try to chase that voice, but he feels too heavy. Like he can do nothing else except sink. 

The voices recede, and the pain builds. Like an orchestra playing their final piece, its different parts come together, from his temples and his brow and the back of his head. They build, one on top of the other, pushing and pulling for dominance until they combine into one, torturous crescendo. 

Something is wrenched from his throat, something from the back of his mind. It feels pitiful and desperate on his tongue. A name, maybe? It feels like a name, and he feels himself call it again. A warm hand presses against his cheek, a warmth different from the heat scorching his head. This warmth is pure and safe, and he leans into it. He hears that voice, the one from before, lilting and rising, overlapping with something else-

Then there’s silence. And after that, there’s darkness.

[alwaysmicado]

Hi lovely 💕 I’d love to hear about Violent Delights

Heyhey 🤍 thanks for asking!

Violent Delights is a Joel Miller x f!reader series. It's dark, violent and kind of fucked up.

Reader tries to survive the living hell that is the Boston QZ by numbing her pain with alcohol, pills and sex. But in the aftermath of a deal gone bad she realizes she's even more alone than she thought.

Snippets:

That’s why you have sex. To escape your dreadful life for the time you're able to concentrate on your body only. No thoughts, just pain and pleasure. You only fuck guys that give you what they want, who hurt you and make you forget for a little while. You’ve had guys apologize after because of the bruises, saying they don’t usually do this – but you know better.

They’re all animals pretending to be more. 

---

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” you murmur, his cum leaking down the curve of your ass. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me,” he growls, stuffing his cock back into his jeans. 

When you don’t bite back like you usually do and just silently pull up your pants, Joel roughly grabs you by your shoulder, his fingers digging into your skin, spinning you around to face him.

The cold intensity in his eyes meets yours as he looks at your face for the first time tonight. His eyes dart between the injuries on your face, and a rare moment of vulnerability flickers across his features.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and anger surges within him, anger at your recklessness, anger at himself for not noticing sooner.

[sapphirehearteyes]

Made in honor of Our Violent Delights by bikado on Ao3-

“Take it all” he pleads, biting at her jaw. “Take my sword. Take my heart. Take it all.”

The way this fic has me (and many others) in an absolute chokehold 👁👄👁

The writing is OUTSTANDING!! If you haven’t read it, it’s my #1 recommendation

[tadaxii-i]

I'm crying so much and I need to share this.

These violent delights (have violent ends) :

It's a Titanic AU starchaser and wolfstar fic, and you need to read it. I'll never recommend a fic this hard.

(I almost want to gatekeep it because it's that good)

[incaseofwriting]

A Dragon Scorned

Things are finally settling down in Tempest. An unexpected visitor shows up and somehow Diablo is involved?!

word count: 2.9k

content warning: none?

[maddiethefashionista]

Lucerys Velaryon is born a girl.

Almost nothing changes… until Aemond Targaryen begins to take an interest in her.

It seems Targaryen uncles have a habit of falling in love with their nieces.

Literally one of the best stories I’ve ever read! Always got me craving more.

Not to mention I hate u, I love u by gnash is always living rent free in my mind when I read this story. I’m running with the aemond tarageryn brain rot and this story isn’t helping!

So 10000/10 would recommend if anyone needs a new story with UST and a hell of a lot of internal denial.

BTW my OTP name for Aemma and Aemond is Sapphire Steel.

[goldenworldsabound]

Pls tell me everything abt velvoid and diablo im obsessed with this ship

you're the best Nick 😭😭😭

First I have to Tensura lore dump at you so let's go

The world was created by Veldanava, the first of the True Dragons. He created for himself 3 canon siblings (Velgrynd, Velzard, and Veldora) and also Velvoid (who is the second youngest, with Veldora as the youngest). True Dragons are THE single strongest beings in Tensura. They have various elemental prowess and unique skills and are just insanely strong. They possess a dragon form and a humanoid form. So that's where Velvoid stands - exists from what is essentially the beginning of time and has been powerful the entire time.

At the same time, Veldanava created seven angels, which per cause and effect caused the creation of the Seven Primordial Demons, each of which was associated with a color. Diablo, or at that time Noir/Black, was the only one strong enough to fight and tie with Rouge (later Guy Crimson) who was ostensibly the leader. The primordial demons are...also insanely strong but not comparable to True Dragons by any means for several reasons which we don't need to get into. But Noir liked to fight, and once he tied with Rouge he was like damn. If I get stronger, all fighting will be really boring cause I'll just win. Lame shit. So Rouge got stronger and Noir just like fucked off for a really really long time. Demons can be summoned into the physical world with an offering so occasionally he goes to the physical world, but without a proper body they can't maintain that for very long.

Anyway my point is, they are both so fucking old and so fucking strong. And Diablo/Noir fucking LOVES to fight.

Oh, it's also important to note that Naming is a very important thing in Tensura that makes monsters stronger. So, Noir isn't really a name in that sense but more of...a moniker? It doesn't count.

So basically, at some point, Noir is like. I wanna fight a True Dragon. And he goads Velvoid into a fight. Velvoid takes it easy on him but still thoroughly kicks his ass. This happens often. He normally hates losing, but with Velvoid...he knew he didn't have a chance to begin with and it's so much fun.

I should note. Velvoid is practically a recluse. With power over Space and Void, they can create extra spatial dimensions at will, and their preference is Fuck Da World and hide it in a dimension with their hoard of random items from various collapsed civilizations, typically valuable or rare things a normal person would die to get their hands on. Watching the world and swooping in to scoop up anything of major interest is basically their modus operandi.

That being said, they are annoyed by Noir at first and think he's stupid and insane. Over time that opinion shifts, and instead of telling him to go lick his wounds elsewhere, they invite him into an extra spatial dimension to recoup. They offer him some of their own energy to recover under the ruse of, "it'll get you out of my hair faster" though it's clear there's significance behind it. Noir is beaming and delighted and he's a happy puppy demon fdkjsahfasjk

This just continues to happen after their fights, and Noir even starts to ask about the objects in their hoard, and they agree to tell him a story about one object per fight. He's very happy to get them talking more, and they're very happy to have someone to talk to who listens so intently and asks so many questions. He even occasionally has a relevant story of a time he was summoned to share (he is QUITE the story teller, he can go off forever).

Eventually one day he shows up to fight and somehow they end up kissing about it and ripping each others' clothes off and well stuff happens. It's new to both of them - they are spiritual life forms, they don't really reproduce like that (it seems they can if they want to though but that's a different tangent), and neither has had any such feelings before. They're also both demisexual or grey ace so it's like WOAH wtf is THIS but anyway it happens and it's a great time. And they just start referring to each other as partners but things continue mostly as they were except sometimes the fighting is fighting and sometimes the fighting is fucking- dfjsahfd and sometimes it's neither, it's cuddling and chatting about the things they've observed or experienced in the time they've been apart.

To them, "time they've been apart" is often centuries, by the way. LONG LIVED.

Also fun fact, Diablo fully brings them corpses or cool relics or whatever like a cat bringing it's owner a dead mouse and dead birds. And they fully praise him for it- dkjashfjkdas

Now this brings us to the more current timeline. Rimuru summons Noir (or well he tried to summon much weaker demons and Noir said no :) summon ME!!!! and showed up anyway fdjkahfs), Names him Diablo (thus granting him a new level of strength which is considered insane by basically everyone else), and Diablo becomes his second secretary fdkjafhsdj

Velvoid is only aware that Diablo has properly incarnated into a physical body but not because of who or why or how. They give him a chance to come greet them. He does not. And this brings us to a fic I need to post soon that I managed to write yesterday despite my hands. Point is, they show up, try to kick the shit out of him, find out he got Named, and want to kick the shit out of him even more.

So as far as dynamic in current times, the two of them are insufferable. Diablo LOVES to rile up Velvoid (this has always been true) as it means Velvoid will either attack him or put him in his place another way and he loves that. He also thinks their tsundereness is still precious and adorable even after all this time. He will also take literally every opportunity to gush about them and like this demon just goes. He does not shut up. He will keep going until someone forces him to shut up. Usually that person is an embarrassed Velvoid.

Velvoid does learn that Diablo doesn't like being called cute in front of other people, he gets all flustered and weird about it ("N-not in front of Lord Rimuru, please, Velvoid-") and they might use that to torment him a little bit. It's rare to be able to actually fluster him so they gotta, you know?

Behind closed doors (or perhaps inside of extra spatial dimensions) they're both quite cuddly and sweet. Diablo is a slut for praise and Velvoid will actually give it to him, and pet his hair while they do so and that sort of thing and he's just BEAMING he is the happiest puppy murder demon you've ever seen.

Also moments like Velvoid actually truly remarking that he's grown stronger, and truly expressing joy at him finding something that excites him and following that fully, and listening to him go off constantly (Rimuru is always shutting him up fdkjas). And Diablo more quietly and privately praising Velvoid and coaxing them into sharing their own stories and bringing them gifts from Tempest or wherever. Just. They show affection by bickering loudly and violently in public (Diabo is fully a masochist and a sadist) but also are sweet and cute in private (and sometimes a little in public).

I feel like there was more but all thoughts have fled my brain as I got soft for him.