#horrible (wondrous)

[sparemintss]

man everytime i wanna watch ghosts on cbc gem im reminded the thumbnail for redding weddy is this-

YOU COULDA PICKED AAAAANYTHING ELSE FOR THE THUMBNAIL BUT YOU CHOSE THEM such cHOICES

[arctixout]

horrible finnish jo memes part 3

[dr3amfyr-e]

jacaerys velaryon x fem!knight!reader drabble based on this ask <3 ( w. 735 )

꒰ dame is the historical title for a female knight, though i don't think its ever used in asoiaf ꒱

check out my event ! ִֶཐི༏��ྀ󠀮

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

"your grace-"

"i am your prince, and i command it," jacaerys replies, a cocksure grin tugging at his mouth.

you gaze upon the prince, shifting in your stiff metal armour. these suits are not made to fit ladies — the breastplate presses uncomfortably on your chest, and the sharp steel edge of the bodice digs painfully into your hips where it rests too low. queen rhaenyra had made efforts to have a suit forged to your measurements, but this was the placeholder.

"you... already have guards, your grace — two that wait outside of your room at all times. i mean no offense, but would it not be pointless to have a guard inside as well?" you ask, anxiously rolling the hilt of your sword in your palm.

its late into the evening, sun setting upon the rocky facade of dragonstone and bathing everything in a reddish-golden light. he draws a finger across the table where he sits, looking up at you. jacaerys comports himself with a regal air, all smooth black attire and calculating eyes. those very eyes, dark and deep, assessing you in this moment.

he stops his absentminded little circles, straightening up in his seat. he sighs, clasping his hands in his lap and casting his gaze upon them, "it is only... my mother, the queen, was attacked in her chambers only a fortnight ago. there is unrest in the castle, moreso since. i feel-" he looks up at you, mouth in a soft pout and eyes glassy, "unsafe."

he's intelligent, and strategizing, and very endearing in his little manipulative streak. he knew just how to bend you, he had seen you crumple at the fall of his tears before.

"if-" fuck, "you... you must speak to your mother about this, my prince."

he graces you with this horrible, mock-hopeful expression, "you would not object?"

"not if this is what you wish. i am sworn to house targaryen, and you... are my prince."

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

"this suits you."

as a guard, you are limited in your permission to move. you stand, back to the door and one hand on your sword at all times — you do spare the prince a glance when he speaks.

"pardon, your grace?"

his hair is damp from his bath, curls slicked back with water. he's clad in naught but a thin tunic and linen breeches, a scarlet robe draped over his lithe frame. he gestures fluidly at your body when he replies, "the armour. the smith did a wondrous job in tailoring it to fit."

his gaze is far from subtle — eyes starting at the curve of your throat, lingering briefly at your shoulders and arms and waist, before landing where your thick woolen skirt meets your boots.

you swallow thickly, "thank you, my prince."

his eyes dart back up, smile deceptively sweet, "the hour grows late," a few calculated steps forwards, "i fear words for my gratitude escape me-" that sweet, warm smile, "but i am glad that you are here-" his hand, searingly warm, lands upon the part of your bicep exposed by your pauldron.

before you can reply, he squeezes gently. and then he's gone — that spot on your arm warm still, even through the long sleeves of your tunic. he has departed for his bed across the room, no glance spared behind him, single-minded attention focused on his destination.

you stand still at your post, eyes flitting around the room as he prepares to sleep. it is obviously a show, carefully designed for your eyes -

the way he sits on the bed facing you, rolling his shoulders and then neck; how he stands, body unfolding with measured grace; his hand carding through his hair, damp curls spilling around his face once disrupted. he doesn't look at you, as if this drama and allure is part of his nightly routine. his robe comes off slowly, one arm and then the other before it cascades down his back like water.

"i prefer to sleep in fewer clothes," he says, looking back over his shoulder, the cruelest little smile deepening his dimples, "if that does not offend, dame."

you're in no position to say no, to deny him any request. so you shake your head, "it does not offend, your grace."

his shirt comes next, arms and shoulders moving in a way intended to show the lean muscles from a lifetime of sword training.

a long night ahead, no doubt.

[darlinglittlelemon]

Imaginary friend 

Warnings | Scratching, possessiveness, kidnaping, insulting, light NSFW themes.

You had seen him everywhere. All day, every day.

Ever since you moved into that house. That damned house. 

He was a tall, black, lanky shadow, white eyes, and a pearly smile. The impression of a person. 

You were just a kid playing so happily in your room. Rolling a ball round, until one day… it rolled back. You never noticed the shadow until that meeting. He didn’t talk, just gave you that familiar toothy grin. 

It was you and him. You would play together and make drawings. He was always by your side. Unlike other kids, you weren't scared of the monster under your bed or in your closet, no. Because, unlike the other kids, yours loved you.

It wasn't easy though as you grew up. As you made a mind of your own. As you began to shy away from his cold, comforting grin. As you became defiant. 

Well, as defiant as you could be.

When you tried to talk about him, the shadow would pop his head out, putting a finger to where his lips would be. And you were all too keen to oblige. He was such a nice friend to you after all. He always gave you such lovely gifts. Shiny rocks, pretty leaves, dead birds, squirrels, rats. Whatever he knew, you would love! But you did keep getting in trouble with your parents. Counselor after counselor couldn't figure out what was wrong with you. Why you were so paranoid, why seeing any dead animal would cause you to break down, why you couldn't sleep, why you hated being in the house, why you couldn't make any friends. It was adorable.

He knew just how to keep you in line. If you went out too many times, there would be a scratch. If you didn’t spend enough time with him, there would be a scratch. If you made him upset, he would make sure you felt it. 

But unfortunately you had met someone, and they were so… s w e e t. Horribly so, I mean, how couldn't they be? They were taking you away from him. It didn’t matter how many “gifts” he kept giving you. Or how many scratches you found. You just wouldent fucking stay away from them. You were being a disobedient brat. Sure, maybe they could understand you, and "comfort you”. but they don’t know you. They even convinced you that you should move out. Leave him all alone. They don’t love you like he does. They can't. They were just using you. 

But he was never sacred, no no no. He had left more than enough marks on you for anyone to know something had laid claim long before they came around. He just needed to remind you that belonged to him. 

You left such pretty scratch marks on the floorboards as he dragged you up to the attic. Such a wondrous scream. And it’s not like anyone was going to help you. He made sure no one was home. And he just couldn’t get enough of how much you struggled against him. You pressed against the floor trying so hard to kick him off, but your feet would just go. Right. Through. And fuck, it was downright heavenly how you froze when he spoke. He could just have you right here. Right now. And you couldn't do anything to stop his fun.

“Oh, sweetheart~ that's so… cute” he griped your waist harder, his hand slipping ever so slightly under your shirt. Scratching down your back.

“But you need to understand who’s in control"

[thesadisticsiren]

This came to me in a dream last night and it feels very fitting considering.

AU in which Shen Yuan transmigrates into PIDW, post abyss, as a regular unnamed npc. Could be either human or a demon. The important thing is he has minimal cultivation, just enough qi to know he has it. His health has not been blessed by its benefits; he's still blind as a bat without his glasses. And he doesn't have his glasses now. Fuck!

His system was NO fucking help, dropping him off with a cheery Good Luck User! ╰(￣ω￣ｏ) and immediately vanishing, the piece of shit.

So if he wants glasses, he needs money, probably. Glasses in this time are probably expensive, right? so he needs work. But what can he do when he can't see? all he has is his himself, the clothes on his back, and an extensive knowledge of the world he's been dropped into. And the lives of it's major players, to a degree.

(He'd know more if airplane hadn't skimped on the lore for more papapa. He isn't going to pretend he isn't bitter.)

But while contemplating what to do, he's run into by a girl who wasn't looking where she was going. After calming down her apologies with a head-pat and reassurances, he learns her name. And he remembers her! This is one of Bingge's future wives! He remembers that she's upset about her father being ill and not being able to afford the medicine he needs. In PIDW, she ends up marrying Binghe in exchange for his help finding the rare herb needed to cure him.

Shen Yuan remembers where that is too! And this poor dear is so upset, of course he tells her everything he knows about it. He'll even go there with her, it wasn't dangerous, only hard to find. Between his knowledge and her working eyes, they could do this!

She's so grateful for his help, she insist on giving him the money she'd been saving for this very thing. Shen Yuan barely did anything! If anything, he accidentally snatched an easy wife out of Binghe's hands! Oops! But this worked out so well, and theres so many chapters of PIDW that he can remember that it might be worth continuing to help the characters out of their troubles. It's less work for Binghe! He's just being helpful!

SO! He starts working as a seer and prophet, telling important figures that come to see him about the futures he foresees for them based on context clues and what he can remember from the book. For those he can't remember, he still remembers so much world building from the book that he offers advice without revealing what he did or didn't see. His approval rates rise rapidly with the accurate predictions and useful information.

The money he's offered for his service is more than enough to afford glasses, fortunately, but at this point people are expecting a blind prophet. So he saves his new wondrous glasses for reading horrible novels instead. he starts wearing a veil when he works, to keep his identity mysterious too. People like that kind of thing from their prophets, he thinks.

People just like to talk about how bewitching the seer is, with their gorgeous eyes. They're blunt but kind about the things they see, for the most part. Sometimes they'll smack you gently with the stick they use to see the floor when they walk, and several demons be having fantasties about it.

At first, he's merely working out of an old abandoned shack, but before long, he's got a small staff and a much nicer house. People, demons and humans alike, travel from all over the combined realms to hear from him. Both are welcome, he insists.

So you KNOW Bingge is gonna hear about this rising star of a seer who can read the future like a novel that's still being written before his eyes, and knows so much about the world that he could not feasibly have ever experienced. He's GOTTA check this guy out.

Maybe he can even help Bingge find that other Kind Shizun he'd been keeping an eye out for.

[anthurak]

Okay so by far the most fun part of imagining ‘Fallen Angel Emily’ is picturing Emily having so much fun enjoying all the ‘naughty’ stuff she’s spent her whole life being told was bad. All while remaining the super sweet, wholesome cinnamon roll she’s always been.

Like this is basically ‘sheltered Disney princess discovers all the wondrous things she’s been missing with wide-eyed wholesome joy’, with said things being swearing, partying, booze, drugs, sex, etc.

Put another way, imagine Emily being set up as seemingly the biggest case of ‘Christian Morality PSA about a young innocent girl about to have her life ruined by drinking/drugs/sex/rock-and-roll/gender’… and then nothing actually bad happens to Emily, aside from perhaps a comedic hangover the morning after.

I mean just picture Emily on her first night out partying with the hotel crew (specifically with Angel and Cherri) which gets VERY crazy, culminating with Emily having a wild, kinky threesome with Charlie and Vaggie. Followed by Emily spending the next morning puking into a toilet with a quite bemused Angel Dust holding her hair back.

Emily: -listing just how horrible she feels after last night in between puking her guts out-

Angel: Uh-huh. Still worth it?

Emily: -with as big a grin as she can muster- Abso-fucking-lutely –continues to puke-

To summarize; Fallen Angel Emily is basically what if the ‘Hard Drinking Party Girl’ trope was ALSO the sweetest, most adorable little cinnamon roll.

(Also the best part about all this is realizing that this could totally thematically parallel Eve getting together with Lilith and Lucifer XD)

[lieslab]

Teacher's pet

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Chan X gn reader

Summary: Chan finds you late at night struggling with the realization that your high school teacher groomed you.

Genre: Angst with comfort/hurt

Word Count: 3.9K

Resources for grooming, sexual violence, and assault

Trigger warning: Grooming, pedophilia, abuse of power via manipulation, mentions of sex, rape, and sexual assault.

A/N: To the requester for this one, I tried my best while writing this. I did quite a bit of research with this topic. This is incredibly heavy stuff. I'm sorry that this happened to you and to the rest of you, if you've ever gone through something similar, I'm so sorry. Grooming is horrible and I wish it was one of the many things that didn't exist in the world. I hope this can provide, even if it's just a sliver, some sort of comfort <3

_ _ _

When Chan came home from work, you were missing. The two of you had shared an apartment for quite a while. You both went half and half for everything. Living with a roommate made everything cheaper. 

“Where are you?” Chan called out. He let his knuckles fall against your bedroom door, but there wasn’t a response. Holding his breath, he turned the knob and pushed the door open to reveal nothing. 

Your bed was messy and unmade. Your favorite color of bedding was twisted and one of your pillows was nearly tipping onto the floor. A half-smile came over Chan’s face as he picked it up and placed it back in its proper spot. 

It seemed like you were missing, until he realized your bedroom window was unlocked. So you must have climbed out onto the roof. This late at night, it was a treacherous and dangerous task, but you still managed. 

You managed to find the footholes in the darkness. In your worn sneakers, you scaled up the two story building and sat up on the fired clay. It wasn’t the best idea, but the roof was where you could breathe. 

You and Chan came out here at night all the time. When life became too heavy and you needed fresh air, this was where you went. He came out here to come up with new lyrics and song ideas. 

It wasn’t often that the two of you crossed paths on the roof. When you did, the two of you sat in your respective spots. Chan sat on the left and you sat on the right. Your legs dangled over the edge and the moon hung high up in the sky. 

Dotted with freckled constellations and the occasional shooting star, you were at ease up here. The air smelled faintly sweet and floral from the cherry blossom trees. In your opinion, they smelled better up here.

The busy traffic of Seoul slowed to a crawl late at night. Most of the time, there’d barely be anyone out here. When they drove by, the faint hum of the accelerator and the occasional huff of gasoline or diesel drifted by. 

This time of night, it was wondrous. The grass was starting to grow again and this was the first time you had been up here since winter. The iciness and chill made the roof tiles too slick to climb. 

On the roof, you let your legs dangle down and your ankles hung off the edge. Chan pried his fingers beneath your window panel and pushed it up. He stuck his head out and reached up.

You stayed still at the sound of stirring from below. Chan climbed up the side of the building and onto his side of the roof. With a groan, he dropped his body onto the cracking tile. 

Your eyes briefly darted towards him before they went back and refound the distance across the way. He must have just got back from the studio. He was still in a pair of black basketball shorts and a matching zip-up hoodie. 

His calves were illuminated by the white moonlight. He rubbed them a few moments and curled his legs up while mimicking your own posture. 

Your legs were tucked to your chest and your arms wrapped around them. The natural line of your mouth drooped down a little more tonight. There was a glassiness to your eyes, as if you were holding back tears. 

When Chan realized it, he frowned, but he didn’t want to pry. “Rough night?” He offered weakly. 

All you could do was nod without a word. Sometimes reality was like a shard of glass. Swallowing it left your throat hoarse and mangled. It shredded the slippery sides of your esophagus and tore all the way down. The ache and burn left behind was embedded in your brain and it’d always linger like a shadow. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Chan offered. 

You shook your head and kept your gaze to the distance. If you looked at him, you’d break down and you didn’t want to do that. You wanted to forget about this dark period in your life. You wanted to toss out the memories and let them drift away in the wind; never able to hurt you ever again, but memories are not like dust, they’re much more like syrup. 

You can scrub and scrape, but there will always be sticky parts left behind and between the intricate folds of your brain. You can dig and claw, but some memories will be there until the end of time; small annoying bits that are just out of reach. 

“Hmm, okay.” Chan slung a hand over his opposite wrist. The two of you sat for a few moments until a dimpled grin stretched across his face. “What if I offered you your favorite popsicle?” 

You glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. He let out a small giggle and reached into the pocket of his hoodie. When he pulled it out, he was gripping the familiar packaging of your favorite popsicle flavor.

That must have been the reason why he came up here to begin with. Sometimes the two of you would get things for one another. He must have been unable to wait for you to come down, so he went up. 

“Thank you,” you managed to mumble as you gently pulled it from his hand. 

“You can thank me by telling me what’s got you so glum.” He pulled out another popsicle from his other pocket and began to unpeel it. “You know me, I won’t judge you.” He flashed you a reassuring smile before he tore open the wrapper. 

“I know.” 

“Then what is it?” He couldn’t help himself. He was so curious and he was dying to know. It was an itch that couldn't be scratched enough. “What’s on your mind? Hmm?” He shifted closer to you and took a bite of his frozen treat. 

Your lips pressed together and you debated on telling him. The topic was one you had never told him about and it would be a tough conversation for the two of you to have. You sucked in a deep breath before you released it. 

“It’s um…it’s quite a conversation. It’s a lot and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Chan laughed, “how bad could it really be?” 

“I loved him,” you mumbled. Your eyes stayed on your treat while you slowly began to unwrap it. 

“Who?” 

“My teacher.” 

It was slightly melted from where it pressed against the warmth of Chan’s skin. You remembered how warm skin could be. After all, you felt the contact of another human far more than you wanted to when you were younger. 

Chan snorted and rolled his eyes. “I loved some of my teachers too. My favorite one was my second grade teacher. What’s the big deal?” 

“No,” you shook your head, “I loved him.” 

“Like…crushing?” 

You sucked in a deep breath and shut your eyes. “It was more than that. It was so much more and there’s a whole story involved. It’s a messy situation that still has me pretty screwed up. I wish he didn’t control me anymore, but…” 

You bit your lip trying not to cry. Ever since you found out that the high school teacher, who had groomed you, had gotten married, it was killing you. That was supposed to be you. You were supposed to be the one who married him. He talked about it all the time. 

Chan pulled his half-consumed popsicle away from his mouth. With furrowed eyebrows, he took in the distress on your face. His lips puckered together before he went on. “Did something happen?” 

“I fell in love with him.” 

“Your teacher?” 

“And you know what the worst part is?” Glossy tears began to fill your eyes. “I really believed he loved me back.” 

Chan stayed silent and attempted to put all the pieces together. The things you were saying weren’t adding up. There was no way you had a thing with your teacher as a kid. No fucking way. He would have known and you would have told him. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to speak. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.” 

“It started at the beginning of high school. I had the most amazing math teacher. He was young and he was charming. He couldn’t have been much older than his late twenties. He looked like he walked straight out of Hollywood.” 

“The very first assignment he assigned was a get to know me project. He knew I lived with my mom because I mentioned that my dad had been killed in a car accident. I was a kid and that grief was still so new. I was grieving and so was my mom.” 

Chan nodded and let you continue. 

“And then not too long after that, he’d start asking me to stay after class, so he could help me with a few lessons. It was fine in the beginning, I was just a student who needed some extra help, but it escalated.” 

The popsicle was beginning to melt down your hand, but you didn’t care. It oozed across your thumb and caressed your wrist. If you paid too close attention, you could still feel his warm callouses brush against your soft skin. 

“And that’s when the touching began.” 

“The touching?” 

“It was innocent, I swear. He’d come up behind me and began to rub my shoulders while I worked on problems. He’d bend down and whisper his advice into my ear.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. Involuntarily, your body was reliving everything. Goosebumps slipped down your arms and a chill swept across your spine. 

“Despite how weird it was, I didn’t mind it. Things continued and he made me feel wanted. Over time, he started to get permission from my mom to bring me home. He used to ask about my dad. Apparently, he lost his own dad when he was a kid, so he knew how it felt.” 

Chan felt nothing, but disgust. He wanted to plug his ears and he wanted you to stop. How old were you during that time? Thirteen? Maybe fourteen at the latest? You were just a kid. 

“I missed my dad so much and he was so kind. I loved the extra attention. During class, he’d brush an arm against me and mutter an apology. He’d let his hand drag across my desk a little longer than normal as he collected my paper with a smile.” 

“I-I don’t know. I just really liked how he made me feel and I know-” Your voice cut off. The lump in your throat sat there like a boulder. “I know it wasn’t right, but at the time, I adored everything about it.” 

You wiped an arm across your eyes and kept your fingers wrapped around the popsicle stick with the other hand. Your fingers had gone white around the wooden stick. Reliving all of it was like a knife in the chest. 

“There was one day where I was in his car. He started to attend all my sporting events to cheer me on. My mom was sick, so she asked if he could drive me there. I-I know how awful it is, but he asked me if I ever had intercourse.” 

Chan’s voice stuck in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He wished he could wake up from this nightmare. How could he not know about this? How long had you been burying this pain inside? 

“And then when I said no-” 

His heart dropped. 

“He said he could show me, so I knew what to do.” 

And then it shattered. His own tears began to creep up in his eyes. You were just a kid, at that age, you were practically a goddamn baby. How dare someone in such a privileged position hurt you like that. 

He was a teacher and you were his student. There was a position of power over you. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and it was morally fucked. 

He wanted to throw up. The sweet burst of cold popsicle faded from his tongue. Now the artificial sweetness wanted to make him vomit. He wanted to bend over and throw up. 

After a few moments, despite it all, he finally got out the words he was afraid to ask. “Did he…you know?” 

When you didn’t respond, he already knew. It crushed his heart. His lungs were on fire and they had burst. An indescribable bright blue rage had ignited. It burned hot enough that it could melt towns and murder platoons of fully armed men. 

“Your teacher raped you,” he whispered. 

“It wasn’t like that, I said yes and I-” 

“You were a child!” His voice flew out stern. “You were a child and he was a teacher! He should have never put his filthy hands on you! That goddamn bastard, I’ll fucking kill him!” The tears in your eyes slid down your cheeks faster. “How long did this go on for?” 

“Years,” you weakly got out. “It stopped a few months after I graduated. He said that he needed space. He said it wasn’t working out. He said I-I wasn’t good enough anymore. He said so many things.” 

Chan silently did math in his head. He remembered that when he met you, you had graduated nearly a year prior. The two of you were around the same age at the time, but that was years ago. It must have been shortly after the fact. 

“And where is he now?” 

“Still teaching.” 

“I- Huh? What?” 

“He’s still at the same school and teaching the same grade. He just recently got married to a girl that graduated a few months ago.” 

Chan closed his eyes and tried to focus on calming his raging blood pressure. It wouldn’t help either of you, but he was furious. He probably did the same thing to that girl that he did to you. He probably groomed her too and it made him want to scream and throw something. He wasn’t okay with people taking advantage of others and, specifically, more younger people. 

You sniffled and stared out at the distant neon lights. A silence grew between the two of you and you knew you hurt Chan’s feelings. You didn’t mean to, but you needed to get it all out. 

“How do you feel about it now?” 

You paused for a moment thinking about his words. “I feel so ugly. I feel like I was used and then tossed to the side. I know it sounds bad, but I wish I still had his validation. I still crave it even though it’s been years.” 

“I’m really sorry you went through that. It’s a tough situation and you were a kid. You don’t have to beat yourself up over it. You didn’t know and I-” 

“But I did know. I knew what was going on and I wanted it to happen. I liked him and it made me feel good. It made me feel loved, so he didn’t groom me and it’s my fau-” 

“Don’t make excuses for him!” Chan’s voice went shrill. “He was a grown man and you were a child! You were a baby! You were just growing into becoming your own person and starting high school!” 

“Don’t you dare give him another excuse. He knew what he was doing and he knew it was wrong. He should have had the intelligence to stay away from you and never pursue you like that. He’s sick!” 

“Y-You don’t get it.” 

“You’re the one who doesn’t get it. You’re letting this man get away with this disgusting behavior. What about that girl, huh? What about that girl he married? If another teacher was sleeping with a fourteen year old, would that be okay?” 

“No! No! Of course not, but things were dif-” 

“You were groomed,” Chan cut you off. Tears streamed down his face. The popsicle was long gone from his hand. Instead, it melted into a puddle on the warm roof tile. “You are a victim in this whole scenario.” 

“But I-” 

“You are. You are a victim and I will not stop saying it because it’s clear you’ve been brainwashed. You were a child and you didn’t know any better. You were put in an adult scenario when you were a child. You were taken advantage of by a pedophile. Do you hear me?” 

Angry tears of frustration poured down his cheeks. He hated that you were blaming yourself for this situation. He hated that you couldn’t see the situation like he could. The grooming had worked on you. So blinded, the truth was skewered in your eyes. 

“I will never shut up about it. You were sexually assaulted and raped by a pedophile. You were a child and I don’t care how nice he was. I don’t care if he bribed you with compliments and the affection your life lacked.” 

“If you had a fourteen year old kid now, what would you think? If this same thing happened to them? If they came home and announced they had sex with their high school teac-” 

“Stop!” You cried as you squeezed your eyes shut. “That’s different! It’s entirely different! Stop it! Stop it!” 

“Then tell me what the difference is.” 

“The difference was that it was me! I was mature for my age and I-” Your eyes reopened to look at Chan. 

The way he was looking at you now, it was killing you. The glassy eyes and the furrowed eyebrows. There was anger looming in that russet brown. The moonlight reflected off them and bounced it back towards you. 

You couldn’t help it as your exterior began to crack. Like an egg, pieces of shell were ripped away. Your bottom lip trembled and you struggled to get out the next few words. 

“T-The difference is that I just wanted to be loved by a father figure. I-I missed my dad so much and I-” You didn’t get a chance to finish because you burst into sobs. 

It was overwhelming as you cried. The stickiness still stuck to your hand. The liquified popsicle drizzled down the clay tiles and dripped off the roof. This hurt buried inside was killing you. You remembered all of it. 

You remembered how uncomfortable you were when his chapped lips met yours. You remembered the way his fingers tightened against your hips. Puberty was still relatively new to you and you were trying to grow more into your developing body. 

Your limbs were a little longer. There was more weight in places there hadn’t been before. It was only the start of freshman year. You were new to high school and things were much different. 

You remembered how much it hurt the first time. How you were left to fend for yourself in a puddle of your own warm blood. A little fearful, you remembered the growing disgust you felt deep inside yourself, but you thought it was normal. 

You couldn’t get your innocence back. Society was cruel when it came to such a thing. You weren’t pure anymore, you were infected and diseased. You were as filthy as the rest of them. A fallen angel who had lost their wings. 

If your mother ever would have known, she would have lost it. You always grew up being told sexual intimacy was something that happened a lot later in life, but you were so mature for your age. At least, that’s what your teacher said. 

He liked the way your body looked. You were young, you were fresh, you were nothing, but a docile little lamb. With your sparkling doe-eyes, you were nothing, but a toy for him. 

Your skin was unmarked by anyone before him. You were so young and naive. You were malleable and pliable; perfect for a hungry wolf like himself. The young lambs always have the cleanest and purest blood; they always taste the sweetest. 

You wanted love, he wanted pleasure. You wanted affection, he craved attention. You wanted a father, he wanted your freshly ripened body; straight from the vine, you were plucked for him and him alone. 

What a perfect and sweet peach that you were. So ripe, so delectable, not a bruise detected on your delicate flesh. And your juice, how irresistible you were. 

Plucked from the vine, yanked from the others, and taken a bite out of. When you were old enough, you were tossed to the ground. It was there where you rotted with the other withering peaches.

You fermented a soft sweetness for the flies until you withered brown and green. You withered away in the scorching sun. Your once soft skin writhed and squirmed until you decomposed into the dirt to be walked over again and again and again. 

You had never felt quite right since then. You searched for love in the wrong places. You fell to your knees and begged for an ounce of love. Nobody could fill you and supply you with enough love as your teacher had. 

He told you just enough to keep you happy. After a while of teaching a dog a new trick, you don’t have to teach them anymore. You grew to learn what he liked and disliked. It was a toxic tornado filled with an improper power dynamic. 

He didn’t care about the sticky hands and half-melted popsicles anymore. Chan gently grabbed your forearm and pulled your body towards him. Your shoes scraped along the cracked tile. 

Beneath the moonlight, you fell apart as Chan’s hands wrapped around you. Unlike your teacher, his hands didn’t roam your body. They didn’t search for sexual pleasure. He didn’t use your body for his advantage. His arms wrapped around your back and they stayed there. 

He soothed you softly and rocked you back and forth trying to comfort you. He had no doubt that you were exhausted. This was a lot to share with anyone and that included him. He continued to rock you and placed his chin on the top of your head. 

He’d sway all night if he had to. He’d sing you a soft lullaby and lure you to sleep. He’d keep away anyone who dared to lay a rotten finger on you. 

In a few hours, the moon would be replaced with sunlight. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Your sobs began to turn into quick hiccups. He kept his arms around you and quietly cooed. 

He needed to find you someone to talk to. Your perception of everything was still warped. The past still had its claws on you. You were still under the illusion your teacher had created. You were a victim, but he was determined to help you become a survivor. 

You were so strong. You had hid this from him for years. As your hiccups began to fade away, he gently placed his lips on the top of your head in an attempt to comfort you. 

No matter what happened tomorrow, he’d remind you how much he loved you over and over again. He’d continue to show you what real love was. Again and again, he’d show you until one day, you realized what healthy love truly looked like.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

[monstersdownthepath]

I applaud the writers at Paizo for what they've done for Shivaska as of Starfinder. Here I was, the fool, poo-pooing the Demon Lord for using child slaves in her horrible clockwork castle out of a sheer, petty need to be EEEeeevil... I was blind to what she was truly doing, what she was truly embodying! I didn't spot the thread, not until the Starfinder writers had taken it and crafted a wondrous tapestry from what began as an obscure Demon Lord.

Shivaska isn't JUST the boogeyman, stealing away children to work in her factory. This is her first step taken towards what her true passion is: Unethical workplace practices. In Pathfinder, she's not entirely in tune with what she could be, what her true potential is, but as of Starfinder, she's fallen fully into her niche (the book even says it took her a while to realize what she could be doing with her power and her time). It began with dangerous child labor, and it (currently) ends with multi-level marketing scams, illegal animal testing, invasive ads, and even cryptocurrency schemes, all wrapped up in 12 hour workdays, company script, and union busting... filtered through the lens of a power-hungry Demon Lord, so all of her corporate malfeasance is even worse and more exploitative than anything we have here, to the degree it becomes almost darkly comedic.

She's literally using mortal souls to power her crypto mining rigs, for god's sake!

I'm impressed and a little giddy at what the writers have done. In just a few books, Shivaska has gone from total obscurity to potentially being the most powerful Demon Lord in the Starfinder setting, at least for the moment! I'm probably also buzzing from how delightful Mechageddon! actually turned out to be. After the... lukewarm ending of Tyrant's Grasp, I'm happy that at least the Starfinder Enjoyers know the grand finale for 1st edition is actually grand!

[slowd1ving]

Hello, I could request a Jaegyeon Na x Male!reader who is androgynous and brother of James lee please

NO STRINGS ATTACHED ・゜゜JAEGYEON NA

"I got so much to lose, so please don't ruin my mood." Unfortunately, taking your brother's motorcycle for a spin does mean you now have idiots and prospective debt collectors looking to make the man pay for whatever havoc he's wreaked, including pretty boy Jaegyeon Na, who perhaps is not the smartest when it comes to tailing someone. yo this is actually the first request I got on here so thanks nonnie :3 I hope whoever requested it actually likes this scenario (I only remember bits and pieces of the scenes he's in so it might be a bit OOC) also sorry anon if you wanted it in drabble/headcanon form honestly idk how I wrote it this quickly but same day delivery is crazy... it must've been the urge to wife this guy pairing: jaegyeon na x male reader warnings: some violence? male reader, lowkey crack since I can't take this man seriously, he's got a nice face though, do misunderstandings need a warning wc: 2.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

On all accounts, it should be a good day. Wind tousles your clothes as you speed the forgotten roads on your younger brother’s motorbike, while the sun’s never beat down brighter. To some, the arid weather cloys and sticks uncomfortably to their skin—but for you, this day is nothing more than bountiful beach weather. Even the last lollipop you stole from the stash in his kitchen seems more saccharine than usual; evidently, your mood isn’t the only thing that’s sweet on this wondrous day. 

Or at least, it should be a good day—but it’s not, because some idiot’s been following you through Incheon in the ugliest car you’ve ever seen. It’s hideous: so much so that you’re troubled more by its primary-colour chromaticity than the fact that it’s been cruising past you as you wind your way through the quiet of Nambuk-dong. Seriously, which child lost their toy car because of this nitwit?

The cherry flavour grows distinctly more acerbic in your mouth as you make several turns experimentally—and yep, he’s still following you. 

Question is, why?

Well, Jaegyeon Na’s seething behind the wheel as though the answer is horribly obvious. It’s only been a week since Mr. James Lee himself wrecked his new ride, a week since he was forced to take a taxi back to Incheon, and a week since he sobbed his pitiful heart out in his garage. 

Mr. James Lee did not, in fact, pay for wrecking his car. 

And Mr. James Lee probably never would, not unless the King of Incheon wanted to lose his hands to that monster. Perhaps his tongue, as well, for daring to ask for what he was owed in that freak’s presence. 

No, he festers with barely-bridled fury. He’s not a wimp—which is precisely why he’s tailing after the sleek bike. It’s not often his informants actually have useful scraps to report to him. It’s also not often (read: never) that the freak’s licence plate is spotted in his home turf. 

Naturally, Jaegyeon does the obvious: following the mysterious rider as he weaves through the streets like he actually knows this place. It strikes him as strange that James Lee knows where he’s going, but it seems the blond dye has seeped into his brain. Just a little, because common sense doesn’t seem so common for him anymore. For a moment, it seems like he’s making his way to the Incheon Airport, but then the route diverges onto the highway and he’s even more puzzled.

Where the hell is this bastard going?

What seems to be hours later (because he has been tailing you for about three hours) the motorcycle finally comes to a screeching halt. 

Where? 

At Wangsan Beach, because of course Mr. James fucking Lee came to sightsee after causing him immeasurable grief. In his own turf, too. He scrambles out of his car, fuming, as the man parks neatly on an isolated road just a minute or so away from the sand. 

“You’re pretty angry for someone stalking me.” The voice resounding from the helmet sounds muffled and disembodied, which is perhaps why it doesn’t carry the same mocking cadence James Lee’s does. Or perhaps, it’s not James fucking Lee behind the helmet. 

“Stalking you?” he sputters. His face is all twisted with rage, which is quite a shame since he’s so pretty. Like some foul-mouthed, wretched fairy, anyway. “You wrecked my car!”

“I did?” The confusion in the voice is so salient that Jaegyeon almost believes it. Almost, because everyone and anyone knows what a slippery, lying turd James Lee is. 

“Yes, you fucking did,” he hisses. He nearly stamps his foot, but he settles for petulantly jabbing at your chest instead. Once more, there’s a slight discrepancy—this time in your build, for he could’ve sworn James Lee was the same height as him. But the helmet looks down upon him, and he’s blind with rage at how condescending James Lee is. 

Maybe it’s your visor that’s clouding your own vision. You wipe the plastic with your sleeve obnoxiously—then peer at the car stalling only a couple of metres away. It looks… fine. Fine, if not egregiously, offensively repulsive. 

“I would’ve remembered such an ugly fucking car if I’d wrecked it,” you grimace. I wouldn’t touch that thing with a ten-foot pole. “I think I would’ve been awarded a medal of honour for it too. Real brave to approach that.” 

“You conniving, duplicitous bastard,” he grits his teeth, and he swears he can hear a molar crack in his pretty mouth. That’s it. “It wasn’t this car, but another one!”

And I didn’t touch it! But whoever did, did the world a service, you want to say—but the cretin looks catatonic with rage. Any further, and you think his poor face might spontaneously explode. 

“You are a scammer,” you conclude, but perhaps that, too, was the wrong thing to say. 

“How shameless can you get, you jackass?” he yells, practically trembling with his fury. Like those little blond dogs you see yapping, you fear he might lunge at you any minute now. “You know you trashed it! You laughed about it while you did so!"

“You’ve got the wrong guy!” you yell back. 

 “I’ll kill you today, James Lee.” 

Woah—your eyes widen at both his words and how his body spins into motion. He’s fast; practically phasing out of sight like a spectre as his hands reach for the lapels of your leathers to grapple them. But unfortunately for him, he did announce his vengeance before he committed to the deed. 

Thus, he, too, built his villainous end—cliché by cliché. 

Well, it’s not really the end. That little warning gave you ample time to twist out of the way—using his momentum to spin his own body and pin him to the ground with freakish strength. 

It also gave your eye ample time to twitch as the words hit home. Of course this was that snot-nosed brat’s fault—you almost felt bad for the blond beneath your heavy boot. 

But then you look at the car again. It’s still hideous. 

And just like that, you fully support that brat’s wrongs. 

“Um.” With that, you step off his designer shirt, awkwardly brushing the footprint left behind. “I’m not James Lee.”

This exchange took such a short time—three seconds, in fact—that these words don’t register until the grappler has already locked himself around your legs and pushes you flat into the dusty street. Your helmet hits the asphalt with a sharp crack, and you wince as you almost bite your tongue instead of the lollipop stick. Actually, it was a wonder you hadn’t already bit your tongue. 

But you digress.

This leaves you in a particularly awkward position. He’s wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, and as your words finally hit, he’s letting go in surprise—while you’re finally shucking off the helmet. 

Sure, the candy in your mouth is the same, but he’s currently sitting between the legs of someone who decidedly is not James Lee. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he blurts out, but his tongue feels especially dry as he stares up at your face. 

“That’s what I’d like to ask of you,” you fume, and though your expression simmers red-hot with irritation, your tone is cold now that it’s not muffled by your helmet. He can feel his cheeks prickle under your glare. “Get off me, you dumbass.”

God, he’s never felt like such a fool—sheepishly, he scrambles off you, while you mutter something that sounds suspiciously like ‘look at this fucking idiot who doesn’t fucking check to see who the fuck he’s tailing this is how movie serial killers find their prey because fucking hell what a witless worm.’

“Uh,” he starts, and can’t bring himself to finish. He’s never felt so intimidated: practically cowering before you as you corner him against the wall you slammed him against earlier. Even with the syrupy scent of cherries from the candy in your mouth, there’s nothing about the man before him that’s friendly. Not even his pretty face—those eyes are only glaring daggers at him. 

Of course, part of the intimidation is due to his anger dissipating instantly at his mistake. And the exhaustion of tailing the wrong person for upwards of three hours. And the embarrassment that, naturally, comes with tailing the wrong person in the first place. 

“Do I look like someone who cleans up after whatever my younger brother gets himself into?” The question practically trembles with rage, punctuated by a harsh crack as you bite into the sweet. He knows better than to ask who the younger brother is; it’s not like his brain is that damaged from the bleach. 

He swallows, then tentatively answers. “No?”

“That’s right,” you take a deep breath, as though you’re calming yourself back down—but he’s entranced by the way your hands massage your temples, soothing the tension headache he’s no doubt brought on. “That’s right.”

You don’t look like your younger brother, and he’s staring at the man in front of him, slightly enraptured. 

“If my younger brother wrecked your ugly ass car, what does that have to do with me?” you seethe, and the illusion is shattered. 

“It is not ugly,” he argues back for the first time, chasing after you as you dust your helmet off and head towards the beach. It’s why you came here in the first place—though, you groan mentally when you see that the sun’s about to dip cautiously past the horizon. Of course, the irritation couldn’t possibly be because of the idiot floundering after you. 

“Don’t care what you think.” You bin the candy stick, much like you bin his opinion. “Your thoughts are rubbish.”

“Sorry, man—” and he’s still trailing you, just like some puppy now that all his bark’s gone. “—I really thought it was him.”

Irritably, you halt on the spot, and his nose collides right into your back. It’s almost comical how quickly you grab his stupid collar—how wide-eyed the arrogant blond gets, how flushed he becomes. 

“I don’t care about your grudge with my brother.” You’re just about nose-to-nose with him, and his brain short-circuits. If it hasn’t already. God knows he doesn’t have the most brain power. “Quit following me, you moronic stalker.”

“Can’t I make it up to you?” he wheedles, trying to prolong your proximity for as long as possible. 

“Yes,” you deadpan. “By learning from your mistakes and not stalking me.”

“Can I at least get your name?” he takes hold on the wrist currently wrangling him for dear life. “Since you’re so close and personal right now.”

“No,” you sneer, letting go in disgust. “Fucking pervert.”

This day was not a good day. 

゜・

When you next see your brother, you hand his keys to him and vow to buy your own bike. James stares hard at you—the harrowed gaze you sport, the mild twitch in your eye, and finally, the noticeable dent in your helmet. 

“What the fuck happened?” he utters finally, staving off any traces of laughter. Alas, judging by the look you shoot him, it seems he is not destined to be an actor. 

Your jaw clenches. 

“Fuck Incheon, man,” you mutter, dragging a scraped hand across your weary face. He does the maths. Incheon. Blond. Narcissistic king. 

“James,” you intone. Seriously, this time, and all his predictions of what you’re about to say next shatter to dust. “Next time you see that stupid pretty-boy bastard, destroy whatever car he’s in.”

His brows raise, not just because he wants to grin, but also from a certain adjective nestled between the pejoratives. 

“Stupid fucking prick with no brain, no shame and no future,” you seethe. Well, maybe he just imagined it, then. 

゜・

Meanwhile, a certain blond leans against the hood of his car, absent-mindedly tracing patterns on the metal while he waits for his call to finally go through. True to his word, he did let you go—driving back morosely to his apartment while you continued down to the beach for the last shreds of the day.

But for some reason, his mind can’t let your face go. It’s out of irritation, he rationalises. That’s why he’s ringing Jichang Kwak for information, because Jaegyeon’s dubbed the King of Chungcheong the most intelligent (after himself, of course). 

Is it because the man wears glasses?

Maybe. 

Regardless of the status of Jichang’s intelligence, he knows his heart’s racing out of anger. His skin’s flushed due to rage. He’s twirling his hair because of the complex coils of revenge.

When he asks the king about James Lee’s brother, there’s a long-suffering silence on the other end of the line that makes him feel slightly foolish. Just very slightly. 

“Do you have a fucking crush or a death wish?”

“Death wish?” he scoffs. “I could take him.”

It’s only then does he remember the former part of the question and his absence of a denial. 

At the same time, Jichang processes the response given and keeps both his silence and his peace. 

“And I don’t have a damn crush,” he adds, but it’s perhaps a heartbeat too late. For the King of Chungcheong, anyway—he doesn’t think the man’s noticed either his earlier double entendre, or how comedic he sounds.

“Uh-huh.” He’s a bit dumbfounded by this turn of events, hanging up almost reflexively. Indubitably, he might’ve replied monotonically, but there’s just something about being in proximity (even just audibly) to that cretin that has him losing his own brain cells. 

For a few more moments, he stares contemplatively at his phone. Then, at last, he prays for the poor soul of James Lee’s brother—for there is something so deeply disturbing about being the recipient of that moron’s affections he can’t help but feel pity. 

゜・

[drarryspecificrecsdaily]

2024.10.30

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. beloved beast by @thisisformyfanfiction [E, 1k]

Harry has finally convinced Draco that he won’t run screaming from their bedroom if he shifts into his wolf form for sex.

2. Fight or Flight by lovletter [G, 3k]

Harry Potter wants to be anywhere but this Halloween party. Draco Malfoy has no idea what minding his business means.

3. i wanna be so real, you can't see the difference by @s0lifuge [M, 5k]

The glamour quickly became a part of Draco’s daily routine. [...]

4. Muggle Pleasures by Ace_Phoenix [E, 3k]

Pansy had once told Draco all about the 'wondrous world' of Muggle sex toys, but Draco hadn't been convinced. That was, until Harry introduced something to their sex life that he called a 'bullet vibrator' that certainly lived up to its name.

5. Not to worry, I have a permit by noarc [T, 1k]

Harry is investigating in a minor case. Lucky for him, Malfoy made the suspect list. /// Lucky for Draco, things take a gay turn.

6. Veil (and Red Hail) by rubygreene [E, 6k]

Harry's undercover mission looks like a waste of time. If one was to evaluate time by the number of criminals he had successfully caught. Deciding to accept Draco Malfoy's advances while fully aware Malfoy had no idea who he was flirting with, definitely wasn't a waste of time. Just very, very stupid.

7. What Fills the Void That’s Left Behind by @tessacrowley [E, 46k] --- ART by @itsphantasmagoria

At the end of October, Draco Malfoy slashes open both wrists and bleeds to death. By the middle of November, Head Auror Harry Potter agrees to take his case. But there are entities more ghastly than the ghosts that haunt the Malfoy Manor, and fates more horrible than death. When the wound is so deep that you lose a part of yourself, what fills the void that’s left behind?

[i-hold-deaths-hand-in-mine]

rio collects a soul; an excerpt from "and those we can't remember"

The room was so dark when Rio opened her eyes hours later to a familiar and unwanted tug. Beside her, Agatha snored, and it brought a small smile to her lips as she leaned over to kiss her temple. 

“I’ll be back,” she whispered. Agatha murmured her acknowledgement, then promptly went back to snoring. 

Rio closed her eyes and gave herself to the shadows, dissolving into them, letting them bring her to where her soul was being called. 

It was a bedroom, quiet and lifeless. 

She was in her Death form, but her face was human, soft and gentle and warm. This, she realized with a cold fist around her heart, was her least favorite form. It was the one that did not belong, halfway between Death and human, and for one purpose only –

When a soul needed gentleness. 

These moments were the ones that haunted her most, made her understand that she was not ever meant for much more than destruction and death. She took, and took, and took, and never left anything behind but a body. 

Just like with Nicky , she tried so hard not to think. 

The boy sat up in his bed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. Rio stood in the doorway, smiling invitingly at him. She reached out a hand, beckoned him forth. 

He yawned. “I don’t want to get out of bed,” he told her. “It’s so warm and comfortable.”

Her heart was already breaking. How many times was it possible for a heart to break and mend and break and mend and break and mend before there was nothing left to put back together?

“I know a place that is warmer,” she told him, “and much more comfortable. I can take you there.” It was so hard for her to speak, even though for the first time that night, all of her words were true, true, true.

This enticed the boy to throw his blanket back and swing his legs over the side of the bed, but then he paused. “Will my mom and dad be there?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. 

He got up and walked across the room to stand just in front of her, his eyes big and wondrous as he looked up at her. “You’re so pretty,” he said. 

She let out a noise that was half a cry and half a laugh. “Thank you,” she managed. 

His eyebrows furrowed as he thought for a moment. “Do you promise that my mom and dad will be there?”

Rio knelt down to look him in the eyes. One hand went to her waist, to touch the blade of her knife, and the other she lifted for the boy to take. “I promise,” she said, and it was true. Any reservations he had dropped away. He reached out, placing his little hand into hers –

And then he was gone, if only in one way; because in the morning, he would still be there, in the other way, in that heartbreaking way his parents had to learn. 

Rio walked over to the side of his bed, gently tucking the blanket around his cold body. Her hand touched his forehead, and then she collapsed to her knees, and she sobbed. She sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. 

But the house remained quiet, silent –

None heard when Death wept.

Still she did, every time she was called upon. Quiet, and alone, like a horrible birthright, an imprint on her very soul she was never meant to escape. She thought back to the last time she spoke to Charonides, the words she had proclaimed: I am Death. 

Death, Death, Death. 

Not a birthright. A curse. This was a curse, perhaps the oldest, the very first.

Because where, in all the world, could Death possibly escape itself? Where could Death have hidden, when none could hide from Death?

(And why did Rio feel like she was being swallowed whole by the overwhelming desire to do either?)

Then, a very small, very quiet, and very pleading voice, way at the back of her mind, whispered urgently her answer: Home . 

Where could Death run to? Where could Death hide?

Well…where can any of us?

Home, of course – whether a person, or a place, or a feeling - we can always run home. 

And so she did.

She buried herself beneath the blankets in their bed, smothered Agatha in a tight hug that briefly woke her only so she could then wrap her own arms around Rio. She inhaled deeply the scent of Agatha’s hair, of their laundry detergent on the pillowcases. 

She nestled herself within the feelings of safety and calm and warmth, within the arms of the woman she loved, within all these things she called home.

This was where Death hid; this is where we hide from Death.

more info | read here | masterlist

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Big James | Carrying Secrets | Romantic

On the road, you are approached by Romans forcing you to carry their things. Follower of Jesus’ teachings or not, your husband worries about your wellbeing.

Requested by Abby

When he wakes from his sleep, Big James stretches out his arm in search of your soft and welcome warmth, but when he rolls onto his side to reach you, he finds your bedroll deserted. Instantly ripped out of his drowsy state, he sits up as he eyes the empty bed, panic swelling in his chest as he sees your sandals still at the entrance of your shared tent, your veil absent. 

You have wrapped it haphazardly around your head to keep your hair out of your face as you sit retching at the edge of camp, leaned against a large boulder for support as last night’s dinner ends up in the grass. A few wild dogs are already looming from a distance, waiting for you to leave again so that they can feast on whatever is left behind. 

You hurl again just as Big James rushes up to you and helps you keep your (h/c) locks out of your face, gently rubbing circles over your back as he keeps you steady. “Hey, now,” he whispers, “Let it all out.” 

Your husband doesn’t have to ask what is going on or if you’re feeling alright. Both of you have known for a few weeks now about the child growing within you, but the group has yet to be told the wondrous news. James and you have been waiting for the right moment to break it, but you aren’t showing yet and you are also perfectly content with keeping it your little secret for a while longer.

As you spit in the grass, Big James holds a waterskin in your direction and you use it to rinse the sour taste from your mouth, a shaky breath leaving your lungs as you slowly begin to calm down. James, not disgusted in the slightest, gives you a worried yet loving look as he gently caresses your cheek. “Feeling better, love?” 

You hum and nod, closing your eyes as you straighten out your back. For a moment, you feel dizzy, and your husband grabs your arm to help you regain your balance. “I’m fine,” you hoarsely say, clearing your throat before once again flushing your mouth with water and spitting out to get rid of the flavour. “Just… A little shaky.” 

“That’s fine. Are you feeling well enough to head back to our tent?” You hum in agreement and James gently holds your waist when you walk back to the comfort you were forced out of upon waking with a horribly tight throat and the urge to throw up. The wild dogs already dare to approach as you retreat. 

James places you into a cross-legged position onto your bedroll as you take a seat, smiling wryly at him as he ties the flap of the tent shut. “My love,” he breathes as he sits next to you, offering you another drink, this time to consume it instead of rinsing your mouth with it, “You have been throwing up more often.” 

“I know,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead for a moment before taking a sip of water. “It’s only a matter of time before someone finds out.” 

Your husband puts a hand on your arm, pulling your hand into his lap. “(Y/n),” he whispers, “I need you to know… That if something occurs that may force me to reveal your condition for either your own safety or to ease others’ worries, I fear that I’ll just… Just blurt it out, you know?” 

You give him a soft look and squeeze his fingers with yours. “I know,” you whisper, “And if that were to happen, it would be fine.” 

“Would it, though? I thought you wanted this to be our secret for a while longer, at least until you are showing, and then we can tell the others during a special occasion.” 

“I still want that,” you tell him, “But sometimes the circumstances require something different from us. We can’t always do things in the way we want.” 

James smiles a bit and gently tucks some hair behind your ear. “Wise words, my darling wife. It’s clear you’ve been travelling with the Messiah.” You blush at the gesture in spite of being married to him for several years now, and smile at him shyly. 

“There’s that pretty look on your face that I adore so much,” James murmurs, leaning forward to peck your lips in spite of your earlier queasiness, “Never fails to give me butterflies after all this time.” 

You hum and fondly smile at him, sighing happily as he puts his hand on your stomach. There isn’t a bump just yet, but both of you know that it will show soon, and then the world will know about the little family you’re starting. James lifts your hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss to the back of it. “Let’s get dressed and go get breakfast,” he states, “I believe we’re travelling today.” 

Knowing that your husband is right about that, you follow his suggestion and don a clean tunic, making sure it sits around your waist loosely enough. Even though it isn’t visible, you’ve started to grow self-conscious about the tiniest mannerisms you’ve been developing over the past weeks. You’ve been feeling tired faster than normal, lost your appetite for date cakes. Suspicions may grow amongst the group if you’re acting out of the ordinary too obviously. 

Wordlessly, you start packing up your belongings as well as the tent itself. Having done so countless times before makes it so that neither of you has to say anything during the process, enjoying the peace and quiet of the moment as you silently tuck everything into the bags it belongs in. After this, you join the others for breakfast, able to stomach a small handful of grapes whilst the men discuss what the next possible destination might be.

When Jesus shows up, He reveals that not Jerusalem, but Bethany is the next stop to visit His good friend Lazarus. Hearing that His eema will be there as well, you are instantly on edge, having a strong feeling that Mary will most likely notice your current condition upon first glance. There is something about her that makes you feel like she would.

You walk with your husband as he pushes one of the carts at the back of the group, chatting about life for a while before he urges you to speak to your other friends as well and that he’ll be fine. Smiling at the comment, you kiss his cheek and go to walk with Tamar and Thomas, wondering how the latter has been doing these past weeks after what happened to Ramah.

The journey has been taking about an hour or two when a small squad of Roman soldiers stands in the middle of the road. The way they are prominently standing still, spears and shields at the ready, is a telltale sign that they are not just here on patrol. “Halt!” the leader of the group says, a young soldier wearing a helmet with a red crest on top calling out to you. “Jewish citizens.” 

Everyone carefully walks towards the squad of soldiers, Jesus casting a glance over His shoulder to show that it’s alright. “Everyone remain calm.” You can vividly picture the tension rising to James’ shoulders. You have to resist turning around to look at him. 

When Jesus turns back, two soldiers approach Him, barking a command before the Messiah can get as much as a word in. “Disarm yourselves and leave your bags. You’re carrying ours now” Brief silence as Big James puts his hand on your shoulder; he must have approached you without you noticing. You give him a worried look.

Matthew removes his bag from his shoulder as he explains: “Under Roman law, a soldier can force a Jew to carry his things.”

Tamar is taken aback. “At random?”

“There is a legal limit. A maximum of one mile and no further.” 

The soldiers approach with their arms full of items for you to carry. Your heart sinks inside your gut. A shield is pushed into your arms, a bag suddenly heavy over your shoulder containing more weight than you’d ever carry on you, and a helmet is forced over your head. “Ouch!” 

“Quiet,” the soldier hisses. James steps towards you instantly, a hand on your lower back.

“Hey, watch it.” James mutters.

The solider gives him a challenging, mocking grin. “She your woman or something?” 

James narrows his eyes, the centurion’s smile falling into hardly contained annoyance as he shoves a bag into James’ arms. “Some extra weight for you, lover boy.” 

“What must it be like, walking around all day with no metal weighing your head down?” his colleague taunts as he puts said headgear onto your brother-in-law, “Ever had helmet hair?” He chuckles mockingly. You put your hand on James’ arm to prevent him from doing anything rash. No matter how well-intended, interfering would spell even more trouble than playing along for a mile.

“Hurry along, rats!” the decanus spits over his shoulder as he leads the group forward. You take the shield and carry it in your arms whilst James looms over you like a hawk, making sure you are alright with every step you take. 

“Rats, with nice hats!” Stupid laughter from the soldiers. 

Forced to leave behind your own things, everyone follows the squad of soldiers. “Let me carry your things,” James whispers your way to make sure none of the Romans can hear you. “You shouldn’t be lifting heavy items, especially in your condition.” 

You give him a soft smile. “Oh, James. It’s not like I’m that far along yet. I can do this just fine. But thank you.” In spite of your gentle, grateful look, he’s still not convinced. 

“My darling, please—” 

“What are you two talking about?” one soldier starts walking in between you with a taunting edge to his tone, “Don’t you know it’s rude to whisper in company?”

“I am allowed to have a private conversation with my wife.” James says with obvious rage bubbling under the surface.

The soldier gives you a once-over and grins. “I can see why you married her. Pretty thing you are.” You grit your teeth as he attempts to touch your cheek. 

“Don’t touch her,” James bites instantly, a little taller than the soldier, glaring daggers at him as he puffs out his chest. 

The centurion shows his palms in defence, a disdainful look on his face, but before he responds the decanus demands the attention by lifting Tamar’s arm in the air alongside the vile comment: “Which one of you does this belong to?” 

“Hey!” you instantly protest, “Shut up!” The centurion next to you raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. 

“Your wife has claws,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at you, “Let’s see if she’s got lip when she’s carrying your stuff as well.” 

Before James realises what is going on, the soldier is already lifting his load from his shoulders and dumps them around yours instead— “Hey! Don’t do that, be careful with her!” 

“What, afraid she’ll break? Ha!”

Big James is seething as you struggle under the additional weight. He opens his mouth, wanting to speak up, but the centurion points a warning finger in his direction. “Careful, don’t give me a reason to give her the rest of your things.” 

You give James a look and he sighs in defeat, lowering his gaze as he is forced to watch you suffer under the heaviness.

Your legs start to ache as you step on, your neck killing you by the time you turn the last bend, approaching the ending point. You feel your husband’s worried eyes on you, meeting them with your own as you give him a watery smile, indicating that you will be fine.

“Decanus,” one of his men announces, “The sign is the mile marker.” On your right, a pillar of rocks stands as a clear indication of distance.  

A mocking huff leaves one of them. “In your entire lives, I bet you’ve never been so grateful for the enshrined Roman law. We know this has been an honour for all of you.”

“Stop here!” the leader brings the group to a halt, much to your relief, and you are about to put the heavy things onto the ground with a thud when you witness how Jesus keeps on walking. 

“I said stop!” the decanus exclaims, causing the Messiah to slow down and turn around. 

“Your destination is that outpost a mile ahead, yes?” He asks. 

“It is, but we’re only permitted one mile.” 

“By coercion.” Jesus clarifies, “There is no law against citizens assisting you the rest of the way of their own volition.”

You swallow hard as it dawns on you what the Messiah is getting at. “Come, My friends.” 

And whenever Jesus says to follow, you always will. Taking up the encumbrance onto your shoulders once again, you step on forward. 

“But—”

“—If anyone says anything, say that we offered.” 

Although there is a strange ambiance hanging over the group of followers, everyone wordlessly lifts up the equipment forced to carry and follows the Messiah. For a few longs moments, the soldiers are left to process what is going on. Big James swallows hard as he watches you. 

“Love, are you—” 

“I’m fine,” you reassure him, “Let’s not risk any—” 

“What did I tell you about not whispering in company?!” the same soldier seems to have remembered little of what has just happened. “Come on, lover boy. Due to your gentlemanly nature, she is now obliged to carry the rest of your stuff as well, see if she likes you afterwards—” 

“Don’t!” James cries out as his fingers tightly grip the items in his arms, “Please, don’t, let me carry all of her things instead.” 

“Why should I listen to that? You’re just a Jew—” 

“—Because she is pregnant!” 

The statement rings so clear that everyone halts. The decanus in the front, who was just about to take the embellished helmet off Jesus’ head, turns to face the source of the disturbance. Mary and Tamar gasp as they look at you, the others observing in either confusion or sudden realisation as they piece two and two together. 

“You’re pregnant?” Mary whispers, “For how long?” 

All eyes now suddenly on you, you gulp. The soldier seems to feel his conscience get the better of him and reaches for the heavy load on your shoulders, hanging them over his own instead. You could swear you hear him mutter an apology under his breath, your state seemingly hitting a nerve within him, as he walks off ahead of you. 

“I… I was planning on telling you soon…” you whisper, “Just… I was waiting for the right moment. And I—”

“Not to be rude, but we are on a tight schedule,” the decanus cuts you off. 

The group is forced to walk forward again before it can be given any more attention. As Matthew nearly stumbles, one of the Romans reaches out to take over the burden.

Something seems to have shifted in the air. The soldiers reclaim their own belongings one by one, lifting the equipment onto their own shoulders instead. James hands his shield back to its owner and puts a hand on your lower back, leaning closer. “Are you alright?” he is wearing an apologetic look on his face, almost hollow, as if he regrets blurting it out like that. “I’m sorry for revealing our announcement like that. I know it is not what you wanted.” 

You smile softly at your husband, sliding your hand into his. “I’m fine, James,” you promise him, “Just a little sore. And it was going to come out some time soon anyways, yes? And I’d rather have it happen like this, than that anyone would find me throwing up my breakfast somewhere in a corner.” 

James snorts a laugh and squeezes your hand. “Still, I’m sorry. I wish I would have kept my mouth shut.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, my love. It doesn’t make me want this family any less.” 

He softly hums and brushes his lips against the side of your head before pulling a weird face. “Your veil smells like sweaty Roman-head.” 

You laugh at that, rolling your eyes as you follow the rest of the mile, whilst the soldiers have mostly taken back all of their equipment. Nevertheless, you still go with them — you remember the sermon on the Korazim Plateau, on going two miles if someone forces you to come with them for only one mile. It seems that right now, the teaching is put into literal practice.

 “Thanks for letting me know,” you muse, “I’ll make sure to wash it in the evening.” 

At that, your husband chuckles contently. In silence, you share this moment together, knowing that on your way back to your own belongings, which are hopefully left untouched in the middle of the road two miles away, you will be overwhelmed with words of congratulations and countless questions about how you are doing. 

But honestly, Big James is also a little happy that he can finally proclaim that he is going to be a father.

[amarynthian-chronicles]

Extended Contract Chapter 1

Fae Prince Sun, Fae Prince Moon, Fae King Eclipse x Witch Reader

(You are a witch that fell for the oldest trick in the book by giving your name to the mischievous Fae princes of the Celestial Court. Such an inconvenience on what was supposed to be a typical office night. You are honestly not having it. They, however, do seem quite happy about having you. You decide to make a deal with the Fae King to regain your freedom. The only thing that is functional in the whole situation is your phone signal in the Fae Kingdom.)

Warnings: kidnapping, suggestive themes, gore and the usual Fae tomfoolery

“May I have your name?“

“Of course, it is Y/N.“

“Your precious contribution is very much appreciated.“

It is not every day that one seals their own fate because of a simple misunderstanding of idioms and literal meanings, but there you were, bound to the realm of the Fae Folk and belonging to the royal twins of the Celestial Court. Mondays were known to be unlucky days, but this was just ridiculous.

You weren't really in the mood for getting abducted, thank you very much.

There were so many assignments and drafts due next week and you feared Vanessa's wrath far more than you feared the dark magic of enamoured Fae.

Furthermore, you had the misfortune of being stuck with those mischievous miscreants in the middle of the witching hour. The law firm building was empty, the cranky doorman had left hours ago and the janitor had the habit of never arriving before six in the morning. You could scream, but that would not do much good. The cameras did not pick up sound and technology could not record the presence of the Fae, so the only thing you would accomplish is create evidence of your own insanity.

“Excuse me, I really must protest.“

You were in the process of trying to escape the grip of the regal solar-themed Fae. He seemed rather amused, since you weren't really successful, but he almost seemed to be playfully encouraging you to keep trying. Prince Sun had always been a very supportive person, even if he was the one causing the problem in the first place.

“Go on, beautiful, nobody is stopping you. I think that every once in a while everybody needs to raise objections and such. It is healthy.“

His lunar twin grinned, red eyes glowing with roguish mirth.

“I wholeheartedly agree with you, brother. We fully encourage sincerity and dialogue.“

You told them that you wanted to make an appeal. They happily informed you that such a thing was not possible and that you officially belonged to them. You were certainly not touched by their infectious enthusiasm. After all, being gifted with a human's True Name was an experience akin to a cat falling into a whole box full of catnip for them.

“You will play with us forever."

“The Celestial Court is a wondrous place.“

“Word games galore.“

“But beware, for danger lurks in each syllable, my love.“

“Blades caress the consonants and glide along the vowels.“

“Running is futile, but at least it is a very healthy activity. It is always important to get some cardio for the day.“

By all logic, you should be feeling some form of despair and terror, but you were mostly suffering from a horrible case of injured pride. You had fallen for the oldest trick since the dawn of magic. You were an absolute idiot. True, you were running on two cups of coffee, you had not slept properly in a week and your blood sugar levels were more tragic than Shakespeare's “Hamlet“. In your defense, working for William Afton, attorney at law, was no walk in the bloody park. Especially when you had Vanessa as your immediate taskmaster.

You had grown tired of struggling, giving yourself a few moments of respite. Prince Sun was holding you bridal style, his blue gaze soft, showing a type of adoration one would give to a hidden treasure, a joy one experiences when holding a droplet of water in a desert.

Prince Moon had a personality that was diametrically opposite to that of his brother. Hunger reigned in his eyes. Your essence was intoxicating, calling for him, enticing him. You dared not even imagine what his claws could do to you, nor what he could accomplish with his razor-sharp teeth.

Rowan charms could no longer save you, nor could silver. Leaves of holly had no more power, either. You couldn't bribe the royal twins with cream either, since apparently you were the new dessert in the grand scheme of things.

Moon reached out with his claws, searching for your delicate hand. He traced his claw along the sensitive flesh of your inner wrist with all the fervour and ardour of a lover, inspecting the soft skin. Upon giving your name to them, two different markings had manifested on each inner wrist respectively. A crescent moon on the right one and the mark of the sun on the left one.

“Gentlemen, there has obviously been a bit of a miscommunication.“

“Yes, those tend to be very practical in our line of work.“

“I don't have time for this, do you have any idea how many assignments I have due next week?“

“Actually, we do. I must voice our disapproval of you overworking yourself in general. Following orders of such unworthy scoundrels.“

“Well, I am not really in the mood for changing one group of masters for another. I wish to be taken to the Fae King.“

“You will meet him later anyway, he is a bit busy now.“

“No, no, not in that way. I wish to make my complaint.“

“Haven't we closed that topic already?“

“I demand my freedom back. You two said that King Eclipse could grant it to me if I convince him to. Although, I see now that this statement does not exclude you two being capable of the same thing and most likely you are just using the wording to trick me to stop asking you.“

“Can you blame us?“

“Yes. I blame you. And I judge you.“

In spite of it all, you had to admit the celestial princes were quite handsome and their appearance would normally be breathtaking, if you weren't meeting them under such circumstances.

In a resting position, their large wings almost appeared like regal capes. Complementary colours reigned in their respective palettes. Deep royal blues of Prince Moon's wings were speckled with tiny stars, while the rich golden hues of Prince Sun's had swirls of blue interwoven in their texture. In a way, the twins were perfectly symmetrical when it came to the design of their wings. Their attire was similar to that of jesters, but far more elaborate and indicative of their status. Silk and velvet were present, bejeweled buttons, finely tailored doublets.

Both of them were eager, lovestruck and needy. To a degree you almost felt like a lamp attracting a pair of silly mothlings. Which was fitting, considering they too had wings and all.

As Moon was still caressing you along your inner forearm, Sun could not resist nuzzling your hair. You could have sworn that you heard both of them purr. A part of you wondered how on earth did such a scene appear on the cameras, were you simply just floating around and talking to yourself? You internally apologized in advance to any poor security worker that would have to go through the recordings later.

Sun's voice brought you back from your silly reveries, his cheek resting on your head.

“As soft as silk.“

You had been somewhat aware that a pair of Fae had been hunting you for the past several weeks, but it was impossible to decipher their identity. Their glamour and shielding spells had been extremely powerful, their cunning unparalleled and their tricks endless. In many ways, they had been testing you, the purity of your heart and the strength of your soul. They would come to you, disguised either as lost little animals in need of help, or as injured humans in need of assistance. You would always help, no questions asked and always ignoring the warning tingle of enemy magic. Your mind had completely warped to the logic of the normal world and you no longer asked yourself the questions a witch would.

You did not suspect the odd new coworkers that had appeared out of nowhere either, nor did you seem to wonder where they had come from. You had simply accepted that you probably just never noticed them before and that they had always been there. A few pleasantries here, a few kind words there, and that had been all. Of course, all up till tonight when the name trick finally came to rip the veil of denial off.

You huffed, unphased by Sun's compliments regarding your hair.

“Were you the one that has been making those silly fairy-locks I kept waking up with? Those are impossible to untangle!“

“Technically you are not supposed to do that, elsewise you bring misfortune upon yourself. The poor keyboard on your laptop suffered a premature death because of that.“

“I really liked that laptop.“

“I know.“

“It was brand new.“

“May it rest in peace.“

You looked over at the little digital clock on a nearby desk. The witching hour was almost over and the power of the Fae would slightly weaken after four in the morning. If you somehow escaped them, maybe you could distract them enough till the desired hour strikes. Your magical weapons may at least have a fair chance afterwards.

You gasped as Moon leaned closer to you, his hand caressing your cheek, sliding down to your neck, distracting you with pleasurable sensations and making your spine tingle.

“What is going on in that pretty little head of yours, wishing star?“

“Nothing much, honestly.“

Both of them spread their giant wings, showing all of their glory, then draped them over you in what one may interpret as a soothing and protective gesture, but given the circumstances, it was also a demonstration of entrapment.

Impish jesters, forever grinning, forever teasing.

It was one thing to be bound and made to serve an ordinary fairy. It was a completely different thing to be serving the royal twins of the Celestial Court. They were dangerous, powerful, their stature surpassed even the tallest of humans, their urges were never satisfied and their desires never at rest. Not to mention that they were the most competent tricksters of the Fae kingdom.

Fairies were incapable of lying. Therefore, they had to resort to literal meanings and multiple interpretations, distortions, tricks. You could imply one thing that was perfectly accepted and understood in human society, but they would purposefully give it an obscure meaning that was still not a falsehood.

Your predicament was ironic in many ways. Embarassing even. To be precise, you came from a long line of magical practitioners that had been known over the centuries as the Cunning Folk. Various terms existed for such people, but in the modern times the closest definition would be light witches. It was an adequate name that differentiated them from warlocks or dark witches.

You, dear Y/N, had done your best in life to keep the madness of magic at bay. Yes, you knew how to ward yourself from curious spirits, you always had your trusted rolled up newspaper at the ready to hit the local boogeyman on the head when he was living rent-free under your bed, and pretty much every imp on the block knew to avoid you if they wanted to keep all their limbs attached.

Fae Folk, however, were a different story. Long ago, it had been a custom for the Fae to connect to members of the Cunning Folk in order to form a soul bond. A familiar and their witch, in a way. It had always been a connection stronger than any spell and a love more intense than any passionate marriage.

All of that had changed when the realm of the Fae had been afflicted by a darkness far more potent than any light spell could heal. The Hopes and Dreams of children had become scarce and all that was once joyful and innocent had become corrupted and ruined. The Fae King had become cruel and wicked, his once cheerful and loving demeanour had transformed into that of a deranged villain. He did have an odd shift of behaviour on certain birthdays, though, and this would usually take everyone aback for a solid twenty-four hours.

In light of all that, the Cunning Folk had gone into hiding and refused any new bonds with the Fae. This was unacceptable, since the Fae had depended immensely on the sweet nectar that human souls could provide, especially when that soul happened to be a magical one. Consequently, over the centuries the Fae had to resort to various tricks, from luring humans into their fairy circles, kidnapping them and taking them to their kingdom, tricking them with various word games and always having them fall in traps when they least expected it. Certain Fae were less malevolent and were simply in dire need and want of being parents to a child, so they would take human babies to raise them as their own, leaving changelings in their place.

And despite all your efforts, you still managed to become a captive. Go figure.

Prince Sun, ruler of the waking dreams, bringer of hope, and Prince Moon, protector of sleeping children and vanquisher of nightmares. All of those titles did sound pretty cute, but both of them were still impish fiends that loved to play pranks on adults. Oh, well, your time was running out, so you had to think of something fast. Or at least try to reach the little dagger with Runes that you had all nicely hidden and tucked away in a secret pocket of your trousers. You never knew when you would need to stab something supernatural. Or open an envelope.

You concocted a little plan and hoped for the best.

Trickery was not limited to the Fae and you lowkey felt proud of your cunning ways as you pulled Moon into a deep kiss, much to his initial shock. He began to eagerly reciprocate, the sweet haze of lust conspiring against him, your softness and loveliness engulfing his mind. Desire was a natural solvent to rational thought and you had no problems with using that against him. Sun, on the other hand, was both shocked, and slightly jealous, but he did know that something was off.

His suspicions were only confirmed when, in the span of several seconds, you pulled out a silver dagger with enough Runic carvings to obliterate a whole magical army, casually stabbed Moon's heart as if the very gesture was the most normal thing in the world, used Sun's surprise to wriggle out of his grasp and you ran away down the corridors like a feral kitten. Well, at least you were productive.

As you ran, your phone began to ring, conveniently giving up your location in the process, but oh well. It was Vanny, so of course you had to pick up.

“Y/N, where is that briefing paper that you were supposed to email me literally yesterday?“

“I'm in a bit of a situation, Vanessa.“

“What is it now?“

“Well, apparently I am getting married.“

“Congratulations, I still want that briefing.“

“I will call you back, alright?“

Meanwhile, Prince Moon was having a bit of an existential crisis. He stood there, shocked, dagger protruding from his heart.

Oh, yes, it hurt. It burned, stinged, all of the unpleasant things that one may imagine. However, it was nothing compared to how it could have been. The newly forged bond made him immune to most of your deadly spells and Runes, so at worst he would feel temporary pain and then it would cease.

In a way, his desire and respect for you only increased. A Fae always respected good examples of trickery.

Sun could not stop himself from wheezing, very much entertained with the situation.

“You really walked into that one, Moon.“

“Shut up.“

He would still make you pay for that little insult, nonetheless. The corridors had morphed into the same scenery over and over, the windows were suddenly sealed shut, the nearby doors leading to a dead end or into a void of eternal nothingness. You could no longer trust your senses, for mad whispers kept disrupting reality. Only a few more minutes, you hoped for only a few more minutes till the witching hour ends.

You were honestly an idiot for trusting your own luck.

Moon's voice echoed throughout the corridors, ominous and demonic. A bit spicy, as well.

“You should have saved that fire for the wedding night, wishing star.“

“Goodness gracious.“

It became rather obvious that Vanessa would not be getting that briefing paper anytime soon, nor would our good old William Afton be getting his early morning coffee next week, either. Or any week, for that matter. It was a tragedy beyond description, may he rest in pieces.

You had to stop to catch your breath, panting, perfectly aware of the fact that you were mostly screwed. Well, a part of your mind tried to add some rational remarks and told you that living with the Fae couldn't be that bad and at least you would hopefully be getting some really cute royal garments or something. When in doubt, at least material things never disappointed you.

Ghostly hands rose from the ground, grasping at your ankles, your calves, your thighs. You fell forwards unceremoniously and you would have experienced quite a hit to the ground had the hands not grasped you, shielding you from the hard floor.

“What a perfect way to spend my night, being manhandled seventy percent of the time.“

Wrestling them was useless, but at least there was more dignity in that than just doing nothing and thinking about the meaning of life till your captors arrived.

Prince Sun appeared first, somewhat sympathetic, but also visibly tired from all the shenanigans. He let you have your little moment of heroism, though.

“Take your time, darling one.“

“Oh, sod off.“

Prince Moon arrived soon after, eyes glowing a dangerous shade of crimson, the dagger still embedded in his chest. He pulled the blade out, his gaze following the path of the rivulets of blood, almost enchanted by the pattern they were making as they glided along the expertly made Runic symbols.

“Love the craftsmanship on this one. It would have been a poetic death. Stricken by a wishing star, tearing my heart asunder, red pearls the only gifts I have to offer.“

Sun went over to you, partially teasing, partially serious.

“Someone is a bit violent. Are you alright, darling one? Do you wish to talk about some unresolved issues?“

“You two are literally stealing me away.“

“It's not that bad. We shall be loving and caring consorts to you. After all, our bond is basically an engagement.“

“This is the shoddiest proposal ever. How is this even supposed to work, each of you gets their own day of the week?“

“We'll share equally.“

“Excuse me, I am not a meal.“

“Really? You do seem rather delicious.“

“This isn't fair. Do you have any idea how homesick humans can get in the realm of the Fae?“

“We have many spells designed to bedazzle the mind and encourage you to forget the mortal world. And everyone is nice in their own way once you get to know them.“

“You two had no other member of the Cunning Folk to bother and you just had to stumble upon me?“

The dark spell was lifted and you found yourself free. Well, not for long, since the twins were at your side once more. Sun kissed your hand like a true gentleman, his wings making the faintest flutter of joy.

“We searched for a heart of gold and dreams of hope.“

“And you decided to look in a law firm?“

“Bright light contrasts best against a shadowy background.“

“Can I see the terms and conditions of my service?“

“Oh? Good idea! You can read all of that on our way to the palace! It will be so much fun to explain it to you. Of course, the letters are inverted, so you will need a mirror just to read it.“

He conjured a seemingly reasonable rolled-up piece of paper, before letting it unfold. It reached the ground in a comical fashion and kept on going till the end of the corridor.

“Sun, that list is longer than the border of Ancient Rome.“

“Indeed! I had it shortened to make it easier for you.“

“Dear god.“

“I also must say that I wrote it myself. I do my fair share of corporate business and contracts with humans are my specialty, but I do prefer to engage in theater. I may have given a certain playwright a few tips on writing his special little Midsummer work.“

“Old Will? For real?“

“Wonderful chap to have a pint with at the pub. I am certain he would have had an aneurysm had he lived to see what his reputation had become nowadays. A cheerful knave being the main topic for school and homework? Scandalous. He was a most charming actor and a talented wizard of words. Had many a verbal battle with him, and I never managed to snag his soul. I fully respect him for that.“

“Good to know. Regardless, I still wish to talk to your brother about this whole affair. It is my right, considering the fact that I am not a normal human and I do have certain perks. I am certain that King Eclipse will have more respect for old customs than you two.“

Sun and Moon gave each other a look, before giggling at you, as if charmed by how silly your request was.

“King Eclipse? Darling one, do beware.“

“The knave stole the moonlight fair.“

“Neither fools nor traitors breathe for long in his lair.“

“Be our guest, challenge him, if you dare.“

You raised an eyebrow at their improvised little poetic endeavour, tilting your head, curious.

“Did you two just come up with that?“

“Well, we did think of incorporating a iambic pentameter somewhere in there, but we simply decided to free verse it.“

Needless to say that the whole charade continued even after they had conjured a portal to their world, taking you with them. You were playing a dangerous game, but realistically you had nothing to lose. Well, except your dignity and maybe your life, but nothing lasts forever anyway, so might as well.

Your case was one type of extreme. On the other end of the city, two members of the Fae species were in the process of “adopting“ a few bundles of joy. The bear Fae and the wolf Fae were aware that two children were very unhappy in their orphanage and oftentimes they would hear the little girl, Cassie, vocalize her wish to be taken away by magical creatures. The boy, Gregory, had nothing against any of that, as long as there was proper acommodation involved. He hated the hard old bed he had in the orphanage and the food was positively awful.

Of course, there had to be an equivalent exchange, so the two Fae had to bring some friends along. One of them was not too thrilled.

“Why are we doing this? I don't want to stay in the human world.“

“You only need to stay till the next full Moon, Bonnie, and then you will be free of the obligation. Monty will keep you company.“

“Monty is insane.“

“Don't be rude.“

“He pushed me off the stairs, Roxy.“

“Happens.“

Montgomery was far too busy exploring the wonders of a music player to really care where he was, honestly. A few broken orphanage windows and one angry half-blind nun later, the wolf Fae and the bear Fae had become proud new adoptive parents. Bonnie and Monty would have to serve as changeling replacements for a bit, but that is what happens when you lose fairy chess. You owe favours.

By the time Roxy and Freddy had returned home, Gregory had partially woken up, while Cassie was all snuggled in the soft pillows of her new bed. They boy looked around his new house, nonchalant and trying to read what was happening from the clues given.

“Have I been kidnapped?“

“Some may call it that.“

“By fairies? Like, a changeling type of situation?“

“Yes, but I assure you we are using all of the safety protocols that are necessary.“

“Well, I'll be damned.“

“We do wish to make the best effort and become your new family, Gregory. For you and Cassie.“

“Is that food over there? Cupcakes?“

“Oh, indeed, with buttercream and cherries.“

Gregory observed the treats for a good few moments, thought a bit, weighed all his options and of course made the best possible decision for himself in that type of situation. Fairy food was usually a forbidden thing, but he was already stolen anyway.

“I am a simple lad, I see free food and I cannot complain.“

AO3

[emeritusemeritus]

His Firecracker [Fred Weasley x Gryffindor!Reader]

Title: His Firecracker.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fiancé!Reader [She’s implied Gryffindor]

Timeline: None-specified, set after DH.

Summary: At his engagement party, Ginny asks Fred what attracted him to his new fiancé, his firecracker.

Warnings: Mentions of bullying, drinking, a few swear words. Mentions of the Chamber of Secrets. George trying to wind up his twin.

"How did you know that you loved her?" Ginny asks, subconsciously leaning forward ever so slightly, listening intently to the anticipated answer. One half of the Weasley siblings are sat around the living room at the Burrow, each with a glass of various beverages in hand to toast to the newly engaged couple that they had gathered together to celebrate with.

"Never had to question it, can't remember a time when I didn't," Fred says with a smirk and a shrug, leaning back in the armchair opposite his sister. He was a few drinks deep already, not including the multiple shots of fire whiskey he'd consumed that George had managed to sneak under the seemingly omniscient eye of their mother.

"So what attracted you to her?" Ginny asks, following up from his vague reply. She clutches her own glass tightly and sips from the burning liquid as she listens in, realising moments before that she had never actually asked her brother those questions.

"Beside how hot she is?" George interjects playfully, earning daggers from Fred, knowing that his twin was trying to wind him up. “Why do you think he calls her firecracker?”

"Beside her beauty," Ginny adds, a little more eloquently than her older brother. Fred ponders for a moment, replaying the moment in his mind before letting out a little chuckle, beginning to tell the story.

School had just started back after the summer holidays and you'd entered your fifth year at Hogwarts feeling revitalised after spending the summer with your family and friends back home and on holiday for one of the weeks. Of course you'd missed your school mates and being able to do magic but it was a nice refresher that you needed after the horrible events of the previous year with the chamber of secrets and the petrifications.

It was the third day back and you were sat at the Gryffindor table in the great hall surrounded by your friends, looking forward to enthusiastically tucking in to the wondrous display of delicious food when Ginny Weasley came and sat beside you, looking a little nervous. You'd made friends with her when she first started but after everything that happened in the chamber, you'd really tried to be there for her this year and had stood up for her on multiple occasions against Malfoy and his cronies. You greeted each other fondly and then her older twin brothers who had sat across from you as Neville took a seat beside George.

"What you got there Neville?" You heard Ginny ask in a quiet voice, noticing the book he was reading whilst waiting for the food. He began excitedly explaining how his Gran had sent him up to the attic and he'd found it in an old trunk and how it explained that each plant meant something and how it linked to muggle and magical medicine, reciting different species and their etymology.

"Another example, Milkweed is a native wildflower that means 'let me go' but in reality it's"

"Longbottom, shut up! No one cares about your bloody plants, I've heard enough," Alison Denshaw shouts down the table, her group of cackling witches snickering to themselves around her. Neville looks crestfallen and silences himself immediately, embarrassed by her outburst.

"Oi," you shout back, "I don't give a fuck about your boyfriend cheating on you but it's all I've heard from everyone since we got back so you can deal with plant talk for a little bit longer." You then turn to Neville and with a much softer tone, smile at him and say, "Go on Neville, tell us about Milkweed."

Fred was certain that you'd never been more attractive to him then you were right there, seeing you be bold enough to stand up for your friends and their interests, no matter how dull you secretly thought they were. It was so effortlessly done, so brilliantly witty that he knew he had to get closer to you, to make you his little firecracker.

[tenderwatches]

summary: Jayce thinks back to Viktor's very bad no good horrible year we find out what Jayce is up to with the Hexcore

“We suffer from an incurable malady. Hope.” - Mahmoud Darwish

Jayce stares at the blueprints for the Hexcore laid out in front of him. It’s been almost two years of painstaking work, examining and extrapolating from Viktor’s notes. Excitement and a fragile sense of hope buzz in his veins; he may now, at last, be close to something like a full recovery.

Tonight will be his first real attempt at reconstruction.

He settles himself at his workbench with a genuine hex gemstone gripped tightly in his hand before releasing a long exhale. The current of magic alive beneath its smooth surface seems to lift him from somewhere within, making him feel weightless.

It’s been difficult to find time for this secret project between solving the problem of the synthetic crystals and nurturing his delicate peace with Viktor. The only time he has to work is when Viktor, Sky, and Thomas have all left, leaving him to his solitude and secrecy. As much as he envies the others’ freedom to leave, he needs these stolen moments.

Hardly for the first time, he wishes he could confer with Viktor on his work directly—but he knows better. If the recent months of recovery in their relationship have taught him anything, it’s that he cannot lean on Viktor to correct his mistakes.

Viktor was right to accuse him of moving placidly through a world that bent itself to make things easy and tolerable for him. Though he hadn’t created this paradigm, he’s never challenged it—never even questioned it. Now, he’s keenly aware that recovering this work is the key to righting his wrong. Nothing will make up for what his mistakes have cost Viktor, but he needs this work to be ready to fulfill the wondrous future of Viktor’s dreams.

Buoyed by his convictions, he crosschecks Viktor’s notes, line by line, against his draftsmanship. Over the years, he’s become familiar with these contents, but there are complexities to Viktor’s work that he wants to ensure he does justice to. The dozens of tiny pyramid structures he’s created to enclose the gemstone at the Hexcore’s heart have paid off; all laid out in front of him, they align exactly with every ruthlessly documented detail from Viktor’s original concept. And yet, something feels... off.

Jayce has added his own particular touch to the construction; late hours in the forge allowed him to recover not just the form and function of Viktor’s previous designs but also add an elegance he feels they deserve. He’s embossed the runes with a tender hand—there is love in what he’s remade here. Perhaps Viktor will see it when Jayce finally presents him with the reconstructed prototype. Maybe he’ll read it for what it is—a testament to his devotion.

Jayce has always turned to the scientific process for this, their shared native tongue, as simply arguing with Viktor will never win over his convictions. That this understanding was what drove him to seek aid from the ethics committee in the first place is a cruel irony.

He’s often gotten the impression that, of the two of them, people considered him the young, recklessly ambitious one. He was, after all, the one who’d ended up publicly tried for his lab exploding. There is also no shortage of danger in what he’s attempting. Magic has always had an inherent risk to it. But the other man’s public persona of a quiet, composed scholar, an austere engineer in lockstep with the scientific process, is a deliberate misrepresentation.

Viktor is a wildfire of ideas. Jayce marvels at his ability to see a multitude of shapes in whatever might come next. It’s always been accompanied by a frisson of risk, a moment of wonderful disconnect from the rigidity of the world, from the fear of what might be lost in pursuit of what could be.

The emptiness where his partner should be is more obvious than ever; he misses the ability to ask, ‘Are you sure about this?’ and watch Viktor’s eyes catch his, so beautiful with the vitality of what they can achieve. ‘Of course not,’ his partner would mutter, and then, they’d leap into discovery.

That kind of wild abandon needs grounding, and Jayce has been their anchor in the storm. But now, he can’t afford to watch this work implode around him, can’t afford to lose it again. He has to take this leap alone.

The bitter truth is that perhaps no one but Jayce can truly understand the price of what he’s done. Viktor has lost time—something he has so precious little of—time to realise his creation, to change the world with his dream of a less painful tomorrow, time to do what they’ve always wished to do.

This is a chance to recover what was stolen from Viktor in the years down below.

He’s begun to consider this work as a bridge back to better days for them. If he can accomplish this, perhaps he can approach Viktor with more than his sincere but insufficient apologies.

A resurrection is tender work, but the deliverance of the research he’d marked for death is his only path to reviving the trust that lies dormant between them.

Desperation led him astray before, but this time feels different—has to be different.

He’d been so worn down before, so afraid of the ways he could feel Viktor slipping through his fingers. He had been oblivious to the unkind realities of Viktor’s movements in the world. Upon encountering the man’s ailments, Jayce had chosen familiar remedies—but his ignorance had poisoned them. Instead of healing, he’d delivered Viktor to the very wolves he’d spent his life outrunning.

𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

Autumn, 990 AN - three years ago

The spectre of death had crept so subtly into Jayce and Viktor’s partnership that they worked together for seven years before Jayce truly had to face what was lurking alongside them.

Viktor’s story had an odd romance to it that made his success feel inevitable. What Jayce failed to consider was that life was more often, and more reliably, unfair. Stories of triumph were legendary not because of what they achieved but because they were so few and far between. Yet, he had always assumed his partner’s story would be among them.

The year before Viktor’s departure from the Academy, Jayce had noticed the first signs of decline without understanding what they meant. He found Viktor in the lab one morning, looking young and stricken—afraid.

“Viktor?”

“Jayce—” Viktor’s voice was soft, eyelids fluttering over a wide and haunted expression. It doused Jayce with dread.

“V—what’s wrong?” There was nothing he could see, no malaise or injury—nothing to explain this alarming shift in behaviour.

“I can’t get up.” The words emerged hollow with disbelief.

“What do you mean, you can’t get up?” Hadn’t he seen Viktor moving about the lab a day ago without any unusual sign of discomfort? Jayce went down to one knee, placing his hand on Viktor’s shoulder as cautiously as he’d handle a skittish cat. “V, talk to me.” He peered up at Viktor’s pale face, smoothing a palm up the muscle arching towards Viktor’s neck, and felt a barely perceptible tremor there.

Viktor surfaced from his thoughts, his jaw clenched tight, a man in agony. Jayce’s fingers tightened slightly at the back of Viktor’s neck, as if his grip alone could anchor him, keep him from the dark place he kept drifting to.

“I have tried, Jayce,” he admitted. “I... tried to stand, and—I fell. I was on the floor for twenty minutes.” Disgust, frustration, and despair flashed in quick succession across his features. He pulled away from Jayce’s touch, as if he couldn’t stand the display of kindness. In that moment, Jayce recognised both Viktor’s devastation and fury. Usually, Viktor’s anger was a cold thing—chin up, walls high, tone precise. But there was something wild in it now, inconsolable rage that bled from old wounds. “I had to drag myself back to this chair like a dog.” He spat the words out, hands forming tight fists as if he could tear reality apart.

Helpless sorrow rent Jayce open as he began to understand: this was one of Viktor’s many constant battles to keep his limitations from becoming barricades to his independence. Jayce clasped Viktor’s clenched fingers, trying again to catch those unfocused eyes with his own gaze. “Let me help you. We’ll figure it out.” This man had saved his dream—his life. Viktor was so gently determined to do good but always tried to fight things alone. He was desperate for Viktor to let him in. “It’ll be alright.”

He’d hoped for softening, for trust, but Viktor slipped his hands from Jayce’s grasp. Instead of leaning on him, Viktor pressed cool fingertips to the hinge of Jayce’s jaw, tilting his face up like he was a devotee. The touch felt intimate.

Jayce could count the eyelashes framing those luminous amber eyes from where he knelt, but even in this closeness, he still felt miles away from his partner. Maybe because Viktor was never this familiar. Maybe because he could see that Viktor had shuttered his grief away. What things did a person experience to teach them that accepting help was a weakness? He wished he could explain how he had never met anyone stronger than Viktor—how it had nothing to do with him hiding his pain—but words failed him.

“Of course... yes.” Viktor’s hand fell away. “You are correct, Jayce.”

The loss of Viktor’s touch left him bereft. He had missed something in this moment. He considered Viktor’s words, how they were meant to placate him, comfort him; the realisation made him feel childish and selfish. He couldn’t help the sinking feeling he’d failed Viktor somehow.

His mind flashed over ideas, concepts he’d heard about but never looked into. Braces to assist with support, improvements to his mobility aids, therapy to help with muscle strength. There were paths he was certain they could explore together. Here, in this space, the place they built together, maybe he would be allowed the chance.

An idea calcified in him then, heavy as a stone but tight and painful like scar tissue: he had to do more to help his friend. They were partners, and Jayce would do everything he could to show Viktor that he was not alone.

𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

He gingerly rests the hex gemstone in the delicate metal base that supports it during his construction efforts. With surgical precision, he lifts the first runic pyramid towards it. The magical field hisses like escaping steam, throwing off bright blue sparks that force him to tug his safety goggles into place. The pyramid slips from his gloved fingers as if drawn by an unseen force, snapping into orbit around the gemstone. The core jolts, threatening to lift from its base before settling once more. Now the pyramid rotates around it like a solitary star, bobbing back and forth in an aimless dance. He watches its lonely journey, fascinated by the purposeless pattern.

Viktor’s notes specify the mesh can’t be forged separately from the core. The magical lift is crucial for suspending the pyramids and spacers in the correct formation. It makes this work sensitive; he’ll have to be careful with placing the pyramids, aligning them while they move on the magic drift they’re caught in.

He takes another moment to appreciate the way the magic of the gemstone has caused the engraved runes of the pyramid to shimmer with blue light. The energy pulses like a tiny heartbeat within it. But the work will be tedious, and he can’t afford to delay too long if he hopes to complete it before dawn.

A soldering iron in hand, he painstakingly nudges each pyramid into position before fastening it to its fellows with a delicate weld. He’s gotten almost five sets in place when he realises something has been weighing on him with each cluster. He traces the engraved surface of the pyramid faces, trying to coax out the thought at the back of his mind.

Domination channels raw power.

Sorcery focuses it.

Resolve strengthens the vessel.

Precision directs the flow.

Four runes, perfectly balanced—or, they should be.

He’s been so concerned with salvaging Viktor’s work that he hasn’t allowed himself to consider it through the lens of his own years of working with Hextech. His pulse hums with excitement as he realises there is an opportunity here—not just to return Viktor’s work to him, but to do what he always should have been doing—collaborating.

As if the energy itself responds to his growing excitement, the half-formed cluster of pyramids spins before him, expanding. He sets aside the soldering iron, allowing it to cool a safe distance away before reaching to the side of his workstation to procure one of his own journals. This one holds a collection of his own personal studies on runes and their functions. His thoughts run ahead of his fingers as they flip through old pages of documentation. He’s trying to recall something that feels just below the surface of his consciousness.

His fingers drum against the workbench as he rifles past documentation detailing the runes Viktor has already been working with. All his studies of Hextech have taught him that magic responds to more than just rigid structure—arcane energy isn’t just about control and direction.

The thought stops him cold before he can even unearth the information he’s seeking. As his building epiphany snaps into focus, he turns back to Viktor’s original designs, seeing them with new eyes. The mathematical precision, the careful balance; it’s all there, beautiful in its flawless execution. But perhaps that’s exactly why it had never quite worked.

His pulse quickens as he spots it—the missing piece is so perfectly Viktor that he laughs. They’ve always balanced each other this way: Viktor’s meticulous planning and Jayce’s creative leaps.

Now, he sees what the design needs—not just structure, but inspiration.

𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

Winter, 991 AN - two years ago

The year Viktor received his spinal implant had been one of the worst of the nearly eight years of their partnership.

Sudden failings of health breaking open to spells of wellness taught Jayce undeniable lessons about the uncertainty of the future. He had learnt how cruel that constant question could be to someone ravaged by the passage of time. Viktor’s spine had begun bowing in a way that caused him too much pain to even sit upright for long.

It was only at Jayce’s incessant pestering that he finally broke and agreed to let a specialist address the problem. In a tumult of good days and bad, of arguments and needling, this concession was a success. They were able to schedule Viktor for a groundbreaking surgery to take place in a few short months. It was just enough time for Viktor’s quality of life to spiral away.

Viktor was sullen most days and outright waspish on others. Though Jayce could see Viktor tried to temper himself, he was—frankly, unpleasant to be around. Where he normally found patience and curiosity in his friend, there was often hostility. He skipped steps in processes, even lost track of the thread of his own research, and left prototypes useless smoking hulls over simple oversights.

Jayce understood, especially when he saw Viktor’s own confusion at his volatile behaviour. Each snap was followed by muttered apologies and fingers pressed to temples. In these moments, Viktor would accept Jayce’s palm against his spine, letting him work circles into the knots of pain that jumped beneath his touch. When the day of the procedure came, it was as if they both could breathe a bit easier.

If, however, Jayce had thought that would be the end of it—he was dead wrong.

Recovery had been even more of an agony for Viktor, who flouted his post-operation instructions in favour of returning to the lab. Keeping him in place was impossible, and he bore his pain without complaint. Instead, it sucked away his colour, his appetite, and his tolerance of Jayce’s penchant for physical touch. Any of Jayce’s attempts to support him were met as if he were being hand-fed grapes, not offered help in holding a series of delicate electrical tools that could take out his hand along with a chunk of the room if dropped.

Six weeks after the operation, Jayce found Viktor brandishing a red-hot soldering iron in the construction of the most recent prototype of his Hexcore project. There was a sheen of sweat on his pallid skin, and it didn’t seem he’d even had the foresight to wear any protective gear. Viktor was not the poster child for lab safety, but this was the breaking point for Jayce, which Viktor had not taken to kindly.

“I’m not a child in need of lessons on lab safety,” Viktor hissed with a vitriol Jayce didn’t recognise. “I’ll remind you, you pushed me into the surgery—humour me with the decency to not act as if I’m incapable of caring for myself.” His voice was low, words tight enough to almost sound slurred.

Viktor’s venom surfaced quickly, drawing fury from Jayce at the injustice of his partner’s temper. He barely managed to bite back an angry retort and instead, stormed from the lab.

Dark, heavy clouds echoed his mood on his way home.

He slammed into his place like the oncoming storm made flesh—perhaps he should have gone to the forge to work his anger out—but the thought of even being that close to their lab with Viktor in such a vicious mood infuriated his already frayed nerves. He let himself linger in the hurt of his partner’s words, even when a more rational voice told him Viktor would likely apologise in the morning.

This wasn’t Viktor’s character; this was his condition. But the words still echoed as evening fell. Jayce was exhausted—agonised by his partner’s health, worn down by the council, his complicated relationship with Mel Medarda, and the public’s hunger for Hextech progress. All whilst they had to keep their prototypes hidden—which, he realised, likely explained Viktor’s mood. In the face of it all, sleep beckoned like a blessing until he succumbed to it like a warm embrace.

Jayce jolted awake to repeated banging and his heart beating frantically in his throat. Trying to get his bearings as his sleepy mind struggled to catch up, he noted the rain outside had begun coming down in heavy sheets at some point in the night, the sound of it beating away almost everything else. It was the kind of night you’d have to be out of your mind to go out in—and yet, unmistakably, someone was pounding on his door.

He rose in a panic, still only half-dressed in the thin pants he wore to bed. Had there been some terrible accident at the lab? Or with his mother? Or Cait? Or Mel? A thousand possibilities dashed through his mind, only to sputter out when he threw open the door to find not enforcers bearing disaster—but instead—Viktor.

His partner was drenched. He carried no umbrella and slumped heavily on his crutch in a drowsy way, as if he had been out drinking. In the light of the chem-lamps, he was frighteningly sallow, save for a scarlet flush high across his cheeks. His eyes were huge and dilated.

“Viktor?”

Nothing.

“I—what—are you doing here?” He finally shook off his stunned inaction and ushered Viktor through the door. “Is everything okay? Gods, you’re soaked. Did you walk here?” He couldn’t help the interrogation, even as he rushed to fetch a blanket to drape around Viktor’s shoulders.

His friend allowed him this, still blinking at him like he might be a hallucination. “How else would I get here, Jayce?” he asked, his tone almost light. “The trams stopped running hours ago...”

His answer explained so little that Jayce felt his temper flare up again. “Viktor,” he demanded, setting his hands on his partner’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“I need your help.”

“Of course,” Jayce answered without registering how the admission sent him reeling. “Always—just—what’s happening?”

Instead of responding, Viktor turned his head, eyes sluggish and glassy. Jayce couldn’t help the rising panic in his chest as Viktor stood there, dripping wet and seeming confused. Under Jayce’s palms, he was burning hot as a furnace, warm even through the layer of that blanket and the chilly damp of his clothes. His body wasn’t shaking so much as convulsing with cold.

“I keep losing track of everything,” he murmured finally, sounding ragged. “And—everything... hurts.” He still wasn’t looking at Jayce, instead staring off into the middle distance. “I... I can’t—“ In a second, his head snapped back towards Jayce with alarming speed, though his gaze still lacked focus. “You—“ The blanket dropped from his shoulders as he slammed a hand to Jayce’s chest, as if for emphasis. “You have to—have to promise to continue the work for me.” Viktor swallowed thickly. “U-until I can...” He looked distinctly queasy, tucking into himself with the effort of fighting back his nausea.

He’s sick, Jayce realised all at once—Viktor was feverish to the point of delirium.

“V, I need you to calm down for me first,” he soothed, retrieving the blanket from the floor and pulling it back around the other man’s thin frame. “We’ll get you dry and settled, and then we can talk about all that.”

“No! No, you don’t get it. You just keep wasting time.” Viktor’s accusation burnt almost as hot as the palm that had been pressed against Jayce’s bare skin. “With the council—with everything... You have to do this for me.”

“Of course, V, but this first.” Without allowing the time for further feverish rambling, he scooped under Viktor’s legs and hauled him into his arms. His friend gave a fragile sound of surprise, his crutch clattering against the wall as it fell to the floorboards.

Viktor seemed too disoriented to struggle, the damp head of auburn curls pressing into Jayce’s shoulder. “No,” he protested weakly, and Jayce hushed him, trying not to think how much the surgery along his spine was causing him agony as they moved towards Jayce’s bedroom. He settled Viktor into the rumpled mess of his bed, trying for a comforting hand cupped at the base of his neck when he made a soft sound of pain despite Jayce’s efforts to be gentle.

He was halfway through peeling Viktor out of his wet clothes and the tight clasp of his brace when he spied the state of his still-healing back. Viktor’s skin was bright red, inflamed—even in the dim half-light, Jayce could tell it was healing wrong, shot through with the telltale signs of infection.

“Shit.” The fever, the nausea even, it all began to make sense. “We’re going to the hospital.”

Those weeks of recovery became a blur of sterile halls and mounting fear. For the first few days, Viktor drifted in and out of consciousness, his normally sharp mind dulled by fever and medication. Viktor’s fever would break, only to spike dangerously high again. He’d manage to keep down food one day, then be unable to the next. Jayce found himself splitting his time between Council meetings he could barely focus on and Viktor’s bedside, where he’d spread papers across the thin blankets, working on council proposals while Viktor slept.

The doctors spoke in careful, measured tones about ‘complications’ and ‘setbacks’. Jayce noticed how they directed their explanations to him rather than Viktor, as if his partner’s brilliant mind had somehow diminished with his physical state. Viktor, when lucid, would catch Jayce’s eye with a familiar irritation at being spoken about rather than to.

“You don’t have to stay,” Viktor told him one evening, voice rough from disuse. His skin was waxy in the cold hospital lighting, dark circles stark under his eyes.

“I know.” Jayce didn’t look up from his papers, knowing if he did, Viktor would see right through him, and he didn’t think he could handle being chastised for his care.

There was a long pause. “At least bring me our notes next time. I can review them—don’t argue, Jayce.” He hadn’t even opened his mouth, but had been about to protest. “I feel like I’m losing my mind in here, and I am apparently too ‘unstable’ to be discharged.” Viktor sounded ever himself, calm despite the circumstances that had Jayce spinning out.

Through it all, none of his other troubles had gone away. Endless dread made everything twice as overbearing, and every time they parted, he was plagued by the terrifying thought: maybe this is it. The last time he might see him alive. It was both the beginning and end of so much—too much.

One thought centred him, humming in his mind. He needs me—needs me to fix this.

𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

His new breakthrough delays the prototype, but it’s not as devastating as he had thought it would be. The core remains on its pin, its half-constructed cluster of pyramids hovering like a misshapen moon caught in the magic’s gravity.

He doesn’t even entertain the thought of deconstruction—it would take too long. The momentum of discovery drives him forward. Excitement ignites him like the fires of his forge, an old steam engine thundering back to life. How long has it been since he felt this spark of unprecedented possibility, this chance to serve his and Viktor’s shared dream? The familiar thrill remakes him. Once again, he’s that young scientist chasing endless horizons. He throws himself into redesigning the Hexcore’s structure, knowing Viktor’s spherical construct will need to shift to accommodate the missing rune—if his theory holds.

Viktor’s matrix would have been able to evolve and adapt, but it lacked drive. Ever the engineer, Viktor had overlooked the possibility of bending his initial goals. It needed creativity, pliancy—soul. At most, without adjustment, his original design would have likely been highly capable of harnessing and releasing unprecedented amounts of arcane energy. A powerful tool with plenty of applications, certainly, but with its added nature as an unstable and shifting combination of runes, it was unacceptably dangerous. Adding the inspiration rune brings everything back into balance, allowing the matrix to almost choose, in a way, when it would change, rather than merely reacting.

The inspiration rune will stabilise the matrix, bringing life to a truly adaptable system capable of self-adjustment without internal conflict. It’s a huge leap forward in the complexity of the tech they could develop—everything Viktor had promised it would be if Jayce’s adjustments bear fruit.

The possibilities of this work give him the patience he needs to focus on his redesign. After working through a few different possibilities, he settles on a dodecahedron. It seems the most capable of handling the variables without expanding into infinity. He lifts the plans up, raking his eyes over them with fervent reverence. The original concept was almost too extraordinary to improve upon, but he’s truly done it—seamlessly woven the new rune into the design. It’s as though it has always belonged there—and maybe it has.

Exhaustion threatens to wash over him, but underneath burns a fierce satisfaction. For the first time in years, he recognises himself in this moment: the surge of discovery, of certainty enveloping him. He feels at last at home in his body, assured in his path forward.

Still smiling, he turns the plans towards the abandoned prototype. “What do you think? Better chance?” The Hexcore continues its silent vigil on its metal pin, but its pyramids shimmer with blue energy, their gentle bobbing almost like a wave—as if sharing in tonight’s victory.

Viktor would admonish him for personifying one of their inventions and probably comment on how the hour is making him delusional. As if on cue, he yawns so hard his jaw cracks. He’s a ragged mess; if he expects to be worth anything in the lab tomorrow, he’ll need to turn in for at least a few hours of sleep before returning.

Blood still thrumming with possibilities, he begins the process of cleaning up. Removing the pyramids from the hex gemstone core and tucking away all his work and new designs, he feels light as he turns the key in the lock. His eyes drift over the desks to ensure he’s managed to hide all evidence of this.

Soon, he realises, soon he’ll have something he can share.

This time it has to be different. He won’t fail Viktor again.

𓊈 first chapter | previous chapter | next chapter on AO3 𓊉

AN: we get some answersssssss woooo - this is chapter 14, 'An Incurable Malady' from our fic Lies We Tell Ourselves! sorry this one's late we're actually updating AO3 today with chapter 28 ahhh i've been so busy 😭 but good busy i guess!

[whereserpentswalk]

You've summoned a demon into the world. You didn't expect the spell to work. She flew up out of the ether, looking like a horrifying monstrosity, like the human form twisted into a horrible and unnatural shape and combined with the parts of unknowable beasts, tentacles ending in fanged mouths coming from her naked body, and wings adorned with eyes coming from her exposed spine, she was like nothing that could exist uoon this world. When she appeared the skybwent black, and cold rain fell upon the street around your apartment.

Afraid of her at first, and not knowing what you would want to do with her now that the spell has actually worked, you tried to sent her back to the abyss where she came from. She seemed so afraid, so scared to go back to where she came from. She begged you to command her to do something on earth. You always knew wherever demons came from was a plane of suffering, you never thought of how the demons themselves felt to be there.

You told her that she could stay in your apartment for awhile. She just stood there. You had to tell her that she was allowed to sit on your couch, and when you asked if she wanted a glass of water she seemed to suprised that anyone would want to give something to her, like it was a beautiful gift. She kept asking to do things for you, and when you told her that her only order was to rest, she seemed so afraid that she had upset you.

You told her about your world that night, about the beauty of earth that she had never known. She seemed so curious about it when she first started hearing it. That there were great oceans of cool water, filled with fish and creatures, that there were great forests and shining cities, that there were bees and hawks and crocodiles, and distant cultures, and roaring trains, and meusums and theaters and song. And she seemed so excited to hear about all of it, to her about a world that wasn't punishment for the damned, and the glory of a reward in heaven that she would never know, of a heaven she didn't even know was real. You played music and animation for her, and let her weep at the wonder of human art. You let her pet your cat, and she looked at it like it was the most wondrous creature in the world. And you let her look out your window, at the city at night, the beauty of the tower windows shining like stars.

In the morning she would go back to the abyss. There were demons more powerful than her, who suffered less, who would rely on her to be back soon if she had no duty on earth. And if monster hunters came for her she would be banished in a more humiliating way than to return of her own accord. But for that night she existed with you, and cuddled with you on your bed, and that night was made cool by a quite rain, and your apartment glowed a warm red glow. And in the morning when she was gone, despite the truth you knew, you just pretended that she had left for someone else's home.