#life saving magic potion that makes you hot and happy

[bisclavaret]

a day late to my 6 years on t anniversary ✨🏳️‍⚧️ a short comic about looking back

[kneelingshadowsalome]

hi!! 🩷 i've been playing skyrim so much just for comfort and all i can think of is former mercenary könig who now has a farm and a huge house where you have a personal library and a garden and an alchemy table because you're his pretty mage wife <3

or könig who's still a mercenary, this huge scary nord who always has war paint all over his face even with a hood on, only uses two-handed weapons etc. and you're possibly just a mage who needs to explore a bunch of ruins so you have to spend most of your money to hire him and all of your courage to even talk to him about the job in the first place.

SHUT UP I LOVE SKYRIM

Ugh he def proposed to you under the auroras or when you were enjoying a rest at some secret grotto. Held an awkward “I want to spend the rest of my life with you” speech right after you emerged from a stream with nothing on (König stole a glance or two from the banks after promising he wouldn’t look, the big pervert)

He’ll carry anything you give him, and loves it when you make him a homecooked meal <3 Poses as a rough Nord but is always happy to arrive home after adventuring, sleep and fuck you on a cozy comfy bed that has a soft straw mattress with some mountain flowers tucked in it.

Is a bit skeptical about your magic and potions tho, König never understood those things and you dabbling with them makes him think you’re some sort of witch, soon luring him into a trap with your enchanting eyes :/ That’s why it took months before he finally threw caution to the wind and rutted you in the hot springs near Kynesgrove...

He just couldn’t take it anymore, his flirty little mage being such a tease :( Do you even know how many times he had to fap himself to sleep under the furs? ...While you slept soundly not a few feet away, unsuspecting and sweet? Always walked ahead of him so that he had a hard time keeping an eye for the bandits because your ass was swaying right there under his nose >:(

Paws itching to touch you, he especially hated when you sought out a tavern and started to chat with townsfolk or flirt with men to hear rumours. Either cheeky or far too innocent to be travelling with someone like him, you proposed that you pay for single room only and sleep in the same bed to save costs.

Sometimes snuggling closer for some body heat, you didn't get intimidated by the obvious boner soon swelling between you. You even dared to comment on how hairy he was, and fell asleep with a soft smile on your face, pressed snug against his chest. In the morning, you cupped his ass and he had to get a little gruff, warn you that he’ll fuck you until the bed breaks if you’re not careful (that finally got you to your senses, but only for a few days)

He always wanted to build you a proper house, a manor even, steal you away from all the diplomatic nonsense and dangers, he even put some coin to the side so he could someday offer you a safe, happy life away from all this. You could have your own chickens and leeks, he could make you a little alchemy lab too, you’d look so cute perched on some bench with your nose in a book <3 So imagine how his heart soared when you whispered 'yes' to his proposal, König was sure you’d just vaguely tease him about it as per usual!

[sitp-recs]

Hello, I was wondering if you could have any friends to lovers drarry fic rec for me? I enjoy slow burn with a kind and soft Draco (where he isn’t a bully) or one where draco stood for the light side of the war (so preferably during the war). I just want want to see Draco have a strong friendship with the golden trio, really! (I don't mind if the romance is a subplot. I just want a focus on Draco)

(I quite literally watched Harry Potter with my sister thinking Draco was going to have a hell of a redemption arc and was sorely disappointed... So here I am seeking for comfort fics)

Anyways thanks in advance!

Hi anon! I feel you, Draco’s redemption arc was poorly done and so frustrating :( I hope you’ll enjoy these as they combine slow burn, friends to lovers and redeemed Draco. Some are told from Harry’s pov and while Draco’s not always soft I think his characterization will be right up your alley. You might also enjoy GallaPlacidia’s Draco, her fics were taken down but you can find them here. Finally, I have also added my personal favorites redemption arc as a separate category, highly recommend them. Enjoy!

Friends to lovers slow burn:

Vortex by @xanthippe74 (T, 20k)

The idea of perfectly-matched soulmates feels more like a curse than a blessing to Draco. Who would want a soulmate who was a schoolyard bully, a Death Eater, and a convicted felon? Certainly not Harry Potter. And Draco is determined to take this secret to the grave.

Nice Things by aideomai (M, 22k)

The first thing that happened was Theodore Nott came back from France.

With Great Yawns and Stretchings by sugar_screw (T, 22k)

The coffee is very good. Really. And the cats are so cute. That's why Harry goes so often.

Moldova's Magical Tea by @aibidil (E, 32k)

Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and—to everyone’s surprise—Draco Malfoy are opening a magical tea shop to revive wizarding tea culture and, hopefully, to bring the community together after the war. Harry, who is unemployed and trying to find his way in post-war society, wants to help his friends with their new business—but that means spending a lot of time around Malfoy.

Open For Repairs by @drarrytrash (M, 35k)

After the war, Draco works at a tv repair shop and Harry breaks things.

Follow the Water by @xanthippe74 (T, 38k)

Harry Potter’s life is fine. Maybe a little dull and predictable, but he shouldn’t complain about that, right? When he unexpectedly finds himself at Luna’s house one afternoon, Harry gets invited to join the secret wonderland that she’s creating with a surprising group of friends. Maybe a summer outdoors is just what a former hero needs to bring some zest back into his life.

Modern Love by @tackytigerfic (E, 61k)

Harry Potter, of all people, knows that life isn’t always fair. And no one gets to be happy all of the time. But surely there’s something more—something better—than a rubbish Ministry job, and a lonely old house, and that feeling that everyone out there is doing a better job of living than Harry is.

Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love by @aibidil (E, 80k)

In which a group of wizards' rights activists goes on the offensive after a prohibition against love potions, forcing the magical world to confront the horror of magic's role in sexual assault and the murky legal nature of consent. Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Draco are swept together to solve the case, and in the process they're made to confront their own love and lust—with and without potions.

At Your Service by Faith Wood (E, 95k)

Hogwarts students are in danger; Harry is determined to save them all. There's only one thing he knows for certain: Draco Malfoy is somehow involved.

All Life is Yours to Miss by Saras_Girl (M, 114k)

Professor Malfoy's world is contained, controlled, and as solitary as he can make it, but when an act of petty revenge goes horribly awry, he and his trusty six-legged friend are thrown into Hogwarts life at the deep end and must learn to live, love and let go.

My favorites - Redemption arc:

And Save Me From Bloody Men by @blamebrampton (T, 10k)

Draco Malfoy once watched others fighting to stop the world falling apart. This time, he's not just watching.

Slithering by astolat (E, 27k)

Draco found the nest down in the Manor’s cellars, while he was clearing them out.

Heal Thyself by astolat (T, 47k)

"Are you going for the course?" Lovegood asked. "You have the NEWTs.” “What course?” Draco said, then, “No, don’t be ridiculous,” when he realized she meant the notice pinned up on the board he’d been staring at: Applicants To The Introductory Mediwizard Course For The Coming Term Shall Present Themselves In The Chief Mediwizard’s Office By August 24th.

A Young Radical's Guide to Love by @blamebrampton (T, 66k)

Memories of the war are still fresh, which is all the excuse Decent People need to do appalling things. In this quietly waged conflict, Draco Malfoy is happy to be on the right side of things for once, and even happier to find he’s not alone.

A Thousand Beautiful Things by geoviki (M, 104k)

Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend.

Changing Tides by carpemermaid (E, 109k)

Draco has spent half of his life spouting the things his father has taught him without much thought about how he feels about what he says. When he unexpectedly comes face to face with the Dark Lord, he grapples with the harsh realities of the world and struggles with his changing views on life.

Far From The Tree by aideomai (E, 112k)

The arrival of Harry Potter’s children—snapped back in time, the children themselves guessed, twenty or so years—was the most interesting thing to happen at Hogwarts for years.

By the Grace by lettered (T, 140k)

Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.

Eclipse by Mijan (T, 287k)

Draco swore his revenge on Harry for Lucius's imprisonment, and Harry all but laughed at him. But Draco is planning more than schoolyard pranks this time. The old rivalry turns deadly when Draco abducts Harry for Voldemort. It's the perfect plan, guaranteeing revenge, power, and prestige, all in one blow. But when Draco's world turns upside down, the fight to save himself and Harry begins, and the battle will take them both through hell and back. If they come back.

Twist of Fate by Oakstone730 (T, 302k)

Draco asks Harry to help him beat the Imperius curse during 4th year. The lessons turn into more than either expected. A story of redemption and forgiveness.

[gabessquishytum]

look, hob loves his stranger, he has loved him since he first laid eyes on him, and after 1689 he realizes he cannot live without him

that's why after restructuring his life he goes after the occult to find a way to make his stranger love him, and in their next meeting, he slips a love potion in his drink (something that does not affect his personality at all)

and it works!! his stranger is completely enamored with him, and what a feeling that is!

Dream (because he was finally given a name) is just as, if not more intense than hob, and he absolutely loves it. He learns about his strangers function, his job, his life, past loves, everything (bc what lover would dream be if he didn't share his lived life with his partner?) They go on dates when dream is not busy and they even get married at some point!!

when dream is captured hob is at burgess door to save his love and take him home, everything is perfect in hob's eye

till in 2022 the potion finally wears off and dream becomes aware of it for the first time. He is furious obviously, how dare this mortal think himself high enough to do this to him??

he lashes out and leave hob

But. after analyzing what became of him under the spell, he cannot deny his life had significantly improved, having hob by his side made things easy, this was probably the longest relationship he ever had and he was happy, he doesn't know what to do, he is so angry but he is still married to hob who clearly loved him, could he learn how to love his husband now he wasn't under the spell?

(Is 🌘 taken?)

Greetings 🌘 anon!!

Oh Hob, you big idiot. I can definitely see the pathway from desperate 1689 Hob being at his absolute lowest moment, becoming kinda unhinged and deciding that he really needs to do this, come hell or high water. (He’s bloody lucky that his plan worked out, since it’s possible that Dream could have just not drunk anything, as usual. Hob is fortunate that Dream has a weakness for hot chocolate.)

Hob does feel guilty about his actions, especially as more time passes. But Dream seems happy, isn’t that the most important thing? Hob tells himself that he’s not truly forcing Dream do anything, that he’s acting of his own free will. Plus, if they hadn’t been “in love” and married, then Hob wouldn’t have been able to rescue Dream from Burgess! He could have been trapped down there for a 100 years, maybe even more.

Despite all of this, Hob understands when Dream is furious, when Dream leaves. The magic is gone and clearly Dream feels absolutely nothing except for rage. Hob is grateful to be allowed to live. He’ll always, always love Dream and be his husband. He hopes that if he waits for long enough, Dream might change his mind.

So he waits. He opens up a place called the New Inn. He hopes that it can symbolise a new start. And then one day, Dream walks through the door. Not only that, he’s wearing his wedding ring. He tells Hob that despite the hurt and betrayal, he’s realised - with Hob, he was the happiest he’s ever been. So. If Hob can woo him properly and make him happy again, without any tricks this time, Dream will stay with him. He’s willing to give Hob one year to make their marriage work.

So Hob has better pull his socks up and prove to Dream that he’s worthy of forgiveness. He’s willing spend the rest of eternity focusing on Dream’s happiness. He just has to hope that Dream will be as receptive to true, honest love, as he was to the magic…

[sleepyowlwrites]

FTWT CCCLXX

breezy is doing games 'til midnight apparently. I'm very happy about your new click. @blind-the-winds @diphthongsfordays

so I ended up using long excerpts oops

vivid (the potion gnome, 2021)

it looks like the liquid has a mind of its own, like it’s trying to jump out of the bottle. there’s no lid, no cap, no cork, so you cover it with the end of your sleeve as you hold it. the brightness of sunlight is reflecting off its surfaces and making it hard to look at.

the gnome glares at it sourly, before sweeping his cape up around his shoulders and stalking off down the trail, thankfully in the opposite direction of you. you have received no instructions on what to do with this potion. you’re not sure it won’t kill you. you take a tentative sniff and the world goes hazy. rose gold and soft blues tint the ground and sky.

you blink several times to try and reset this effect but the colors just switch out for rusty orange, sage green, a horrid yellow. you wonder if you’re hallucinating or if the potion was just that strong. the gnome reappears in your line of sight, cheat heaving from exertion.

my apologies, he says between breaths. this one isn’t for you. you’re human, yes?

yes, you tell him.

he looks mildly embarrassed. and you don’t have any magic, right?

I do, you say indignantly. I have gardening magic.

the gnome looks doubly appalled. I am very sorry, he says again. but this is not for you. have this instead. He produces a thin, black vial that smells strongly of licorice.

that seems unappealing, you inform him.

it’s for your garden, the gnome explains impatiently. keeps away bad bugs, attracts good ones, and your flowers will grow as whatever color you wish for.

you think about it and then make the trade. alright, you tell him. but what was that other potion?

he looks very embarrassed. it’s a hallucinogenic. great for parties or vivid dreams. but only if you’re a wizard or an elf.

alright then. your garden will at least look good.

orange (the sleepy stash, 2020)

It's raining, like always, and the roses are wilting all over. Summer ends in tears every year, washing all the colors out of world and drowning the heat that has held us in its stranglehold for months. I watch red and yellow petals drift down the road, becoming more mud covered along the way. I usually tried to save a few but this year didn't felt like it. Bunches of old roses in every color decorate my hands and I let them go. No one misses what has always left before.

The vines creeping up the sides of the house have started to shrink; the leaves and twigs turned from green to brown and become brittle. It's the same everywhere. Summer is fading but the world wasn't dying. This is a revival: beautiful, riveting.

I stand under the natural shower and breathe in the seasonal change. The water bubbles along my skin with the heat. My feet are bare on the pavement, scorching and saturated. The intensity of the colored light mixes with charcoal on the way out. I could paint the sky and all the leaves with the hues under my soles. Hot blues drip from my fingers. I drank green and orange and swallowed their souls.

My hair grows out past my shoulders and caresses the earth. There is so much life to wring out of my wings. I fly closer to the sun and delight in the burning. The wind on my skin bleeds deeper with time. I fall through the cracks when the day turns over. The sky paints itself and me with it.

I smile.

bloom (ellipses of thought no.01, 2020)

I emptied my intentions into the lake where I slept. if the morning is ugly I’ll dive back under. are there roses that bloom brighter if no one can see them? I think I heard them bleeding. the artist can wander but if the stories are gone, the lake will swallow me and I’ll drown, and the legend of the roses I will never live down. they died to see me living and I left them to wilt. my intentions were benign, but they don’t exist. I’ll sleep again knowing that I can’t hide my guilt.

remember (city story d0)

“I know,” Jet interjects, approaching where she’s standing alone, silhouetted by the setting sun. “I know you can. If I wasn’t here, you’d deal with it on your own, as you no doubt have done before.”

He stands next to Rune and takes her hand, grip loose enough for her to pull away easily. She doesn’t, but her mouth sets in a firm line like she’s biting back a dozen protests.

“Lean on me, remember? You can do it alone, but I’m with you, so lean on me. Because you can, you absolutely can.”

“What am I supposed to do when I don’t have you anymore?”

Jet has to pause and collect his thoughts after they scatter with the force of those broken, splintering words. Rune isn’t crying, or shaking, and her shoulders are pulled back like they’re what’s keeping her upright. She stares straight at him in defiance, but he can see the scraped out insides of her eyes.

“Why would you need to worry about that?” He tries to say it lightly, but it still pulls tight all the threads of his conscience to say it. “You can have me forever.”

It feels like such a dirty lie. Not because he doesn’t mean it, but because life just doesn’t work out like that. There’s no such luck in the world. He means that she can have him around and ready to fight with her for as long as circumstance allows, but that feels a lot less supportive. Feels cheap, and Rune deserves much more than that, even if it’s more realistic to understand he can’t give her everything.

despair (you, of bone, and I, of bitterness, 2020)

your spine links all your bones closer the more I strain them apart and there is not a one that could be separated except, perhaps, by the visceral decapitation of an inward part the sinew from the skeleton, the muscle from the mainframe your essence is elegant in its demise and I admit even in defeat you maintain your strength from older days though, being of a being long past its prime I see your despairing desire to win back your youth after a fashion - the fashion being to sew back one’s eyelids to keep awake through the endless hallways of building a fortune or a failure -

help (mercenary story d0)

Mirai made her way down the hill, fully aware of the insanity of this decision. She’d known it was a terrible idea when she’d first had it, and it had continued to be mad all while she’d snuck out and journeyed away from home. Her father would lock her up in a great, tall tower if he’d caught wind of her plans, but he didn’t have much control of himself these days. Mirai could only sneak out because he wasn’t aware of everything his daughter did.

It was selfish to leave him alone, she knew that. But she couldn’t take on his burdens, so she had to find someone who could. This insanity was the only thing she could do to help. The north city walls were so much taller up close. Mirai wasn’t short, but she felt infinitely small in face of somewhere entirely unfamiliar.

love (things that have made me cry lately, 2021)

my mom has people who love her, and it’s no surprise. she’s a wonder. she has stood under waterfalls and sunk to her knees in mud, she has allowed for breathing under bluer skies than I’ve ever known, she looks at fire and declares it shall not be disdained for its danger. she will love you until you know what love is, or until you cannot look any longer and walk away, and she will still love you for being because she believes in the sacred beauty of a heart always open. my mom is the strength I sometimes think cannot still be found in human bodies and I love her for it. she is loved because she, more than anything else she has ever given, is one who loves first, last, and forever.

revenge I have like two examples and I've used them too many times

right, rain, release, rest. BONUS: rekindle, rancid. @faelanvance @aritany @tananaphone @wildswrites @deciphered-narrator @akindofmagictoo OR ANYBODY

[martianbugsbunny]

OUAT Thoughts Pt.41--Episodes 18-19

I have watched through S4E19; spoilers DNI. Also, spoiler warning for anyone further behind than I am.

—This is a fun, new kind of pain! I think this time it’s not so much an emotional stabbing as it is having a cheese grater taken to my heart. Interesting.

—In case you couldn’t tell, this is about Rump. I really need him to be playing a longer game to actually avenge his son, or I’m gonna be mad as hell at him. How can he work with that witch with a B? What an ARSE!

—That horse-vs-bicycle chase through New York is without a doubt one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.

—I fricking hate Zelena. And yet I get the strong feeling that I will hate her more by the time she actually dies.

—This is an oddly brilliant take on Robin Hood. He’s not just a thief by occupation, he’s a thief in his heart, but he wants to find a way to use his thieving nature to help others. That’s deep.

—Will Scarlett’s clothes in Oz were gorgeous.

—Robin giving Will that heart potion (reverse pickpocketing him, no less) was wonderful. I love Robin for being a noble scoundrel.

—It is impossible to make a goodguy out of someone who kills dogs, and I’m deeply pleased that this show didn’t even bother. We got a solid fakeout for a hot second there, but actually Cruella is just evil at her core. That’s what doggy-killers are.

—Poor Pongo. He’s having a *ruff* day.

—Fun little reference that Cruella’s favorite song was the Cruella song from 101 Dalmatians. And that song goes hard for no reason.

—If Emma goes evil, does Lilith revert to her original state? (I am going to keep calling her Lilith, not Lily, because Lilith is one of the coolest names possible. Especially for the daughter of an evil sorceress.) It would be pretty fly if Lilith returning was what saved Emma.

—Although I’m pretty sure Lilith still hates her, so….

—Cruella’s flapper-style dress was gorgeous. I adore that fashion—the beads, the sparkles, the T-strap shoes, the fluttery drapery bits, the headbands—it’s gorgeous. And flappers are kinda girls gone wild, dancing at all hours at what have you.

—As I was watching, I was all, “lol, did he write ‘Cruella can’t dance?’” But no, it was actually a little bit deep. I can’t believe they actually made killing the thing that Cruella loved most.

—The Author still gets little to no sympathy. He’s not doing what Authors are supposed to do. But, he talks about stories the way I wax poetic about them in my wormy little brain. Before he went against the Authors’ Code, he was a pretty cool guy.

—I love that New York is consistently the place used to horrify displaced fairytale characters. There is no city in the nearby area that is worse.

—Seeing Rump in a hospital was weird as heck. And terrible. Seeing a body in a hospital like that inspires just about the most unequivocal feeling of helplessness possible, and I’m glad I’ve only had to do that once for a person in real life. I mean, other than going to visit my mom after my kid sibbies were born, but that’s a lil different. Anyway, it’s even worse when he’s supposed to be sustained by magic, because in this show “real” world methods are generally a last resort.

—But the physical implications of dark magic are intriguing. We’ve seen the darkening of a heart before, but not what that does to a person physically, and I think it’s pretty fascinating, even if it is taking Rump down.

—We have now established for sure that killing the Author just passes the mantle on, so we’ve got some possibilities opening up here. Manifesting Author Henry, please and thank you.

—Seriously, I’m really mad that Zelena survived. I hate her. I want her to be dead. I don’t even want her alive for the satisfaction of getting to see her die again. She disgusts me. And she’s still a huge brat! *shakes fist threateningly in Zelena’s direction* *that’s actually just the TV* *works well enough*

—I need Regina to get her happy ending. I need her to not be the one to kill Zelena, also, because she doesn’t deserve the emotional damage of killing her sister—even if her sister does suck. Maybe while Emma’s feeling evil she could just take care of Zelena real quick?

—The Sheriff of Nottingham is a loser. He should get a swift kick in the nuts.

—I think I might’ve liked real Marian. She’s tough, and she’s loyal to Robin, and her fashion sense is right on! That cloak? Yes yes.

[daydream-believin]

MERLIN’S APPRENTICE & MERLIN’S CHAMPION || trollhunters

warnings: swearing

a/n: if rott gave me anything it gave me this idea

I KNOW I SAID “JUICY” BUT REALLY THAT WAS JUST THE ANGST POTENTIAL,, THAT IM NOT INDULGING IN THIS POST IM SORRY LMAO

OKAY WHAT IM REALLY TALKING BOUT HERE IS A GOOD MERLIN/ARTHUR BUT IT ACTUALLY WORKS

no sorry i haven’t seen bbc merlin don’t come for me i’m ignorant

OKAY SO

we know douxie kept an eye on the human trollhunter and co

but douxie’s really having a hard time convincing himself he’s just doing his job

he’s actually enjoying this a little too much despite how boring staying in the shadows is

and he’s kinda worried?

so he’s got this bright idea: you know what would better help him keeps tabs? if he befriends this person

and so he does

fuck merlin’s shadows

sod the rules

ofc he’s very up front about knowing they’re the trollhunter and that he’s merlin’s apprentice

we wouldn’t want that to become a huge festering secret that eats douxie from the inside out until the inevitable reveal when merlin calls them both to help with the arcane order and they realize they’ve both been lying to each other’s faces for months/years and neither of them know if they could ever trust the other again, right? — phew *catches breath*

but before you know it, mr. casperan and mx. trollhunter are best friends

he’s basically the toby to your jim

and you’re very happy to have a best friend like douxie

he understands that monster hunting hustle

he’s the only person you can vent to and actually talk about what’s going on without sounding like a loon

and douxie likes being able to tell someone all his frustrations with merlin, since you’re also in that boat with him

you spar sometimes. it’s fun, but you’re very careful not to accidentally hurt your friend (he’s extremely careful not to hurt you or wound your ego by effortlessly wiping you out)

ofc, there’s the occasional, brushing of hands, faces a little too close together, accidentally winding up on top of one another, purposefully winding up on top of one another 👀 you know how sparring be

you and douxie are a duo. a duo who have become trollmarket’s resident troublemakers, to vendel’s exasperation

you guys tease each other a lot

you do a lot of stupid shit, cause hey, now you have magic armor and a magic sword and a magic best friend, did you think you wouldn’t get up to some shenanigans?

douxie is your impulse control and he’s not a very good one, as he’s just as bad

truthfully archie has the brain cell

and pranks? gods the pranks. you two are always either pranking each other or you’re teaming up to prank some other troll who said smth mean to you in the pub. vendel had to personally put a stop to it (read: chew you out)

doux thinks the world of you tho, you’re such a noble knight, and likes to tell people about how you’re a cinnamon roll, so innocent, so pure

and then they meet you and you directly contradict those statements

trollhunter: i’ve never done anything wrong in my life, ever

douxie: i know this and i love you

(spoiler: you’ve done lots and lots of wrong)

doux spends an awful lot of time slinking around trollmarket now, and he’s in the know for everything that’s happening

(no more being kept in the dark for this wizard apprentice)

and doux knows merlin won’t completely approve of this, but hey, it’s not like he’s helping and thus directly disobeying

really, he’s not helping you at all, it’s really fucking annoying

okay so mayyybe the occasional healing spell. you’ve got those puppy dog eyes he can’t say no to

but you understand his sense of duty, or whatever it is that drives a follower, technically being a follower of merlin yourself

you respect the old geezer (as you have not been turned into a half-troll yet) as a wise mythical figure, and as your best friend’s father

and what a perfect match you are for each other, champion and apprentice, mutually being screwed over by a guy you both think has all the answers

you and douxie help each other grow in your self-worths, that you two are more than the chances merlin has given to you

unfortunately, mortifyingly, you have caught feelings.

douxie has also caught feelings, and is saying nothing yep you have enough on your plate without him putting this on you so he’ll just quietly pine and suffer don’t mind him choking to death in the corner when you take off your helmet and throw back your hair

y’all’s problem really starts manifesting itself as protectiveness. you are really protective of your wizard and he is really protective of his knight

lots of things said that are Not What Friends Say but neither of you really want to be the one to point that out

lots and lots of i love yous that slowly get more and more serious until it’s not exactly platonic anymore

and it’s just really nice to have someone to get coffee (or your favored hot drink) with at four in the morning after a tussle with a troll

and that’s basically how you and douxie spend the bulk of trollhunters, just vibing

as much as you can vibe, with all the changelings and shit trying to murder you all the time

then merlin wakes up and shakes up your world

you are aware of your impending doom

you’re aware of it

merlin keeps looking you up and down like he’s mentally making up the measurements of your coffin

and tbh the idea of fighting gunmar freaks you tf out

and you’re supposed to win that fight?

gods

you’re preparing for your nightmares coming true soon

truthfully you knew your fucking job had a 100% mortality rate

you don’t want to die with regrets

so

you spill

you spill all the things you’d wanted to tell him and how much he means to you and that you couldn’t bear it if you were a goner before he knew

miraculously, douxie feels the same and tells you all the things he’d been holding back and and what you mean to him and how much he wants to protect you, that you’re gonna make it, if he had anything to say about it

and everything is perfect for one night

now you have a real reason to win

not that saving humanity isn’t a big responsibility on your shoulders and definitely A Reason

but knowing douxie’s waiting for you, for the life you’ll build together after this, the peace you’ll both have, it’s absolutely a big motivation to give your all and come out victorious and survive

hahaha loser you don’t know about the arcane order

and then merlin uses your microwave to cook a weird potion

you and merlin are alone in the house, but there’s no real mind games necessary. you may have grown past thinking he was a god, but in the end, you’re still a follower of merlin, and if merlin thinks this could give you an edge, well, who are you to question his methods

doesn’t mean you aren’t nervous as your master hands you the bottle

yet you don’t even hesitate to drown yourself in the black abyss of the tub

whatever it takes amirite?

and now you’re a half-troll

a sexy half-troll, if you do say so yourself

yeah, no ‘i’m a monster’ angst here, you’re loving the power-up

you’ve got to treat it like a cool new power-up or you will cry actually tbh i lied about the no-angst thing a new body is disorienting

your only real concern is douxie

not concerned for long tho, he sees you and the first thing out of his mouth is “nuclear!”

and he senses your concern, so he does go out of his way to assure you that boy, girl, enby, or half-troll, he loves you for your soul, darling

also again half-troll! you is hot as hell so he’s not really losing anything here 👀

he makes sure you know that too, not to let any insecurities fester

him raking his eyes up and down you gives the opposite effect of the dread merlin sent down your spine doing it

anyways,,,

doux helps out a lot more in the eternal night

like helps merlin re-defeat and re-seal morgana

he’ll do it again in few weeks but with a bigger role you know, this is practice

thank merlin for that edge YOU ARE THE LAST TROLLHUNTER YOU ARE VICTORIOUS YOUVE GOT GUNMARS HEAD IN YOUR HANDS HAHAHA

but now you’ve got to go to new jersey

douxie’s been instructed to stay in arcadia tho 🥺

it’s okay, you’ll see each other again soon

sooner than you realize

and until then you talk each other to sleep every night over the phone <3

merlins glad, actually. he’s glad hisirdoux found some solace. even if it is with the lamb he was raising for the slaughter. maybe things will go okay for them. the time map suggests it might be so

hisirdoux may have done things in a way he didn’t quite approve of, but that’s because he’s becoming his own wizard, and merlin is proud

[wandsandwheezes]

Fake It | Weasley Twins | CH8

one // two // three // four // five // six // seven

Warnings | 2.3k // 18+ SMUT (in other chapters), mature themes, fake relationships, secret relationships, love, sex, drama, angst, fluff, character death, murder???, unforgivable curses. Happy? ending

Summary // Fred Weasley has been set up to publicly date Y/N, London’s best Quidditch Seeker in order to drum up some publicity. Y/N however has a different ginger man on her mind; George Weasley.

A/N // well well well, we have come to a close. Writing this has been the best release for all of my feelings!! this really has been amazing and the support I've had has been unreal! a massive thank you goes out to every reader who made it possible and motivated me to get out! my special thanks goes out to the rose of my life @starlightweasley​ - possibly fake it’s biggest fan and the girl who has supported all of my breakdowns through this fic! This however isn’t a goodbye, just a see you later because I have a big announcement coming alongside the epilogue <33

‘I saw you and Fred just now.’

The words echoed through your head, trying to gauge what George could have possibly meant by his words. Fred must know, he must have some inclination as to what had set George over the edge so quickly. You were confused, George had refused to tell you what he saw. You knew that you hadn’t slept with Fred, hell you’d hardly spoken more than a few words to each other in at least a week. But now, you were walking up the concrete steps to the first floor flat, tapping softly on the pale yellow door. It swung open slowly, the whine of the hinges echoing through the stone stairwell, you were greeted by the tall, dishevelled man, he didn’t speak, choosing only to stare back at you blankly. 

“Look Fred I don’t know what the fuck is going on with George, he says he saw us together but I was at practice and-” He still stared back at you with absolutely nothing behind his eyes. Normally Fred would’ve at least looked away or cracked a smile or something, but a deadpan look washed over his face, his eyes burning into the back of yours with a stare so intense you felt like he was medusa and you were turning to stone. 

It was only then that you noticed a perfectly manicured hand snake over Fred’s shoulder to his chest, the nails were a long, glossy red to match the name of the person whose hand it was. Cherry’s face came into view as her chin rested on the opposite shoulder of the man in front of her. Red lip gloss leaves its mark on Fred’s skin as she presses a sensual kiss to his ear as her sinister breath fans over his neck. “Come, Freddie, let her in so that the girls can talk, hm?”

Fred simply nods, moving to the side to allow you in, shutting the door behind you before walking over to the corner and just standing there. Your eyes following him as his expression still runs blank, like he was a shell of a human. “What have you done to him, Cherry.”

She laughs, smirk hanging off her lips, every word breath and sound that breached her mouth was dripping with malice and hatred. "Don't you worry your pretty head about that, he wanted this just as much as I do."

You cocked your head to the side, watching as Cherry pulls out her wand, you go to do the same but she quickly disarms you, leaving you helpless, vulnerable and open. Confusion washed over you more than anything. What could possibly be going so wrong that she needed to take it out on you, on Fred even. "You know, Y/N, Polyjuice potion is a fantastic thing, I just wish i could've seen George's face as he caught his twin brother fucking his girl right in front of him."

You finally understood. It wasn't you George had seen earlier tonight, It was Cherry. You finally got why George called you all of those horrible words, why he kicked you out, why he was so furious. Because you felt exactly the same, anger bubbling over like hot iron, the blood and rage reaching your eyes as you lurched forward. "You fucking bitch, I can't believe you'd do tha-" 

Your airways closed, you couldn't talk, nor breathe as you clutched at your neck, dropping to your knees as you felt what air you had in your lungs leave. Cherry released the magical grasp she had on you, causing you to exhale a deep breath, trying desperately to fill your lungs again, completely doubled over as the terrible pain crippled your lungs. Cherry's hand grasped roughly onto your hair, forcing you to look up at her, as she squatted down in front of you. "Cat got your tongue?" 

"Why…" you pleaded, looking up at her desperately as she pointed her wand at your throat, you wished Fred would intervene, stop her from what she was doing or at the very least speak up. "Why me? What do you hate so much about George and I being together?" 

"It's not about your stupid fucking boyfriend," the wood pressed against your throat a ittle harder as she got angrier, taking a deep breath. "You're a Murderer."

With the same breath you were protesting the ghastly accusation. You wouldn't hurt a fly, your anger reserved only for the quidditch pitch and when George had been particularly frustrating, but never in your life would you have thought about killing someone. "What are you talking about I haven't killed anyo-"

She cut you off with a sharp slap across the face. Sneering at you as she spat back her response, you looked deep into her eyes, clouded with anger and fury. "You are a cold blooded killer, the moment I found out it was YOU who killed my sister, I knew I was going to ruin your life."

"Your sister? I didn't even know you had a sister, please this must be some sort of mistake." You were begging her as you stared at her with pleading eyes before hanging your head in sorrow, causing her to scoff and pull away from you. “You don’t even realise the damage you did to my family when you killed The Bishop.”

Your mind flashed back to the war, a green storm swirling in your head as you’re brought back, watching from the side-lines, a ghost of the future as you watch your body contort in hideous ways and finally hear the spine-stiffening screams for yourself. You replayed the image of Maria Bishop’s body flying through the air and collapsing on the floor in a loud thump over and over again. Shock hitting you again as you realise that you’d taken a life, a life that wasn’t yours to take.

In Cherry’s mind she is taken back to the moment she found her sister’s cold body, splayed out across a pile of broken bricks and rubble, still wearing the expression she had been caught in; mouth open and eyebrows furrowed. Aveline Bishop was the youngest of her bloodline, with a surname destined to die, her mother never able to bear a son to her husband - that destiny loomed over the family of pureblood death eaters, making The Bishop, her sister, all the more of an inspiration to her. So now as the young girl was staring into her sister’s lifeless eyes, no longer shining a bright blue, but instead a cold grey, Aveline knew that she would avenge her sister’s death, no matter the cost. Aveline’s fingertips ghosted gently over her sister’s eyelids to shut them, embodying the new person she set out to become - Cheryl Jackson.

“And now, your family will know the pain that you put mine through.” Cherry had her wand out, the cruciatus curse falling from her lips with such ease and you felt that same surge of pain again. Like a thousand knives against your skin, twisting and turning. Her laugh rang the same as her sister’s, enjoying the look of pure torture etched upon your face. With every tear that spilled from your cheeks the pain grew harsher, you found yourself calling out for someone, anyone to help, realising that your pleading turned to Fred’s name, as it was grated through screams.

“He won’t help you. He’s going to watch the girl he loves die in front of him.” Fred heard it all, every blood curdling scream and every sob. He was internally yelling as he tried to force his legs to move, to help you, to be there for you and stop the tears from falling. Every minute that passed by you grew weaker, the screams turning to low sobs as you felt yourself fall in and out of consciousness. You thought that maybe death would come as the sweet release from your pain. “Freddie, if you can hear me in there, You tell George forever, you tell him I love him with all my heart, I’m sorry I brought you both into this.” 

Fred slowly felt his fingertips start to move, from him willing them to be moved. His love for you was breaking him free of the curse veiled over him. His fingertips were finally able to reach for his wand, using every ounce of strength within him to push himself to save you. He couldn’t just stand by and watch you die, not without giving it every fibre of strength he had inside him. It was like eerie silence to Fred’s ears as he blanked out the words he didn’t want to use but words he would use to protect anyone he loved. A brilliant flash of green left his wand as he aimed it right at Cherry’s back, the power of his spell obliterated the woman he once knew into dust, leaving you to collapse to the floor. 

In that moment, all panic washed over Fred, he was too late, too late to save you. He was scooping your body into his arms, as tears pricked the back of his eyes, threatening to spill from his eyes. He didn’t check to see your small shallow breaths, taking your lifeless body as the only sign, a sign that he hadn’t done enough. He took you to the only place he could think of, apperating in with a pop, before yelling through choked back sobs. “GEORGE!”

George runs In to see you being carried by Fred, your body limp and your arm hanging down. Thinking the worst already, he scoops you into his arms, but as he moves you he notices the soft rise and fall of your chest and realises that you are alive - you may be weak, unconscious and in pain, but you’re alive.

Fred had sunk down to curl his legs up to his chest, making himself as small as possible as he realised that what he had done was utterly unforgivable. George looks at him and sees the same shell of who you had been after the war attempting to piece together what had happened. George no longer cared about his feelings or what he had seen earlier that day. He saw the unconscious body of the girl he loved and his twin sat on the floor shaking. He walked over to sit next to his brother, back pressed against the wall. “Freddie what happened?”

Fred looked up, seeing the pleading eyes of his brother. He took a moment to compose himself, using what small voice he could to try and choke out his words. “Cherry- I she used Polyjuice to pretend to be Y/N and when she showed up at my house, she brought her in, she… was torturing Y/N and she had me under imperious… I tried to save her, Georgie, I really did.” George’s eyebrow’s furrowed, as his brother took another deep breath. “I killed Cherry, trying to save Y/N, and I was too late.” 

George pulled Fred into a hug. It was something that they hadn’t done, not in years, not like this. Not a hug that really mattered, that comforted each other. Fred immediately burst into tears again, the salty, wet tears soaking through George’s shirt, feeling vulnerable and numb in that moment. “She’s okay, Freddie, You did save her.”

You take a sharp breath as you wake up, finding it hard to breathe, like you’d been hit with a bludger to the chest. The sound causes the boys to snap their heads to the direction of the sofa. Your weak voice calls out for George and he is immediately by your side, pressing a gentle kiss and soothing your hand as he takes it into his. Whispering a thousand apologies to you as he presses kisses to your palm and back of your hand.

He sees that same fear behind your eyes that he had helped you heal once before and by the grace of god, he wouldn’t dare leave your side until he had seen you heal again. Watching as the fragile heart of the girl he loved whispered softly, pressing your fingers against his cheek “‘I love you, Forever, Georgie.”

“I’ll never let you down again. I promised to protect you and I couldn't even do that.” he hung his head in shame, you tilted his chin up to look into his eyes, while you shook your head at him. The small smile that clung to your lips through the pain and the fear was for him, to show him that it didn’t matter. George being with you in that moment was enough for you, because there was nothing to hide anymore. 

“Your love is enough for me, George.”  his heart leapt at those words, watching as you pushed yourself up tentatively before slipping down onto the floor, your arms wrapped around him, begging to be held. The desire to be near him in that moment was satisfied when his hand stroked up and down your back, rubbing small circles. You pushed yourself up so that his lips could press softly against his, the kiss was like magic, with the ability to take you away from the pain, take you from the moment of sadness. He was your forever, for everyone to see. You no longer had to fake it. 

/// TO BE CONTINUED ///

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[minor-solemnity]

Invention and Intrigue pt.2

Tag List: @jinxqsu​ @cakesarecute @naps-and-lemons​ @mainlynonsense @riddles-wifey​ 

He’s looking at you as though he knows you, as though he sees something familiar in you. The thought makes the hairs on the back of your arms stand on end. He reaches out, cups your cheek gently and then lets his hand drop to his side. “Show me the spell.”

You spend the next week swinging wildly between panic and resignation. You can’t figure out why Riddle wouldn’t go to the Headmaster - he’s Head Boy. As far as you’re aware, he’s never broken a rule in his entire academic career and it’s no secret the kind of company he keeps. So why on earth would he allow you to get away with what you’ve done? It’s this question that sends you half-mad with paranoia and anxiety. You see Lestrange glowering at you whenever you pass him and there’s a large part of you that’s beginning to suspect that Riddle hasn’t told any of the professors because he and Lestrange are planning something far worse than expulsion for you. Revenge is the only explanation you can think of.

 Melanie, bless her, remains blissfully unaware of the fact that you’re spiralling into a vortex of paranoia and worry. She chats happily to you over breakfast on Thursday morning about George Warrington, about how he’s been a perfect gentleman so far. He pulls her chair out for her in the lessons they share together, offers her his cloak when she complains about the cold, laughs at her jokes even when they’re not funny. You smile and nod and hum your happiness for her in all the right places but your eyes remain fixed on the Slytherin table across from you. 

You absently take a sip of your tea and almost spit it back out when Riddle suddenly looks up from his breakfast and meets your eye, as though he knew you’d been watching him this whole time. He cocks his head to the side and even from this distance you can see the amused smirk playing on his lips. He raises his glass up and inclines his head slightly in a mock toast. A toast to what? Your idiocy for cursing Lestrange in public? The knowledge he has over you? Your impending demise? He takes a long sip of his drink and you don’t want to notice (but do anyway) the elegant column of his neck, the shift in his throat as he swallows. He maintains eye contact and smirks, a thumb rising to dab at his mouth. You’re gaze snaps to your porridge in front of you and ignore the way your cheeks feel suddenly hot.

“Are you alright? You look rather flushed,” Melanie asks, finally halting her increasingly giddy descriptions of George’s skill with his broom to look at you quizzically.  

“Mmm, fine. Just, you know tired. Dreading Herbology. The usual.” She purses her lips in a way that suggests she doesn’t quite believe you but you’re saved from having to answer any of her questions when George makes an appearance next to him. She beams up at him and you watch with mild nausea as he kisses her on the mouth. You’re no prude by any means, but watching your best friend and her new beau learn the crevices of each others’ mouths before nine o’clock is a little much. You cough a little pointedly but Melanie is evidently too distracted to notice so, with a roll of your eyes, you grab your satchel and head for the exit. 

You’ve still got another half an hour before Herbology starts but it’s a nice day so you settle down on one of the stone benches by the greenhouses and pull out the book you’ve been reading. It’s a deceptively thin, nondescript text and you’ve read it cover-to-cover at least three times already. Still, it’s one of the most useful books you’ve found on breaking down spell components to their most fundamental parts. You’re so engrossed in your reading that you don’t acknowledge the person who has just sat down beside you. 

A flash of gold and onyx obscures the print and Riddle is plucking the book from your hands. “Excuse me, I was reading that,” You squawk, making a grabbing motion to retrieve your book. Riddle looks entirely unperturbed, he’s lounging out on the stone bench, long legs stretched out in front of him. He looks positively regal. He ignores you as his eyes flick rapidly over the page you’d just been reading. “Do you mind?” And maybe it isn’t particularly smart of you to snap at him the way you are. He has more than enough ammunition against you to ruin your life and the fact that he hasn’t yet only serves to make you warier of him. But you hate people touching your things. It reminds you too much of all the times in your first few years at Hogwarts when little snot-nosed purebloods had taunted you by messing with your things. 

“Not particularly, no,” He says at last and you don’t like the amusement that laces his voice. You don’t like it one bit. It reminds you that when you peel back the layers of good manners and cultivated gentility, Tom Riddle is just as snakelike as the rest of his house. “This is an interesting choice,” He continues as if he’s oblivious to your less than charitable feelings towards him. “Though perhaps less surprising considering your, ah, extracurricular pursuits, no?” He hums in amusement at the shuddering sigh that escapes you. 

“Speaking of those pursuits, I’d like it if you would meet me after dinner tonight. Eight o’clock by the statue of Artemisia Lufkin.” The way he says it, you can tell it’s more of a demand than anything else, but something that looks suspiciously like uncertainty flickers across his expression before he can hide it. Despite yourself, you find yourself oddly endeared.

Part of you (the sensible part of you that you should really start listening to more often) wants to protest and make an excuse but you remember the position you’re in - the position you only have yourself to blame for - and are forced to swallow your reservations. At your very small, very reluctant nod, Riddle smiles widely, eyes gleaming with unspoken triumph. “Lovely, I look forward to it.” 

When he hands your book back to you, his fingers brush yours and linger for just a moment too long.

***

“What? No. No, absolutely not.” You’re staring in horror at the cage that Riddle has placed on the desk in front of you. Inside the cage, there’s a large fluffy cottontail rabbit. It’s nose twitches. It’s very cute. From somewhere behind you, Riddle sighs in exasperation.

“You realise that to demonstrate your spell for me, there will have to be a living target?” You wrinkle your nose at the patronising tone he uses. “And whilst I appreciate you might favour practising on Slytherins, I cannot in good conscience allow a repeat performance.”

“That was different,” You say and wince internally at the slight whine audible in your voice. “I’m not a sadist-”

“No, you’re not. That’s hardly what I was trying to say,” He cuts in, still amused, still pleasant, still utterly in control. He moves to your side, close enough that your arm brushes his, close enough to tell that despite the deceptive pleasantness, there's an undeniable air of excitement clinging to him. “Forgive me, but I’m finding it difficult to understand why you, a muggleborn, would spend time inventing such a spell and then test it out on a pureblood unless it was because there is a part of you that really does wish to inflict pain on those you deem worthy of it. Tell me, what got you interested in such dark magic to begin with? It’s hardly an interest commonly pursued by people of your status.”

You feel decidedly out of sorts at his appraisal of you. You don’t like to think of yourself as a violent person and you certainly don’t like that other people might see you as one. But it’s difficult to deny the obvious logic behind his questioning: you’d known exactly what that spell would do to Lestrange and you’d known that there would be a chance that it would do more damage than you’d intended. You just… hadn’t cared. You’d wanted him to suffer, to hurt, to feel fear as intimately as you have for years. You’d wanted him to look at you and know that he was lucky to be alive. “An interest in dark magic is hardly a statement of intent.” You say, at last, determinedly ignoring the fact that almost draining a man of all their blood in an abandoned dungeon probably is. He raises an eyebrow to let you know that the irony is hardly lost on him either and you sigh. 

“Magic is… You know the first time I performed accidental magic it was to smash my teacher’s favourite paperweight?” You can’t help but laugh at the memory. At the time you had been so angry over some perceived injustice that you can’t even remember anymore. She’d been so upset and seven year old you had been so pleased with yourself. “I think the second time I did the opposite - fixed a vase my mother had dropped. My point being, magic is about-”

“Intent,” He summarises softly, watching you with unabashed interest. “You don’t think there’s a distinction between light and dark magic.”

It’s not a question. You nod slowly in agreement anyway.“That spell could easily be used in conjunction with a blood replenishing potion as cure for blood diseases. And...” You trail off uncertainty setting in as you regard the boy in front of you. Riddle hasn’t shown you any animosity, on the contrary, he acts as though he wants to know you, as though he’s seen something in you that he likes. You feel like you could maybe trust him. “And I don’t feel guilty for defending myself against someone who’s told me that they want me dead just because of my heritage.”

You’re not sure what you’re expecting from Riddle, but it certainly isn’t the glint of recognition that sparks in his eyes. He’s looking at you as though he knows you, as though he sees something familiar in you. The thought makes the hairs on the back of your arms stand on end. Riddle fixes you with a look of such intensity that you can’t bare to look away. His eyes never leave yours as he reaches out and cups your cheek gently and you have to fight to keep your breathing steady. “You should never feel guilty for demonstrating your power against those weaker than you.”

He drops his hand and moves to stand behind you, closer than is strictly necessary. Leaning forward slightly, he murmurs in your ear, “Please, show me the spell.”

And this time, god help you, you do.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,506

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, major injury, seizure, character death

Chapter Summary: In which the sun rises.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One: morning sun

He has a lot of thoughts on poetry. Poetry, he often finds, is just music without the tune. The rhythm is there already, and the words can be their own melody, if they’re written right, with a shape and a contour and a buildup and a decrescendo. He knows poetry. And poetry can tell stories, too, can tell whole narratives, can show a hero’s journey from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end, because something he noted a long time ago is that in the old stories, the old poems, in the meter and rhyme, there are few heroes who get happy endings. There are few stories that end with the hero growing old and finding peace. The heroes in the stories he was drawn to, the stories that Technoblade told him as they grew from children to lanky teenagers to adults, the heroes in those stories come to tragic ends.

So, he knows poetry.

Is there poetry in death?

Once, he would have said yes. Once, he would have said that death, perhaps, after a long fight, after a struggle lost, after all the world goes caving in and the hero stands alone knowing how far he has fallen, knowing there is only so much further to go, knowing that every cliff has its bottom and every sea its floor, after all of that—once, he might have said that death, after all of that, was the most poetic thing of all.

But he thinks he knows better now. He thinks that death is not poetry at all. He thinks that death is pain and suffering and hurting those who were left behind, and death is an ending that cannot

(is usually not, and perhaps he needs to examine that, too, needs to start considering himself lucky for the second chance that no one else ever gets, because he gasped back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes and there has been so much pain since then but there has been beauty and now revelation)

be revised once the pen has left the paper, and all the best stories are edited before they are consumed.

But life is not a story, and he is a person, not a role, even if that thought turns everything upside-down, forces him to consider everything he thought he knew about the axis on which the world spins.

And dying cannot be poetry, because he thinks he is dying, and there is nothing lovely about it at all. Not now.

(and not then, either, though you were not ready to know it)

“Shut up, you’re not fucking dying,” Tommy says, and with the words come a wash of cold clarity, focus that he clings to desperately. It might be a mistake, because the pain comes back to the forefront, too, sharp and everywhere and overwhelming and he wants to retreat from it, and he thinks he’s going to retreat from it, if it keeps on like this, so it’s a matter of how long he can manage to hold on.

He’s only just recovered his footing. He’s not going to let himself slip away. Not when he’s only just figured out he wants to keep standing.

And then his heart spasms, sending a burst of hot pain ricocheting in his chest, and he is reminded that he might not have a choice in the matter. He tries to draw in breath, and finds his airways blocked. He tastes iron on his tongue. He tries to draw in breath, and he can’t, and his lungs are burning, burning—

“Turn his head,” Tubbo says sharply, “turn it, he’s choking—”

Someone wrenches his head to the side. He coughs, once, twice, and then he’s wracked with them, curling in on himself as best he can, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, his throat, and he can feel the blood spilling from his mouth, pooling in his cheek and splattering on his lips. Blood. It waters the vines, the vines that are turning to dust. The blood vines are watered, and nothing at all happens, because the vines are dead.

The vines are dead, and he is dying, because he’s pretty sure that his internal organs are all giving out.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Fundy says, near hysterically, “why is he coughing up blood, what’s wrong with him—?”

“The Egg hurts you when you hurt it,” Tommy answers, matching his tone, his high pitch, his fear. “The Egg—and I fucking forgot, oh my god, why did I let him do it, we should’ve figured this would happen—”

“Does anyone have pots?” Tubbo demands. “Does anyone have pots, because I don’t.”

“I didn’t grab any,” Fundy says, “it all happened so fast, I didn’t think to grab any—”

“Wait, shit, I’ve got one,” Tommy says. “Here, c’mon.”

He feels hands on him, gently pushing him out of the position he’s folded himself into. And then, he’s leveraged to sit more upright, and he groans, something in his abdomen screaming in protest at the shift. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, so he lets it fall back, and it hits someone’s chest. He’s propped up against someone, and as his vision clears, just a bit, he sees Fundy crouched to one side, hands hovering over him, and Tommy kneeling right by him, tugging on the cork of a potion, so it’s Tubbo that he’s leaning against.

“Here, Wilbur, just,” Tommy starts, and then the glass is being held to his lips. He parts his lips compliantly, and he feels the liquid slide across his tongue, but there’s too much blood in his throat for it to go down smoothly, and in the next second, he’s coughing again, sputtering, trying to suck air into a throat that’s too clogged and lungs that won’t quite inflate. He jerks, and Tubbo’s arms come up from behind him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him steady even as his body tries to escape the inescapable.

“C’mon, Wil, please,” Tommy says, and his eyes are wide and so very blue, and there’s a sheen across them. Tears. He’s making Tommy cry. “Please, you’ve got to swallow.”

He can’t get in a good enough breath to be able to tell him that he’s trying, that he would very much like to swallow, it’s only that absolutely nothing seems to be cooperating with him at the moment. But surely Tommy knows that, knows that he would if he could, and he’ll keep trying, even though—even though everything hurts, and really, there’s no other way to put it than that. Everything hurts, every inch of him, like his skin is being stretched too tight and he’s boiling from the inside out.

(but then again, Tommy doesn’t know the realization he’s just come to, he just sees his brother limp on the ground and fading away before his eyes and coughing up the potion he’s given him, coughing up what might be the best chance they have to save him, and that is what Tommy sees, so is there any wonder that he automatically assumes that)

No. No, he needs Tommy to know. He needs all of them to know that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t want to go, that he’s not giving up.

Tommy presses the potion to his lips again, desperate, insistent. He parts them again, and this time, some of it goes down. A bit goes down the wrong pipe, in fact, setting him to coughing again, but that burn is nothing compared to everything else. He can feel the magic begin to take effect right away, racing inside of him, trying to repair what has been broken and torn apart, and because he can feel it at work, he can feel exactly what’s wrong, can feel it try to patch holes inside of him that the Egg’s death throes ripped open, can feel it surrounding his heart, trying to encourage it to beat in a steady rhythm again, can feel it in his lungs, trying to reopen one that has half-collapsed. He can feel it all, and he knows that even if he managed to down the whole flask, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for this.

Because magic can only do so much. Because magic only goes so far.

Despair pools in his chest along with the fire, but he bucks against it, because he doesn’t want

(he doesn’t want to die and it took him so long to decide as much to understand himself enough to realize it and he doesn’t want to die but his body is giving out even as he fights to stay and this cannot be how it ends, it cannot be, because the world is cruel and the world is unfair but he cannot believe that it would be so unjust as this, so unjust as to take away what he has only just realized he wants to keep)

(but then again, the world does not often listen, does not often care for what is good and what is fair, because the world simply is, and that was a lesson he learned long ago, chased from the podium, the arrow in his back, betrayal and desperation playing a counterpoint melody, and it would never have happened if fairness was something the world at large took into consideration)

(but then again, does the universe not listen, when it well and truly counts? though to say as much would be to imply that it never counted before, when it did, did and still does, still does, because perhaps he can heal if given the chance but he will not forget and neither will anyone else)

to die. He doesn’t want to die. And if ever there was a moment to fight against despair, to fight against despair and win, for once, it is now. It is now.

“I’m trying,” he gasps out, and then immediately has to stop, has to struggle for air again, his chest heaving. He’s shaking, his bones trying to flee his skin.

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know, just come on—” The potion is back, and it’s the last of it, and he manages to force down some more. His vision sharpens, his breathing becoming just ever so slightly easier, but it’s not going to be enough. His heart falters, skips several beats, sends deep pangs shooting through his ribcage, and he knows it’s not going to be enough.

“I am trying,” he insists, as soon as he has enough air for it, “I am, I don’t—I don’t want to go—”

He coughs. Something inside him shifts, grating against other things, and fuck but that hurts, and there’s blood dribbling down his lips again. Hot and sticky. Damning.

“Okay, okay, that’s good, you’re not going anywhere,” Tommy says, “you’re not, we’re not gonna let that happen—”

“Comms are still down,” Fundy says. “I’m not getting through to anyone. Should I—should I go and get someone? I’m a fast runner, I can make it there and back.”

No.

No, no, he—it makes sense, what Fundy is suggesting, but he doesn’t want his son to leave him, because what if he leaves and he—he never gets to tell him all the things he wants to say, all the things he should have said a long, long time ago, what if he leaves and the last that Wilbur sees of him is his retreating back and that’s all, that’s all there is for either of them, what if he dies here and now and he never gets to—

(a scene, imagined: the sun setting over the water, a warm, lazy breeze rustling his hair, and they are sitting side by side, quiet and companionable, and they are fishing, their lures bobbing together in the lake, and all is not fixed and all is not forgotten but there is peace and forgiveness and an opportunity to repair the once-burnt bridge and he wants that he wants he wants)

He moves his arm. The first time, it flops back down uselessly, but he tries again, expends far more effort than he should, and he hooks his fingers into Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy stills, and Wilbur looks at him. Really looks. Meets his eyes and keeps his gaze there. And he doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know how bad he must appear at the moment, but though there is worry on his son’s face, there is something else there, too, something more complicated.

“Wil?” Fundy says softly.

He might not get another chance for this.

“I love you,” he says, and he can feel the words sliding into each other even as they leave his mouth, but he hopes he’s comprehensible. He prays, because he needs Fundy to know this. “I love you, and—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be better this ti—”

His heart squeezes, like it’s doing its level best to collapse in on itself, and he breaks off with a strangled squawking sort of noise. And Fundy makes an odd noise of his own.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re not—you’re going to be fine. Stop talking like you’re going to—you can’t leave again, okay, you can’t do this to me again, you can’t—”

He’s hurting his son. Hurting his son just like he has all along, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless once again. And there is some measure of gladness in it, in knowing that Fundy does not want him dead, but he is hurting him, hurting him when he never wanted to do so again. When all he really wanted was a chance to make things better, if he could. If he would be allowed.

He tightens his grip on Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy’s face shutters, and then he reaches over with his other hand and pries his fingers off, and Wilbur thinks that actually he might die right here and now.

Except then, Fundy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers, clutching them tightly. He tries to squeeze back and only manages a flutter, but it’s enough.

(because all is not well between you and perhaps it never will be, but know this, know that your son still loves you)

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says suddenly, and he can’t crane his neck to look at him, so he has to settle for listening to the words. “If I hadn’t used the totem, maybe—”

“Oh my god, don’t fucking say that,” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur quite agrees, because if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem, then perhaps this would feel very different, and perhaps he would not be terrified of the sensation of his life slipping away from him, because he would have death’s most effective preventative measure resting in his hand, waiting for his heart to still in order to repair the damage. But if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem—and he didn’t see exactly what happened, occupied as he was, but he can guess well enough from the still-present echoes of terror on Tommy’s face—then Tubbo would be dead. And that is not an acceptable loss.

“It’s the truth,” Tubbo insists.

“No,” he forces out, “no, that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be any better—”

And then, his muscles seize. His back arches, and he hears himself cry aloud, and then the world goes away for a bit.

When it all returns, it crashes in on him at once, and he feels disoriented, exhausted, like his brain is seeking anything recognizable, anything to help make sense of what’s happening, and coming up with nothing. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, what’s just happened, and even then, he feels dazed, almost outside of himself. He still hurts, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s lying fully on the ground. There’s something soft under his head. A jacket? There is no one holding his hand, and a low keen rips itself from his throat. But no one’s listening—sound filters back in, and it takes effort to parse the voices from each other, speaking over themselves as they are.

“—going,” Fundy is saying, and Fundy, Fundy, he’d like Fundy to come back and be next to him, but he forces his head to flop to the side and sees that Fundy is standing now, standing with the rest of them. “I’m going, we need help, he’s—he’s literally dying right now—”

“He’s not fucking dying,” Tommy says, “would you stop saying that, he’s not—”

“If you’re gonna go get help, then go and hurry up up about it,” Tubbo is saying at the same time, and—

That’s right. He’s dying. He might have just had a seizure. That’s probably what that was. Caused by—seizures can be caused by traumatic brain things, right? Injuries? Having the Egg fucking around in there probably counts, and even beside that, he felt it die, felt it as the power of the universe flowed through the sword in its hand and tore it apart, even as it took him down with it.

(and there are some things that a mortal mind is not meant for, and surely, surely, the universe in its glory and its infinity is one of them and yet it is in your head always humming always there and it will not leave even when you do not pay it heed)

So that’s that. He’s just had a seizure, and he thinks his body’s gotten to the point where it’s given up on trying to fix anything, because the pain is fading, fading back into numbness, as if all his nerves have collectively decided that this situation is a little too fucked up and there’s nothing they can do, no point in working on it anymore. No point in signaling that anything’s wrong when nothing’s being fixed.

He’s dying.

(he doesn’t want to go)

“No way he gets back in time,” someone says. “You’ve got minutes at most.”

He’s not sure who spoke, but he agrees. Short of a miracle, he’s—he’s dying, and he wants to cry, because he doesn’t want to go. His surroundings blur.

He’s alone. Why isn’t anyone next to him? They’re standing, around him but not with him, talking to each other, voices so frantic and scared, and they’re just kids, and it’s so unfair that any of this is being put on them at all, and he doesn’t blame them for it, of course, but he thinks that if anyone was going to go for help, it should have been done right away. Not now. It’s not going to do any good now.

If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to be alone.

(he intended to die alone, at the end of it all. he intended for himself to be the only one to be hurt. that’s one of the only reasons why he didn’t blow it all to hell sooner, because people were there, people talked him down, people like Quackity, people like Tommy, and they didn’t talk him out of wanting to do it but their presence reminded him that he didn’t want them to be hurt, he only wanted himself to hurt, because that was what was fair and that was what was right)

(but he didn’t die alone, at the end of it all. Phil held him, and he felt a little less afraid under all that relief, and the last thing he remembers from that day is warmth overwhelming, and if he’s going to die again, he doesn’t want to be cold, alone, alone)

He tries to talk, to say something, but he really is having trouble breathing now. His chest rises and falls in quick, short pants, too shallow to supply enough oxygen, too little to support his voice. He tries to move to get their attention, but his limbs don’t respond to his commands.

And then, Fundy’s taking off, running for the entrance, and no, no, no—

He finally manages to meet Tommy’s gaze. Tommy’s crouched by him again in an instant, and Tubbo is, too, grabbing his hand, and he’s glad of it, glad for the contact, but—

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells him. “You’re gonna be fine, Wilbur, Fundy’s gonna go get someone, and they’ll bring more pots, and, and another totem, too—”

His vision is darkening. He wants Fundy to come back. His heartbeats are growing more erratic, slower, weaker.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, voice small, and stops. Tommy goes silent for a moment.

“No,” he says, then, and his voice is a sob. Wilbur wants to comfort him. He can’t move. “No, no, this isn’t fair—”

He knows. He knows, and he can’t do a thing about it.

“I—” he manages, pushing the word out with what little air is circulating through his lungs. “I don’t want—”

He can’t finish.

“I know you don’t want to go,” Tommy says, “I know, so, so you won’t, you won’t, you’re going to be fine—”

“We’re here, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. “We’re right here.”

He’s glad. He wants to stay with them.

“Jesus, Wilbur.” There’s that voice again. Not Tommy’s, not Tubbo’s. Soft and exasperated, and perhaps a little bit concerned, but he’s not sure. His ability to think, to reason, is slipping from his grasp, and one some level, that terrifies him, but on another, he can no longer care. “You giving up?”

The peculiar combination of derision and amusement is familiar. He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Above him, a face hovers, upside-down from his vantage point. Dark hair, scruff, chipped horns, a blue sweater. Schlatt.

How long has he been here?

“Is this how you’re gonna go out?” Schlatt asks him. “Taken out by a—whatever the hell this was? You know, I’m still not clear on that. None of you assholes ever explained it to me. Some kind of demon bullshit. But you’re just gonna let this happen?”

Somehow, his voice cuts through the haze that’s filled his mind, cuts through even where Tommy and Tubbo’s voices have blended together, becoming one with the background. Perhaps it’s the sudden burst of annoyance, an energy he thought he no longer had; of course he’s not letting this happen. There’s just not a whole lot he can do to fight against acute organ failure. Does he look as if he planned this?

“You don’t want to go, though,” Schlatt says. “I heard that. Good on you, I guess. Deciding that life’s worth something after all. I’m real proud.”

He tries to glare at him. He has no idea whether his face is doing anything or not. If it is, he hopes that the boys don’t think he’s mad at them.

“Okay,” Schlatt says. “Okay, you know what? Let’s give this a try. You’re a real jackass, though, you know that? I want to make sure you know that. I need you to remember that to the end of your days. I want you to put it on your tombstone when you do finally kick it. Here lies Wilbur Soot, he was a real jackass.”

He doesn’t understand what Schlatt is trying to say. He’s rambling, as if to himself. And the world is sliding away again.

(he’s trying to hold on but there’s only so much he can do if the entire cliff face gives way there’s only so much he can do to fight against it there’s only so much)

But then, he feels it. The tether. The rope that binds them. The trailing connection. It opens up, pulling like gravity on his heart, and there’s that familiar sensation, energy leaving him, flowing down the line, except this is energy that he truly doesn’t have to spare, and the last embers of his panic flare up again, because surely Schlatt can feel it, can feel that he has nothing to give, that this is only going to kill him quicker, within seconds if he keeps this up and he may not have much of a chance here but he doesn’t need Schlatt making it worse—

“Holy shit!” he hears Tubbo say, backed up by, “What the fuck are you doing?” from Tommy an instant later. He can’t see them. He can’t see anything. Their voices are far away, and he’s trying to reach them, but he’s falling, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop himself, and the void is close.

(and he’s scared)

“Hey Tubbo,” he hears Schlatt say. Distantly, from a long way away, and getting quieter. Everything is dim. He’s floating. “You deserved better than me, kid, you really did.” A pause. “Tell Fundy the same thing, would you?”

His heart beats. Once. Twice. And then does not beat again. He’d be in pain if he could still feel it. But it’s all gone. All falling away, and the void is close, the void is reaching out to him, and he is—

And then, the tether reverses.

Energy flows back into him. What Schlatt took, and somehow, inextricably—more.

He slams back into himself all at once, gasping for air, back arching off the ground as he is hit with—everything. Sensation, in his fingers, in his toes. Pain, in every inch of him, every atom. Lungs that inflate, barely at first and then more fully. Ruptured places repairing themselves. A heart that starts again, and beats, beats, beats.

“C’mon,” Schlatt is muttering, over and over, and though Tommy and Tubbo are still talking, it’s the only voice he can latch onto. “C’mon, c’mon.” His hand is splayed across Wilbur’s chest, firm and solid, pressing down. “C’mon.”

He has sight again. Schlatt is still there, is still leaning over him, strain written on every line of his face, and Wilbur doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t understand where this energy is coming from, doesn’t understand how it’s—healing him. It’s healing him. Though—Schlatt is a ghost, is usually intangible, has to rely on Wilbur’s lifeforce if he wants to do anything, but perhaps that doesn’t mean Schlatt has none of his own. Perhaps it’s just not enough to sustain him. Perhaps it’s not enough to form him a body, not enough to create life from death.

But perhaps it’s enough for this.

Just as he works through it, Schlatt loses his solidity. His hand slips down, passing through Wilbur’s chest, and he shudders at the sensation, tingling and cold. But Schlatt doesn’t pull away, and the energy keeps flowing, and then, Schlatt starts to flicker, his form wavering in and out of reality.

And finally, Wilbur thinks he understands.

(reciprocity is something they both know well, and a connection once opened can flow both ways)

“You’re giving too much,” he says, though he’s practically mouthing the words, so thin is his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Schlatt says, his voice echoing and distant and staticky. Like a snowfall. “Maybe I want you to prove me wrong.”

Prove him wrong?

(a sunny day, flowers twisted absently in his hands, blue flowers to match the blue sweater, blue sky above, and Schlatt’s voice saying, people like us don’t change, and he once believed that, believed that his role was set and there was no going back, and he believed that for Schlatt as well, believed that for the both of them there could be no redemption, but now he isn’t so sure, and he looks into Schlatt’s eyes and he thinks that perhaps)

“Schlatt,” he whispers, and Schlatt gives him a long look. Hard, but not cruel, measured, but not mocking, considering, not dismissive. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little bit of regret there, too.

(regret for the boys they once were, full of life and ideas and hope, tongues sharp and minds sharper, and what good friends they used to be, in the days of their youths when they were free and unburdened and war was a tale from the past and politics a distant future and betrayal a joke and a game, when they were young, when they were young)

“Prove me wrong, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and then, he is gone. He winks out of existence, and there is no shimmer of blue in the air, no feeling of being watched, of eyes on him, and the tether breaks, snaps apart, and he lets out a soundless shout as the backlash hits him, like a rubber band snapping back into place. The energy stops, and there is nothing in its place, and he reaches out, instinctively, searching, and finds nothing. Where the ghost was, there is blank space. Only the world, and no hum of the stars.

(the hum of the stars is in your mind and your mind only and you are alone inside of it and there is no other not anymore)

And he is alive.

“What the fuck,” Tommy is saying. His hands paw at his neck, pressing up to find his pulse, and Wilbur can feel it. The touch is warm. “What the hell did he do to you, that fucker—Wilbur? Wilbur, c’mon, answer me, man, are you still—”

“Here,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. “I’m here.”

He is here. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the vines are still turning to dust above him. He is here, and he hurts, still, deeply and acutely, every inch of him aching, but his heart beats steadily, his lungs expand when he breathes, and there is no catch in his throat, no urge to cough, no churning in his stomach, no convulsions wracking him, and his vision is clear.

“Wilbur?” Tubbo asks. His voice shakes.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going. I’m still here.”

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, and then, Tommy’s all but on top of him, lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him, knocking the breath right out of him, and Tubbo follows a short second behind, taking up all of the space that Tommy isn’t. He wheezes, but it’s a good sort of wheeze, even if it hurts. It definitely hurts. But he’s hardly about to get them to stop.

They pile on him, grabbing onto him like their lives depend upon it,

(or like his life depends upon it)

and he feels warm, and present, and here. Still here.

(safe)

(alive)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. That’s about all the volume he can manage; his throat feels shredded. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tommy chokes out. “I thought you were gonna die.”

“I thought I was too,” he says. “But I didn’t want to. I fought it, I swear. I don’t want to go. I mean that.” They’re on top of his arms, pinning them. He gives them a nudge, experimentally, but they don’t give an inch, so he’s going to have to settle for not hugging them, apparently. “I’m staying right here. I don’t want to die.”

The words are novel. He thinks he’d like to say them over and over again, just to test them out, to feel the truth in them. He doesn’t want to die, and more than that, he rather thinks he wants to live. What a revolutionary thing it is, to want to live.

“You dickhead,” Tommy mutters, and buries his face in his shirt, which becomes damp in short order. He won’t call him on it.

“Please don’t do that again, though,” Tubbo says. “That was actively terrifying.”

He manages a laugh. The sound of it surprises him. “I’m not planning on it,” he says.

Despite the heavy weight of two teenage boys resting on him, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. Since he woke up in that forest, rain falling on his face, and turned to the arctic, to the snow and the tundra and the promise of family that he didn’t know how to feel about, the promise of a family that was scattered and broken into too many pieces. Since seeing his brother again a scarce day later, standing in the rain, the notes of the guitar fading in the air. Since the Egg, since the prison, since arguments and tentative reconciliations and everything that’s happened between now and then. And the thoughts still lurk. He can sense them in the shadows of his mind, ready to swell forth again, ready to tell him all about what he deserves and how he will be betrayed and how everyone hates him and he hates himself but for now—

For now, in this moment, he wants to live, and he wants to live well, and he pushes aside the whispers of what he deserves and lets himself be, and lets himself love.

(and lets himself be loved)

And then: footsteps. Several pairs, rushing down the corridor. He can’t get a good look, and the boys don’t seem inclined to take much notice, either. But he has a feeling as to who it is, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later, as Fundy’s voice floats toward him, saying, “—bad, I mean, it’s really bad, I really think he’s literally dying, and I don’t, I just don’t—” He sounds as though he’s been keeping up this litany for some time, perhaps more as something to say than anything else, something to focus on, something to distract him a bit. His voice gets closer, and then stops. “Oh my god, is he dead?” His voice pitches upward, and overlaps with a sharp inhalation—Phil’s, he recognizes.

So there’s only one thing to do.

“Help,” he rasps, “I’m being crushed.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he almost wishes that Tommy and Tubbo would get up so that he could see the looks on their faces. Almost, but not quite. He’s content to stay like this for a good while longer.

“Oh my god, he’s alive,” Fundy says, and there is a sharp exhalation, also from Phil.

“You fucks,” Phil says, relief audible. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“I wasn’t,” Techno says. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

Finally, Tommy stirs, lifting his face from his chest and glaring off in the direction of the entrance. He also lifts a hand and flips them off.

“Fuck off,” he says. “We’ve just had a traumatic experience, we have. Are you going to stand there and be—and be twats, or did you bring anything useful? Like—” He stops, looking back down at him. His face is vaguely tear-stained, though Wilbur’s pretty sure that most of it is in his shirt. “Do you still need some pots? Or did—what the hell did he even do, anyway? How did that—you were definitely dying, and then he was there, all, all like that, and then he disappeared and you were better. What did he do?”

“Changed, I think,” he murmurs, and judging from the expression on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t get it. But that’s alright.

“Okay,” Phil says, and then he’s sweeping toward them and kneeling. His wings are on full display, he notes, no effort at all put toward hiding them, and maybe it doesn’t really mean anything, but he can’t help but feel glad. Phil should never have to hide his wings, no matter what condition they’re in. “Alright—here, Tubbo, could you move over a bit?”

Tubbo shifts off of him, too, his breathing unsteady. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed to match Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, just shuffles to the side so that he’s sitting next to Tommy. Phil shoots a quick smile at him, one that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as strained, and then, his hands are on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“You think you can sit up, Wil?” he asks, and Wilbur tries. He tries, but immediately gives it up as a lost cause as all his core muscles cry out in immediate protest.

“Sitting up ability is currently on strike, I believe,” he says, and Phil’s brow furrows in concern, but he takes it in stride. Behind him, Fundy and Techno are both hovering—though Fundy’s far more obvious about it. It is a bit funny how they’re both doing it, though, and the contrast between them, Techno’s bulk and general everything next to Fundy’s fidgeting. Fundy keeps casting glances at Techno, too, nervous ones.

Phil pulls him into an upright position, and he moans, his head swimming for a second before the lightheadedness abates. He hunches forward, letting gravity pull him back down a little; he thinks he’d flop over like a ragdoll if it weren’t for Phil steadying him.

“Where are you hurt the worst?” Phil asks, voice quiet. “Fundy said you were coughing up blood. And that you had a seizure, I’m guessing, judging from what he told us.”

He can still taste it on his tongue. Sharp iron. And his limbs are all very sore.

“A bit everywhere,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure all my organs were giving out on me at once, so I don’t think there’s one specific area that needs attention.” Phil’s expression widens into open dismay at that, and something very much like fear, and perhaps he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about his imminent death in front of the man who he begged to take his third life and definitely emotionally scarred in the process. But he’s still a bit wrapped up in the fact that he’s alive at all, alive and glad to be so.

“Okay,” Phil says, in a way that implies he definitely does not think that it’s okay, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Okay. That’s—okay. Do you think you could get down a regen?”

He pulls a face, but nods. Regen potions have never been his favorite; their magic is rough, unsubtle, far more concerned with function over comfort. But he likely needs one, or two, or several, or as many as his body can keep down, because he is alive, but probably far from alright, still; the continuing ache is evidence enough of that, and he’s fairly certain that if he tried to stand, he would tip over immediately. Phil has no reservations, bringing out a pot from his inventory and holding it up to him, a mirror of Tommy’s actions a minute before. Only this time, he brings up a shaking hand to help support the glass, even if he can’t hold its full weight, and he swallows all of it without coughing.

It gets to work. He winces, and then decides that he’s been on the ground long enough. The energy from the pot is more than enough for him to attempt to get up.

“Whoa,” Phil says, “wait, Wilbur—”

He’s up. His vision blacks out for a second, but when it clears, he’s still up, if woozy. He imagines he might need help to walk any significant distance, but he won’t need to be carried, at least. Which is nice. Being carried is undignified.

“You should absolutely not be standing up,” Tommy snaps, and he raises an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he says, spreading his arms. Once again, he gets the impression that he’s being far more casual about all of this than he should be. He imagines that it will hit him later, the horror of it, seeing Niki’s face twisted in rage, letting the Egg inside his mind once again, almost being unable to pull himself out, almost dying right after he figured out that he didn’t want to. It will all his him, he’s sure, but for now, he would like to walk out of here under his own power, his family by his side, everyone alive and unharmed, the trouble dealt with at last. “I’m alright. I actually mean that. I’m not going to keel over.”

He inhales. Wrinkles his nose. Actually, it doesn’t smell very nice in here.

“Is the rest handled?” he asks, glancing at Phil. Phil is standing very close to him, wings flared, likely ready to catch him if he needs it. He won’t, though he appreciates the gesture.

“We felt the Egg go,” Phil says. “It was like—like the world itself distorted for a second, and then patched itself back up. We were already on our way here when Fundy came to get us. In a nutshell, yes, it’s handled. Dream was still up when we left, but the rest of the Egg people just sort of—stopped. And nobody on our side went down hard. Eret and Puffy got the worst of it, but they’ll both be fine, last I saw.”

“But Dream was still up,” he says. Beside him, Tommy’s shoulders hunch.

“Not for long,” Techno says. His gaze is fixed behind them, on the Egg. “We would’ve stayed if we weren’t sure of it.” His eyes drift to Tommy’s for a second. “The others are handlin’ it. But we can go see.” And then, to Tubbo: “The totem came in handy.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tubbo says, expression inscrutable. “It did. Thank you, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs. “I gave it to be used,” he says dryly. “Let’s not make a habit of it.” And that is a Techno way of saying you’re welcome, of burying the hatchet as much as he is able, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a first step. And then, Techno literally steps forward, and Wilbur is a little too concerned with the way that Tubbo stiffens to notice exactly what his intent is, which is why it takes him by surprise when Techno takes his head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.

Just for a second. But it’s an old gesture, a familiar gesture, and not one that he ever expected to receive again. His breath catches.

(you were kids the first time he did this, the first time he butted his head against yours, impossibly gentle, tender in a way you hadn’t realized Techno knew how to be, and it wasn’t until later that Phil explained it to you, explained piglin instincts and the concept of a sounder and how Techno always, always feels far more than he lets on, and always, always cares, perhaps too much, and he still does, despite everything, he still does)

And then, Techno walks forward, past them, to the husk of the Egg that lies behind, and the moment is over. But it was there. It was there, when it didn’t have to be, when Techno would still be well within his rights to hold back from them, from him, to keep his distance. But here he is, displaying open affection, and he’s not naive enough to think that means it’s all fixed, but—

Hope is a dangerous thing, but he feels in the mood to indulge. And beside him, Tubbo relaxes, and Tommy, just for a second, wears an expression that suggests a bit of hope of his own.

He turns to watch Techno as he roots through the dust, a crumbling, greyed-out monument that barely holds any shape. A reminder, and nothing more. An empty shell, and that, too, will disintegrate soon enough, leaving a room of dust and lava pools, and statues long abandoned.

Techno huffs. Reaches down. And from the middle of the Egg, he pulls out—

“Is that fucking Skeppy,” Tommy states, flat as a fucking pancake.

He blinks. Because it—is. Somehow. Fucking Skeppy. Though he looks different; parts of him are the same blue, but many patches are discolored, greyish white, and as Techno hoists him up, Wilbur thinks he sees red slipping off of him, like runny paint.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Was the Egg Skeppy this whole time?”

“I was wonderin’ where this guy got off to,” Techno says, and throws Skeppy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, apparently unconcerned. “He hadn’t been by to bother me in a while. And BadBoyHalo kind of just sat down and started cryin’ about him, which, I won’t lie, I had no idea how to handle, not my area, but I thought he might be here. Are we leavin’ these two here, or takin’ them?”

Niki and Jack. Both on the ground, chests rising and falling. Free of the Egg, now, but he’s not sure where that leaves them. Though it would likely be—

“Leave ‘em,” Tommy says, startlingly vehement. “Just, we’ll come back, leave ‘em here for now.”

“I don’t think he meant to,” Tubbo says quietly. “I think it just happened really fast.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy says. “Leave ‘em.”

He looks back and forth between them. Gold still dances across Tubbo’s skin. And he wasn’t turned around, didn’t see what happened, but he thinks he can guess, based on everything, based on Niki’s sword at Tommy’s throat and Jack pinning Tubbo to the ground, based on their desperate, misdirected need for vengeance and the way Jack shouted and a boy who would do just about anything to ensure Tommy’s safety. Hears I don’t think he meant to, and thinks about other times, darker times,

(and meaning does not always matter, because intent is washed away in impact, and he never meant to hurt them)

and he decides not to ask. Not now. Not yet. Though it should be addressed. A lot of things should be addressed, a lot of things that they have not, yet, because there has been no time, because everything has been moving at a breakneck pace, but the pace will be slower now. The pace will be slower, and they will have time.

He looks to Fundy. Fundy stares back, not saying anything at all. His eyes are wet.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Fundy murmurs. Quiet enough that he doesn’t think anyone else hears it.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

A start. A first step. There are so many of those that still need to be taken. For now, Fundy’s lips curl into what might be the ghost of a smile.

They will have time.

***

The scene they return to is this: some are standing, some are sitting, all gathered in the courtyard of the castle. The gates lie wide open. The vines are gone. The sun is rising.

There is Eret, standing tall, though blood still runs down from a wound on their shoulder and another long gash on their arm. Their crown is blood splattered, their glasses still perched on their nose, though slipping down, and Wilbur glances away before he can take in something he’s not meant to see. There is Puffy, kneeling, her blood on the grass around her; it is her leg that is wounded, though it is difficult to tell how badly. There is Sam, shifting, uncertain, a lost look in his eyes as his fingers flex around his trident. There is Purpled, on the outskirts, on guard but perhaps an ally, though he has no reason to be. There is BadBoyHalo, sitting, curled into himself, tears running down his face, which is less ashen. The other members of the Eggpire cluster around him, seemingly in various states of shock. None of them move. They are mostly ignored.

There is Ranboo, also sitting. His eyes are wide. Tears are streaming down his face, too, and a bit of steam rises from his skin. He pays no mind. He’s trembling, occasionally gasping for breath through a sob.

There is Quackity, still standing, hands clutched around an axe like it’s the best protection he knows how to have. He wonders if there’s any truth to that; Quackity has never been one for fighting, though he tries.

(he wonders if Schlatt wanted to say anything to him, too. wonders if it would have done more harm than good)

And then there is Dream, lying on the ground. There is George, crouched by his side. There is Sapnap, kneeling, all his weight on the sword piercing Dream’s chest. Dream’s chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, and nobody moves. Sapnap’s face is flushed, tears in his eyes, and whether they are from anger or grief, he can’t tell.

Dark smoke puffs out from under Dream’s mask and dissipates in the air. Tommy makes a small sound, and Wilbur fits his hand into his. Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look away from the sight in front of them, but his fingers curl around his.

Sapnap moves as if to draw the sword out. Dream’s hand comes up and wraps around the hilt, stopping him.

“No,” Dream says, voice a reedy whisper, free of shadow. “You need to be sure it’s gone.”

And so they stay. The only sound is crying, and Sapnap’s harsh breaths, hitched and desperate. Both angry and grieving at once. George’s hands inch forward until they’re curled into Dream’s hoodie. It’s like a painting, the three of them. The sun crests the walls of the castle, and the rays fall on them like a caress, and the smoke stops appearing. The sigils carved into the sword dim.

Dream stops breathing. Quietly, and without fanfare. Like a sigh.

As one, more than a dozen communicators chime.

Tommy exhales shakily.

(is this closure? is this what he wanted? he doesn’t know, but there is no going back, no going back to the old days, when they were all still friends and the war was a game)

(and after everything that Dream did perhaps it feels wrong that this should end so abruptly or that he should not shove the sword in his chest himself for what he did to Tommy or that Tommy should have no say in his fate but at the same time perhaps it is right and perhaps this is the way the circle breaks at last)

Techno sighs, walks over to where Bad sits, and dumps Skeppy in front of him. As if a spell has been broken, Tubbo moves, too, crossing to Ranboo and crouching before him, speaking to him in low tones. Several others start moving, like the world was on pause and has only just resumed. Sapnap draws the sword from Dream’s chest, but he remains there, kneeling by the body.

Dream looks peaceful. Though with his mask still on, it’s impossible to tell. No one motions to remove it.

Tommy presses close to him. On the other side, Fundy steps closer. Against his back, he feels one of Phil’s wings brush against all of them, a promise of shelter, of safety. Perhaps this time, it will be kept.

Just like that, it is over. Can it be over?

(is it ever truly over?)

(but in every ending there is a beginning, and the world still spins, and the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue, and finally there is more reason to look forward than back)

The sun rises. Is rising, has risen, will rise again and again and again. And he’s lived to see it.

[sitp-recs]

Do you know of any fics under 10k that aren’t too angsty? ❤️

Hi anon, I most certainly do! Thanks so much for sending this ask, I was super excited when I saw it because I’m always happy to celebrate short fics - they could use more appreciation! I’ve wanted to do a proper shorts reclist for a while so I indulged myself and went big, hope you don’t mind! Putting this together was quite hard - going through my bookmarks I realized that I usually go for angsty shorts 💀 so I tried my best not to include anything too extreme, I hope these are okay!

This became a lil monster with 40 recs (and I have lots more hehe) so I decided to sort them by genre - the last category includes light angst (more on the contemplative side) because I can’t help myself. Shout-out to @tackytigerfic for giving me a 2nd opinion and helping me polish this - and for being a darling in general. Happy readings!

ROMANCE/COMFORT

1. Sun Stroke by @peachpety (2020, E, 3k)

Warm, sexy and wholesome, this fic makes my heart soar with the magical beach setting, amazing friendship dynamics and the sweet get together with a delicious side of smut!

2. oxygen [Fic & Art] by @maesterchill (2020, T, 4k)

Tentative acquaintances become something more over a shared smoke at the balcony. Sexy, mature, deliciously atmospheric and full of promise - plus Healer Draco is always a treat!

3. Catch the Snitch (No, Catch My Heart) by @prolix- (2020, E, 4.5k)

Gorgeous bath fic where Harry and Draco just... take care of each other. The raw emotion packed here! Lush and vivid build up with stunning body worship, hot and intimate and breathtaking.

4. Thermodynamic Equilibrium by DorthyAnn (2017, T, 5k)

This quiet comfort fic gives our boys some well deserved healing through physical touching and late night companionship. Love the 8th year atmosphere, soothing and familiar.

5. Blue Sky Is Living Here Today by ignatiustrout (2018, G, 5k)

The loveliest kid fic you’ll see today - real characters, gentle longing, soft understanding. It’s a joy to watch dad Draco through Harry’s smitten eyes, as he realizes there’s no rush to live that love.

6. Gravity Centered by @carpemermaidtales (2019, E, 6.7k)

Possibly my favorite Quidditch fic, this has an original premise and amazing Drarry dynamics, casual and organic, sassy and familiar, with a perfect lil twist at the end!

7. Up The by @shiftylinguini (2018, E, 7.5k)

One of the funniest PWPs I’ve ever read, clever and charming with easy banter and delicious smut. A sweet and sexy glimpse into the Drarry married life! Cw Mpreg

8. And a Malfoy in a Pear Tree by lauren3210 (2015, E, 8k)

Sweet sweet coffee shop Christmas romance! Love the light and fun atmosphere, the easy banter and cute wooing while supportive Ron cheers in the background, what a treat!

9. Ice Snakes, Glow-worms and Wolverine Stew by khalulu (2015, M, 8.4k)

Khalulu writes the softest Drarry, it never fails to put a smile on my face. This has a gentle and sweet get together, with lovely slow burn, a gorgeous San Francisco setting and matchmaker Kreacher 💗

10. Life goes not backward by @shealwaysreads (2020, T, 8.8k)

This delicate comfort fic has a special way to tug at my heartstrings - a gorgeous tale about found family and the unexpected wonders of life. Gentle, magical and breathtaking in its simplicity.

HUMOUR

11. in charge by @bonesliketambourines (2020, E, 2.4k)

The ultimate brat Draco, bossy and confident and absolutely gorgeous with his long hair and impossible snark. Charming and funny, this packs so much character and domestic bliss under 3k! Perfect spoiled Draco is perfect.

12. The Morning After by birdsofshore, capitu (2015, M, 5.3k)

This is hysterical and so delightfully creative - Draco exploring Harry’s kitchen and charming a prudish appliance is the kind of cute, silly endeavor I need with my morning coffee!

13. The Spoiling of Sex From Enthusiastic Ignorance by @cibeewastaken (2020, E, 6k)

I’m impossibly enamored with Cibee’s drama queen Draco and his passionate missions! This time he’s decided to get some good diq, and the dialogue and mutual pining will make you smile from beginning to end.

14. All Tied Up by MyNameIsThunder (2020, M, 6k)

This is a secret relationship delight! Sneaking around gets so much better when dramatic Blaise is losing his shit to protect the Council of Serpents’ integrity! A+ faux-drama, super fun and sweet.

15. Luckiest Fucking Size Queen Alive by @l0vegl0wsinthedark (2016, E, 6.2k)

My favorite brand of thirsty and chaotic Draco; being inside his mind is such a crazy ride and you won’t stop laughing for a second. Amazing dialogue and insanely scorching smut as per loveglows’ usual 🤤

16. Sex Ed for Aurors by curiouslyfic (2010, M, 8.7k)

This is a Harry triumph, so fun and charming! Here he’s the one chaotic and thirsty, for a change - I’m obsessed with his internal ranting under the lust potion. Brilliant narrative and top notch characterization, a classic!

17. Ferocious Determination, Insufficient Deliberation, and a Slightly Wrong Destination by Faith Wood (2012, E, 9.5k)

Drunk Draco has never been so absurd and I LOVE it! This goes from hilarious to vulnerable and sweet in a heartbeat; pining Draco is a precious thing and Harry’s gentle persistence made my heart swell.

18. Stand Back: I'm About to Perform Archaeology by Blowfish_Diaries (2018, E, 9.7k)

This fic could definitely use more appreciation - I had a blast with Draco’s hilarious voice and their cute married banter! The plot is quite original and I love the 8th year domestic vibes.

19. The Full Monty by @magpiefngrl (2017, E, 9.8k)

The calendar fic we deserve 👏🏻 this is ultimate thirsty Draco being completely obliterated by Harry’s casual attractiveness but mostly by his kind heart and big smile. One of my favorite comfort reads, hilarious, sweet and so damn sexy, the full monty combo is here!

20. Aural Gratification by birdsofshore (2014, E, 10k)

This fic is a classic, charming and hysterical with an adorable Harry thirsting over Draco’s smooth voice. Such an original concept and engaging read, not to mention the rewarding shade of smut!

SMUT

21. Tense by Faith Wood (2013, E, 3k)

Me, reading smut for the dialogue? It’s more likely than you think 😂 this fic is hilarious and hot all at once, with perfect banter and clever dialogue, really a smut triumph!

22. Under Your Skin by @p1013 (2020, Explicit, 4k)

Great premise and the sexiest build up, ugh so much teasing and anticipation as pierced Draco takes Auror Harry’s control away 🔥kudos at the A+ twist and promising ending!

23. The Slytherin Urn by @icmezzo (2015, E, 4.6k)

This fic’s geniality slaps me in the face, what a fascinating concept! Redemption kink and magical theory walk together as Harry loses his mind over competent Draco doing some badass curse-breaking ritual.

24. Once Bitten by Frayach (2012, E, 5.6k)

Still one of the hottest things I’ve ever read, lush and raw and absolutely breathtaking. Dark and tender at once, it explores biting kink with unapologetic precision and I love that!

25. Matched Set by astolat (2016, E, 5.7k)

One of my faves by the genius astolat, this is a perfect mix of hot size kink, A+ dirty talk and a brilliant and nuanced plot showing how Harry navigates his post-war reality. A must-read!

26. Teeth by @amelior8or (2020, E, 6k)

This fic is an emotional rollercoaster and goes from light-hearted and casual to vulnerable and tender in a second. Hot and intimate feat scorching wall sex, gut-punching lines and enthusiastic consent🔥

27. Born Slippy by @dracoladon (2020, E, 8.3k)

My favorite clubbing fic ever, clever and sensual, a master class in UST including the drunk haze confusion and panty kink as a treat! I can’t even talk about this fic without blushing 😳

28. The Page Eleven Wars by fireflavored (2010, E, 8.5k)

Competitive boys fighting for dominance both in bed and at the gossip column’s first page This is peak enemies to lovers: witty banter, hot smut screaming switching rights and feisty stubborn idiots finally getting over their asses.

29. The Things They Never Say by @bixgirl1 (2017, E, 9k)

Angry porn with (many) feels, this feels like a punch to the solar plexus. The explosive Drarry chemistry gives way to something quieter and gentler and full of longing, ugh but it aches so good. Absolutely exquisite!

30. Sweet Indulgence by @the-sinking-ship (2020, E, 10k)

The title says it all; this is a lush and charming read, with chaotic but nuanced Draco pining over authoritative, edgy Harry 😳 steaming pent up tension that culminates in glorious semi-public smut, is your body ready?

CONTEMPLATIVE/SOFT ANGST

31. Sharing a Pack by sugar_screw (2016, E, 2.7k)

A fully fleshed-out love story in less than 3k, with complex characters and powerful feels. Raw, poignant and unbelievably romantic.

32. Still Life by orphan_account (2019, M, 3k)

A superb and gut-punching story where Harry realizes all the little things that make Draco so very different from him - and falls in love anyway. Powerful in its simplicity and concise elegance.

33. Harmony (Left-Handed Melody Remix) by mindabbles (2010, M, 5.8k)

Draco finds his way post-war and Harry meets him in the middle. Aching and bittersweet but also hopeful, with a delicious side of coconut cake, Harry in black robes and Romeo & Juliet as soundtrack.

34. Let Me Have You and I'll Let You Save Me by Frayach (2012, M, 6k)

Enemies to lovers deluxe version! Come and feast on this original narrative, amazingly clever, rich and detailed, telling us an unlikely but inevitable love story.

35. A Pain of Our Choosing by @lqtraintracks (2020, E, 6k)

Broken boys fucking through their issues and healing together during the post-war is so my jam! A+ LQT goodness, this fic is evocative and quietly devastating, but full of feels and hope.

36. Our Little Life by @tackytigerfic (2020, M, 7k)

I’ve screamed about this brilliant fic recently; inventive, poignant and utterly romantic, this fic shows all the ways in which Harry and Draco find each other across space and time.

37. the keys to your kingdom by thistle_verse (2016, E, 7.5k)

A beautiful love story packing an impressive amount of character, conflict and emotion. We are invited to witness as work partners Harry and Draco finally take a leap of faith and grow out of their casual arrangement.

38. Clear As Mud by scoradh (2005, M, 9.8k)

Subtle and heart-wrenching, the sharp and clever narrative creates fascinating dynamics between this brilliantly written Draco and poor oblivious Harry trying to make sense out of it. An all-time fave. Cw: infidelity (not Drarry).

39. fine i'll hold my breath / til i forget it's complicated by teatrolley (2015, E, 10k)

Fucks buddies gone wrong but make it soft so we get to watch as pining Draco patiently waits for Harry to get the memo. Sweet and intimate, with lots of late night talks and comfortable silence.

40. Tidings of Comfort series by @blamebrampton (2012, G, 10k)

Quietly cathartic and atmospheric, this fic is a poignant balm to the soul; such a beautiful tone, such lovely interactions! A must-read for those who enjoy church settings, honest talks and redeemed Draco. All-time fave.

[dirt-cup-draco]

Fred x Reader- Ease My Mind

can you do fred weasley & the love language of touch, if that is something that you do?

a/n: he is darling and coming right up <3 ALSO, Important note! I switched phones and forgot to save some of my notes so if you were on my taglist for my fics please send me an ask or dm! I will try to put down those I remember but I may forget a few 

Your shoulders tensed immediately as you walked through the doors of the joke shop. The melodic ringing of the bell attached to the brightly colored wooden frame was drowned out by the sound of kids laughing and parents scolding. Fireworks erupted somewhere above as your eye caught a glimmer of ash and magic descending onto the glossy wooden floors. 

It wasn’t that you were uncomfortable in the shop. You had long since become used to the jarring noise upon entering and it had stopped bothering you, your social anxieties overcome. Yet you were nearly certain it was because every shelf and sound and smell reminded you of the man you loved most. His heart and his soul emanated from every nook and cranny.

What made the hair on the back of your neck raise and your palms begin to sweat was the look of distress on George’s face as you entered, his attention immediately going to you. His lips were in a thin line, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes more pronounced by the bags that lay just underneath his eyelashes and colored the very tips of his cheeks a dull gray. Your heart was stuck in your chest as he plastered on a grin that was so forced it made your own jaw ache as he dodged past another pleased customer. 

“Where is he?” You asked, stomach tied in knots and George shook his head, a guilty look on his face. 

“We were stocking this morning and I was goofing off-”

 You nearly let out a snort but stopped yourself as you noticed the strained expression on your dearly beloved’s brother’s face. 

“-accidentally spooked him and he stumbled down two or three steps on the ladder and the box he was holding came crashing down around him. He’s just barely started going ‘round without his cane and he’s’ frustrated with himself I think and with how the merchandise came down around him...” 

George trailed off and you gave him a sympathetic smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand as a group of girls ran around your legs in search for the coveted love potions, one hollering about she would never be as silly as her friends and was only looking out for them. She reminded you of yourself when you had first met the twins. 

“Georgie, it’s not your fault,” You promised as he struggled to meet your eyes. You knew from George’s words that it was likely Fred had been forced back into the past and was seeking comfort in the safety of his bedroom in an attempt to ground himself and stay in the present. “I’ll go see him,” 

George’s slouched shoulders seemed a bit less heavy with your promise and he gave you a short nod, going to help the lonesome cashier who was overwhelmed with a line wrapping around the place. You gave your near brother in-law a thumbs up and then made your way to the far reaches of the store so you could begin your ascent into the twins’ apartment. 

You knew there would be bad days and good days but for Fred’s sake you had hoped that the good would outweigh the bad. At first they had, there was the thrill of finally having no more fear of Voldemort even if his dark forces were still tucked into dark corners. Things had been looking up and everyone was just happy to be alive, yet as the days and weeks flew by it seemed that the horrors of war would be sticking around long after the Dark Lord’s defeat. 

The apartment was colder than usual and Fred wasn’t to be found in the kitchen or the sitting area. There was no music playing to fill the silence nor was there a cup of tea in sight. If it wasn’t for the cleanliness of the place you would’ve wondered if it was inhabited. 

You forced your foot falls to resonate against the flooring louder than usual to give your longtime boyfriend some warning as to your presence yet you kept your knock gentle as you tapped a melody against his door, hand frozen on the doorknob. 

“Fred, love, it’s me,” You called out. “May I come in?” 

The shuffling of socked feet paused momentarily and then the doorknob was twisting against your palm and the door was pulled away from you. Fred poked his head out from behind the door and you gave him a bright smile. Even under such circumstances you couldn’t help but be delighted at the sight of him- especially when you saw the stony expression on his face fall away as he locked eyes with you. 

“Darling,” He greeted, voice croaky from misuse all afternoon. He looked more tired than George and you realized that the younger twin must have been up caring for Fred all night. You regretted going out with Hermione. 

You shouldered your way into the bedroom and took Fred’s hands into yours after he closed the door securely behind you and locked it for peace of mind. You knew he didn’t fear someone coming for him as much as he feared the uncontrollability of an unlocked door. He wasn’t willing to let much into his space and you felt a swell of honor in your chest as you thought about the ease at which he let you in. 

“Sit with me?” You asked, squeezing his hands as his eyes searched yours- his frown not yet gone but the grim glaze over his eyes had dropped away and he was trying to relax for you. Fred’s glance broke away and he stared at a spot on the floor, just behind you. 

“I don’t want to be still,” He mentioned softly, like the admission made him weak somehow. 

“How long have you been pacing?” You had to ask, hands falling away from his to settle on his hips and he shrugged. 

“Since before we opened shop,” 

“Have you eaten?” 

“We can later,” 

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest as Fred couldn’t meet your eyes. You could tell guilt was chewing away at him and you couldn’t stand to see him struggling so much. If you could take his pain from him you would without a second beat. 

“Would you let me go grab you something? Or maybe we could take a walk to that pub you like,” You offered, trying to give him the freedom to choose and think on what he would be most comfortable with yet you hoped he would get something to eat as it might help him relax. Whenever he’d been upset at Hogwarts, locked away in his room, you’d snuck him hand pies and juice and he’d always brightened up considerably. 

You pulled away from him then, making a move to get him some tea, biscuits, anything. You were stalled however by his arms wrapping around your waist fiercely and pulling you to his chest with a grip that almost felt like fear. Your hands laid flat against his back and you rubbed with soothing circles as you stayed in the same spot you had been since entering his room. 

“Y/N,” He grumbled, pressing his nose against the side of your neck as he took a deep breath. You could feel the sudden pitch in his heartbeat against your own chest as he reminded himself you hadn’t left yet and you were still within his grasp. 

“What do you need Freddie?” You coaxed, reaching to tangle your fingers in his hair that had been growing out for some time now. He didn’t trust you or George with cutting it but he hadn’t been too comfortable heading to a salon when all he could see outside the shops were rubble and the clear signs that life still wasn’t back to normal.

“I-” He started but then dropped off for another heavy moment. His voice had cracked and you could feel your top growing damp as he buried his face deeper into the junction between your shoulder and neck. 

“Anything,” You promised, pulling him impossibly closer to help shield him from the challenging feelings he had swirling around in his mind. 

“M-maybe sitting would be nice, or laying down. Being close helps, just having you near is all I need,” He finally settled on and you took half a step back just to look into his watery eyes. Even when they were shining with tears his eyes were the most beautiful you’d ever seen. It wasn’t so much the color as it was the life that swam behind them. Even in his darkest times Fred Weasley was filled with beauty and life. 

“Of course,” 

You let Fred take the lead, his hand still clasped tightly with yours as he tugged you over to his bed. You noticed he was favoring his right leg, his cane discarded probably somewhere near the entrance to the apartment. Helping pull the sheets away from the bed you helped Fred settle onto his side. Once you joined him he let out a deep breath that he had been holding in. His arm found it’s place around your waist and he pulled you to his chest as he curled up tighter, smaller. He’d had struggles with claustrophobia yet he was entirely at ease with his head resting over your heart and his legs tangled with yours- barely a paper’s width between you. 

You trailed your fingers down his side affectionately, hand rubbing gentle circles against his hip and thigh knowing he was hurting from the way he sighed softly, hot breath fanning against your collarbones. Poor Freddie had been pacing too long and pushing through the pain from his injury.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning,” You apologized softly. Maybe if you’d fallen asleep with him his nightmares wouldn’t have been so vicious and his short fall from the ladder that morning wouldn’t have caused such a severe reaction.

“Don’t be, you’re here now,” Fred put your guilt to rest and snuck his hands under your shirt to rest against the warm expanse of your back. He’d always liked the contact and you were glad that you could help ground him in any small way. Your fingers brushed through his hair and you let your nails lightly scrape against the nape of his neck, a shiver going down his spine as he curled up tighter against you. 

You weren’t sure how long you two laid there in silence, hands shifting every so often to pull one another closer or to place an affectionate kiss against a forehead or nose. Your eyes had drifted shut and you weren’t sure if the both of you had drifted off for a moment or if the time was just passing comfortably. Fred’s breathing and heartrate had evened out and you were able to let out a sigh of relief. His hurts were your own and you felt such a deep peace when he was able to come back from the darkness. 

“This feels safe,” He admitted into the shared space between you, voice gentle like never before. “Thank you for easing my mind, Y/N” 

“Thank you for letting me in,” 

Fred smiled against your neck, brushing a kiss against your pulse point. You ruffled his hair and let your eyes fall shut again. Despite Fred’s need to move earlier and the loud memories playing back behind his eyelids he let himself fall into the warm embrace of sleep, nestled against the love of his life. 

[unique-facts]

Top 10 Facts About PewDiePie

Let’s talk about the world’s most successful YouTuber. Welcome to Unique Facts and today we’re counting down our picks for The Top 10 Facts About PewDiePie.

For this list, we’re looking at some of the things that make PewDiePie unique, eccentric and occasionally controversial, because you don’t make it to the top of YouTube by being ordinary.

10: His Name Is Felix Arvid Ulf Kjellberg

Let’s start with the basics. While many people know him as Pewds or even senpai, this YouTuber’s real life name is Felix Arvid Ulf Kjelberg. It’s a bit of a mouthful but it’s actually quite common in Sweden for people to have two middle names. Felix is a Latin word that means happy and successful, which just so happens to describe PewDiePie perfectly. You may also recognize the name from the Felix Felicis potion in Harry Potter, which brings luck and success to anyone who drinks it. So maybe, just maybe, there’s a little bit of magic behind PewDiePie’s success too.

9: There IS a Meaning Behind “PewDiePie”

Unlike the name his parents gave him, the name of Felix’s channel really doesn’t have that much meaning behind it, but it does come with a bit of funny and relatable origin story. In 2006 he created the PewDie channel but had to make a new channel when he forgot the login information, thus the great PewDiePie channel was born. To break it down Pew is to represent the sound a laser makes, die is what happens when you get shot by a laser, and pie… Well Pewds just thought it sounded funny, and he’d already started saying it as a bit of a catchphrase while gaming, so… why not? Also, who doesn’t love pie?

8: He Dropped Out of College

Surely much to his parents’ delight, PewDiePie was accepted into Chalmers University of Technology for a degree in industrial economics and technology management. This was quite an accomplishment since you needed excellent grades to get in, but it just wasn’t for Pewds. Before completing his degree at Chalmers, PewDiePie dropped out to pursue his own artistic endeavors. To support himself, he worked at a hot dog stand, and he managed to sell enough of his artwork to buy his early gaming/broadcasting equipment. It just goes to show that humble beginnings and sacrifice can create a legend.

7: He Has Two Licensed Video Games

It had always been a dream of Pewds’ to create his own video games and in 2015 that dream came true with the release of “PewDiePie: Legend of the Brofist.” The game takes you on an epic 2D adventure where you save Bros - i.e. PewDiePie’s fans - from the evil barrel army. In 2016 he released “PewDiePie’s Tuber Simulator”, which is a community game where you create your own YouTuber. You work to upgrade your office and become number one on YouTube. Both games have done extremely well, receiving high ratings and positive reviews.

6: He’s Very Charitable

PewDiePie has actually used his internet powers and substantial influence for good by raising money for charity. He has quite a few charities he’s passionate about like WWF, St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, Save the Children, and Product Red. In fact, in 2012 he won the title of "Gaming King of the Web" and donated his cash prize to the World Wildlife Fund. In 2014 Pewds made a video announcing that his channel, with the help of the Bro Army, had raised 1 million dollars for charity, and that number has only continued to grow.

5: He’s a Published Author

He’s a poet and you didn’t even know it. Well maybe not a poet… but he is hilarious and published! On October 15, 2015 PewDiePie released the magnum opus that is “This Book Loves You.” It has 240 pages of inspirational quotes and advice, which are paired with creative visuals. Well, technically the book is a satire on other inspirational books, but it has some fun words of wisdom like “Don't be yourself, be a pizza. Everyone loves pizza.” Truer words have never been put to paper. The book even made it to the #1 spot on the New York Times’ best seller list for young adult paperbacks.

4: He Met His Girlfriend When She Sent a Fan E-Mail

Theirs is a true modern romance if there ever was one. Back in 2011 Marzia Bisognin’s best friend innocently sent her a link to Felix’s videos. Marzia thought he was hilarious so she decided to write him and he wrote back. The two started talking through Facebook until Felix saved up enough money to visit her in Italy. They had to travel a lot to see each other but now they are a YouTube power-couple happily living in the UK. Marzia has over 7 million subscribers on her YouTube channel and she even has her own fashion line!

3: He’s Had to Move Because of His Fans

Jake Paul isn’t the only one having problems with fans at his place. Though at least, unlike Paul, Pewds didn’t share his home address publicly. The Bro Army is often a force for good, especially when it comes to charity drives, but other times their devotion to PewDiePie can go a little too far. There have been multiple instances of fans hunting down his address, and then showing up at his house. You shouldn’t show up to a friend’s place uninvited, let alone someone who doesn’t know you. Pewds has had to move more than once because of this. He’s even made a video telling fans to leave him alone, which, quite frankly, should’ve gone without saying.

2: He Increases Video Game Sales

If Pewds plays it… people buy it! This is especially evident when he decides to play indie-games. Pewds has been known to crash sites when the Bro Army flocks to a game that isn’t designed to handle so much traffic. You can thank him for putting a lot of games on the map like “Surgeon Simulator” and the addictive game “Flappy Bird”, may it rest in peace. We aren’t talking about a few dollars of increased sales either; when he played “Crypt of the NecroDancer” it experienced an increase in sales to the tune of 60 thousand big ones!

Before we reveal out top pick here are a few honorable mentions.

- He Hates Barrels

- He Has a LOT of Subscribers

- His First PewDiePie Video Was About Minecraft

#1: Controversial Content Cost Him Lucrative Deals

If you’ve ever watched a PewDiePie video, then you know that he’s got a habit of pushing the limits. It has gotten him into trouble in the past, like in 2016 when he was accused of anti-Semitism after posting a number of videos that either alluded to or invoked Nazi and anti-Semitic imagery and messages. While Felix made an apology video, the offending content cost him his deal with Disney, as well as his YouTube Red series. In 2017, he used a racial slur in a livestream of PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds, which led game developer Campo Santo to issue a DMCA takedown of videos featuring Pewds playing their game Firewatch.

[limetimo]

RAB fics I read this week

rewrite my heart (let the future in) by secretpersona

I Sleep with the Dirt by Fire Glow by Grey_Kenaz - Dumbledore and Sirius pull Regulus out of the cave after PoA. He's slowly recovering from his 15 years as an Inferius. Impaired brain capabilities or difficulties to control his emotions won't stop Regulus from plotting murder and protecting the little friends and family he has left.

Hatred by Grey_Kenaz Regulus is hurting and takes it out on James Potter.

A Surprise Star by FiresFromOurHearts Regulus strolls up to the Shrieking Shack like "Sup bitches!" and I love him for it

Text Talk by merlywhirls it's modern wolfstar texting fic, Regulus has a very tiny little subplot in there, but is a Good Boy and I want to pat him on his silly little head

set those ghosts alight by justwhatialwayswanted Gryffindor Regulus, BAMF Narcissa

The Phone Call that Changed the World by Fall_Fairy_101 Regulus rings up his older brother to go Horcrux hunting with him!

All You Need Is 20 Seconds by thissucks one of the tags is DILF Regulus and honestly that's all you need to know. ♥

there's nothing not to love about you by justprompts - Regulus has an "accident" during potions and is de-aged to a 6 years old. It's up to Sirius to look after him until the antidote is brewed!

Even if I can't by Inexorablement House Elf magic fuckery makes it that Harry pulls Regulus out of the lake, but Regulus pulls Harry to 1970s. Operation Fake Seer Harry is a go! Looking fun!

Chain Reaction by elder_millennial_trash, fuckboyregulus, givemethearapyimawalkingtravesty, Kiwiwhore, Pluto_Princess did I say sexy?

Dripping Death by FiresFromOurHearts Regulus haunts Grimmauld Place. He's going to kill Voldemort. He might not have a physical body but that's but a little detail.

Crepuscular by EmptySurface LOOK, I don't usually vibe with Fem!Harry but I would too adopt 15/16yo Regulus at the drop of a hat. Boy has massive abandonment issues and is still thinking in a "follow rules or we'll kick you out!" mindset that was drilled into him at Grimmauld, so it's not a very smooth sailing.

The Blacks by WanderingScout after OotP Dumbledore is killed and Grimmauld is attacked by Death Eaters. Grimmauld Place saves the last living heir of Blacks by pulling him to the past, to 1970s. Orion and Regulus go 'welp', call a healer and the Potters. Good thing Wally is in France.

Rest In Peace? No, Live In Peace by A2idB1u3 Regulily is dead, Sirius is in the Azkaban, Evan Rosier is MIA and raising Harry falls to one Barty Crouch Junior! First POV but it really works!

Summer Rain by Evandar Harry has serious hots for his god-uncle and with his guardians on a honeymoon... no time like the present!

A Second Chance at Happiness? Maybe? by animeotaku20 I read this one a whiiiiile ago and just recognised the title but I'm pretty sure I liked it! Harry time travels and saves Regulus from the cave and it goes from there.

The Black Family Reunion by teecup_angel What it says on the tin, pretty much. I like how officially Sirius is the Head of the family but it's really Regulus running this show.

Dear Cousin, Love Regulus by LLAP115, XxTheDarkLordxX - Thisssssss! A classic!!! Letters from Regulus change Draco's life.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Treasure hunt Part 3

Pairing: dragon!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome, forced pregnancy.

Words: 1884.

Summary: No knight would dare to save a sacrificial bride of the dragon.

Part 1

Part 2

_____________

"Don't you dare hurt her!" The boy's desperate voice cut through the heavy silence, and Steve saw his long scaled tail with a razor-edged tip just like his own. "Step away, or I will burn you to ashes!"

Steve's son had his face, child's light blue eyes burning with hatred and pure savagery at the sight of his father, the one who had been chasing him before he was even born. The boy had his golden hair, too, shining in the sun. Everything in his look reminded Steve of himself when he was younger, but he could see your features in the boy's face, and the way he moved, talked and thought was yours, undoubtedly.

"You are my flesh and blood." The man whispered, amazed, confused. "Your fire can't hurt me."

His son sent him a triumphant smile, baring his sharp teeth, and reached out to his pocket to grab an odd small bottle. Oh, Steve didn't like it.

"We'll see about that."

Once the boy opened the bottle, Steve felt a repulsive scent filling his nostrils. It was the goddamn pyrite potion. Once consumed, it would give his son the power to burn both Heaven and Hell. Gods, how did he learn about the potion? Where did he find it? What did he give in return?

"Run." Your weak voice made the boy look at you with both fear and sadness, but then Steve saw determination in his face. "I'll hold him! RUN!"

Your grip on his shoulder became harder, but both of you knew no one could detain Steve here longer - except for his son and the pyrite potion in his clawed hands. His little child was only ten by now, yet he had eyes of a grown man, tired, anxious, desperate. He was well prepared to fight for you, the mother that kept him hidden when Steve roamed the earth, searching for you two for more than a decade.

The deep hatred in his child's eyes made the man shook.

"You can burn half of your face with that." The dragon said, pointing to the little bottle carefully with his human finger.

"If it means the world will get rid of you, I'm ready to burn myself, too."

_______________

Steve woke up with you hovering above him and shaking him by the shoulders in distress. His face was wet - apparently, he had been crying in his sleep, horrified by the pure nightmare he saw, the image of his son drinking the pyrite potion in front of him forever captured in his memory. Looking at your face pale with worry, the dragon wept and snuggled against your round belly. It was all a dream. It did not happen. Yet.

He let out a loud cry and kept his eyes shut while you were caressing his soft hair, afraid to  ask for an explanation as he was shaking against your body. You didn't understand what was happening to him, but he felt too weak to talk.

His own son was ready to kill himself if it meant Steve would stop following him and his mother. His dear little child became so hateful and bitter he wanted nothing else than to see his father's death.

What had Steve done? How much did he hurt his boy and you to make the both of you hate him to such extent?

He couldn't bear to think of it.

"It is alright." You cooed lovingly and pressed his blond head to your bulging belly. "It is alright, dear. You're safe. I'm here with you."

Steve felt deeply disgusted at himself, listening to your lovely voice: he was the one whose rile was to keep you safe and sound, and yet he abused you instead, locking you inside his cave, making you do what you were told, forcing you to bear his child. He believed you grew to love him, but was it true? What choice did you have rather than submitting to him?

He had been blind, thinking he could make you love him. Love couldn't be forced. He had to earn it.

"I'm sorry." He uttered, afraid to look at you and keeping his eyes shut. "I'm sorry!"

You froze on the spot, unsure of what you just heard. Did he apologize? Why? For what? What did he had to do to apologize for it? You couldn't remember the last time he said sorry to you, regardless of what he did. He thought he had always been right, always. To think of it, he hadn't been too cruel to you, but you had never pushed him to. As soon as you realized his power was absolute, you gave up, not willing to risk it. Your first attempt to flee failed because of the dragon fruit you'd eaten the day you met Steve, and all other attempts were worthless as you couldn't leave the cave without his permission. What else could you do? No magic treasure of his was able to kill him, his scales and ancient dragon charms protecting him fully.

You had to live with it. Thankfully, Steve had treated you kindly once you stopped rebuffing him, even taking you outside with him when he deemed it useful to keep you healthy and content.

What was he saying sorry for, though? You didn't believe he had finally felt remorse after many months of keeping you with him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sor..." He kept whispering feverishly until you bended over and kissed the top of his head, concerned with his state. "What have I done? What have I done?"

You didn't know what dark thoughts he harboured, but you were frightened. You had never seen him like that. You wished you knew what he was thinking.

"It's alright, darling. You're going to get better."

"No, no!" He cried softly, kissing your belly over and over again. "It's all my fault. If it's going to happen, it's all my fault."

Ah, he probably saw something terrible in his sleep. That was it, you thought. Of course, what else did you expect from Steve? He wasn't human. You doubted he knew what it was like to be trapped against your will, even if you had feelings for him. He had never obeyed anyone and lived free as a jaybird. Steve was the one and only King who ruled over these lands, what could he know about your fears and pain?

"It wasn't right. What I've done... it wasn't right. I'm sorry, my love, I'm sorry, for I have hurt you."

Your eyes flew open at his words when you stared at his soft golden hair, running your hand over his lovely locks. Gods, what did he see in that nightmare of his? What had forced these words out of his mouth?

"I should have never made you to stay against your will..." Steve's cries had finally ceased and he lifted his head, his face red and puffy, blue eyes glowing in the dark. "I have been blind. I... I give you my word, I will not make you stay here any longer."

"W-what are you saying, Steve?"

Would he let you go? Would he let you return back to people instead of locking you in his dungeon? For the moment you forgot how to breath, watching the dragon with both fear and an odd excitement.

"You said you were travelling before the villagers took you away, didn't you?" He sounded calmer, but his heated gaze showed he was still agitated as his palms gently brushed against your belly. "Do you want to travel again? Do you want to see the world?"

"Yes!" Your answer was immediate, your eyes sparkling with happiness - he hadn't seen you so joyful for a long time.

"Then we will leave tomorrow morning." He whispered and moved up, sitting close to you on your spacious bed high above the ground, furs and blankets all over the bedsheets. "I will take you to the East to show you the most attractable secrets of the Orient. Or would you like to fly up to the South to see the Great Ocean? The Sacred Mountains of the Northen island? Would you want to see the waterfalls of the Acient?"

"Yes! I want to see them all!" Tears of joy filled your eyes, and Steve smiled at you, cupping your face with his hot hands. "Let's do it, my love! Let's leave this place for good!"

Then he leaned forward to you and left a tender kiss on your forehead, brushing away your hair. You looked so cheerful, contented, extremely pleased with him like never before. It was so easy to make you happy, yet he had always thought you were happy enough with him in that cave of his, stuffed with all those things you cared little for. Why was he so stuborn? Why had he forgotten what his own mother had taught him when he was a boy? He had forgotten what the true kindness meant.

"'Tomorrow morning we will leave." The dragon assured you, leaving little kisses on your face here and there, his eyes welling up. "Don't worry, you won't have to ride me as you did when I brought you here, I will make you... a rickshaw! A cart of some kind where you'll be safe and sound."

Amazed at his enthusiasm, you burst out laughing and shook your head, wiping away your tears with the back of your hand. You didn't know what he saw in his dream, but you were ready to keep thanking the gods for eternity for sending the dragon this nightmare. You were free to leave. You could see the world as you had always dreamed, a dragon at your side to protect you and the child growing fast in your belly. You couldn't pretend you wanted to abandon your own child and the man who, aside from keeping you captive, loved you like no one else did. If only Steve was more perceptive of what he was doing, realizing he might be wrong instead of claiming he always knew what was better for your and the child...

But maybe you had a chance to make him understand now. Maybe from now on everything would be different.

"We need to sleep, sweetheart." Steve whispered gently, helping you to lay down on the side - your big belly didn't let you to sleep on your back. "We'll have a lot to do tomorrow."

"Yes." You answered and snuggled closer to him, his breath tickling the top of your head. "Yes, my love. Sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams."

Watching you close to him, Steve let out a loud breath, finally calming down. Yes, it was right. He needed to take you away from this place. He needed to give you the life you always wanted and make you happy so you would never leave his side. He needed to raise his child with affection and care, watching him grow as a boy loved deeply by his parents, not a little fugitive with a heart full of hatred and desire to kill. The boy didn't deserve a future like this. No one did.

"I will never let it happen." The dragon whispered after making sure you fell asleep. "The stars of heaven shall fall, but I will never make you suffer this fate."

_______________

Tags: @finleyjayne  @alexakeyloveloki ​ @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin​ @lovelydarkdaydream

[marvelousmaize]

stay safe for me

Note: for @weakforjaskier, one of the dearest people to me in this fandom, who requested that a worried Geralt take care of a sick or injured (i went with injured) Jaskier, and Jaskier is adorably confused about why the Witcher is so worried. A confession of feelings (and softness!) ensue. It’s all very sweet and fluffy with a dash of idiots in love. 

Melina, i hope you enjoy, and that this fic brings you as much happiness as seeing you on my dash brings me, my dear :) 

 It happens before Geralt can stop it. 

He and Jaskier are on the road, as they usually are, not a quarter of a day’s walk from the nearest Temerian village. Jaskier is strumming his lute, idly composing a song, and Geralt is walking just a few paces behind the bard, hand wrapped around Roach’s reigns, when they’re accosted by a group of bandits.

This isn’t an uncommon occurrence. But usually the bandits take one look at Geralt’s two swords and his golden eyes and his medallion, realize who they’re up against, and promptly take their leave. 

Evidently not these bandits. 

They’re in larger numbers, for one - Geralt counts ten - and seem quite determined to snatch up all their coin, which is a problem. It makes them foolhardy and reckless, and Geralt has to balance fending them off with keeping Roach and Jaskier safe. He sends the mare running ahead - he’s got every confidence he’ll find her again - but Jaskier, the idiot, stubbornly stays put, refusing to leave Geralt’s side. 

Geralt incapacitates seven of the bandits with relative ease. All non-fatal injuries (he still won’t kill humans if he can help it) and he’s nearly finished with the eighth when - 

“Geralt! Behind you!”

He’s been so caught up, the Witcher’s managed to miss one of the other two bandits ready to shove a sword straight through his lower back when Jaskier wedges himself between Geralt and the bandit, using the dagger he keeps at his hip to slice at the bandit’s shoulder.

But the bandit’s sword still manages to run through Jaskier’s side.

The bard crumples, and Geralt is briefly seized with raw, icy horror, before his vision bleeds red and white hot fury surges through him. He kills the remaining bandits without another thought, and takes special pleasure in ending the life of the one who dared injure Jaskier. 

Sheathing his steel sword, Geralt goes to the bard right away, kneeling beside him. “Jaskier,” he murmurs. 

Jaskier looks up. He’s pale, and obviously in pain, but he’s responsive. The blade must not have passed through any vital organs. Thank fuck.

“Geralt -” Jaskier gasps out, but Geralt quiets him with a look.

“Not now,” the Witcher murmurs. “We need to stop the bleeding.” 

Geralt makes a makeshift tourniquet with some of the bands of cotton he keeps in his pack, securing them with a tight knot, before gingerly scooping up Jaskier. 

He finds Roach just like he knew he would only a few meters ahead, and hoists himself and Jaskier up, riding out to the closest village. 

The next few hours are a blur - Roach is fast, and Geralt is able to find an inn with relative ease - and are spent tending to Jaskier’s wound. Jaskier is as talkative as he always is, propped up on the bed, and chest bare save for the bandages around his waist. Color has returned to his cheeks, and Geralt can concede that the wound will heal nicely - perhaps won’t even scar. 

It’s finally then that he allows himself to fully cede to the anger that has been steadily bubbling up in his chest. Anger tinged with worry and guilt, because Jaskier might have died because of Geralt and Geralt - 

Geralt doesn’t quite know how to deal with that. 

“You cannot put yourself between me and a blade, Jaskier,” Geralt hisses. “Do you understand?”

“Like hell I can’t. Geralt, you would have died!”

“Then I die.”

“That’s an unacceptable outcome to me and you know that.”

Geralt fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Why do you insist on being so stubborn and reckless -”

“Me? Reckless?” Jaskier cuts in with a disbelieving scoff. “You’re one to talk, diving headfirst into every battle without a single regard for your life or your safety. Do you know what it’s like watching you hunt your monsters knowing you could die?” and Jaskier’s voice goes so quiet, almost choked off as he speaks. It sends a sharp spike of icy guilt straight into Geralt’s heart. Then the bard juts his chin out; his gaze is steady, and he looks utterly defiant, the imbecile. “If putting myself between you and harm’s way is what keeps you from dying, I will make that choice every single time.”

“You’re a fool,” Geralt spits out around a throat packed tightly with wool. In his mind’s eye, all he sees is Jaskier, felled by fang or claw or sword. Face as white as snow, blue eyes vacant, vermillion blood tainting his clothes, coming out of his mouth, on his fingers - 

“Better I than you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt blinks away the images of the bard dead, dead, dead because of him, because he was too late. The Witcher’s mouth curls into a snarl. 

“I won’t let you.”

“I’d like to see you try. Honestly Geralt, I must confess that you are being extremely confusing right now. If the outcome is me only slightly injured or you dead, I don’t understand why -”

“Because I won’t have your blood on my hands, Jaskier!”

And Geralt’s carefully constructed exterior of calmness and detachment dissolves with his outburst. Undone by this idiotic, heedless, brave, loyal, unflinching bard without a sense of self-preservation, who sees the Witcher - with all his enhanced strength and swords and potions and magic - and sees someone worth protecting. 

Geralt grits his teeth, pushing through Jaskier’s momentary speechlessness, trying to ignore the bard’s quickening heartbeat and his wide blue eyes. “You are - you are -” but the words are stuck in his wool-packed throat, trapped, heavy and thick, on his tongue. His fingers are carving deep moons in his palm, his mouth twisting - helpless and infuriated. 

And Jaskier - 

Jaskier might be a fool, but Jaskier is also intrinsically brilliant - an academic, a poet with a thirst for knowledge, who is eloquent and can use words like another might wield a weapon. Jaskier, who understands the nuances of emotion and can articulate them - and his eyes go even wider with realization. “Oh.” His expression softens all at once, and it soothes and inflames Geralt all at once. 

“Geralt,” he murmurs, and he smells like honey and spun sugar, like fondness and happiness. “Say it first and I promise I’ll say it back.” Geralt’s gaze snaps up. He meets eyes as blue as the ocean, open and steady and so, so earnest. It sends hope and sunlight curling at the base of his spine. “But you have to say it first, so that I might let myself believe it’s true.”

It’s an admission filled with so much yearning and heartache that Geralt can taste them. There’s a thing with wings in his chest and he thinks it’s his heart, ready to fly out of his throat and give itself to Jaskier and Geralt wants that - wants it more than anything - wants it enough to -

“I love you,” Geralt says. “I can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt because of me.”

The smile on Jaskier’s face is blinding. “I love you too,” he says back. “And I won’t get hurt if you stop diving into things with a death wish.”

“Jaskier -”

“It’s a compromise, Witcher. You can compromise with me, can’t you? Please?”

And it is said so sweetly it pulls a grin out of Geralt that is equal-parts exasperated and fond - a mix of emotions he is no stranger to when it comes to Jaskier. “You’re impossible.”

“But you still love me,” Jaskier counters with a little quiet disbelief, but his smile is still so wide and his eyes glitter with mirth. “So just agree to this compromise Geralt, and come over here and kiss me already.”

Geralt chuckles, a low, rumbling thing that reverberates throughout his chest. “Well, when you put it that way,” he says wryly, and moves from the chair to sit himself on the bed. His huge, ungloved hand twines itself around the nape of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier is watching him through hooded, hazy eyes, and Geralt picks up on the subtle quickening of the bard’s breath. “I agree, Jaskier.”

Jaskier licks his lips - an intoxicating movement Geralt traces with hungry eyes - and curls his fingers in locks of silver-white hair. “Oh good. Now -”

But Geralt doesn’t let him finish - though he strongly suspects he knows exactly what Jaskier is going to say - surging down instead and catching Jaskier’s lips into a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth and promise. Jaskier lets out a delightful whimper - confirms Geralt’s suspicions when even as their lips interlock, he mumbles a “finally,” and smiles into the kiss - responding with unabashed enthusiasm. 

The spun sugar smell gets stronger, and it’s mixed with something else, something warm and spicy and utterly intoxicating.

(I love you too)

Geralt smiles and deepens the kiss.