Hi. This is my blog, I write stuff for a lot of different stuff.
If you have any questions please refer to my FAQ before asking me, my FAQ is also where you can find my rules.
This author thrives off of praise so comments and reblogs always welcome.
☽Navigation
Masterlist
My FAQ and Rules
My AO3
Requests/Where to request & current WIPs
☽DNI List
Fujoshis - I’m chill with female readers, but don’t be weird and don’t be rude
Minors - I literally cannot stop you from interacting but please don’t be weird
Homophobes
Transphobes
Racists
If you interact with my posts and you have an ageless/blank blog, or I think you’re a bot I will block you. I use my block button very liberally, if I see your page has little to no customization I will block you.
☽About the author
I’m a college student studying physicis, so my schedule is boned
I’m a turaus
I’m addicted to Dr. Pepper
Favorite piece(s) of media rn: Jason Todd, Mighty Nein, Leon Kennedy, OPLA, Bungo Stray Dogs, COD MW (1, 2, 3)
My faorite color is green
I’m an introvert and painfully awkward
I write for fun. You can ask me about updates and things like that but please be respectful
The way Liam keeps making the sluttiest characters needs to be studied. Halandil fang? I would do ANYTHING for an x reader on that man. Angst, fluff, anything.
In Death I Will
Word count: 2022 | Masterlist |
he for sureeeee knows what he’s doing, for this one the council decided on angst because i said so. annnnnnywho we got a bit of gore in this one cause im a DM and i cant not, but if we want a more pg version send over an ask and i can edit it out
TW: Very detailed descriptions of gore, if you have a thing about eyes id skip this one if i were you, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
Halandil Fang’s last words before leaving for his mysterious mission were as follows:
“Protect my children.” And for the last four and a half hours, you’ve been taught as a live wire, despite sleep clawing at the edges of your consciousness. The two beings behind you keep you awake, though they rest peacefully; the roaring flame in your chest and the primal instinct to protect the young sap the drowsiness from your body, evaporating it into a volatile vapor of promise and inherent aptitude.
From your meditative position, you glance back at the children. The eldest, Shadia, clutching her younger sister, her cheek pressed against Hero’s scalp, drooling slightly into her hair. And Hero, the youngest Fang, head tucked into her sister's chest. It hasn’t even been a week since Thjazi died, and those sickos in the houses have already launched an investigation against Halandil. But it doesn’t surprise you; in fact, you anticipated it happening, but the anticipation doesn’t make their actions any less enraging.
At the sound of wood splintering and footsteps, your body snaps tight and in position, hindbrain nature and habit mingling violently—protect the children behind you, the youngest already with tears gathering in her eyes. You walk back to them, great axe clutched tight.
“Hide behind those wine racks and don’t make a sound.” You're fierce and stern, but they listen shakily, standing and moving as you instruct, their hands laced together protectively. Hero opens her mouth to protest your leaving their side, but you raise a hand, and she quickly understands she is in no position to ask questions.
You turn and face the hatch to the cellar, face set in stone, furious and feeling the thunderous slam of your heart inside your chest. You can already feel the smoldering burn of adrenaline beneath your skin,
“They won’t pass me. I swear it.” You don’t spare the two behind you a glance; your eyes remain on the hatch wide and predatory, pupils dilate almost completely blacking out your iris. You hear boots clamoring above your head, stomping hard enough to cause dust to fall from the rafters above. You count.
“One, two, three, four…. Five, one remaining at the door. Probably more outside.”
You know that you latched the hatch to the cellar tightly shut, but at the number of scuffling footsteps, your heart hammers behind your ribs. They find the hatch quicker than you anticipated that they would, and you feel it, the familiar bite of animalistic rage in the back of your mind, begging for violence– for bloodshed.
“Find the kids, take em’ alive.” Your throat closes tight and dry, your grip on your great axe breaking the skin of your palms, your jaw clenched so tightly you absently fear breaking your teeth.
The hatch splinters and then cracks open, but you don’t jump into action; you wait, ready to spring forward, you stand still as stone, body tingling with pre-fight energy. Halandil’s words ring clear in your mind again.
“Protect my children.” The first guard is just about to turn before you embed your axe into the junction of his neck and shoulder, his head lolls to the side as molten blood splatters across your face, making the animal part of your brain trill in satisfaction. With your left hand, you take his face in your palm and squeeze until the wailing turns into gurgling and the gurgling turns to lifelessness, his eye hanging from the socket by just the optical nerve. Two more guards descend into this battlefield, which you know will be their last battlefield.
The first looks at her comrade with terror before roaring in rage and charging at you. She slashes at your chest with her sword and connects cleanly but hesitantly, not strong enough, the slash not even making a scratch. Though you feel your body tiring, you pay no mind to it, because even as reinforcements arrive and surround you, you feel that need for blood deepen, and calcify into something jagged and blade-like. Though your own blade lay tossed aside, you use your body as an instrument for violence, roaring a cry so fierce that even the heavens may have trembled.
But the human body can only be pushed so far, and the guards surrounding you keep growing in number, one, then three, then five, then four. There’s a crossbow bolt lodged through your left shoulder and collarbone, a broken-off spear piercing through your right thigh, and one lucky soldier manages to shove you to the ground and launch his fist into your face. Splitting open your lip and the sensitive skin over your cheekbone, but you don’t feel any of it; all you feel is the adrenaline. You feel the searing need to protect, to eradicate anything that would dare lay a hand on those kids.
With a scream, you tear the spear from your leg and put it through his neck and stand, to your front, you’re surrounded once more, heaving and hunching over and emitting a horrifying steam from the sheer amount of heat your body is producing. Completely coated in blood, your irises have disappeared, leaving in their wake just white, which glimmers wildly in the low light of this cellar. The soldiers don’t move; they stand panicked and frightened, glimpsing at the mangled corpse of their fallen comrades and the mixture of their blood and your own, slicking your hands and face.
Effectively, you’re dead. But your body remains– though your soul is gone, it continues to protect what remains, your body fundamentally not being able to stop until its mission is completed. You merely remain a spectator to the promise you keep; not a single soldier has made it an inch past your body. Despite seeing brutalities being inflicted upon your corpse, your body still fights, utterly monstrous in nature, until the last of the soldiers falls, and you're still standing, your heaving corpse is left in a semi-circular graveyard.
At shouting at the door, your body haunches, an instinctive guttural sound comes from deep within your chest, a warning. A warning to whatever may enter next that an untimely death may befall it. The ladder down the cellar creaks, and you whip around, teeth bared in a snarl, your only other weapon, a morningstar, raised and poised to strike.
And finally, you control your body. Before you can swing wildly, your eyes lock with familiar blue eyes, and the roaring flame inside your chest is quenched. Shock.
The pain hits first. Everything hurts—all of it, everywhere. Open wounds lick at every nerve with burning discomfort, bruises ache bright and fresh, broken bones grind together agonizingly, but you made good on your promise. With unfocused eyes, you smirk and suck in a gulp of air,
“They didn’t make it an inch past me.” You fall to your knees, morningstar still clutched tightly, distantly you hear his sweet voice call out your name, and offhandedly you think how nice it would be to die to the sound of his voice carrying you into the afterlife. You imagine the sweet melodies that he creates gently lift and lick at your wounds, and float you delicately along a river, guiding you into death. And you accept it.
It’s cold and lonely, but you can hear Halandil’s voice singing, and you feel at peace. Though you were never able to accomplish all the things you wished you could’ve, it matters little, not when you accomplished keeping a promise, his promise.
But there’s a twitch in your soul—a pulling. Strange and unsettling, your soul is pulled and pushed somewhere because something calls to you. A voice that you’ve heard before, soft and desperate. It reaches out to you.
Halandil Fang has never held someone’s soul with both his hands before, but after the spell completes, he sees it.
You. A small white sphere– similar to the sun— rises from just beneath the center of your chest. Halandil instinctively knows that this little sphere is you; this small thing is the remnants of your soul still lingering and clinging to your body.
He cups your soul gingerly, then tucks a strand of your hair away from your face. He swallows thickly, the memory of violently pushing healing magic into your lifeless body, which is still at the forefront of his mind. He hadn’t even been able to clean all the blood from your face before the group set you down on a cot and cast.
Halandil didn’t have a clue what to do, but he remembers you always saying how much you wished he would sing to you. So he began humming, hoping desperately that it would do anything, that maybe the sound of his voice would guide your soul back into your body, that he could do anything in this hopeless situation. He screws his eyes shut, pushing through the tightness of his throat and the stinging in his eyes.
Gods, he can’t lose you, too.
You make a choked, wheezing, gasping noise. Halandil can feel his heart leap into his chest. You don’t open your eyes, but there’s breath inside you again, and Halandil feels relief, warm and unmistakable running through his blood. He doesn’t stop humming, and as he furthers into the song, your breathing becomes more gentle, softer, like sleeping.
When the song comes to a close, you're breathing steadily, and there’s warmth returning to your body. So he gently and quietly, as if to keep a secret, launches into the retelling of your story, as if many hundreds of years from now, will. He illustrates your story with flowery words and a sense of awe, like reverence.
“With bravery beyond explanation, with the strength of an army of soldiers, and you kept your word, not a single soldier made it past you. You kept my kin safe, you bested thirty-five men and would’ve fought thousands more to keep them safe.” He feels himself choke up over the words because he cares about his children; he loves his children beyond what words can even begin to convey, and he loves you, too. And losing you would be as devastating as losing any one of his children.
“It was thirty-seven.” Halandil’s head snaps to you, absolutely haggard and torn up, and you’re smiling-smiling at him. And Halandil feels himself crumple into himself, crying into his own arms because you can’t move yours, the composure that he’s been holding himself to fizzling away to nothing. Because he finally knows he can sleep without worrying about you being dead, he can eat and sing and breathe, finally knowing that you are alive.
“They didn’t stand a chance, Hal.” With all the strength that you can forge inside your battered body, you reach your hand to his, your callouses gently grazing over his soft palms. He takes your hand, holding it tight and pressing cathartic kisses to the back of your hand, while thanking the gods and thanking you.
“I’d never let them touch them, no matter what timeline, Hal, I would never let those bastards get their hands on your girls.” He presses the land of your hand to his cheek, sad blue eyes searching your unapologetic ones, then he surges forward. Scooping you up beneath your armpits and slinging your body into his lap, you yelp at the stinging ache the movement causes.
“I’m sorry, I can’t— you almost died, I almost lost you, and I can’t…. please, I just need to hold you. I need to feel you breathing.” Your eyes sting at his scattered rambling, because truthfully, you didn’t want to die. You wanted to get the chance to love Halandil openly, to tell him, show him, you wanted to get the chance, like everyone else in this cruel world, to be so lucky as to love someone.
With a shuddering breath, you inhale through your teeth as you wrap your arms around his neck, sighing in relief at how warm he is as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. Sleep takes you once more— gentle this time, and in the arms of the man that you love.
Helllooo! I noticed your open requests so i thought I'd give it a try! I noticed you like writing about The mighty nein! Soo could you do a Caleb x reader with a kind, apologetic reader?
Like she'd apologize if she bumped into someone, if she made a bad joke, not too extremely apologetic, but enough to be noticed. I'd like to see Caleb's reactions to her apologies and later, if she bumps into someone, she apologizes, the guy is too rude and she's too kind to fight back, what will Caleb do?
Sooo yeeee... Thank you so much! I hope that you like my request and inspired you enough to write. If you don't feel like writing it, that's okay! Have a wonderful day, byeee!!!
enough of your apologies
Word count: 1928 | Masterlist |
heeeeyyy this is ninteen hundred words of this got out of control…. :P i liked this one and i like you anon you entertained me with this one. there’s everythign in here angst, hurt/comfort. also i dont like writing for the mighty nein i love it silly.
Caleb is a creature of habit— at least when he has the opportunity to be. Every night after finding a safe place to sleep, he reads; every night he sets up a wire around his room; every night he huddles close to Nott. Caleb Widogast is a creature that notices patterns; it's what he was trained to do. This rune implies that, see the order in which they’re placed, break them down, and understand. He was able to see patterns in the arcane arts and capitalize on them. Bren Ermendrud is a creature that sees. He sees the cause and effect of the world; by combining these components with these words, he will get this reaction. By doing this, he will get that.
Naturally, Caleb Widogast considers Bren Ermendrud dead, a name from the past that he regards with faraway looks and a hammering heart. But Bren Ermendrud still lives, tucked away inside the most guarded parts of his heart, the once-vicious Volstrucker now nothing but a scared boy hiding in the safe confines of his fortified heart. However, there are many occasions when Caleb finds himself allowing the curious boy to resurface—when he first met Nott, or when he watches you.
And because it’s of no consequence, watching you or not, he finds himself doing it often. As Caleb, the creature of habit who sees your own habits, as Caleb Widogast, who wants to understand the components that make you, and as Bren, who looks at you but never sees you. Upon realizing this, Caleb finds you frustrating. Your meek apologies to those around you act as kindling for this frustration. Just as he is guarded, so are you. Hiding behind a wall of apologies and kindness that is unwavering and undeserved for some.
He didn’t even see the collision happen.
He’s walking just a pace ahead of you when he hears you yelp and the near instant apology,
“Oh my gods, I am so sorry, I didn’t see you—”
“Sorry? You’re sorry, huh?” He leans down and presses his face close to yours. “Why dontcha show me how sorry you are, little thing?” Caleb turns, and though he stands as arguably the most cowardly of the Mighty Nein— next to Nott, a bit of flame curls around his fingers.
This man, if he could even be considered as such, is hulking, huge; his forearm alone is probably as big as your head. But the one thing that makes Caleb’s frustration turn into mild fury is that he has you by your forearm, your feet dangling a handful of inches off the ground.
“I otta teach ya some manners f’that.” He regards his buddies, who snicker among themselves, and Caleb doesn’t know whether he should burn just the ringleader or all of them. All drunk and looking for entertainment in anything that would give it to them.
The three other men circle to your left side, knuckles cracking, wicked grins spreading on their faces. The ring leader reels an open palm back, before his open hand can come down on your face, a dirty, calloused hand clasps your attacker's shoulders. You know this hand to be Caleb’s. Because you’ve studied them. In fact, you study all of Nein’s hands. You find that hands are honest; they tell stories of age, of hard work, of character and will. Caleb’s show you courage and cowardice, nimbleness and anxiety; they tell you stories of sorrow, grief, and pain.
So you find yourself able to recognize the hand that latches around the brute's shoulder— calloused and dirty and hurting, this is the hand that you hold when the world becomes a little too much, the hand that you hold when your chest feels tight, and the world becomes impossibly small. The hands that used to work tirelessly on a farm with only his parents, those hands that were strapped to chairs and bound in straight jackets, and the hands that run through soft orange fur.
“Let go now.” He sounds different; this voice comes from deeper inside his chest, something angrier than you’ve ever heard come from Caleb. This is chilling, a stark contrast, and a grim reminder that Caleb Widogast was once Bren Ermendrud. You inhale sharply and then grimace at the char smell that enters the air, and the smoke that rises from where his palm connects to the brute's shoulder. He screams, violent and raw, and drops you to the ground from which you skitter to Caleb’s back, hiding as best you can behind him.
You can no longer see the man, surrounded by his friends, all unsure whether to help or call for help. Caleb turns his back to the quad, grabs your biceps gently, and looks at you with unbridled concern.
“Are you alright?” He scans you over, eyes catching on your forearm, which he scowls at and grasps gingerly, and you can see now that there’s an already forming bruise, dark and ugly on your skin. He brushes a thumb over the mark, feather-light, and finally meets your gaze again, only slightly pink in the cheeks.
“I’m sure Jester can fix this.” He mutters, more to himself than you, his cerulean eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you can see anger flicker across his features, yet just as fast as you see it, it disappears.
“Wh-what did you do to him?!” One of the friends stands between the burned man and Caleb, trying to be a human shield but looking more like a shivering leaf, and this time you see it happen—you see the warm blue eyes of his darken, like a storm forming in an instant over calm seas. You see who Caleb Widogast once was.
“I would consider…… finding a new friend. You would never know what kind of trouble this pathetic man could get you dragged into.” His words aren’t acid, they’re fire, molten and broiling and begging to be trifled with, and he turns, fire already crackling in the palms of his hands. The friend falls to his rear, eyes wide with terror, and the ground beneath him softens with piss, shanking hands coming up to shield his face— yet nothing strikes him, and the fire in Caleb's palms simmers to a broiling heat. And he grabs the friend's hand, and the friend wails, fat tears rolling from his eyes and snot falling onto quivering lips, whimpering as the simmering heat of Caleb’s hand cools slowly.
“I don’t want to see any of your ugly faces around here ever again, ja?” He squeezes, and the friend squeals while nodding as quickly as he can, nearly throwing his head off his shoulders. With a final squeeze, Caleb releases the friend, who shrieks at the bits of charred skin that come off with Caleb’s hand. Without another word, Caleb turns, head tilted downward, and walks steadily over to you, hand without charred skin, grabbing your non-bruised arm.
Too shocked to even question where Caleb was dragging you off to. He doesn't look back at you, his head no longer down, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, and his other hand is curled into a fist. Fingernails digging into the callouses on his palms, crushing the charred skin that remains stuck to his hand to dust.
“I-I’m sorry, Caleb.” He stops, completely stops, both of you in a secluded little alleyway that smells vaguely like mouse piss, and he’s still, so still in fact, that it nearly looks like he’s not moving at all. You can barely see through his clothing, but you can tell his entire back is tense, and his hand around your wrist lets go.
“And why are you sorry?” He doesn’t turn; he must be mad at you for making him use his magic on someone like that. It must’ve been so hard; your heart plummets inside your chest. Now you’ve really done it.
“For making you use your magic like that,” You aggressively scrub at the tears that force themselves into your eyes, “For making you remember all those horrible things.” You keep brushing away your tears, but to no avail, the tears come faster than you can wipe them away, and your sniffling makes it absolutely clear what’s happening.
Finally, Caleb turns. And his brows are deeply furrowed, his jaw set tightly, the storm that shadows his beautiful eyes clearly visible when you see him. Tears dripping down your face onto your clothes and staining your sleeves, shudders wrecking your posture into something smaller, something that apologizes, something that is sorry.
You're taking a gasping, shuddering breath when he says it, your moniker, your title, you—instantly stilling the storming ocean. Because it’s not that he calls you by your name, it’s the tenderness that stills the raging ocean inside of you, the cadence of his tone that makes your eyes snap to him. His jaw is still clenched tight, and he remains only five feet away from you, but his brows soften, yearning, angry, and concerned. He takes a step forward, then another, and then another, and then he stands in front of you, right hand taking your own.
“Enough with your apologies.” The exterior of his sentence is stern, but what lies inside is soft, and caring, and gentle. He lets go of your hand and wraps his arms around your upper waist, tugging you into his hold— he’s warm.
For the first time in your entire life, you don’t feel like flooding him with apologies, you don’t feel like apologizing for needing help, you don’t feel the need to apologize to the world for your existence; you feel still and safe and warm. You wrap your arms around his neck, tears smearing the coat that he just bought, you feel the urge rise, the words forming instinctually on your tongue, and yet you can’t say them. Because this is Caleb, and he’s borne the weight of the world and would still refuse to accept a meaningless apology from you.
“I refuse to accept any apology from you, not for that.” You want to push out the words, say anything of meaning to him, but the hiccups and the stuttering breath are all you can manage.
“Using my magic like that is probably the most just reason I’ve ever used it.” He squeezes you, pressing his chest to yours, giving you the space not to feel sorry, not to feel bad all the time, and allowing you to, allowing his hand to press flat against your back, palms warmer than natural, but caressing your spine, melting the anxiety that’s been chilling your bones. Hands that are rough and want so desperately to hold something without hurting it, calloused and dirty hands that want to fix this. Nimble hands that want to show the world that he can love, too, despite having blood on them.
Caleb is rough and anxious, willing to hold you forever if it were to prove that you have nothing to apologize for. Caleb Widogast is calloused and dirty and broken, but wants to fix himself, not only for himself, but for you; to prove it’s possible. Bren Ermundrud wants to love you, no, Bren Ermundrud does love you, and he is violent and trained to kill, and he is human, and still that boy he once was, that still loves so dearly. Because if you love all of him, love him even when there’s a storm in his eyes, and he becomes that violent boy again, then he can love all of you as well, and he will.
Helllooo! I hope you have a lovely day! May i request a Mollymauk x reader where reader is an artist -like jester- and when she joins the mighty nein she started drawing the members of the group with her from time to time but she ends up drawing Molly the most. Soo somehow Molly discovers and reader is too embarrassed and nervous because she was too bashfully to tell him about her feelings, how does he react? I love your writing, i hope you have a lovely day!
hiiiiiiii. totally forgot to reply to this when I posted for this req. oopsie poodles
heyyyyyyyy, this got very out of hand very quickly… do with that what you will. please reblog i need motivation.
It wasn’t something that happened instantly. Of course, you couldn’t deny that every member of the Mighty Nein was certainly charming in one way or another. Jester was outwardly and inwardly wonderful, pleasant to be around all the time, certainly beautiful from an objective standpoint, and always knew how to make you smile. Fjord and his stoic exterior, rugged demeanor, and charming lack of wooing skills. Though you assumed Jester had a thing for him, so it would remain a kind compliment for a friend.
Yasha, all hard lines and muscle mass, and a delightful, gentle giant nature, especially with her fondness for flowers. Beauregard, with her impressive knowledge, enjoyable lack of social skills, and constant strict protectiveness of those she holds dear.
Caleb, with his striking intelligence, shy nature, and a lovely accent that had a lulling nature, could very easily put you to sleep. Even Nott had won you over with her quirky mannerisms, endearing collection of buttons, and motherly nature. So naturally they ended up being muses, something for your fingers to work on mindlessly, almost second to breathing, and practice was always good, otherwise you risked getting rusty.
Though, as always, a small problem quickly became apparent as you were flipping through the pages of your sketch book— a Mollymauk Tealeaf appeared with a greater frequency than any other given members of the Nein. And what’s worse is that you didn’t even realize it; in fact, it only came to your attention as Jester asked if she could look through your sketchbook. Most of your drawing and sketching time was spent observing your team members' expressions. You find that Beaux has this nasty glare that you’re still trying to reflect into your art, but that’s besides the point.
“Sooooooo are you going to let me see?” You look at Jester, her eyes are wide with hope, but you can already feel a nervous sweat begin at the base of your hairline where neck meets skull. You smile, gulping down the dryness that lingered like an unwelcome guest in your throat; in a panic, you flip through the pages, searching for anything that wouldn’t make you look like an absolute creep. Finally, with a deep sigh, you find a decent enough page and hand the bound pages over to Jester, which immediately makes her sit up to her full height, her blue-tearthumb tail rising behind her with interest.
She opens her mouth to say something offhandedly, but it seems the words die in her throat as her eyes scan over the page. You feel a cool dread wash over you.
“Sooooooo…” Oh, no, it’s bad, “You got a thing for Molly.” It’s not a question, it's a statement, said with waggling eyebrows and a devilish smirk that you would roll your eyes at normally. But now you would prefer if the earth opened and swallowed you whole, or maybe that by some grace of the gods you could spontaneously explode, or anything that would make the interaction end as soon as possible, really. As a last-ditch effort, you grab the book, but Jester is faster and strangely stronger than you; to your absolute despair, she keeps hold of your book and also gets you into a tight side hold.
“So tell me about the inspiration behind this one.” She points to the very bottom corner of the page, where a medium-sized sketch of Molly fills the entire corner. He’s clearly sleeping, and anyone with a pair of eyes and a decently working brain would be able to tell the lines that make up his face are drawn with the utmost amount of care. Like, even pressing too hard onto the page or missing a single detail of Molly would be a downright disservice; a drawing, to put it more briefly, made with love.
“It’s! It’s just a drawing!”
“Oh ho ho, it is! But how many more are there?” Naturally, you freeze; it’s the first thing that always happens when a fight starts, and the first thing that happens when you realize you can't charm your way out of a situation, and for the better part of a month now, you’ve been trying to get rid of the habit. But it gives her just a moment, just the moment she needs to let you loose, just the moment to skim through the yellowed pages, just enough time to glean the subject matter of most of your drawings. And before you can snatch the bound paper from her grasp, she gasps outwardly, and you know you’re done for.
“Whoa…” She doesn’t say anything, but she stares at you with bright purple eyes that shimmer with something you don’t recognize
“Listen— Jess, just please don’t say anything. I know it’s creepy and everything, but I promise I’m not trying to be weird, it’s—“
“You’re in love with him.” For a moment, it’s just Jester and you sitting in stunned silence, gods, you didn’t even think for a second that it could’ve been love, you didn’t— you didn’t even know that you liked him.
“No, they’re just, I dunno…” You can barely think, can’t form a thought to save your life, because it all falls back to Molly and that charming smile.
“Look at this.” She points out a specific drawing of Molly; it’s raw and authentic to Molly's nature. They’re laughing, really laughing, no guarded bullshit, just unfiltered joy, their chin is doubled, and their eyebrows are furrowed with delight. It’s not made to be pretty, but as you look at your work, you can’t help but think about how pretty they look while laughing so perfectly, laughing like there’s not a soul watching.
“Anyone drawing someone like this…… is in love.” She says tenderly, softly, almost like she is parting a secret on to you, like she knows exactly what she’s talking about. She grabs her own sketchbook, which is filled with little doodles of dicks and flying unicorn hamsters. She turns to a specific page, as if her body knows precisely where it is, and there’s Fjord. He clearly didn’t know he was her muse, because his head is tilted back, and there’s a bit of drool rolling out the side of his mouth; it’s really not flattering at all.
“I know because I love him.” You don’t say anything, but you stare at the two pictures next to each other, different subjects, entirely different scenarios, but completely the same in essence. The realization makes your heart sink; you can’t love him, not with all the things that you do; you can’t.
“Listen, I totally get it, but you can’t hide it forever. He’ll find out one way or another. Just tell him! I can totally help you yaknow! I can help make it all romantic and get candles and roses and maybe some lube if yaknowhaImean.” She smirks devilishly and waggles her eyebrow and nudges her with her shoulder, you turn pink at the innuendo, and then something akin to fuchsia at even the thought of doing that with Molly.
“No! No, no, no. I just. I don’t know. I’m not telling them yet, or at all. I don’t know. I mean, they’re Mollymauk, and they’re, I dunno, they’re not gonna like me back.” Jester’s rambling about the names of your future children comes to a complete halt; she turns to face you, eyebrows furrow, and her bottom lip juts out in a pout.
“But what if they do?”
“But what if they don't?!" You toss your book across the room, and it lands flat and open on a page full of Molly drawings.
“Trust me, trust me, trust meeeee, I know Mollymauk, he totally will!” She takes your hands in hers and squeezes them, eyes blindingly bright. This matchmaking effort will really be your death.
“What will I do?” The door to your and Jester’s shared room opens, and you can feel the color drain from your face. He looks expectantly at you and Jester, then his gaze falls to the sketchbook at his feet, expression immediately changing. You stand to at least try to make a grab for it, but it’s too late. His fingers wrap gently around the leather and paper, bringing it to eye level. He tilts his head to the side, which causes his horn jewelry to tinkle.
“I just realized I have to goooooo—” Jester's mouth is open, and her eyes shift upward searching for an excuse, “Poop okay byeeeeee.” She passes Molly and effectively gets out of the room. Leaving you with the very person that you really did not want to be in a room with, alone. The air is charged and alive like the air before a lightning storm. You stare at Molly like a cornered animal waiting for the second he shifts to move to do anything, to make a move on this messy chessboard of a situation you’ve been forced onto.
“Ya’know, I actually have to go po— uh, the bathroom too.” You move to try and make for the door, but effectively meet a wall of purple, scarred chest.
“Listen, I just, I promise it’s not anything weird, you just have a nice face or whatever—” A warm, calloused hand catches your chin and lifts your face, your eyes meet his, you can feel your mouth dry out before you can vomit out another word.
“Something you need to share, Buggy?” His breath fans on your cheek. You didn’t realize that he was that close. You open your mouth to try for words, but nothing of worth comes out. And the smile that works onto their face nearly sends you into combustion, the way that perfectly sharp canines glint in mid-afternoon sun in a smirk so wolffish that you can feel your knees turn to slime.
“They’re just—”
“Just what? Just little drawings that say more than you ever would?” They nudge their cheek into your neck, inhaling the blossoming scent of embarrassment along your body's ridges, indulging themselves in the warmth of your steaming blush. And they know, they know the nature of these drawings and doodles and little comments here and there, this is studying, this is constant and consistent observation; this is appreciation. He looks back down at the pages, and you feel the grin on his face sharpen, the air charged with something that you can’t put a name to, don’t want to put a name to.
He sets your sketchbook down gently, leaving it open so the contents are visible. Nimble purple fingers deftly reach into his breast pocket, pulling out his deck, the deck which has been sometimes depicted in your drawings, because he fiddles with them so often. He takes a half-step back, and you immediately miss the warmth that his presence has provided, but he pulls a card out of the deck, clearly searching for it.
“A card that I made, inspired by someone I have similar feelings for.” His accent curls around your ear enough to make your knees weak, and it is almost distracting enough to pull your attention away from the card poking at your sternum. With a glance at the card at your midsection, your eyes widen, a depiction of you, the roles clearly switched, with you unaware of his muse. In the drawing at the top of the drawing, there is lettering: ‘The Artist’ and then at the bottom of the card upside down: ‘Art.’ You don’t even notice your jaw dropping or how much hotter the blush on your cheeks becomes, but when you do look back up at Molly, there’s a gentle smile on their face.
“Suppose that I’m not as innocent as you paint me out to be.” And they’re blushing, a perfect deep violet color that robs the air from your lungs, with the same hand they stow the card back inside the deck and scratch the back of their neck.
“Bug, you’re staring.” You are breathless and blushing and staring wide-eyed, and dear gods, you can feel your entire body on fire and trembling; and your mouth is ever so slightly ajar. And they chuckle, rich and warm and rumbling through their chest into yours because of the proximity, dear gods, you’re so warm, and they’re so warm, and your knees feel like jello. You take a quarter step back, and your bed hits the backs of your knees, and you fall, not even daring to look up at them, so instead you cover your face with your hands, hoping to find the coolness of your fingertips grounding. But the tiefling in front of you seems hellbent on being the cause of your heart attack.
His fingers meet yours, searing and thin and lithe and gently prying your hands away from your face, and slotting his other hand beneath your chin. Then softly lifting your chin, but you still don’t look at him, not at his red eyes, not at his matching blush, you look at the door, like an animal looking for an escape route. His thumb strokes gently at the skin of your jaw, then shifts to your chin, feeling just below the fullness of your lips, then toying with your bottom lip, pressing his nail just deep enough into the skin to create a dryness in your throat.
“Look at me…” Not ‘Bug’ or ‘Buggy’ but your name curling and mingling with his accent and contorting into something heady and stunning, it punches the breath from your lungs, stuns your heart into a sporadic rhythm, and you do. You meet his eyes, it’s enchanting, he’s smiling gently, admiring the absolute mess that you’ve become, stunned and wide-eyed and perfect. You see his eyes flick all over your face, to your eyes, to your nose and cheeks, then to your lips and pausing there, wanting to feel the softness of them against his own, yearning, needing.
“You’ve not a clue what you do to me.” His other hand cradles the side of your face, absentmindedly toying with a strand of your hair, and he looks at your lips like a starved man.
“You know I won’t do a thing till you allow it.” He says in a whisper that feels louder than fireworks; you can hear your blood pulsing through the veins in your ears, and you're almost sure he can feel your pulse through your skin. There are too many thoughts racing through your mind, far too fast for any of them to make sense, but it’s all Molly, the way he smells, how close he’s standing, his hand against your jaw, how fucking much you want to kiss him.
“Molly.” You're breathless, they smile a little more, gentle admiration turning into something sharper, that smile they get when something is going their way.
“You’ll have to say it to me, Bug.” Gods do they know what buttons to push, you swallow now, singularly focusing on trying to string together the right words while staring at arguably the most attractive person you’ve ever met in your life. But it all circles back to two very simple words.
“Kiss me……please.” The words tumble from your lips before you can think for another second about how truly embarrassing the prior conversation was. They smile brighter, canines exposed, and for a moment, you wonder maybe what else they can be used for, but in one fell swoop, the thought vanishes from your brain; in fact, all of them do.
His lips brush yours, warm and searching for a cadence to settle into. You meet him with ease, pressing forward, exploring, yearning, begging for anything more that he would give you. He hums, happily providing for you what you're looking for, meeting your enthusiasm with gentle teasing and enthusiastic adoration. He pulls back, smiling and blushing like an idiot in love, while you surge forward to search for him again, his chuckle.
“Maybe I should stay in your room tonight.” Your eyes widen, but the thoughts quickly come trickling in, and frankly, you couldn’t agree more
Meanwhile:
“Oh Fjjjoooorrrdddd, guess who’s going to be your roooommmiiieee tonightttt.” The door to Molly and Fjord’s shared room slams open, and Jester strolls in, all smiles and blush.
“What?” Fjords straightens from his reading slouch, “What happened? Is Molly hurt?” Jester giggles, a shit-eating grin plastered firmly on her face, and she shakes her head, hands clasped to her chest, and then sighs wistfully.
“No. But you owe me 10 gold.”
“AWE SHIT!” Jester laughs evilly and plops down onto the bed
“Hey, count for me in going to send a message.” Fjord abandons his book on his lap, and on the other side of the room, she uses her final spell of the day.
“So, just letting you know that you can stay in that room because ya’know if you wanna get hanky panky then you got all the—”
Okay, that's a really good sentence. Typo. Typo. Huh, did I write this? It's actually not bad. Typo. Hm, I would cut out that part now, but it kind of works. TYPO. Oh, this part is really good. That is the wrong word, wtf? I'm enjoying this more than I thought I would. ANOTHER TYPO? FFS.
You are obviously a talented writer. Would it be okay to request a Zanka fic where the reader is lowkey careless/borderline suicidal on missions and it drives him up the wall? Like he analyzes how she fights and realizes that she makes small mistakes that lead to cuts, bruises, etc. Angst, comfort/hurt, idk.
Thank you so much :)
꒰ sorry this took a while i was getting over writers block 😭꒱
02 ⋆ you stress zanka out... ( • ᴖ • ｡)
wc: 1.2k | hurt/comfort
ZANKA NOTICES PATTERNS because that's how he survives. He pays attention to angles, timing, and distance. It’s instinctive, constant, something he doesn’t know how to turn off, so it doesn’t take him long to notice that something is wrong with the way you fight.
“Move,” he shouts, slamming his Vital Instrument down to redirect the Beast, metal shrieking as trash collides. “You’re open on the left.”
“I know,” you yell back, breathless, already charging again.
“You don’t look like it!”
You don’t answer. You never do anymore.
After the fight, when the Beast crumbles and the polluted air settles, Enjin claps someone on the shoulder and starts talking about going out to eat like nothing happened. Zanka doesn’t hear a word. He’s staring at the blood soaking through your sleeve, the way you’re flexing your fingers like you’re checking whether they still work. He grabs your wrist before you can walk back to the car.
“What the hell was that?” he demands.
You look down at his hand, then back up at him, expression calm. “A mission.”
“No,” he snaps. “That wasn’t just a mission. You let it hit you, [Name].”
You scoff lightly, tugging your arm, but he doesn’t let go. “It wasn’t lethal.”
“That’s not the point,” he says, voice practically trembling. “You know better.”
“I got the job done.”
“And you almost got yourself killed doing it,” he shoots back. “Again.”
“Zanka—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t brush it off. I’ve been watching you for weeks. You’re late on dodges that I know you’ve mastered. You’re bleeding every single mission.” His grip loosens, but his hands are clenched now, knuckles white. “You fight like you don’t care what happens to you.”
Your face hardens. “Okay, now that’s a reach.”
“It’s not,” he says immediately. “It’s a pattern.”
Silence stretches, thick and ugly. Finally, you look away.
“…Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“I’m…I’m looking out for you,” he says, volume softening. “If anything happens to you I don’t know what I’d do.”
You swallow. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” you demand, finally raising your voice. “Because all I hear is you telling me I’m doing everything wrong when I’m still standing.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he says, voice breaking through his restraint. “You only care that you’re standing, not how close you came to not being here at all.”
You stare at him, stunned, then laugh weakly. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” he says. “I’m being honest. You’re scaring me, [Name]. You really are.”
You don’t respond, just pull your arm free and walk away, leaving him standing there with trash dust settling around his boots and a sick feeling in his gut.
The next mission is worse.
You’re so reckless that it makes his blood run cold. You dive in too deep, get clipped twice, stumble, and recover with a grin that looks wrong on your face. When the Trash Beast finally goes down, Zanka is shaking with adrenaline and something close to sheer rage.
“What is wrong with you?”
You snap back instantly. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” he says. “I’m finishing. You’re not invincible. You’re not expendable. You don’t get to act like you are.”
You cross your arms defensively. “You don’t get to tell me how to fight.”
“I get to tell you when you’re throwing your life away,” he fires back. “Because that’s what this looks like.”
“You think I want to die?”
“No,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes you pause. “I think you don’t care if you live.”
Your voice drops. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you flinch less when you’re hurt,” he says quietly. “I know you stop asking for backup. I know you don’t heal properly before the next mission. I know you keep acting like pain is proof you’re still useful.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “And I know that if you keep going like this, one day you won’t walk away.”
You look at the ground, clenching your jaw. “So what? You want me to be scared all the time?”
“I want you to want to come back,” he says. “I want you to dodge because you care if you get hit. I want you alive.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I want you here.”
The rain starts sometime during your argument, light at first, then heavier, soaking into your clothes, cooling the heat of the fight. You don’t notice until you step back and your heel slips slightly on wet ground. Zanka reaches to steady you, his hands warm and firm on your arms.
“Don’t,” you mutter, shoving him lightly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you’ll lose.”
He doesn’t let go this time. “You might, and that’s what I’m terrified of.”
You laugh, breath shaky. “You’re acting like we’re breaking up or something.”
“Is that what you think this is?”
“I don’t know,” you say, rain plastering your hair to your face. “Everyone else does.”
“I don’t,” he says immediately. “But I will lose you if you keep treating yourself like you’re disposable.”
You shove him harder, frustration spilling over. “I didn’t ask you to care this much.”
He stumbles a step, then grabs you, pulling you back before you can retreat. “Too bad,” he says, “I do.”
For a second, you just stare at each other, breathing hard, rain pouring down, the world narrowing to the space between you. Then you surge forward and kiss him. It’s angry, desperate, like you’re trying to shut him up and confess at the same time. He freezes for half a heartbeat, then kisses you back just as fiercely, hands gripping your jacket like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
When you finally pull back, foreheads touching, he exhales shakily. “You don’t get to hurt yourself and pretend it doesn’t matter.”
You whisper, “I don’t know how to stop.”
He softens instantly, anger draining away. “Then don’t stop alone.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Let me help. Let me watch you. Let me call you out when you’re being stupid.” A weak huff of laughter escapes his lips. “I’m really good at that.”
You let out a broken laugh, rain and tears mixing. “You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m staying.”
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeats, hopeful and kinda terrified.
“Okay,” you say again. “I’ll try.”
He pulls you into a tight hug, rain drumming against his back. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“Hey!”
You both freeze.
About 100 feet away, Enjin is leaning out of the driver’s window, arm resting casually on the door. The rest of Team Akuta are piled up by the side window too, and they might as well be holding a bucket of popcorn with the way they were staring at the two of you.
“Are you two seriously having your big emotional breakthrough in the rain?” he yells. “You’re not in a movie. Get in the fucking car before you catch pneumonia.”
You glance at Zanka. He looks embarrassed, soaked, ears bright red but still very much holding your hand.
“…Car?” you say.
“Car,” he agrees, squeezing your fingers once before pulling you toward it.
