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chapter 20 of bloodbound ; k. tanjiro x reader

now posted!

read the book's description here

read the book on wattpad here

chapter 19 of bloodbound ; k. tanjiro x reader

now posted!

read the book's description here

read the book on wattpad here

chapter 18 of bloodbound ; k. tanjiro x reader

now posted!

read the book's description here

read the book on wattpad here

chapter 17 of bloodbound ; k. tanjiro x reader

now posted!

read the book's description here

read the book on wattpad here

yall are awesome!

mike wheeler x reader

fluff(?) (slight will byers angst)

reader's gender is up to interpretation

warnings: canon-typical violence (blood, fighting, etc)

--

sorry for my lack of posting! i've been really caught up in work, school, holidays, my birthday (yay!) and (soon to be?) boyfriends :p i promise i'll start posting a bit more now though!

i hope you all had a wonderful winter holiday and a great new years!

The worst part wasn’t the blood or the ringing in Mike Wheeler’s ears. It was the way his hands started shaking with relief when he realized you were still standing. You, in all your glory, wide-eyed and weary but alive. His body shivered as he watched you pant, gathering yourself and scanning your surroundings. The danger was gone, but the fear remained, clinging to the undersides of his ribs as he looked at you with an emotion he didn’t know how to name. Like every encounter, there were no sirens. The silence was suffocating, filling Mike’s lungs and drowning him in a tangled mix of worry, anticipation, and fragile reassurance.

The Byers’ house smelled like old carpet and ozone, like dust warmed too fast and something faintly metallic that Mike could never quite place. The Christmas lights along the walls slowly stopped flashing, a mismatched constellation blinking weakly against the peeling wallpaper, their colors reflected in the glossy streaks of dried paint where Joyce had once painted the alphabet in a panic too big for words.

Mike stood just inside the hallway entrance, shoulders still tense, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight as if the house itself were exhaling after holding its breath too long. His ears rang softly, the sound folding into the low buzz of the lights, and every nerve in his body felt lit up, overstimulated, unsure whether it was safe to power down yet. He watched you take nervous steps through the room, alive in a way that felt fragile and miraculous, and his chest tightened with something like disbelief. The danger was gone, at least for now, but his body had not caught up.

His hands still trembled, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides as if they were searching for something to hold onto. Every detail burned itself into him, the way your breathing slowly evened out, the way the colored lights painted soft shadows across your face, the way the house felt too small to contain the relief crashing through him. He swallowed hard, throat dry, and tried to convince himself that this was real, that you were really here, standing beneath the same lights that had once spelled out RUN, that the nightmare had loosened its grip enough to let him breathe again.

The fear curled inward, dragging memories with it, and before he could stop himself he was pulled back to a smaller moment, a quieter panic that had felt just as world-ending at the time. He remembered the sight of blood blooming bright and shocking against your skin from a simple cut, remembered how his heart had dropped straight through his ribs as if it had missed a step. He had hovered then, voice tight and hands clumsy, insisting it was worse than it looked, insisting you sit down, let him help, let him fix it. He remembered how the room had tilted, how his thoughts had spiraled catastrophically from something so small, how even then the idea of you being hurt had felt unbearable. The memory made his stomach twist now, sharp and sickening in comparison. That had been nothing. This was something else entirely. Now he understood just how close he had come to losing you, how thin the line had been between standing here and a reality he could not survive. The realization settled heavy in his chest, pressing the air from his lungs until every breath felt deliberate. His fear was no longer loud or frantic. It was deep, the kind that hollowed him out and left him raw. As the lights finally stopped blinking, Mike stood there trembling with the weight of it all, with the knowledge that loving you meant living with this fear, and that losing you would mean losing himself right alongside you.

Mike moved before he fully realized he was doing it. One second there was space between you, the next it was gone, folded inward as he closed the distance and pulled you against him with a force that surprised even him. His arms locked tight, reflexive, like if he loosened his grip from around your torso for even a moment the world might snatch you back. The fabric of your clothes was warm beneath his hands, solid, real, and the scent of you grounded him in a way nothing else could. Dust, sweat, something faintly familiar that reminded him of safety in the middle of chaos. His forehead dipped down, breath stuttering out against your shoulder as the last of his restraint finally cracked. The hug was desperate and ungraceful, all shaking limbs and unspoken terror, a wordless confession pressed into muscle, fabric, and bone. He didn’t care he held you too tight, didn’t care if it was too much. He just needed to feel you there, needed the proof of you wrapped up in his arms, needed the reassurance that this moment was real and not something his mind had invented to spare him the grief. He needed to feel you, to know you were still alive.

When you shifted, hands coming up to rest against him, the movement was gentle enough to cut straight through the fog. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you guided him back just enough to look at him, and then your hands were around his, warm and steady. Mike barely registered it at first, too focused on the way your touch slowed his breathing, on the way his pulse seemed to reorient itself around you. Only then did he notice the blood, dark and thick as it slipped from split skin and traced thin lines along his knuckles. He followed your gaze, shame flickering briefly before being swallowed by something softer as you turned his hands over, careful, reverent, as if they were something precious instead of battered. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. When you tugged gently, leading him down the short hallway toward the bathroom, he went without resistance. The house hummed around you, lights flickering softly on the walls as the bathroom door clicked shut behind you both. Mike let himself be guided, let himself be taken care of, because if he focused on the way your hands held his, on the promise of clean water and quiet and your presence beside him, then maybe the fear would finally loosen its grip enough for him to breathe.

Mike sat on the edge of the bathtub, porcelain cold even through his jeans, shoulders slumped now that the adrenaline had finally begun to ebb. The bathroom was dim, lit only by the warm spill of the yellowed overhead lights bleeding in from the hallway, their colors wavering faintly across the mirror and the peeling wallpaper. He watched you move in front of him, the small space filling with the quiet sounds of rummaging, the creak of the cabinet door, the soft clink of bottles being shifted aside. The air smelled faintly of soap and something medicinal, old and familiar, and it made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He let his hands rest limply in his lap, palms up, knuckles aching now that the shock had worn off, but he barely noticed the pain. All of his attention stayed fixed on you, on the way you moved with purpose, like this was natural, like taking care of him was simply another given. He swallowed, throat tight, and broke the silence without meaning to.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges, “you don’t have to… I mean, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.” The words felt flimsy even as he said them, and the corner of his mouth twitched as if he already knew you wouldn’t believe him.

When you turned back toward him, supplies in hand, the look you gave him made his chest warm despite himself. You were gentle as you took his hands again, cleaning around the cuts with careful movements that made him hiss softly before he could stop himself. “Sorry,” he murmured immediately, a reflex born from too many close calls, too many moments where pain felt like an inconvenience he wasn’t allowed to dwell on. Your touch steadied him, and without thinking, his thumb brushed lightly against your knuckle, a small, unconscious gesture that made his breath catch.

“Thanks,” he added, softer this time, eyes lifting to meet yours. The word felt inadequate, but it was all he could manage. You nodded softly, your eyes caught in his. The space between you seemed to shrink, the hum of the lights and the drip of the sink fading into the background as something unspoken settled between you. He leaned in without fully realizing it, heart thudding hard against his ribs, drawn forward by the quiet gravity of you, by the way this moment felt fragile and rare and entirely yours.

The bathroom door creaked before he could close the distance. Mike froze, the spell breaking as Will stepped into the doorway, eyes flicking between the two of you. There was a pause, brief but heavy, and something unreadable crossed Will’s face, confusion mingling with something that looked a little too much like hurt before it was quickly smoothed away. Will cleared his throat, gaze dropping to the floor. “Uh… Mom wants us to start cleaning up,” he mumbled, voice low, already backing out of the room. The door clicked shut again just as quietly as it had opened, leaving the bathroom suspended in awkward silence. Mike exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, while you lingered on the moment, the image of Will’s expression tugging at something in your chest. You told yourself it was just shock, just the aftermath of everything that had happened, and pushed the thought aside, even as the weight of it stayed with you, settling gently but stubbornly in the back of your mind.

You squeezed Mike’s hands softly, careful not to press too hard against the freshly cleaned cuts, a quiet promise wrapped in the small gesture. The warmth lingered even after you let go, grounding him in a way words couldn’t. With one last look, you stepped out into the hallway, the glow of the Christmas lights guiding you back into the wreckage of the Byers’ house. Broken things waited to be set right, paint flaked and furniture shifted out of place, but for now, the simple act of helping felt like enough. Behind you, Mike stayed where he was for a moment longer, breathing steadily, holding onto the memory of your touch as the house slowly began to wake from the nightmare.

────── ‧⋆✧˚₊‧⋆.✧˚₊‧⋆‧ ──────

midna x reader

reader's pronouns not mentioned

fluff

warnings: none

It happened in a blink.

One moment, you were standing beside Midna on the edge of the Mirror Chamber. The next, your vision stretched, warped, then folded inward like you were being drawn through a long, shimmering thread.

You landed on your feet. Barely.

The world around you was… different.

Color wasn’t gone, but it felt deeper, muted, like it came from within things rather than shining on them. The landscape was washed in soft yellows and warm oranges that pulsed faintly like breathing embers. And the air—

“What… are those?” you whispered, swiping your hand through drifting particles of shadowy light. They floated lazily like dust motes, slipping around your fingers. “Are they... are they dangerous?”

Midna stood beside you, her grin sharp at first, then gentler. “No. They’re harmless. Just remnants of ambient twilight energy.” A pause. Her voice softened. “They tickle, though.”

You blinked at her. “Tickle?”

Midna demonstrated by brushing her hand through a cluster. They scattered like startled fireflies, leaving a faint shimmer on her hand. She didn’t admit it, but the way she shook her hand afterward looked suspiciously like she was tickled.

You took a hesitant step.

The ground felt odd under your feet. It was similar to the world you knew, but different in a way you couldn't put into words. Structures seemed to glow in the evening sun, and in the distance, you could see the castle.

It should’ve been eerie. It really should’ve.

Yet something about it felt like a dream you’d had once as a child and forgotten.

“I know it’s strange,” Midna said after a moment. She wasn’t smirking anymore. Her expression dimmed to something more fragile. “Most people of the light have the same reaction.”

You glanced at her. “Is that why you look nervous?”

Midna jolted. “Wha–nervous? Me? Absolutely not.” Her voice pitched higher. “Why would I—”

You raised a brow. Her hood covered part of her face, but you could still sense her disgruntled look.

“I just…” she muttered, looking away. “Wanted you to see my world. Properly. The way I see it. Without shadow monsters. Without curses. Without… bitterness.”

You took a slow breath, letting it out in a shaky laugh as you looked back at the realm spreading out before you.

“It’s beautiful.”

Midna blinked. “Huh?”

“Strange,” you added quickly, because it was still very strange, “but beautiful.”

The wind — if it was wind — swirled through the floating particles, making them dance in little spirals around the two of you. One brushed your cheek and left a faint warmth behind. You reached out, letting more trail between your fingers.

“It feels alive,” you murmured. It really did tickle.

That was when Midna drifted closer, slowly, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to.

“It is,” she whispered. “In ways the world of light will never understand.” Something in her voice made you look at her again. She seemed smaller here. Or maybe not smaller, rather, more herself. Less hiding. Less pretending.

The drifting particles reflected in her eyes, turning them into two warm pools of amber that you could lose yourself in.

“You like it,” she noted softly, almost disbelieving.

“I do.” Then, more quietly: “Thank you for bringing me.” Midna hovered closer until you could feel the warmth of her body brushing your arm. Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“I was worried you’d hate it.”

“I don’t think I could ever hate anything that matters to you.”

Her breath caught. It was just for a second, but long enough for you to know she heard exactly what you meant.

The Twilight Realm pulsed around you, soft and alive and strangely comforting. The particles drifted over your skin, brushing like the faintest touch, harmless and warm.

Midna’s soft reached out, hesitated, then curled gently around your wrist.

“Then…” she whispered, ears twitching in a way that betrayed her excitement, “would you stay a little longer?”

You stepped closer, letting her hand stay where it was.

“As long as you want.”

rauru x reader

reader's pronouns not mentioned

fluff

warnings: none

trope: king x knight

The halls of Hyrule Castle were quiet at this hour, white walls tinted from the faint orange flow of torches. You walked a half-step behind Rauru as always, hand resting lightly on the hilt of your sword, gaze sweeping every archway and corridor.

You were his appointed knight. Chosen, trained, and sworn to protect your king. And Rauru didn't seem to take it seriously enough.

"[Name]," he started softly, glancing back at you as the two of you crossed the moonlit terrace. "You needn't remain so tense. This balcony is warded."

"It is my duty to protect you." You straightened. "No place is entirely without risk."

Rauru’s lips quirked into something between fondness and frustration. “…Yes. Of course. You are diligent.” He paused, eyes lingering on you longer than they should. “Too diligent, perhaps.”

You pretended not to hear the softness in his voice. Pretended you didn’t notice the way his gaze warmed whenever it rested on you. Pretended it didn’t make your heart ache.

You were a knight.

He was a king.

That line was carved deeper than any ancient runes or poems in stone.

But Rauru never acted like it.

When the wind shifted, carrying a bite of cold, he was the first to notice.

“...You must be cold.” He slipped off his wool cloak before you could protest.

“Your highness—”

“Don't deny it,” he murmured, draping it over your shoulders anyway. His fingers brushed the back of your neck. It was an accident, surely, but it left your pulse stumbling. “I can sense you shiver. I simply worry about you.”

You swallowed. Hard. “You should not.”

Rauru’s expression flickered, something bright and lonely underneath the usual composed calm. “No,” he murmured, almost too quietly. “I suppose I should not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Rather, it was heavy, like the two of you were balancing on the edge of something neither of you had the right to touch.

Rauru turned toward the horizon, arms folding loosely behind him. You watched his profile: princely, gentle, luminous. He always seemed carved from light itself, brilliant and untouchable.

“May I speak plainly?” he asked.

“You always may, my king.”

He hesitated. Rauru, the king of Hyrule, hesitated before facing you again. “You guard me with a devotion I scarcely feel I deserve,” he said. “But I also find myself wishing you would allow me to worry for you in equal measure.”

“That isn’t your burden.”

“And yet,” he stepped closer, voice low, “I feel it nonetheless.”

The air grew warmer — no, he grew warmer, the faint glow of his light magic moving like sunlight across his skin. He forced his gaze away, jaw tight, the struggle painfully clear.

“You are my knight,” he said. “I know the boundaries that implies.”

You exhaled, heart twisting. “And I know the expectations of a knight.”

Rauru laughed quietly, but it came out more of a breath more than a sound. “Always so proper.”

“Someone must be.”

He looked at you then. He looked at you as if he was memorizing your face, your stance, your very existence. His voice softened into something you’d never heard from him before.

“If I were less disciplined,” he admitted, “I would reach for you. Without hesitation.”

Your breath caught.

His did too.

The wind shifted again; this time, the chill made him step closer instead of retreating.

“Allow me one indulgence,” Rauru murmured, raising a hand but not yet touching you, waiting for permission.

You nodded, small but certain.

His fingers brushed your cheek, warm and reverent. A tender, forbidden gesture. You leaned into it without meaning to.

Rauru’s voice trembled.

“I fear I am losing the battle against my own heart.”

You placed your hand over his, slow and deliberate. “Then let me share the burden.”

For a moment, Rauru simply stood there, eyes closed, forehead resting against yours. A king and his knight. Two people holding a secret that could reshape the world, but in this private corner of the palace, it was just… the truth.

His magic shimmered softly around you like dawn.

Then, in a whisper meant only for you:

“Stay by my side. Not only as my knight, but as my companion.”

The words struck deeper than any vow you’d taken. You didn’t think; you simply answered.

“Always.”

tanjiro x mother!reader

!!!!!!strictly platonic!!!!!!

tanjiro's birthday au

this is also posted in my demon slayer one shot book, which you can read on wattpad here

Dawn slid softly through the shoji screens, painting the tatami in strokes of gold. The estate was still. Quiet in that sacred, early way it always was before the kettle sang or the sparrows began their morning chatter.

You stirred from your futon with a start of excitement, the kind that warmed you from within before you'd even stood. It wasn't just another morning today. It was his morning — Tanjiro's tenth birthday.

You rose carefully, tying your hair up and smoothing your kimono sleeves, mindful of the hush that still blanketed the house. Every board seemed to sigh under your steps, but you moved lightly, unwilling to wake him just yet. Your son was usually the one to greet the dawn first, always so eager to fetch wood or help in the kitchen. However, for once, you wanted to be ahead of him.

The cool kitchen air nipped at your fingers as you knelt to light the hearth. A spark, then the familiar crackle of kindling, and warmth began to fill the room. You opened the cupboards, pulling down what you'd gathered from the market the day before: fresh fish, soft red beans, chestnuts to roast. You even smiled to yourself as you remembered the small pouch of konpeitō you'd hidden away, tucked deep in your sleeve so he wouldn't notice.

You were fortunate, and you knew it. The fine wood of the house, the neatly polished dishes, it was all a direct result of your hefty inheritance. But you'd never cared for luxury the way you cared for mornings like this. The simple act of preparing a meal for your son, knowing the delight that would bloom on his face when he saw it was worth more than any silk or silver.

Steam rose from the rice pot as you set out the dishes, the scent of miso and roasted chestnuts curling through the air. You poured two cups of tea, placing one aside for him to gently cool.

Outside, the wind murmured through the trees. Inside, you paused to admire your work, a smile tugging gently at your lips. "Happy birthday, my little one," you whispered.

You slid open the shoji quietly, peeking into the dim room where Tanjiro still slept. The faint rise and fall of his chest was steady beneath the blanket, his dark hair tousled in soft, uneven tufts that caught the morning light. He looked so peaceful in his small, still body. But you couldn't help but notice how his shoulders had begun to square a little more lately.

Kneeling beside him, you reached out and brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, his breath slow and even. You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow, light as falling snow.

"Good morning, birthday boy," you whispered.

He stirred, lashes fluttering as his eyes blinked open. For a moment, he only squinted up at you in that hazy, half-dreaming way he always did, before recognition softened his face into a sleepy smile. "...Mama?"

You smiled back, smoothing his hair again. "Mm. Come on, sweetheart. Breakfast is waiting."

He yawned, rubbing his eyes, and you couldn't help but laugh quietly as you lifted him into your arms. Though he was growing heavier every year, he still fit against you so naturally, his head resting against your shoulder and his small hands clutching your sleeve.

The warmth of the kitchen greeted you both, fragrant with chestnuts and miso. You set him down by the table, where his cup of tea waited, steam long since faded to a gentle warmth.

"It's your favorite today," you said as you ladled miso into his bowl.

Tanjiro's eyes brightened instantly — wide and shining the way they always were when he was happy. "You remembered the rice balls, too?"

"Of course I did. You think I'd forget something that important?"

He giggled, tucking his hands together before bowing his head in a polite little thank-you. He was always so earnest, even over the simplest meal. You watched him eat for a moment, heart swelling at the sight. The way he hummed when something tasted especially good, how careful he was to test his tea before taking a big sip, it all reassured to you that your son was always your highest priority.

When the dishes were empty and the morning had fully bloomed, you reached behind you with a small smile. "Now then," you said softly. "I believe there's something else for you."

Tanjiro blinked, sitting up straighter. "Really? What is it?"

You brought out a small bundle wrapped neatly in deep red silk. His fingers trembled a little as he undid the knot and peeled it open, revealing a neatly folded blue scarf, the threads fine yet strong.

His breath caught. "...It's beautiful."

You brushed your thumb over the fabric, smoothing it out. "It'll keep you warm on the mountain. You're always running off to help others, and I'd rather you not freeze while you do it."

Tanjiro smiled so wide it made your chest ache. "I'll wear it every day," he said earnestly, pressing it close to his chest. "Thank you, Mama."

You thought that might have been enough, but then his small hand dipped into the sleeve of his haori, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He held it out to you shyly. "I... I made you something, too."

It was a drawing, rough and childish, the lines a little crooked — but unmistakably the two of you: his tiny figure holding your hand beneath the bright orange sun. Your eyes stung instantly.

"Tanjiro..."

He flushed, suddenly embarrassed. "It's not very good, but... I wanted you to have it. 'Cause you always make things for me."

You pulled him into your arms before he could finish the sentence, pressing your cheek against his hair. "It's perfect," you murmured. "Absolutely perfect."

The blue scarf lay between you, soft and warm symbolizing a small promise of love that would one day follow him into the wide, uncertain world.

You pinned the little drawing to the wall beside the table, right where you'd see it every day as you cooked. The paper fluttered slightly in the rising warmth from the hearth, sunlight slipping across the rough ink strokes. It made the kitchen feel even more alive somehow, as if the house itself smiled back at you.

Tanjiro stood on his toes to watch you press the paper flat. "There! Now it won't get lost."

You ruffled his soft hair. "It never would have, but now everyone who comes by will see what an artist you are."

He flushed, grinning so wide his cheeks dimpled. "It's not that good."

"It's perfect," you said again, and meant it.

The day unfolded quickly after that. Tanjiro insisted on helping with the chores, and although you reminded him it was his birthday, he wouldn't hear of sitting still. Together you swept the engawa, hung laundry that fluttered like pale flags in the cool breeze, and fed the chickens that scurried around your feet with hungry squawks.

When the sun climbed higher, you packed a small basket and took him to the garden. The air smelled of damp earth and new grass. He chased a butterfly between the vegetable rows, laughing when it landed briefly on his sleeve. You sat beneath the shade of the wisteria tree, watching him dart through the light. Your boy, your little flame, bright as ever against the green.

Later, you shared the sweets you'd hidden — the tiny, jewel-like konpeito. He counted each one carefully, then tipped a few into your palm. "Half for you," he said firmly.

"Half?" you teased. "Even on your birthday?"

"It's only fair," he said, nodding in that serious, thoughtful way of his.

You laughed softly and ate them together, the candy crunching sweetly between your teeth. The scarf around his neck fluttered in the wind, striking blue matching the afternoon sky.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the mountains, you were both tired and content. Tanjiro leaned against your side, eyes half-lidded, his warmth pressing through your sleeve.

"You had a good day?" you asked, brushing a stray hair from his cheek.

He hummed drowsily. "The best one ever."

You kissed the top of his head and held him a little closer, breathing in the faint scent of soap and smoke that always clung to him. For a moment, the world felt utterly still, just the two of you, safe in that quiet, golden light.

The house had gone quiet again by the time night settled in. The lamps burned low, painting the walls in soft amber light. Outside, the crickets sang their steady song, and somewhere beyond the hills, an owl called, low and distant.

Tanjiro's breathing had grown slow beside you as you knelt by his futon, smoothing out the blanket that reached up to his chin. His hair smelled of soap; the blue scarf you'd made was folded neatly at his bedside, within easy reach, as though he couldn't bear to be too far from it.

You brushed a thumb along his cheek, tracing the soft curve of it, and felt the smallest pang deep in your chest. Ten years. Already ten. It felt like you had only blinked; that it had only been a moment ago when he fit in your arm entirely, unbearably tiny and wordlessly blinking at the world with those same warm eyes.

He stirred slightly at your touch, murmuring, "Mama?" in that half-asleep voice that always softened you.

"I'm here," you whispered. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

His lips curved faintly into a drowsy smile, eyes still closed. "...'Night."

You leaned down and kissed his forehead again, lingering just a moment longer than you had that morning. "Goodnight, Tanjiro," you murmured. "And happy birthday, my little one."

He didn't answer, already lost to dreams, but his small hand found yours beneath the blanket, curling weakly around your fingers before relaxing again.

You stayed there a while longer, just listening to his breathing and watching the shadows sway against the walls. Then, quietly, you rose, sliding the door shut behind you. The kitchen waited in its gentle stillness, the faint outline of his drawing catching the last glow of the lamp.

You smiled at it as you blew out the light.

omg of course!!

id like to apologize in advance if this isnt 100% accurate to how tourettes functions, i don't personally have it or know anyone in my real life who does. i tried to do some research, but it might not be perfect & there might be some odd sounding parts. if so, then please let me know what's wrong and i'll fix it as best as i can!

--

reader's pronouns not mentioned

toby x reader

warnings: none(?)

. the first thing toby notices is the comfort

. when your tics happen, he doesnt stare. he doesnt even blink, just nods and continues what he was doing

. if you apologize, he'll cut you off immediately

. "don't. it's okay. i understand."

. he doesnt treat your tourettes like something that needs fixing, just as something that's part of you

. the two of you have an unspoken agreement that sometimes, the best way to deal with it is to just laugh about it

. you share a few inside jokes about it

. if one of your tics is similar to his, he'll tease you

. "hey, that's mine. get your own tic, copycat"

. if you're overstimulated or frustrated, he'll sit beside you. no talking, no pressure, just the comfort of him beside you.

. he sits just close enough to let you know he's there for you, but far away enough where you can express your tics freely

. likewise, you'll steady him when his own tics get more intense

. a gentle hand on his back, just resting by him

. but you never outright talk about it, you know that focusing on it can make it worse

. you both know what it feels like to lose control over your bodies, even for a moment, so there's a deep emotional intimacy shared between you with that vulnerability

. toby is protective, but not patronizing

. if someone mocks or teases you, he'll lose it

. but around you, he'll try to stay gentle

. your relationship is full of nonverbal understanding

. things don't need to be said because you already understand

. sometimes, the house gets noisy, impulsive noises bouncing off the walls, but they either end up ignored by one another or you end up laughing

. occasionally you'll trigger each other's tics, and it'll escalate into a silly loop, as frustrating as it can be sometimes

. you're very patient with him, and he's very patient with you

. which is shocking, because around the other creepypastas, he's very short tempered

. when you're having a particularly tough day, he'll give you space, but won't directly leave, either

. you don't have to explain anything, and that's the best part about being with him

. he'll sit a short distance away

. you don't need to ask him to stay, he just will

. if you're in pain or angry over them, he'll reassure you

. "i know, it sucks"

. "don't fight them too hard, you know that doesn't help"

. his voice will always stay surprisingly soft, his tone low

. once it's over, he'll help you calm down

till x f!reader

angst

warnings: desc. of blood, and i only remembered that they use headset mics as i was finishing the oneshot, so yall are stuck with pretending they use handheld mics

and yes, i made up the lyrics as i was going, i don't expect it to sound like a real song

The spotlight is too bright, schematic and surgical, as if someone intended every human face to be examined. You stand center stage with the mic like an anchor in your hand, palms slick, sleeves clinging. Your opponent across from you is a study in efficient calm. She has perfect posture, eyes that track every inhuman face in the crowd. It is a contest designed to sort feelings into tidy columns, and you are the messy, unpredictable variable.

Till watches in a dark backroom, the screen throwing a cold light over his face. He didn't mean to tune in. He didn't want to. He didn't want the roster to display your name, glowing in that thin, eerie font. But when the feed found you, something in him unclenched in a way that had nothing to do with reason. His mind is swimming with uncertainty. Till only knows that he can't look away.

You begin low, voice close to the mic in the way of people who are not performing, rather, confessing.

"We learned to swallow syllables,

taught to file the word 'love under discipline,

still my chest keeps speaking in its own blunt language,

calling you in breaths the rules have no place for."

The first chorus is soft. The crowd hums and pulses like an organ, beating and pumping with the rhythm. Their eyes are trained on you, like a tide waiting to see if you will retreat or drown. Your voice quiets as your opponent begins, coasting through practiced harmonies, the scoreboard ticking with the sterile blink of impartial machinery. You could trade everything for technique. You could beg the numbers to save you. However, you have no currency for that kind of bargain. You have always been partial to the agonizing ruin of truth.

Anakt Garden. It smelled of synthetic soil and something you couldn't quite place. You were smaller then—small enough to hide behind ferns while Till laughed with Mizi, watching her closely with hawk-like eyes. He looked like he belonged somewhere else. You remember digging your palms into the bark, the green blades of grass below tickling your ankles. You pushed yourself further behind the tree, trying to make yourself less visible because your want felt dangerous in that fake sunlight.

"I practiced polite applause for other people's lights,

learned to swallow the nameless ache,

kept my hands buried in your name,

while you built altars of someone else's shadow."

Behind the screen, Till blinks at memories of the garden as though stolen moments with you had been tucked away and misplaced. He remembered the way you had looked at him back then. You were quiet, precise, masking your jealousy behind politeness so it wouldn't dislocate anything. He remembers, too, how easily he mistook stillness for contentment.

Back at the contest, the threateningly large billboard glows and the house lights weigh down on you like a boulder. You push forward into the second verse, and your voice shapes itself as you silently pray for a high score.

"They hand us rules like chains,

count the heart in points and decimals,

but love is no ledger,

it is unruly, it is a small, stubborn fire."

Your opponent's harmonies are clean; the audience responds the way they always do: with precisely calibrated and perfectly inhuman cheers. Every time your score dips, it is another proof of the same thesis. That systems are built to measure, not to understand. You feel the numbers like frostbite along your fingertips. You are aware, in the hollow of your chest, of an ache that is somehow both private and public, a wound that will be judged in real time by your otherworldly arbitrators.

The industrial sun was setting. The light had become a softened orange, and Till handed you a flower-stem bracelet. All because he wanted to share something not about Mizi. Your laugh when he offered it was small and bright; you tried to appear casual and failed. Your hand reached for his as if to claim a valuable treasure, then retreated because you were afraid of the treasure's secrets. He tucked the bracelet into his palm without saying anything, and you watched him as if watching soft rainfall for the first time.

"I folded my wants into the seams of conversation,

labeled them 'not now' and wore the tags like armor,

watched you trade daylight for a smile,

guessing you wouldn't notice the shadow I held in my chest."

Till's hands tighten into fists as he watched helplessly. He remembers the bracelet, the safe-kept hope, remembers his own cowardice in measured pieces that hurt more than any single grand confession ever could. He had always been slow to name things, slow to act; he kept his feelings as one keeps fragile objects. Guarded behind a wall, away from prying hands. Watching you now, he understands the cost of that delay in a way that makes him small and enormous all at once.

You leap into the bridge and let the melody fall into a hush, your voice growing with your emotion. There's something urgent in the way you breathe between lines, something like a silent plea.

"I've been a quiet crime for years,

staging rebellions when you looked away,

teaching myself to make do with scraps,

pretending that was my safety net."

The stage's lights narrow and then flare as you push towards the final chorus. You are not only singing to win a scoreboard; you are singing to give shape to a feeling that has had no stage, only the inside of your ribs. Your opponent moves through the mechanical backup, but you feel your desperation as a kind of heat. It's ugly, but necessary.

A week before. Till's glances were mapping then—tracing places he wanted to go but thought he had no right to visit. He said something distractedly cruel—"It'd be easier if you weren't here"—and you made a brittle laugh that did nothing to hide the way it broke your heart. The memory is both a wound and an anchor. You know there's no real way to escape the rounds, none that end in happiness.

"I economized my breath so we could survive,

counted our whispers like rationed grain,

and I'd still trade everything for an honest exchange,

even if it meant ending on an empty stage."

Till's fingers curl at his sides until his knuckles pale. He watches you throw the last of your energy into the song. No finesse remains, just the bare, fierce attempt to be seen. He wants to run to you, to break the sterile order with the mess of his hands and emotions, but he remembers his place. All he can do is watch, the ache in his chest exploding mercilessly.

The room hushes exactly as you take that last inhale before the final bar. The moment where the world holds its exhale and ensures each sound will count comes. The lights catch the teary sheen of your eyes; the camera tightens on your losing score. You can feel the audience's pulse, the beat's steady thump, the thin membrane between performance to win and confession.

"If love is contraband, I'll sing it loud,

burn the ledger, scorch the rulebook,

let them tally my corpse,

for I will be loud for you until my death."

Your voice stretches; the line hangs like someone wating on the ledge of a word. Till watches the screen until the light in the room becomes the light on yours and the feed breathes in the same rhythm you do. His nervous reflection overlays yours for a fractured second and he sees, finally, the truth he had been too scared to admit: you had been reaching for him all along.

You lift the mic like someone holding a lifeline. You are so beautiful and so unbearably vulnerable in that motion that for one stolen second the room seems to tilt toward you and not away. The scoreboard blinks. Your opponent's practiced notes hum in the background. Everything narrows to that single held note—the last full exhale before what comes next.

The world pauses on a breath.

BANG!

Till flinches. You stand, bewildered, twitching. Your opponent looks horrified. Slowly, a sea of dark red spreads over the clothing on your chest, staining it a color that Till never wanted to see on you. The mic slips from your hands, hitting the floor. Your desperate eyes stare into the camera, piercing Till's chest in a way that made him feel as though he took the bullet instead. A shaky hand covers his mouth, keeping the creeping noise in his throat at bay.

You drop to the floor. The guards take their time removing your body, a puddle forming beneath you before they get to you. Grabbing your wrists, the guards drag you off stage, a smudged trail of blood following your corpse.

Your eyes stay trained on the camera the whole time, even after your heart has stopped beating.

of course!! i apologize in advance if it sounds a bit ooc, i don't know too too much about him

. when tim first gets jealous, he withdrawls

. he gets quieter

. his body language stiffens

. he'll cross his arms and his jaw will tighten

. he doesn't want to talk about it

.this is because tim really doesn't want to admit that he feels it

. so instead of acknowledging it, he'll shut down and just observe

. tim can't not overthink

. he'll replay every look, every word, over and over

. he'll always convince itself it's nothing

. but it fails the moment something else is brought up, and all of that emotion comes flooding back in

. his jealousy always turns inward

. he'll blame himself before he'll ever blame anyone else

. tim tries to tell himself that he's fine, but he isn't

. he thinks too much, too fast, until the thought of losing you makes him sick

. his tone will get sharp when his "rival" speaks

. tim will speak in a clipped, sarcastic way, just enough to make his "rival" uncomfortable

. he positions himself between you and the other person, trying to steal your attention

. he doesn't really want to start a fight, but he has no issues ending one if it comes to that

. tim's not showy about his affections for you

. when jealousy hits, he'll display his possessiveness for you in smaller ways

. he'll show it by a hand resting on your back

. or his jacket on your shoulders

. he'll also stand closer than usual, not enough to be too obvious

. eventually, he will bring his issue up

. he'll speak in a way to make you think he's perfectly calm

. however, you can feel the restraint he's trying to cover

. he doesn't want to accuse, tim is just seeking reassurance

. despite this, he'll never ask for it directly

. if you comfort him, that wall cracks, just a little bit

. he hates giving jealousy a voice, but he struggles to hide it when it comes to you

. once the tension fades, his jealousy will turn into possessive affection

. he'll pull you closer without saying a word

. his hands will hold you firm, as though you might slip away

. when it's just the two of you, he'll exhale against your neck

. no words, just warmth