#(i just realized i had this in my drafts for a while!)

[hypnobeauty]

A Chance Encounter - a cho hyun-ju x reader fic (part 3)

summary: a story about how you and Hyun-ju met and the following years of your relationship. part 1 / part 2 cw: no use of y/n, reader is afab, angst, fluff, hyun is unsure of herself, pre-squid game, slice of life. a/n: hello! i'm back with another part. it is probably the biggest one so far. i wish they were my barbies and i could make them kiss. anyway! i have quite a bit of the story drafted, we'll probably get into the relationship next part. it is out of my control, i never imagined i'd write so many parts lol enjoy xx comments are always appreciated ♥ taglist: @strayteez3staner @dekiruxxx @jeongteen @sunnysurvives @3leni @etta-huracan @honeyhyunju @basoressia - comment if you’d like to be tagged.

part 3. a door left open

the uber ride was awkward at first, the kind of silence where neither of you seemed to know where to start. hyun-ju sat stiffly beside you, her hands folded neatly on her lap, her gaze fixed firmly on the window. you could see her shoulders tense, and you thought about how tired she must be.

you decided to break the silence. “so, are you in pain? be honest.”

she turned her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “a little,�� she admitted. “mostly just… tired.”

“that’s fair,” you said, giving her a sympathetic smile. “surgery’s no joke. i remember when my cousin had his wisdom teeth out—he tried to eat a cheeseburger the same day. ended up crying into his fries. don’t be like him.”

that earned a small giggle from her, and you took it as a good sign.

“you’re lucky i didn’t let ha-neul come with us,” you added, leaning in conspiratorially. “she would’ve pestered you with questions about your nose—she’s obsessed with noses right now. it’s been her only personality trait for weeks.”

this time, hyun-ju chuckled, soft but genuine. “what’s wrong with her nose?”

“nothing,” you said, grinning. “she just decided it’s not ‘cute’ enough. she almost picked one that would’ve made her look like michael jackson. i had to intervene.”

that got a laugh out of her—small, but real. “michael jackson?”

you nodded, feigning solemnity. “i told her, ‘ha-neul, your nose is fine. it’s perfect. no glitter gloves necessary.’ she almost went through with it anyway.”

hyun-ju laughed a bit more, finally relaxing a bit. the sound eased something in your chest.

“you’re good at this,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now.

“at what?”

“making people feel comfortable.”

you shrugged, feeling a little shy. “oh. i just think it’s nice to be kind. and honestly? helping you was no big deal. it’s what anyone would do.”

“not anyone,” she said, looking at you for the first time since you got in the car.

*

when the uber pulled up to her building, you hopped out with her, offering to help her up to her apartment “do you need help getting upstairs?”

she shook her head firmly, already reaching for the door handle. “no, it’s fine. i can manage.”

“okay,” you said, “at least let me give you my number. if you need anything, just text me, okay?”

hyun-ju hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. you exchanged numbers, and she disappeared into her building while you climbed back into the car.

later that night, as she sat on her couch, her phone buzzed.

hey, it’s me. i hope you’re feeling better. please keep me updated, and don’t hesitate to ask for help. you deserve it too.

she read it almost immediately. you watched the little “read” notification appear at the bottom of the screen. but no reply came.

hyun stared at the message for a long time, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. she typed out a reply, then deleted it. typed another, then deleted that too. nothing felt right. nothing felt good enough. finally, she locked her phone and set it down,

*

as the uber pulled away from hyun-ju’s building, you leaned back in the seat, finally exhaling the tension you hadn’t realized you were holding. before you could fully settle, your phone buzzed in your pocket. ha-neul’s name lit up the screen.

“heeyy,” you answered, bracing yourself.

“what happened? you just disappeared! did i miss an emergency rhinoplasty?” her tone was playful but edged with curiosity.

you sighed. “no emergency. i just… ended up helping someone.”

“helping someone? who?”

you hesitated. “the woman from the waiting room. remember her, hyun-ju? she had just had surgery, and the clinic wouldn’t let her leave without someone to sign her out.”

there was a pause, then an incredulous laugh. “wait, so you ditched me for someone you barely know?”

“it wasn’t like that,” you said quickly. “she needed help, and no one else was there. i couldn’t just leave her.”

another pause, but this time, ha-neul’s tone softened. “you’re too nice for your own good, you know that?”

“maybe,” you admitted.

“and she’s pretty, isn’t she?” ha-neul’s teasing edge was back.

you laughed, flustered. “i mean… i guess? that’s not the point.”

there was a beat of silence on the line. then, she snorted. “well, i didn’t know you were into girls.”

“what?” you sputtered.

“oh, don’t act surprised. i knew it since that day,” she teased mercilessly.

“to be honest,” you admitted, “me neither.”

“oh my god, you are so into her! i knew it! since the first time we saw her, i knew something was up.”

“i’m not into her,” you said, though your voice didn’t sound as convincing as you’d hoped.

“sure, sure,” she said, dragging out the words. “you’re just playing knight in shining armor for no reason at all.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “goodbye, ha-neul.”

“oh, this isn’t over. i’m going to interrogate you later.”

you hung up with a laugh, shaking your head. from that day on, ha-neul teased you mercilessly—she found a way to always bring up hyun-ju, teasing you about how you’d never been so straightforward with anyone before, and even your friends got in on it after she spilled the story at dinner the following night.

the only problem? hyun-ju never replied.

*

you sent her a series of messages over the next week:

hey, how are you feeling today? let me know if you need anything.

i live close by—it’s no trouble at all.

two days later:

hey, stranger! ha-neul had her surgery today and looked worse than you, haha.

sorry, i didn’t mean to say you looked bad, just… well, bruised. are you okay?

hyun brought you up in therapy the following week, sitting across from her therapist—a kind, middle-aged woman who specialized in lgbtq+ mental health.

“i met someone,” hyun said hesitantly, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

her therapist’s face lit up. “that’s wonderful, hyun-ju. tell me about her.”

“she’s… nice,” hyun said, struggling to find the words. “she helped me after my surgery. we talked a little. she’s funny.”

“and how do you feel about her?”

hyun hesitated, then shrugged. “i don’t know. it feels… weird. like, she sees me. as me. and that’s good, but it’s scary too.”

her therapist nodded thoughtfully. “it sounds like you’re afraid of being vulnerable.”

hyun wasn’t sure what to say, so her therapist continued. “are you planning to stay in touch with her?”

“i think so,” hyun said cautiously. “but it’s scary. what if i say the wrong thing? what if i ruin it?”

her therapist smiled gently. “relationships—friendships, too—are about taking risks. you don’t have to have all the answers or the perfect words. just being honest and showing up is enough.  let her in a little and see what happens.”

hyun left the session feeling lighter, more hopeful.

*

but when the messages from you kept coming, her anxiety crept back in.

each time her phone buzzed, she felt a pang of guilt. she typed out replies over and over, but nothing felt good enough. her fear of saying the wrong thing left her paralyzed, so she said nothing at all.

three days after the last message:

i’m starting to get worried, hyun-ju. just let me know if you’re fine.

another day:

i pass by your building every day on my way to work. should i stop by?

and finally:

hey, hyun-ju. did something happen? sorry if i came on too strong—i was genuinely worried about you.

i can see you’re reading these, but you never reply… i get it. i’ll leave you alone now. sorry if i made you uncomfortable.

after that, the chat stayed silent. when she received your last message, guilt and regret gnawed at her. she wanted to scream. to hit something. to do anything but face the truth: she had let fear win again.

in her next therapy session, when the doctor asked about you, hyun-ju lied.

“it… didn’t work out,” she said quickly, not meeting her therapist’s eyes. “she probably realized we’re too different.”

the therapist gave her a kind smile but didn’t press further. “that’s okay, hyun-ju. not every connection works out. what matters is that you tried, and you allowed yourself to open up, even if only for a moment.”

hyun-ju nodded, but her stomach churned. she couldn’t bring herself to admit the truth—that she hadn’t replied to a single message.

*

you stared at the chat for a long time after sending that last message. the little grey avatar beside her name felt cold, distant—you wished she had a profile pic. your own days moved forward, though you found yourself thinking of her often. you reread your messages to her, trying to pinpoint where you’d gone wrong. even ha-neul, who had teased you endlessly at first, stopped mentioning her after seeing how the silence weighed on you.

life went on. but hyun-ju had awakened in you feelings you had never taken seriously before and now you couldn’t help feeling like something had been left unresolved.

*

a month later, you were standing in line at your favorite café, eyes scanning the pastry display as you tried to choose something to pair with your cappuccino.

unbeknownst to you, at a table near the window, hyun-ju sat with her notebook, calculating the cost of her next procedure. she sipped her coffee absentmindedly, the barista’s voice barely registering as they called out a name—your name.

her pen froze mid-stroke. it wasn’t a common name. could it really be you? as she told herself it wasn’t, she heard your laugh, warm and unmistakable. her head snapped up, and there you were, joking with the barista as they handed you a cup and a paper bag.

hyun-ju stared, her heart pounding. you thanked them and turned toward the door, completely unaware of her. her legs moved before her mind could catch up. one moment she was sitting; the next, she was standing in front of you, her hand gripping your arm.

you had just reached the door when you felt a hand on your arm and a soft voice behind you saying your name. you turned, startled, and found yourself in front of her.

“can w—can we talk?” she asked, her voice low but firm. “please.”

you looked up from her hand—her nails were painted a soft blush pink and you made a mental note to ask her what nail polish it was—, and that familiar floral scent reached your nose. her expression was a mix of hope, fear, and determination.

face-to-face with hyun-ju, you smiled softly. “of course.”

[emsdevs]

Jack, Do You Think About Me?

a/n: this has been a thought in my head since this song came out! here's a little jack x famous singer!reader inspired by noah by megan moroney. enjoy :)

You and Jack had gotten together the summer after you both turned seventeen. Your relationship was good, but good wasn’t always enough. You’d skip class together, riding around in his car, blasting “Record Year” by Eric Church. You were completely his, but he didn’t belong to you, not really. When he got drafted, he made the decision that your relationship should end, so you both decided to live out your last summer together before ultimately calling it quits the day before he got on a plane to New Jersey. 

Now, it had been years since you had seen him. You checked on him every once in a while, through the internet or mutual friends. You wanted the best for him, and he’d always own a piece of your heart. You couldn’t let him have all of it anymore though. You had met a nice guy, just a couple of years older than you, at your job. You were fresh out of college and quite nervous, but he had helped you settle in. Before long, you and the guy, Liam, had realized there was a spark between the two of you. He asked you out, and a few nights later you found yourself on a dinner date with him. Liam was great, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew he wasn’t Jack.

Not long after you and Liam officially got together, you decided to pursue your dreams and started uploading covers and your own songs to YouTube. After just a couple of months, you had gotten discovered and signed a deal with a record label. Liam was right there with you, supporting you through it all, but you couldn’t help but think about when Jack would tell you he’d never heard a voice more beautiful than yours. Now you’re touring, and it’s affecting your relationship with Liam. 

“I never see you anymore. I just… I thought I could handle this, but I need someone who can be here. I can’t settle down with a girl who lives on a tour bus,” Liam seemed exhausted, and you were tired of arguing with him, especially after that last comment.

“Fine, you can find your way to the airport I assume, then?”

“Yeah. I’ll get outta your hair.”

That night, after your tears dried up, you did what you did best, write. Just hours later, you were looking at a song called “Break It Right Back” that summed up how you were feeling about your entire relationship. When your band met with you to practice the next day, you threw it into the mix with some of your other unreleased songs, letting them get a feel for how you pictured the melody sounding. You’d be performing in Buffalo, New York later that night, and you planned to debut it as a surprise song on the setlist. It would likely stay for the next few shows, just until you got all the feelings out.

Four nights later, you were playing Madison Square Garden, but unbeknownst to you, a certain boy you used to consider a brother dragged your ex and half of their hockey team to the VIP section of your show. You had made it to the halfway point, walking around the stage and interacting with fans. That’s when you see him, Jack Hughes, the boy you had never really gotten over. You locked eyes with him (the VIP section was rather close to the stage at your shows), and everything came rushing back. You continued on with the show, trying to play it off and act like you were fine, but all of that changed when it was time to play the surprise song. Originally, like in the past three shows, you were planning to play “Break It Right Back”, but something stopped you. You could feel his eyes on you, and you knew you had to try one last time. You stopped your band and began to give the audience a little speech.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just… We were supposed to play “Break It Right Back” right now, but I feel like I should perform another song for you guys. I uhh… I wrote this song a while back. It’s about an ex of mine. We were um… we were together for about a year in high school, but our lives led us in different directions. So yeah, um… this one’s called “Noah”, and yes, I changed the guy’s name. So no one go searching for someone named Noah that you think I dated because I didn’t,” you tried to joke a little at the end, attempting to calm your nerves. Your band knew the song and started playing it perfectly. You couldn’t look anywhere near Jack, terrified of what his reaction might be. Soon, you were at the bridge, and your eyes were briefly drawn to his before you started singing, “It’s more problematic than it is innocent and sweet. You’re more like a secret I wish I didn’t have to keep, and I bet by now you’ve found somebody new. I did too, but when I lie down next to him sometimes I’d rather it be with you.” 

You finished the song, still not daring to glance Jack’s way, and then you reveled in the cheers from the audience, who had clearly enjoyed you performing a never-before-heard song. 

Once the show was finished, you went back to your dressing room after sharing a hug with your band and vocalists. You took a breath, letting yourself calm down from the adrenaline rush you still get from performing. A moment later, you hear a knock on the door. Assuming it’s your manager, you tell them to come in, but you’re shocked to see a gaggle of hockey players huddled in the doorway. The two in the front stand out the most to you though. You’d be able to recognize a Hughes brother anywhere, and now there were two right in front of you. Luke decides he’s done wasting time, quickly moving forward and engulfing you in a hug. All of the boys, even the ones you had never met, gave you their congratulations and told you how much they enjoyed the show. It wasn’t long before Luke was coming up with an excuse to usher everyone but Jack out of the room, hoping you two could work things out. 

“You did great out there,” Jack started the conversation.

“Thanks. I guess I have to come watch you play hockey now, huh?” you chuckle, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Did you write that song about me?” Jack cut to the chase, tired of dancing around the subject.

“Jack- I… If it bothers you, I won’t release it, and I’ll never perform it again. I just needed to let you know how I felt when I saw you in the audience.”

“It doesn’t bother me, I swear. It makes me happy. I think about you a lot. Honestly, I don’t know that I ever got over you, and the biggest mistake of my life was not even trying to make the distance work with you.”

“Hey, it’s okay. We both needed to grow on our own. Look at where we both are, living our dreams. If we didn’t break up, I probably wouldn’t be here, and your game is so good right now! Please don’t feel bad,” you tried to reassure him.

“Do you uhh… Do you think we could try again? I mean- I know you’re on tour right now, and I’m just on a short break before games start back again. But I need you around again. I really think we could make it work this time.”

“I think we could make it work too, J. How about we start out slow okay? Get to know each other again?”

“I can work with that,” Jack breathed out a sigh of relief, wrapping you in a hug. Both of you were happy to be revisiting something that made you both so happy. You didn’t know if Jack would be your forever, but you’re content to work together with him to see if he would be. At least now you could think about him without feeling guilty.

taglist: @heartsforjh @fofiquierellorar @justxpaulina @alex-wotton @devilinpradaheels @puckmedude

join the taglist

[cathwritestragediesnotsins]

Posting drafts

Bakugou x reader

“Katsuki! What the hell happened?”

The current number 2 hero stood just outside the doorway of my apartment, hunched over, one hand gripping his side in pain and the other clutching the doorjamb to keep himself upright.

“Oh my god, did you just come from a fight?? Why aren’t you at the hospital??”

I reached for him even as I scolded him with my words, trying to help keep him upright while also ushering him into my apartment but he stopped me, pushing my hand away gently.

“Y/n…..” he said my name so softly, with such vulnerability. His head was tilted towards the floor so I couldn���t see the look on his face, but it almost sounded like he was…crying?

He lifted his head to look at me then, his face now inches from mine due to the way he towered over me. I was right, his crimson eyes shone with unshed tears.

“I haven’t done it yet, I haven’t become the number one hero. But I….I thought for a moment I wasn’t going to make it out….and there’s still so much I need to tell you.”

He was speaking so pleadingly, I wasn’t used to this side of him. Sure he had opened up to me before, but I’d never seen the look in his eyes right now before. Like he was begging.

“Kats, what are you talking about? We need to get you help. You’re still bleeding.” I try to reason with him, but I know it’s useless. Whatever it is he’s trying to say he has decided he wants to say it now. And if there’s one think I know about Bakugou Katsuki, it’s that when he’s decided something he makes it happen.

“Just wait dammit” he grits out between clenched teeth. This is the Katsuki I’m familiar with: all harsh words and biting tone. But it’s a weak attempt.

“I promised myself, that one day, when I was number 1, when I was worthy, I would ask you to be mine. I’m breaking that promise now, because I realize that I was fucking stupid. All this time spent waiting, I should’ve just told you how I felt.” His fist clenches against the doorway in frustration. “I thought, if I proved I was better than that dumbass Izuku that you would choose me. But I don’t want to wait anymore.”

My mind is reeling trying to take in his words as well as the fact that the man I love is bleeding on the carpet of my apartment building. I open my mouth to speak but it takes a moment for my brain to form the words.

“Izuku? What? What do you mean?”

He scoffs then, lowering his head again. “You know that idiot is in love with you right?…..we both are.”

Love. Izuku….and Katsuki….are in love with, me?

“Katsuki, stop messing around…” I say, but I know he’s not.

He lifts his head so he’s eye to eye with me again, it looks like it takes more effort this time which concerns me.

“Dumbass” his eyes are soft as they look into mine. “You didn’t know?”

My eyes are filling with tears and I’m not quite sure why. I think back on everything, all of our interactions.

“You…love me?” I say, needing to hear him say the words outright to be able to believe them. Afterall, this isn’t just my Katsuki, this is the number 2 hero in all of Japan, one of the most popular celebrities in the world for his looks and passion.

“Yes.” He says quietly. “I love you Y/n. I always have.” He looks so resolute as he says it. Still vulnerable and broken, but also determined.

I don’t even think about it before I’m reaching to cup his jaw in my hands and pulling him into me. And then I’m kissing him. He’s kissing me. After all this time, waiting, pining, I am kissing Bakugou Katsuki. And he’s kissing me back with just as much passion and urgency.

I try to pull back after a moment, suddenly remembering the situation we’re in, but his lips chase mine. He steps forward into me and captures me into another kiss. I make a noise of disagreement in the back of my throat and place my hands on his chest to push him back. By that time we’re both breathless.

“Kats, you’re bleeding.” I remind him.

He laughs and cracks a mischievous smile at me “It’s not my blood”

I look at him in blank shock for a moment before wrinkling my nose and pulling away “ew oh my god that’s worse”

His chuckle turns into a full blown cackle at my disgust. I glare at him as he laughs until he winces and grips his side.

“Alright, you might not be bleeding but you still need medical attention” I chastise him, motioning to where his arm was still cradling his abdomen.

“Calm down princess” he says, smirking fondly at me once again. “I already checked in with the EMTs after the fight, just a few bruised ribs. They put me on leave for a week.” His hand comes up to cup my cheek like I had done to him moments ago. “You should see the other guy.”

I roll my eyes at his cocky attitude but I can’t help smiling as well.

“So,” he pulls me in so that our foreheads are resting against each other. “Can I take that as an ‘I love you too’?”

I nod, his ash blond hair tickling the crown of ny head as I do so. “Yes. I love you too Katsuki.”

[pandorascripts]

Familiar thy by side part 2!!! 🙌 🥺

a/n: welpppp i supposeeeee (this was sitting in my drafts for a while and I forgot it was done). sorry for the inconsistency everyone, I've been busy busy busy with competitions for my clubs and I my term two ended just last week. Can't promise a better upload schedule until schools out :(

pairing: agatha/rio/reader

NOTE: this is set in salem time periods, they will speak as such. too lazy to actually check for spelling errors, so apologies!

The next time you’re able to remember current events, you’re laid down on a dock, in nothing but your wet undergarments. With a loud gasp, you shoot up, chest rapidly rising and falling. Everything is overwhelming, the noise of the lake, the splashing and laughter, the bristle of trees’ leaves, the creaking of the dock — too much, everything is too much. You can’t recognize anything, your whereabouts completely unknown as the cold sinks into your achy bones and shaky fingers. 

Finally, you see someone just barely familiar. Nicholas, laughing and splashing his Mother just twenty feet off to your side in the shallow waters. With a hard breath, you look around and try to focus on regaining your senses. Previously dirty skin is shining clean again, your hands brushing over it in confusion. Agatha… had bathed you? The thought of being unconscious and vulnerable makes your spine shiver, gaze hardening at Agatha. The moment you fully look at her — really recognize her, you have such a hard time hating her. The smile plastered on her raw face, laughter so hard she’s forced to wheeze and turn her back from her boy — she looks human to you for the first time in… well, however long you’ve been with them. 

Nicky is the first to notice you, his smile still wide as he waves to you. Agatha snaps her head to your direction, icy blue eyes running along your posture for a good read. There’s a subconscious relent in Agatha when she realizes how scared you are right now. There’s so much familiarity in that showcase of fear for her, that she’s slightly taken aback by the memories of nights when she was younger and afraid. A low growl dies down into a clearing of her throat, Agatha turning away. 

“Nicholas, you’ll get frozen if we’re here any longer,” she states, but Nicky knows it’s a demand. 

He pouts but doesn’t argue with his mom, waddling out of the water that Agatha easily cruises through. Her outfit matches yours — nothing but undergarments, and it’s clear that they had been playing in the water for quite some time. A weird thought festers in your mind, happy that despite being apathetic to everything, Agatha knows that her son is but a boy and deserves to have fun. 

By the time Agatha and Nicholas are fully dressed in their slightly damp clothes — ones you haven’t seen before, so you realize they must’ve been stolen during your lights-out phase – the embarrassment settles in. You feel even more vulnerable now, the only one absolutely indecent enough for viewing. Agatha lets Nicholas head back to their makeshift camp just some odd feet out, her journey steering to open a medium-sized leather pouch, and take out some clothes. Silently, Agatha walks down the doc to toss them in your lap. 

“What did you do to me?” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth — more so questioning how she managed to subdue you so easily. 

“Bathed you. Nothing more nothing less.” 

The sharpness of her tone makes you realize she believes you to be questioning something else — a small flinch on your face. 

“Not that, that I understand well. The time — I was awake, we were fighting, and then…” 

“Then I came to the smart conclusion you were too shambled to make such a journey and made it so you did not kill Nicky, nor I,” she answers, still on the defensive. 

You don’t argue back with her. Neither do you even try to dry off with anything, immediately trying to put on your clothes. 

“Wait.”

You stop at her words, convinced it was her magick rather than your obedience. “What?” 

Agatha walks off the dock, leaving you confused on whether or not you should continue. She turns her back to you again a couple seconds later, heading down the platform before tossing you a damp rag. 

“To dry. These clothes will be yours next few days, nothing wet against your skin will be comfortable enough for our journey. We leave tonight again.” 

You wet your lips, holding the rag before looking up at Agatha. Seeing her this close, it’s no wonder she was able to lure in many with a beguiling feeling of comfort. Agatha is motherly in many of her actions, even when she’s killing witches, surprisingly enough. Motherly or not completely monstrously, you’re not sure. 

“Thank you, Agatha,” you say softly, her name foreign on your tongue. 

“Make haste, the sun will set in a few hours time.” 

A simple nod from you has Agatha walking over to her son, your hands working to dry off your body with the rag. It’s slightly rugged, a little ripped and the edges are frayed. Although, you can’t be too picky, you suppose. Agatha almost gave you nothing. You’re not sure why she didn’t, why she let you dry off. It truly wouldn’t have been that uncomfortable for you, walking all that distance would’ve heated your body up and in turn the clothes would’ve probably helped cool you down. You turn around on the dock to run the rag over your chest, Agatha’s mean eyes running along your back. 

In her own mind, Agatha is beating herself up over giving you that rag. Why did she care if you were comfortable? If anything, Agatha only wants you to be uncomfortable around her — to be scared around her. It’s much easier that way, for you to be terrorized into obedience. She’s not sure, but maybe after being in your mind during the week in Salem she saw one too many correlations between you and Her. Agatha clenches her jaw, refusing to believe that after six years clean she’s genuinely letting herself feel the things she long ago buried about Rio. The name sends shivers down her spine, eyes running to find her boy. He’s nestled against a tree, fixing his hair into a braid. The facial expression she finds on him is way too similar to Rio — mouth open in concentration, nose tilted up. Agatha comes to the realization that she can never get away from the sound of the woman that loves her, and it haunts her. Rio’s voice in the mornings, her small touch throughout the day, the sweet laugh she let out at Agatha’s off-colored jokes – everything that was and is Rio stays within Agatha. Her eyes fall down to her hands, balling them up tightly before she lets go of them with a sigh. 

You walk down the dock, fully dressed and mainly dry. Wet against your neck is your hair, but you simply scrunch it up and keep it behind your shoulders. Agatha is moving Nicky up, sitting behind him as she starts softly speaking to him and doing his hair for him. The braid wasn’t the best, so Agatha simply undoes it and starts over. He doesn’t seme to mind, lost in the conversation as he drags a stick through the dirt to spell out his name. The scene is a little too vulnerable and familial for you to want to engage in, even if you’re more calm than when you first woke. There’s some slight gratitude you feel for Agatha, considering that she didn’t completely undress you when bathing you. Despite the slight awkward dampness of the materials against your skin, it’s something to be thankful for. 

You’re too caught up in trying to figure out everything that happened – stubbornly refusing to ask Agatha – that you don’t notice her sit next to you. Of course, there’s still a couple feet of distance from the two of you, but you’re unsure why she wouldn’t sit by Nicholas. Until you realize he’s not here. 

“Where is the boy?” you ask, your body more unsettled without him. This makes no sense, and you know it, but you swear Agatha is almost human around him. Despite that she’s killed in front of the boy, openly explained that she kills witches to him, and still speaks down to you around him – it just feels safer when he’s around. 

“Off to harvest some berries past that brush,” she replies, and you’re almost surprised she actually does. 

You just stay quiet, a slight nod of your head as your eyes lock on the fire. 

“Salem was just fine, in case you were wondering,” mumbles Agatha, sniffling after as if to cover up everything she just said. 

“Have they still been killling witches?” 

There’s a small laugh from Agatha, her head shaking slightly. “Oh, please, we were much too clever to be killed during then. Those women were married to the worst of the worst, and killed simply so their husband could marry younger or justify his continuous infidelity.” 

“We?” you ask, head turning to stare at Agatha. You weren’t aware that she was living in Salem during those times, but then again, you’re not sure how old Agatha actually is. “Yes, we. Womanhood came to me after spending my youth in that town. I left soon after.” Agatha’s tone at the end, her licking her lips and turning her head too, tells you that there’s something there – a story, no doubt, but you don’t question. 

“Must have been quite fearful, I’d imagine.” 

“They couldn’t catch us, dear, only a few were ever caught.” 

The fire is crackling, your hands reaching out to warm up over the flames. Agatha watches, the way your hair falls off your shoulder and over, her eyes running along your clothes. You’re maybe in your early twenties, or older - it’s hard to tell with witches. Her body is way to relaxed with you so near, but she doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because she’s sure you’re magic isn’t as strong or because she’s sure you’re not skilled at all. Either way, Agatha doesn’t like it. 

You don’t react to the word “dear” slipping from her mouth, certain its’ just another way to degrade you and poke fun. It doesn’t bother you. You don’t let it. 

“Man has never been smart, have they?’ you chuckle out, flashing her a small smile. 

Agatha responds with a shake of her head, pursing her lips. “Not much, no.” 

Silence absorbs the both of you for a couple minutes, up until Nicholas stumbles through the brush. He’s brushing off some burs with a distasteful look. 

“They’re so sharp,” he mumbles, very displeased with his clothes being covered in spikey balls. There’s a small smile from you, your hand lifting up to drop down. Just as the action is completed, all the burs fall from his clothes, his head snapping up to look at his mother. 

“Thank you, mama.” “Don’t look at me, boy, that had nothing to do with me,” she chuckles slightly. “Would’ve been quite entertaining watching you flounder about a bit longer.” 

Nicholas laughs slightly at his mom’s teasing, his eyes turning to you. “You then? Thank you.” 

Turning back to the fire, you remain quiet as Agatha and her son converse together, the sun starting to fall. You still aren’t clear how long had passed since you last remember anything, but you’re too nervous to talk. Wringing out your hands, glaring at the fire only to occasionally look at the duo before you, you can’t find a good enough time to interject. 

There’s a small huff from Agatha, her annoyed look turning to face you. “You’re loud.” 

“Excuse me?” you ask out, a little bewildered at her statement.

“Your mind that is, you’re insufferable. What is it you need?”

Closing your gaping mouth, you blink a bunch before relenting. “How long… was I – how long did you have control over me?” 

Agatha wets her lips, turning back to the fire. “Maybe around eight days, including a portion of today.” 

Eight days. It had been eight whole days. You swallow thickly, looking down to stare at the dirt below. She had been in your mind, controlling you, full access to everything for eight whole days. You feel perturbed at this information, wetting your lips down as you struggle to come to terms with that. What had she done in there? What had she seen? What had she messed up? What had she learned? It feels like a violation to you, your head turned away from her. 

Apathetic to your discomfort, Agatha goes back to talking with Nicky about his day and what he found in the forest. 

The next few days are spent silently for you, simply walking alongside Agatha. You wish you could’ve been behind her, away from her, but she insisted you go next to her to negate any chance of betrayal from you. Far too tired to argue and far too worried she’d overwhelm your mind again, you just gave in. During this journey, you didn’t care to ask her where you all were going, you just walked. And walked. And walked.

[putting-eddie-munson-in-places]

can you put him in the ‘we are the world’ music video? (you get free reign on which celebrity he’s duetting with.)

Corroded Coffin frontman Eddie Munson waits for his turn on the mic alongside (who we now know was his boyfriend at the time) pop sensation Steve Harrington, in the studio for the recording of "We Are The World"

[glitteringstardust]

❤️ 👑 ❤️ | 👑 ❤️ 👑 | ❤️ 👑 ❤️

emperor kuzco stimboard

[spacedlexi]

people dont talk enough about how heartbreaking the marlon betrayal mustve been for clem too,,

this dude saves the life of her and her kid. takes them in has them patched up gives them their first hot meal in who knows how long. gives them a safe place to stay. possibly permanently. confides in her that hes trying to be a good leader but feels like and fears that hes failing. asks her to help him take care of the rest of the group. helps her get over her fear of dogs by asking her to trust him. and things go well. she feels safe. like this place could really finally be the home shes been looking for

but as soon as she finds out what happened to the twins. that marlon planned on giving up her and aj too. she immediately becomes a liability to him and he attempts to kill her for it. locks her in the basement to die by walker. then tries to turn the group against her so he can shoot her instead when the first method fails. and he nearly succeeds

then a majority of the group turn against clem the minute aj kills marlon. ignoring marlons mistakes but condemning aj for his. like clem wasnt betrayed by marlon in the exact same way he betrayed the twins. like she literally wasnt almost killed twice? and how long had he been considering giving her up? was it always some contingency he planned? did he truly want to keep them around and things only changed when he feared the raiders had returned? she'll never know

[teknikolor-walters]

Does anyone else feel a debilitating fear of getting better? Is this normal? Does it secretly prove I'm just faking everything for attention? Probably tbh

[anneapocalypse]

On Dragon Age II's Ending

The ending of Dragon Age 2 has always felt to me like the least morally ambiguous of any of the games' mage-templar decisions and frankly one of the least ambiguous "big" decisions in the series.

DA2 makes it extremely obvious that the Circle mages are about to be executed for something that absolutely none of them had any part in and no one, not even the Knight-Commander, is arguing that that isn't the case. You can feel whatever kind of way about what Anders did, and still recognize the staggering injustice of killing all the Circle mages for something that everyone, including the Knight-Commander calling for their deaths, is fully aware they did not do.

And just in case that wasn't clear, someone made a point of dropping in that bit of ambient dialogue telling us that Meredith is already trying to get clearance for the Right of Annulment before the explosion; she's just looking for an excuse. The game is pretty clear about the injustice of this situation, regardless of how many demons and blood mages there may or may not be in Kirkwall.

I'm a chronic replayer who enjoys making up new characters every time to see things I haven't seen before and I didn't have a particularly difficult time coming up with in-character, circumstantial reasons why a character might annul the Circle in DAO or recruit the templars in DAI and believe they're doing the right thing. For the former: dwarven noble who knows little about magic and believes what the Knight-Commander tells her, and chooses the wrong dialogue option with Morrigan in the party so Wynne attacks and therefore is not present in the party as an emotional anchor and a voice for the mages, and listens to Cullen when he says it's too dangerous to let any of the mages live. For the latter: non-mage human noble from a Chantry-connected family who just implicitly trusts templars, as he was raised to. Or Dalish elf who walks into Redcliffe, sees a magister stinking up the place and says "Well, the Dread Wolf take the lot of you then" and turns around and marches straight to Therinfal, conscripts the templars, disbanding the Order in the process. Just a couple of easy examples I've actually played.

But the ending of DA2 is a choice between "Yes, I will help to execute these people for something everyone knows they didn't do" or "No, I will not do that and I will help them defend themselves and escape." Of course it's possible to come up with in-character reasons to make the former choice, and I have! But it's much less of a choice a character could just stumble into, and you have to do a lot more ideological contortions for a character to do that and believe they're doing the right thing.

Yes, there are a lot of blood mages and demons in Kirkwall. While we don't get a lot of opportunities to treat blood mage NPCs with much nuance apart from Merrill as most blood mages are programmed to attack on sight (and this is likely a product of the game's tight development deadline), the game itself offers an explanation for this in the writings of the Band of Three, the Enigma of Kirkwall codex entry that you can collect throughout the story. While you have to look to find it, this history does make it clear that Kirkwall is meant to be an outlier, for reasons both political and historical (which is another post for another day). And Merrill herself, whether you agree with her viewpoints or not, does offer an important counterpoint: a character designed to be sympathetic while giving a more nuanced perspective to the player on why a mage might choose to use blood magic.

And yeah, even with the fact that the game makes you fight Orsino in the mage ending, I still think this. It's clumsily executed, yes, but Orsino going all blood magic harvester abomination is just one more example of what the game has been showing us all along: that mages (like most people) turn to extreme measures when they're backed into corners with no sense of hope, and the templars then use those extreme actions to justify further abuses of mages. I don't think it was strictly necessary (and for what it's worth, Mark Darrah agrees with that; it's a decision that was made out of concern for gameplay balance more than narrative and in hindsight he's said that he thinks it was a mistake), and I definitely think it could have been executed better, but as it stands it does fit an ongoing theme, and Orsino's actions still do not justify the murder of every other mage in the Circle.

And then there's that thing where Hawke can only receive the support of the nobility and become Viscount if they side with the templars, thereby agreeing to uphold the existing power structures in Kirkwall. It's easy to miss if you've never played through the templar ending (and also because Hawke doesn't hold the position for long and Inquisition doesn't really acknowledge that they ever did Correction: It is actually mentioned in the Champion of Kirkwall codex entry, and possibly other places as well, my memory just failed me), but to me that outcomes is absolutely inspired. It serves to highlight how deeply intertwined the nobility are with the Chantry. The nobles of Kirkwall want Meredith deposed because they feel she's overstepped her bounds by denying them a proper viscount, but they are not anti-Chantry or anti-Circle; they still want mages locked up, and they probably also remember what happened the last time Kirkwall's nobility decided to try and contest the Chantry's power in their city (see: Perrin Threnhold).

I find the templar ending genuinely interesting to play through in terms of seeing the story from that angle, and in terms of what it has to say about power structures and politics in Thedas generally and in Kirkwall in specific, which I also wrote about recently. (To say nothing of how differently it frames Varric in Inquisition when the Hawke he idolizes is the Hawke who slaughtered Kirkwall's mages to a one.) I would honestly recommend playing it at least once for lore reasons if you're into that sort of thing. But I would hardly say that you as a player come out of that ending feeling like you're playing the good guy.

And I'm not even arguing that all choices in the games should be this in-your-face. On the contrary, I don't think they all should. I like it when it's possible for a character to make a choice with unintended outcomes, or get accidentally locked into a worse choice because of previous decisions (like annulling the Circle and then being forced to kill Connor or Isolde). Those are some of my favorite kind of choices in these games. In this particular case, I do think the extreme nature of the choice is important to the story, both as the catalyst for the mage rebellion and to underscore why Anders did what he did.

So when people tell me that DA2 "both sideses" the mage-templar conflict... I respect that it's possible to feel that way about it, but I just don't see it. The game allows the player to role-play a character who might make various choices within its narrative; that is not the same thing as presenting all choices as morally equivalent in-universe, and it has never been the same thing, in any of these games.

If you're looking for one mage-templar choice that puts the injustice squarely in your face, I think the ending of DA2 is very much that.

[sysig]

Maybe something with Mousey being jealous of Hunter and Smoker for one reason or another? hehe

Day 7 - There might be a reason for that

Bonus:

[coridallasmultipass]

rosedave for the fucked up ship bingo

Omg, they actually get a bingo for me!!

I was filling it out and skipped 'pool of blood' because I was gonna go back to use a redder colour, and then I finished going through the first pass and was like, 'Oh no, there's no bingo!' Except I read it again and remembered, oh right, forgot the red.

But yeah, awwww! Dave/Rose was baby's first Homestuck ship lol. Like day 1 of reading it I was like, 'they need to date, now!' (Before I even got to all the ectobiological implications, but by that point, it kinda just added to it because of the way they interact.) ((Playing with them like dolls/psychological torture.))

About the t4t one, just a personal comment, I have a whole like, story outline set up where Dave and Rose both being trans plays a role for Bro and Mom (both also trans) to talk (argue, over the phone) about Sburb and stuff. I just reread my outline and hfffff really wanna clean that up. (It's more of a Bro thing tho, so I won't get into that here.) But yeah, Dave and Rose are both queer too, which is always nice.

And 'divorced' is probably more like the Alpha versions, but I feel like that counts, too, since we didn't get to meet them directly in the comic. For the alphas, they seem like the type to be in and out of a relationship with each other all the time, always making headlines like 'Strider and Lalonde spotted holding hands at local cafe! Did their breakup last?' Or like completely mundane shit like that. While they're both intoxicated, D will initiate a breakup over some trivial argument, and then come crawling back to R begging her to come back the next morning. He has the divorce lawyer on speed dial, but both the lawyer and R know the divorce isn't going anywhere, and to just let D blow off steam with legal threats as usual. Idk. I could talk for days ab the alphas, but it's gonna be a lot of like, my ideas of them, rather than what we see in canon, so I'll just leave it at that for now.

Man, tho, that bingo line. So true.

They're terrible for each other in that they were made for each other - each of their fucked up shapes fits the other. I especially love how Dave seeks out Rose to make her pry the information out of him that he's too embarrassed to say flat out, or even when he is actually opening up. He knows Rose is going to tease him, and yet he seeks that out anyway. All of their interactions are just pure gold.

They DO die in a pool of blood together (alphas, but also when betas go godtier just without the blood I guess).

Incredibly mixed feelings!! I shipped this before I got to the related part and had to reconcile with that lol. I mean it wasn't that hard though, since you're basically spoonfed this ship (whether familial, platonic, or romantic/etc) with how Dave is the butt of all the Freudian and incest jokes, but also how comfortable they are with being themselves around each other. Teasing example that I love:

And WHERE is the content?! Fr, where? Whenever I DO see content of them tho, it's really great, so credit where credit is due, there IS content, I just don't happen across it as often as I'd like to.

Speaking of content, I'm gonna include two of my faves, bc 'thinking about them always and forever' lol. SUGGESTIVE stuff as follows:

I'm always thinking about that one fan art of Dave and Rose on the bed (adult only: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/737296482257043456 ) or the one where they're on a wall niche (also adult only: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/739893243737702400/have-you-ever-drawn-any-rosedave-i-love-those ). [Ugh are the links adding?? Just gonna put them down as text, and hope it inserts.]

So yeah. Man, this post got long, sorry about that.

[princeofhags]

i just finished reading about iraestra so wand of twilight for her as well!

Wand of Twilight. Iraestra conjures a spirit from the land of the dead to speak to them.

FANTASY PROMPTS | @foxboyclit

Smoke floods the altar in fragrant plumes, the familiar taste of myrrh coating the back of Iraestra's throat uncomfortably. Her steps, purposefully measured and slow, sound monstrous in the cavernous wings of the ceremonial chamber. The peace is further broken by the occasional murmur of an invocation or rustling cloth. There has been no order given for silence, but the trepidation hanging heavy in the air as the incense enforces the command. They all wait in the lurch of a breathless hush, an animal instinct to a known threat. Still, so that the hunter is not enthralled by your fleeing. Anticipation before the blow.

Does their visitor scent the fear he instills in the air, like a hound? Does the chorus of thrumming hearts beckon to him like the call of war drums? Bodies, so many bodies for him to open and bleed.

Itaestra does not doubt that he often relishes it. Bhaalspawn are such curious, depraved half-beasts.

Prince of the Blood. A self-given title, perhaps, but she has heard the reverence Bhaal's faithful pour at his feet like wine libations. Their honored guest is heir to a butcher's legacy. She thinks him little more than a glorified killer draped in the dressings of grandeur.

Iraestra does not cower or draw back from him, but there is still an instinctual unease at the thought of a Bhaalspawn being familiar with her. The Dread Lord’s wicked heirs do not know friends, only warm bodies to bite with steel. The world to them is already dead, merely waiting to be torn asunder to show its truest color: the crimson of fresh spilt blood.

A hedonistic dogma. She holds her tongue due to the respect granted to Bhaal by her own unholy master.

She observes the preparations for the ritual with only half an eye, attention commanded by the ophidian silhouette haunting the edge of the room. What a disquieting picture he paints. His height causes him to loom terribly, heads and shoulders above the flock of mortal meat. He need not even draw his weapon to kill half the room should he wish it. Each finger is tipped with a talon that catches the candlelight with each of his clenching hand. When he had spoken, his teeth had stood out vividly against the stone-black gleam of his scales. The dried gore on his scales embrace him as intimately as any lover.

The wicked length of a barbed tail flickers in what may be a sign of agitation in his people, or merely a quirk of the extra limb. His attention is riveted on the altar. She half expects it to catch aflame.

She attempts not to concern herself with his growing impatience. Any fool can cast a spell to converse with the departed; a Myrkulite only does so at the behest of another and the blessings of the Bone Lord. She will not disregard the tenants of her faith even for this Prince.

"You're eager," she observes. The dragonborn has not left the corpse's side since it was brought to her. Curious. He must be thoroughly invested in the secrets it would spill. "It was good that you preserved the jaw. A wasted trip had you not," she stops by the head, only the breadth of a few steps between her and the Prince.

At that, he finally regards her. Even in his initial instructions he had been short with her. "What of a tongue?

"Is this a theoretical or practical query?" Short of the patience to wait for an answer, Iraestra snaps at one of the attendants. "Bone Talker, check the mouth."

Questing fingers find only half of the appendage still intact. If removed before death, exsanguination is as likely a cause as any.

"It will do," she decides. "I am ready to begin." Her attendants step back as one.

The body has been prepared as best they can given its mangled state. This man, who can be no older than twenty, bares the marks of a slow death. The skull, partially caved, rests unevenly on the cloth. He does not even look peaceful now, as the victims of violence rarely do.

She steps forward, hands rising from her sides. Iraestra readies herself to speak the ancient words.

"Alone," the Prince's clipped voice rings out clearly. Not a request. Demand.

Iraestra hisses her frustration. Better vexation, than dread. She knows the vestments of anger well, slips into them like a second skin. Her mouth twists, her shoulders draw tight. Her hands are half-formed claws in the air. She hears the pound of her own heart in her ears.

What is so important that it cannot be witnessed by the others? What is to be done with her, who will attend to the questioning herself?

"Mistress?" Every cowled head in the room turns to look at her. They hear the call for her death as vividly as she. One of the fools is brave enough to step towards her, as if they could truly do anything to intervene. She admires them for their stupidity.

The Prince watches her, well aware of what he asks for. Trust or faith or maybe both. Clearly, he is looking for a reaction. Will she falter, will she balk? Could he make a bouquet of the stench of her unease? He regards her with a snake's stare, eyes cold licks of fire. He does not blink.

If he thinks he can subdue her so easily, then he is sorely mistaken. She is drow. She is Oblodra. Her own mother's hands were the first to ever try to take her life. He will find no easy marks here today. Let him slake his thirsts elsewhere. There are other, weaker creatures for him to gorge himself on.

"Leave us," Iraestra does not take her eyes from the Prince. She does not speak or move again until the door clicks shut behind the last attendant. How awfully similar it sounds to the closing stone of a tomb.

She rounds on him, irritation clear. "Why did you ask for me?"

The Prince is the first to look away, back to her hands and then the body. Iraestra does not feel like she has won anything of merit. It is impossible to tell if he is pleased. "The Banite confides in you. I thought to do the same."

He does not give a name, nor does she ask for it. She wonders at what the Prince knows of her talks with the other Chosen.

"And what if his confidence is misplaced?" A theoretical. Her loyalty is not often brought into question. It is rare that she pledges it at all.

"Then I will kill you," the Prince simply states.

She laughs. That intention is only the natural conclusion of the dance. There is no greater aim for those of his depraved bent. "So you say. Did you not plan to do so already?"

His head tilts in a particularly reptilian gesture. His glittering eyes have found the pulse in her throat, her bare wrists. She cares not for his study. It feels too much like a physical caress, high beneath dress and robe. One hunger is not too different from another, and she supposes they may be frighteningly the same for him. Both indulgences of the flesh, in the end. "Do not tempt me. Your blood would spill sweetly on this floor."

Iraestra sneers. "Cast your fetid gaze elsewhere, brute. You will not find easy prey in me."

He chuckles darkly. "Of that I am sure. I would savor the challenge as much as anything else."

"I was under the impression that there were more pressing matters at hand, given your early insistence on haste."

"Time can always be afforded for pleasure, sorceress. Consider the feel of silk on the skin. The burst of fruit between teeth and the rush of the juice down your chin, the clench of a lover tight around you as they sob your name. That final, shuddering breath that flutters out of the throat at death. Do you not feel the drum of the heart in your own chest? Do you not wish to dance to it? If you are so indifferent to it, I could show you how to listen to it once more. To feel it." How reverently he speaks, as if he is at the shrine of his own father-god. His lids have nearly closed in rapture.

There's smoke in the dragonborn's mouth and anticipation in his words, thick enough to choke on. He whispers with the tongue of a snake, words dripping from the depravities he utters.

As mad as his sister, the shape-changer, Iraestra decides with disdain. The seed of Bhaal is truly cursed with madness, complete and true. It was preferable when he was barely acknowledging her presence despite demanding it in the first place.

"You have nothing that I desire." Were she younger, still a fool turned by a pretty face, she may have once allowed herself to be seduced by the offer. She ignores the answering hook of arousal low in her gut, focusing once more on the misshapen head on the pillow. Reminds herself of whose hands exactly have crushed it. There is much to do before she is ready for the grave. "Now, if you will allow me to get on with this, we may be each rid of the other before long."

“A pity that you deny yourself,” but he nods. “Perform your rites. Regretfully, I cannot linger for long.” 

Iraestra does not regret that. She is exhausted and enthralled by him in equal measure. Let this be the first and last time she suffers his company. 

She begins her prayer to the dead. 

[sabraeal]

a heart felled by you, held by you; Part 1

[Read on AO3]

Inspired by @onedivinemisfit's Lilias Charity Gala pieces; Annie had a strong idea coming into the challenge, and we had a lot of fun hashing through what we felt would most represent Northern vs Southern fashion, and academic vs noble fashion. We struggle bussed hard over some of the male looks, had some real experimental ideas for Haki's dress that Annie really made into something special...and then I realized I would not have enough time to even get to the gala portions of this fic. So this chapter is a bit of a prequel, with more to come later...

The message arrives via the traditional method: clutched in the woolly mitts of a street urchin, another paw already extended for payment. The university is rife with them, always milling about underfoot, loitering in the exact walkways one would most like to hurry through before students— or worse yet, other academics— could waylay them. It also contains the traditional summons, or rather, the traditional stay put.

A representative will be coming, it threatens in the usual, toothless way the board prefers, as if their approval means anything more than being saddled with more responsibility. Please make sure that you are in-office when we arrive.

It is Lata’s personal tradition to disappoint them. To imagine them arriving at his closed door, scowls furrowing deeper with each unanswered knock. Sometimes he can even hear his name being cursed on the wind as his cart rolls out the city gates, headed to quarries unknown. They might find him when he returns, twice as cross for having been made fools in front of the whole department, but at least they meet on his terms, not some…board of academics so close to titles he can nearly smell it in their stiff collars and even more starched opinions.

That is not, however, how it happens this year. Oh, he meant it too— he’d already been looking at likely quarries when Shidan shuffled into his office, wondering if he might pull the same disappearing act he had the past seven years running. Lata may have spent his nascent years at Wistal dodging the dire undercurrents of Kain’s court, but even without such a thorough education in ignoring the unspoken intentions behind spoken words, he would have heard the man’s insinuations loud and clear: stay, please, our funding might depend on it. Academics weren’t exactly known for their subtlety, and Shidan was among the least of them.

It’s not the sort of appeal that typically moves him. And yet somehow as the day grew closer, he found himself more interested in the edits on Shirayuki’s proposal than in locations of wunderock veins, pausing more often to correct the application of Suzu’s hammer than the supply lists he’d kept on his desk since last semester. For all that he hadn’t meant to stay, somehow he had, and by the time he realized it, it was far too late to do anything but wonder how much more the temperature would drop before the university would finally open the thermal vents. The whole place would smell of sulfur for a season, but at least it would be warm.

It helped, of course, that their representative came early. Two days, in fact; the knock landing on his door with an airy cadence, as if the knuckles did not so much rap on the panels but dance across them. He expected something more thunderous, to be honest; a declaration and a reckoning all in one. He'd almost be offended, if he wasn't hoping for some noodle-limbed pushover as his auditor.

“Come in,” he grunts before he can think better of it. If he’d kept his mouth shut, they might at least assume he was out to lunch, or had been dragged out to Shidan’s lab to clap over whatever little achievement they’d eked out of those plants of theirs, as if it had anything to do with him. But now they know he’s here, trapped behind the mountain of papers on his desk— that’s the problem with being a collaborator, all the paperwork— with no escape but out a second floor window. An attractive option for a much younger, more morally— and physically— flexible knight, but certainly not open to him.

He braces himself. There’s seven years worth of scolding coming, of classes he hasn’t properly bought himself out of and reviews he has yet to provide as ‘part of this academic community’, with only a thin oak door to separate him from it. Just a simple twist of a knob, and they’ll having him so thoroughly pinned he might as well be up on cork. Scholaris Forzenalis, it might say, elusive specimen found on university grounds. Never before caught.

So it confounds him when they knock again.

“Come in,” he says, louder this time, annoyance bleeding into the words. “What? Don’t they teach you how to open doors in this university? Or do you all just sit around, waiting for your assistants to—”

With all the delicacy of shears slicing through silk, his door slips open. Instantly, his teeth clack to a close.

“Forgive me.” Those pretty manners he once protested protect him now, hard-ingrained habit driving him to his feet where intelligence fails him. “My lady. If I had know you would be the one sent on board business, I would have, er…”

Been in another country entirely. But one does not say that to Haki Arleon, daughter to a duke, sister to the commander of the guard, mistress of Lilias in her own right— and most important, Clarines’ queen-to-be. At least, not if one would also like to continue to rely on the crown’s largess. At least two of his grants came backed by Clarines’ treasury, and Lata would like to keep it that way.

“Would you like something to drink?” He glances at the kettle perched on the sideboard, probably as cold as the cup quarantined to the corner of his desk. “I could call for something.”

“That’s quite all right.” The future queen does not sashay into the room the way her brideroom might— the way he did once, the single, unfortunate time Lata fell squarely into His Majesty’s interests— but peruses it, stepping through the stacks of specimens and pausing to read each tag. There is no urgency in how she meanders through the room, no destination; at one moment bending over a table to squint over a fine bit of shale, and the next detouring to the cabinets for a well-tumbled example of aventurine. It reminds him of the girl who used to be carried through these hallowed halls on her lord father’s shoulders, those same wide eyes peering through every case, curiosity so strong it nearly put her hair on end— only to hide the moment a scholar approached, burying herself in the safety of his neck.

But that is not the woman who smiles at him now, settling into the overstuffed chair across from him with all the ease of a bird alighting to a perch. Or at least, it hasn’t been, not for a long time. “Are you quite sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I believe I am supposed to ask you for your books,” she informs him, too sweet to put him at ease. “The ones with your expenditures for the last year, as well as your proposed budget for the next one.”

Lata grimaces. Her father had a grimmer countenance, to be sure, but that pretty smile of hers is twice as implacable. Disobey me at your own peril, it says, radiating the same ruthlessness as a desert sun. I love to see crows feast on the corpses of poor listeners.

“That is what I’m supposed to ask, at least.” He glances up at her, quizzical, hands half-wrapped around his accounts. “But what I wanted to talk to you about is the gala.”

“The—” his mouth barely knows how to wrap around the word— “gala?”

“The charity gala.” A Wisteria might raise one brow— mockingly, the way their kind preferred to communicate— but she raises both, surprise and invitation rolled into one. “The one the board hosts every year to help fund their more promising projects.”

The one he always skips, since if there is one thing he likes less than rubbing elbows with lords and ladies, it’s watching his esteemed colleagues parade themselves like débutantes before them, courting every eligible purse in the room in hopes one might open for them. “Ah,” he manages. “That gala.”

What that has to do with him, he can’t fathom, but—

“We would like this gala’s funds to go towards funding the further research of the Phostyrias.”

There’s nothing in his mouth, but Lata nearly chokes on it anyway. “Excuse me,” he rasps, clearing his throat. Last years contributions topped nearly three million dir before he stopped paying attention. Enough to keep Shidan’s little pet project in the black for the next three years. Five even, if he minds his expenditures. “That’s no mean gift, my lady.”

She hums, hands folding neatly over her lap. “The board has been quite impressed with the progress made in the last year.”

Or rather, the progress one particular scholar has made in impressing its importance on the local lords. If the rumor going around the commissary had even a grain of truth to it, this year’s guest list was nearly half again the length of the last, and every one of them would be wanting to put their name on that girl’s dance card. One can only hope His Majesty has invested a similar interest in her footwork, otherwise there might be quite the crush in the infirmary come morning.

“Although I am always happy to hear of my colleagues’ good fortune,” he lies, the pleasantries falling from his lips with all the ease of oil from butter. “I must admit I do not see why you have chosen to bring me the glad tidings. The phostyrias is, after all, Shidan’s project, not mine.”

“Ah, but you are a collaborator, are you not, professor?” One corner of her mouth hooks too slyly for the sweetness of her face. “As I understand it, your wunderocks are crucial to the formation of those phostyrias bulbs no small amount of Lilias scholars have been sent to plant along the North's roads. And as such, I imagine that a goodly portion of that money will be given to you.”

It’s the same mental arithmetic he’d been spooling through since that announcement dripped from her lips. He hadn’t hitched himself to Shidan’s wagon for the money; there hadn’t been any when that girl cornered him at His Majesty’s little fête, just the sort of pluck that showed promise-- which wouldn’t have interested him in the slightest if the little she-devil hadn’t twisted his arm. Or rather, let her knight do it. But now that there is— well, it’d all been fine and good to give some free pointers here and there, or let Shidan’s students run rampant through his laboratory, pillaging his specimens in the name of science, but now that he could be paid for his time…

Well, there’s some personal projects that could do with a little attention. A lot of attention, if that guest list proves as flush as one might hope. “I suppose that is the case. Still, I am not sure why you would bring the news to—?”

“There is a small problem with the gala.” There’s so much carrot in Lady Haki’s smile it can only hide a stick. “You see, it has always been my privilege to host the event at Wirant. Our staff has always been delighted to put in the sort of work it takes to make the night a great success. But this year, well…I’m afraid the ballroom is being renovated.”

No doubt to be just as resplendent as the one in Wistal. With the marriage between the North’s most darling daughter and Clarines’ king finally set, it would be the duty of the Arleons to throw the engagement celebration— and it wouldn’t do for these southern lords with their soft hands and snobby opinions to come up and find Wirant lacking. Half the collective North would fall on their swords before they’d allow it to be said that the royal palace threw a better wedding than they did an engagement.

“Most years, we might impose upon the university for the use of their function room, however—” her hands splay helplessly between them— “with the recent rash of guests who have replied to our invitation, it will hardly be large enough to hold them. So of course it falls upon us to find another location.”

“A pity. Perhaps one of your noble acquaintance would be willing to hold it, my lady.” They typically were, so long as they felt they would be appropriately compensated. And with the request coming from the Clarines’ next queen— well, there were few who wouldn’t clamor at the chance for her favor. “Preferably one who won’t have an interest in holding it over you once you become ‘Your Majesty.’”

“That is—” those wide eyes bat once, twice— “what I am hoping.”

 Lata blinks. “My lady, once again, I must ask, what does this have to do with…?”

All at once, it comes to him. Dreadfully, finally. “No! No. My lady, that’s hardly—” he coughs, trying to catch his breath and his thoughts—“That’s not my estate.”

“Ah, that’s strange, then,” she says, too innocent. “When I wrote to your lord father, the duke was of the impression it was under your care.”

His teeth grind hard enough he can hear the fissures forming. “My lord father…?”

“He was quite confused why I would inquire about its use of him when his heir was already in residence.” Her head tilts, resting on two of her slender fingers. “I thought it best not to mention that you had taken an apartment closer to the university.”

But she would, if he proved too troublesome. It’s clear in the way that mouth of hers hooks into a smirk, too like another in recent memory. “I haven’t been in that house in years— nearly a decade! The whole thing is little more than a moldering pile. And the ballroom— why, it’s probably in pieces by now.”

“Is that so?” she says in the precise tone that implies, it isn’t. “Your lord father told me that he just had laborers in last summer to repair the place top to bottom. ‘Not an original board in the place,’ I believe he said. Quite proud of it in fact.”

Lata smothers a grimace. There had been work done on the place; father insisted. A bachelor with a skeleton staff can’t be keeping the roof in order, the old man had huffed, just let a place in town and I’ll have the place tidy as the day it was built. He could hardly tell the stubborn old goat he hadn’t been using it in the first place. “I don’t keep staff.”

“I’ll lend you mine.” The answer’s too quick— she’d been expecting that one from the start. “As I said, they’re used to events of this scale. It’s the extra bodies that causes the most logistical problems for these sorts of things,” she admits reluctantly, “and this time of year, Wirant is full of them. They probably would jump at the idea of using a space that’s empty to start.”

His words curdle on his tongue, mouth pursing sourly around it. If Lady Haki is anything like her father, this whole conversation has been planned in advance, every reversal anticipated and its counter prepared. She came in here with him already well and thoroughly routed, he just hasn't seen the how of it yet.

“I wasn’t even planning on attending,” he grits out, more confession than caltrop. “That fool celebration is always on the solstice, and I can’t abide the costumes and the dancing and the kissing games—”

“Then we will have none.”

Lata raises a brow. “You think you can stop that crowd from having their fun? Stop them from causing mischief when they’ve been saving it up all year?”

“We remove the masquerade element,” she says, firm. “And the roka garlands. Without the garlands, kisses have meaning, and without the masks, they have consequences too. Which will be discouragement enough for most.”

That’s true enough; southern lords might revel in their rakishness, but those from northern stock valued tradition, reliability, wisdom. To be caught kissing the wrong woman at midnight would do more than scuttle a courtship or two— it could turn half the north against a man, leaving a house to flounder to make contracts, sending their interests south when their neighbors wouldn’t deal with a liar or an oathbreaker.

“And the dancing,” he grunts, warming to the topic. “I don’t want it. I’ve attended a hundred galas in my time, and never once has anyone truly cared to—“

“I afraid, my lord—” Lady Haki lays a quelling hand over his— “the dancing is a must.”

“But…” He glances down where her palm rests, the point of her nails resting next to the soft flesh of his wrist, the weight of it pinning him to the wood.

“Fine,” he sighs, settling back in his seat, flexing his hand to soothe the burn of it. “Dancing it is.”

*

There was no hour in which the Royal Pharmacy slept; even in the dead of night the back rooms buzzed, pharmacists weaving through every inch of the labyrinthine passages, droning on like bees in their hive. Each one of them would sigh in relief at the end of their shift, shedding their duties along with their coats, eager to slough off the hustle and bustle for a moment of silence. But after so many years of haunting empty halls, catching only shadows of the people he called his parents, Ryuu found the commotion comforting. At least, so long as he wasn't in the middle of it.

When sleep dragged at his edges, tugging at the end of his pen or bobbing the crown of his head, it wasn’t to his dormitory that he wandered. It might have been a kindness to the pharmacists with no place to go, a luxury to the apprentices who grew up sleeping three or more to a bed, but to him it had only been another empty room, a convenient closet to keep yet another body. There was no comfort to be found there, no warmth, just the cold, silent shell of solitude.

But beneath his desk— that had been just the right size. With his back pressed to the wall, he could feel the steady thrum of the palace’s heart, the regular bustle of its pulse beating right behind the plaster. Curtain drawn, it was dark as a womb, and when he closed his eyes, the warmth of his body trapped between wall and blanket, he could believe he was being carried by his mother still. A drowsing child separated from the world by only the thinnest membrane, always feeling, never understanding, but safe all the same.

It wasn’t until he had come here to the university, with its hallowed halls and its neatly kept hours, that he knew it could be different. That a place could be quiet without being lonely. That he could live without the membrane between him and world, and still hear himself think.

A heady discovery, for a boy not yet thirteen. Exhilarating. Terrifying.

He misses it, now.

“Oh my,” Shirayuki gasps, squeezed from the crush lingering outside the laboratory door. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crowd like that. Not in the university, at least. What is—?”

“The occasion?” Kazaha drawls, glaring up from his bench. “That would be Garrack Gazelt.”

“Garrack?” She follows the jut of his chin, but only so far as Ryuu, eyes rounding into a question. “Did she say she was going to…?”

“For the gala.” The very one he’s been dreading, now that Shidan’s informed him he’s old enough to attend. “The lab is being honored, and she’s come to—”

“Play plus one,” Suzu says, shouldering himself between them on the bench. “Shirayuki, do you think you could take over this distillation? It’s taking ages and I’m tired of—”

“Garrack Gazelt isn’t anyone’s plus one,” Kazaha huffs, nearly thunderous. “She’s the foremost expert on medical pharmaceuticals in the kingdom, if not the continent.”

“And Shidan asked her to go to this shindig, So she’s here.” Suzu shrugs a shoulder. “Plus one behavior, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

“That’s not—!”

“Really?” Shirayuki blinks, taking in the breathless crush. Scholars jostle each other, jockeying for their place in line, bony elbows taking the more determined further front. If they were wearing ball gowns instead of lab coats, Ryuu could have easily mistaken them for eager young ladies at their first soirée, ruthlessly trying to thrust themselves before the most eligible gentleman in the room. “All this for Garrack?”

“What’s that?” A cold breeze is all the warning they have before boots land on the sill, a disheveled uniform perched above them. “Don’t think the chief deserves the popularity?”

“I never said that,” she says primly, the smallest hint of a smile clinging to the corner of her mouth. “I just mean she’s more of a fixture here than she was a few years ago. You’d think the excitement might have banked by now. Just a bit.”

Suzu huffs. “Never underestimate the power of Head Pharmacist Gazelt. I shook her hand this morning, and I still haven’t—!”

“Wash it,” Ryuu tells him, wide eyed. “Now. Please.”

“Aw, but what if all the luck washes off?”

“You know how you always wonder why girls won’t give you the time of day?” Obi says, strained. “This is why.”

“But this many people?” Shirayuki murmurs, as if Suzu hadn’t spoken at all. “Who are all they, even?”

“Faculty.” Kazaha leans a hip against the bench, catching the crowd at a casual angle. “Students. More than a few fellows from neighboring labs. They’ve been coming in and out all morning with the worst excuses.”

“Oh, and your little not-really-a-question-more-a-comment was so clever?” Suzu snorts. “Maybe you should stop living in a snow house if you’re gonna throw ice like that.”

“I didn’t say—” Kazaha lets a breath hiss through his nose. “You’re just jealous that she said I had thought through the problem from every angle, while she only told you that yours was an interesting endeavor, which everyone knows means it’s stupid—”

Suzu’s close enough Ryuu feels him take a breath rather than hears it, rebuttal poised at the tip of his tongue— but the slam of the laboratory door startles it right out of him.

“There,” Shidan says, one hand still pressed to the paneling. “That’s enough of that.”

“Oh, come on now, it’s easier this way.” Garrack doesn’t so much perch on as prowl to his desk, improbably long legs stretching across the floor. “They’re not used to this sort of excitement. You gotta let them get it out.”

“You could get out,” he grumbles, ambling behind his desk. Ryuu doesn’t need to be as perceptive as Obi to know he doesn’t mean a word of it. “Then maybe they might find somewhere else to be.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” The scant few years he spent under her careful eye is more than enough to know the smart comment that smile hides, one that’s sure to slide right under Shidan’s skin and send him skittering for some science to hold before his temper can get the best of him, but—

But it all goes up like smoke when the door nearly bursts off its hinges, a bolus of black wool hurtling through.

“What is the meaning—?” Shidan’s teeth snap shut. “Professor, I didn’t expect you to—?”

“That woman!” Lata doesn’t so much rage as froth, pacing like a pot just before a boil. “Comes into my office, just to trap me in a corner. No! To flush me out of a my den, like a hound does a…a-- a fox would say she speaks out of both side of her face, that’s the sort of woman she is. And she came to me.”

“Ah.” Shidan leans back in his seat, hands folded over his belly. “I see her ladyship spoke to you about the charity gala.”

“Spoke? Strong-armed is more like!” Steam would be rising from him, if it could from a person. “Practically mentioned the thing in one breath, and then had me hosting it the next! As if I don’t have anything better to do than bring the glittering ton into my own home and let them pick over the place like locusts!”

“Host? You? In your poor excuse for a house?” Garrack raises a thick brow. “How are we all going to fit around the rocks?”

“Not my personal abode.” He scowls down at the chief pharmacist, clearly just have noticing her presence. “Her ladyship asked for access to the estate.”

“Your family’s estate?” Both brows hike to her hairline. “I thought you were disowned.”

“Dis—? You thought—?” Lata sputters, words rattling like a pot’s lid. “I went into academia, not— not gotten a girl in the family way!”

She lifts a shoulder at the precise angle meant to annoy. “Wouldn’t be the first noble boy to do both. Maybe you thought a book might shield you from a bad marriage as much as taking the cloth.”

He stares at her for a long moment, simmering, before turning back to Shidan. “In any case, the woman’s taken my whole household firmly in hand. Told me there’s to be dancing too, if you can believe it.”

It’s with practiced patience that Shidan manages a mild, “You don’t say.”

“Dancing?” Garrack drawls, arms folding across the stark white of her coat. “What next? Kissing at midnight?”

“No, none of that,” he huffs. “And none of those silly garlands either. It’s bad enough I have to suffer through the moon eyes children make during a reel, I hardly need them making worse decisions in an empty bedroom.”

“Or unlocked closet.” Her lips twitch, dangerous. “Or just a really nice, shadowed corner…”

Lata frowns, the sort that might be more forbidding if Garrack possessed the ability to be shamed. “If you’re quite done being a degenerate?”

One shoulder lifts, lazy. “Hardly.”

“In any case,” he huffs, putting his back to her— and Shidan square in his sights. “I suppose my one consolation is that I cannot be made to dance—”

“Lata!” The name bubbles out of her, escaping through the hand she claps over it. “You’re the host.”

“Yes?” His mouth pulls thin. “Oh, some will find it rude, I’m sure, but a man can’t be made to dance, not in his own home. Not even by that— that—”

For all that his mouth works, teeth biting around the start of syllables before abandoning them for the next, Ryuu finds he hardly needs words to understand what Lata is trying to convey. Not when his hands clench so eloquently before him, the way His Highness Zen’s does when Obi really has gone and done something unwise.

“No, I mean—” now it’s Garrack waving her hands, thought it seems she’s having a far better time than Lata is doing it— “it’s the host’s job to open the floor. So you’ve got to at least do it the once.”

His shoulders stiffen to an edifice even mountains would shy from. “I must do no such thing. If the host must open the floor, then everyone can spend the night with their heels firmly on the parquet. Why, who would even be my partner? There’s not a single woman in the whole of the continent that could compel me to—”

“'Not a single woman.' You poor bastard!” A guffaw tears out of Garrack, putting tears in her eyes. “Do you really not get it? Not only do you have to open the floor—” her voice burbles up to a pitch that blots out all Lata’s attempts at protest— “but you have to do it with the highest ranked woman in attendance!”

Lata stills. Blinks. Once, then twice. And with no fanfare at all, his whole face rumples up, twisted around a sneer. “Oh—!”

Whatever else the professor says is lost to him-- Shirayuki clamps her hands right over his ears, so hard it leaves them ringing. By the time he’s quite recovered— and Lata’s quite finished— the first thing he hears is Obi murmuring, “Well, Yuzuri’s not going to like this.”

*

“What do you mean there’s not going to be kissing?!” Izuru makes a good attempt to shush her, but Yuzuri refuses to be silenced on this, even if the whole commissary is staring at them. She even drops her utensils for good measure, fork and knife both, letting them clatter to the table in the growing lull. “I finally get invited to the most exclusive Solstice party in Wirant, and there won’t even be garlands?”

“It’s not in Wirant,” Kazaha adds, right at the same time Shirayuki offers, “It’s a charity gala, not a Solstice party.”

The both stop, sparing each other the briefest glance before Kazaha pedantically plows on, “I think the Forzeno estate is somewhere outside the main city. Before the checkpoint, at least, but not within the walls—“

“That’s not important,” she snaps, wishing she could take a pair of scissors and even out that terrible hack job he likes to give himself, as if a lack of skill and a proper mirror could pass for fashion. “It’s a charity gala on the solstice, which means it’s a Solstice party and there should be kissing.”

“We go to the university party every year and you find someone to kiss just fine,” Suzu comments around a mouthful of yams. “I don’t know why it matters so much that you can’t kiss someone there.”

It’s impossible to explain to him that she’s running out of boys to kiss— or at least, boys to kiss that aren’t Suzu. Which she can never do, because wanting to put her mouth on him is a new, debilitating mental illness she’d rather die than indulge. She just needs to go out and— and touch a little snow. Meet people who know that a quadrille is a dance, not some sort of…of duck species. Reintroduce herself into a dating pool where more of the mate selection know how to chew with their mouth shut.

“Because the university party is full of academics,” she settles on instead, as close to a confession as she can bear. “And this place will has a ton of guys— normal guys, who can talk about stuff other than…sediment layers and rhizomes and…and which side of the body your kidneys are supposed to be on.”

“They’re supposed to be on both sides,” Kazaha informs her with a concerned frown, just as Suzu adds around a swallow, “I thought you loved rhizomes.”

She does. That’s sort of the problem. “There’s going to be actual gentlemen at this party, with titles and money and good manners, and I’m not going to be able to kiss any of them! It’s demoralizing.”

“Well,” Obi hums, mouth already hooking into trouble. That what she like about him: he’s always ready to break the rules. Or at least scuff them up a little. “That’s only if you get caught.”

Shirayuki casts him one of her knowing looks, the kind that doesn’t say I know what you’re up to so much as I know you’re better than this. “If Lata isn’t comfortable with kissing, then you shouldn’t be thinking about sneaking around to do it.”

“Aw, Miss,” he sighs, fluttering his eyelashes; a poor way to hide the fondness in his eyes. “But sneaking around is the best part.”

“There’s going to be dancing,” Kazaha interjects, heading their frustrating not-flirting flirting off at the pass. “You can at least do that with your moneyed and mannered gentlemen. Aren’t there a half dozen novels you’ve read where romance blooms over a reel?”

“A waltz, usually.” Sometimes maybe even a schottische or a polka, if the heroine was more plucky than limpid. “And that’s still not the same as kissing.”

“Lata’s even opening the floor.” Suzu mulls the thought over as he picks at a roll. “Do you think he can dance?”

“Well, he is a lord,” Obi reminds him, loading up his fork. “Aren’t they born knowing how to cut a rug?”

“Well, sure.” His hair’s gotten longer in the colder months, the ends lingering down around his shoulders rather than up my his chin. Yuzuri hates how much she wants to run her fingers through it. “But I mean…he’s been holding up in his lab for years. He’s got to be rusty, right? Like if he breaks one of Lady Haki’s foot bones, is that going to come out of our—?”

“He did just fine when we danced,” Shirayuki adds with a pointed look. “That wasn’t so long ago.”

“Miss.” It’s more a laugh than her name, and Obi leans in, far too close for just friends. “Back then, anyone would have seemed like a master next to you. I think I still have bruises from that night.”

Pink chases up the column of her throat, settling right at the tips of her ears. By the way her eyes dart down before skittering away, Yuzuri doubts it’s from the teasing. “W-well, still. He hardly stepped on my feet.”

Obi’s grin goes sharp, wolfish, like she’s just a little frolicking lamb, and he’s hungry for lunch. “How could he when yours are always so quick on the draw?”

This is getting ridiculous. “I think we’re missing the most important part here,” Yuzuri reminds them, startling Obi back to a less ravenous distance. “Which is that there’s going to be no kissing! For anyone!”

“Wait, will I have to dance?” Suzu asks, worry slipping the last few syllables shrill. “I’ve never danced before. Not the real stuff. I don’t even know where to put my hands!”

“Maybe,” Kazaha drawls, angling himself toward her— and away from Suzu’s spiraling. “You could spend all that time you wanted to be swapping spit with rich boys and use it to kiss up to our donors instead.”

Yuzuri groans. “That is not the kind of kissing I want to do.”

His mouth twitches, threatening amusement. “But it is a kind of kissing.”

“Obi.” Suzu grabs his sleeve over the sweet potatoes. “You gotta teach me how to dance.”

Kazaha sighs, shaking his head. “Great. And now the blind are leading the blind.”

[maddy-ferguson]

talking to new people again is making me realize that (this is gonna sound dramatic) i haven't lived in five years but what i have done is watch a lot of movies and read a bunch of books and believe it or not that actually makes me an interesting conversationalist in some ways (?)

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

WIP Title Game

I was tagged by @riotstarruika!

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

(I had to censor the one because it's such a specific ship that when it gets anonymously posted for an exchange in a couple of days I don't want everyone to immediately know it's me.)

Tagging @saintmouthed @akallabeth-joie @opens-up-4-nobody @fremedon @everyonewasabird and @riotstarruika again, since it's been so long that you probably have entirely new WIPs by now. XD

[holysugu]

“maybe in another life.” with getou