#Shards of Infinity

[madcat-world]

Keeper of the Datic Vessels: Shards of Infinity - Aaron Nakahara

[cobaltplasma]

Keeper of the Datic Vessels – Shards of Infinity: Saga Collection

card art I did for Stone Blade Entertainment's card game. I always forget that they've published a few of these projects I've worked on so I can publicly post up the work I've done hehe.

[whovian223]

December 2024 Gaming

December 2024 Gaming @capstone-games.bsky.social @gmtgames.bsky.social @eaglegryphon.bsky.social

There was no way December was going to top November, what with Bottoscon and all. But I did want to get a good variety of games in, and I think I did a pretty good job with that! December was a weird month, though. Between vacations and work activities (including our holiday lunch that ended up being at the same restaurant where we do our Sunday gaming), there wasn’t a lot of work gaming. Only…

[cynicatalyst]

Bolith isn’t a dressy kind of gal, but I’ve been playing too much Infinity Nikki I can’t help it. I NEEDED to draw the evolved dreaming glimmer dress on her.

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Shards of Infinity: Saga Collection - Keeper of the Datic Vessels by Aaron Nakahara

[this-side-of-paradisee]

help i forgot how fun it is to draw ponies also the thing Lloyds arm is Skurd from Ben 10

[aresgodofwar23]

[rainbowgod666]

Being the harbinger of doom of your universe doesnt mean you can ignore your wo- ah shit he cant hear me

Deku's first day on the job is going great

[reignpage]

The Other Woman

Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3

The doctors and psychologists said it’d be great for your husband’s well-being to be with friends and family. And for the most part, that’s proven true. 

Insisting on welcoming Satoru back properly, his students organised a party and invited anyone who had a remote connection with their teacher. Even Nanami had taken time off from work to be here and had given a polite pat on his shoulder and a genuine greeting. 

That brought a huge smile to the white-haired man who pounced on the poor guy without remorse, giggling about how he knew he ‘always liked him really’. It felt great to watch him be surrounded by and showered with so much love and support, the kind he deserves; you could tell it was bringing life back to him. After all, it must have been painful for him to have been cooped up in the house trying to reconcile his new reality with the one he remembers. 

You keep reminding yourself of that. 

Satoru needs this. 

He needs normalcy. The normal he remembers, the normal he went to sleep thinking about and not the one he had suddenly woken up to, years passing him by. 

Everyone knows this. He knows this. Just as you do. 

So why is every person in the party sneaking you pitying and concerned glances?

Sure, no one could possibly think this is easy for you, to be the stranger that Satoru still gets surprised to see in the morning. The one he hesitates to say goodnight to, unsure of the boundaries, the etiquette, the right thing to do. He sometimes forgets to text you if he’s going out, shocked and annoyed, you’re sure, to see the many missed calls and messages from you. And you know he studies the picture frames all over your house like a textbook that would give him all the answer he needs.

All he gets, you’re willing to bet, is the realisation that you’re both the tether he needs to keep grounded, that guides him through the sea of memories he cannot touch, and the leash that binds him to a role he doesn’t remember signing up for. 

Are they looking at you with worry because of the inevitable toll this sudden shift has taken on your mental health or because your husband is talking to his ex-girlfriend the way he used to talk to you?

It can’t be the latter, right?

Because there’s nothing to be worried about. 

Satoru is simply catching up, trying to stitch up the crater-sized hole in his memory with a familiar face. There’s no reason for your hand to shake as you sip your drink or for your eyes to keep darting back over to them, sat alone at a table like they’re the only people in here. 

He’s laughing, throwing his head back and making that obnoxious cackle you love to hear. Loved. Because this one isn’t for you. It’s for her. The woman he shouldn’t be near, the woman he shouldn’t even think about, shouldn’t let touch his arm. 

You’re the wife. 

You’ve got the ring to prove it. 

He’s wearing it. Just not on the hand attached to the arm strung over the back of her chair like he’s protecting her from the rest of the world. Hell, maybe he is. Maybe his infinity is on and covering her. But you don’t have it in you to throw something at them to find out. Either result would be just as humiliating as the other. 

There’s nothing to be done. 

You can’t interrupt. 

Because Satoru needs to know what he said goodbye to all those years ago to know what he says ‘hey, pretty lady’ and ‘good morning, gorgeous’ to now. Or used to say. Now, you’re lucky if he even looks at you without shuffling his feet. 

Eventually, the night draws to its natural end. 

People bid their farewells twice, once to him and her, and then to you. Each time breaks your heart even more until you feel it crumble inside, little shards falling to pieces he won’t pick up. She stands before you, a small, shy smile, like she knows what she’s done. And says it’s ‘lovely to meet you’, and of course you can’t say it back. 

Not when you had been introduced by your name, ‘my beautiful wife’ going nowhere near the tip of his tongue as if those words had never been uttered by your husband. And not when she had been introduced in a hastily withdrawn, stuttered freudian slip of hell. 

“This is my girlfr— Sorry, I mean, my friend. From high school. Yeah, high school.”

Satoru blushes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he waves goodbye to her. And you can tell he finds the act lacklustre, an uninspired, unnatural way to say goodbye to the woman you woke up to and slept beside. 

“Did you have a good time?”

He nods, a soft smile playing on his lip as he casts his gaze across the room, sweeping by the empty hall like he can still see every single person that came. “It was nice to see everyone and catch up.”

You’re thankful he doesn’t ask if you enjoyed the evening because you can’t lie to him but you also can’t tell the truth, can’t burden him anymore with the reminder that he doesn’t fill the shoes of your husband, that he continues to stumble with every step, dragging you down with him. 

So, instead, you fill the silence with a question that is so harmless, so normal it slips out before you can even think to anticipate the devastating crack that goes through your very soul. 

“Ready to go home?”

Satoru nods.

But he’s looking at a seat in the back. 

A seat that’s probably still warm. A seat you could never fill because you aren’t the woman he thought, hoped, he would marry. 

You’re just the woman he did. 

[hexefreya]

I have spent some time trying to neatly wrap all the facts and details together in a satisfying conclusion, alas, time loop storylines are anything but neat...

Mage Viktor sent Ekko and Heimerdinger to alternate reality 2-7, and it's my conviction it was intentional down to the fact that Heimerdinger was transported three years into the past. And that is why the time loop he created is not actually a circle, it's an 8 (infinity) - two dimensions intertwined, as hinted by the imagery in the show. This way the only way his plan was going to work.

What we can confidently state is that Mage Viktor, who is inextricably tied to Hexcore, can manipulate it and has power over the spacetime continuum, at least to some extent through the anomaly. And he is going through the painstaking process of figuring out how to successfully untangle the paradox of Hexcore, at the heart of which are Viktor and Jayce. There is no way of knowing how long it took him to realize that willingly erasing himself from existence is the only way it can be done, but it is my opinion that once he was set on this mission, he was very methodical about it and catalogued everything during all the countless timelines and possibilities.

In the alternate reality 2-7 hextech was never developed and this is why this dimension was the one they were sent to - no Hexcore and no Viktor, who could intervene in creating Ekko's time device. But this reality was still touched by Hexcore - Jayce wouldn't even have been alive otherwise - Mage Viktor did save him as a child from the snowstorm. Without adult Jayce the explosion in his apartment, that killed at least one confirmed person (Vi), wouldn't have happened.

But damage is done. And here is where Heimerdinger comes into play to navigate through this turbulent period.

First and foremost he is the Head of the Council at that time, has detailed memory of how badly everything went wrong with Hextech in his own reality and even more importantly - he already spent enough time living in Zaun to understand the errors of Piltover's way in regards to the Undercity. By the time Ekko lands in this alternate reality three years after, Piltover and Zaun are obviously cooperating to the point where everything seems almost idyllic, and I think it's majorly due to the Heimerdinger's guiding hand in immediately destroying anything left from Jayce's research and targeted decisions and careful politics in uniting Piltover and Zaun after the explosion accident (like negotiating with Silco, preventing the first use of Shimmer, etc).

Viktor is incredibly complex, same as his motives. I believe that through everything he was still faithful to his and Jayce's shared dream and passion - help people, do good, make the world a better place with hextech. By sending Heimerdinger in reality 2-7, Viktor made sure hextech is never developed and the city is prospering, thus indirectly using hextech to change the world for the better, honoring best of his and Jayce's ambitions. There was no other reason for Heimerdinger to be sent back in time, he and Ekko would be able to recreate the anomaly with the remaining crystal shards regardless and his main plan would still work. But this way the city is finally prospering, Zaun is thriving!

With Ekko extracting the very last remaining crystal shards, Viktor made sure that this dimension is eradicated of all traces of Hextech. And by taking Ekko back to his own reality, armed with the anomaly (intended to reach Viktor and negate the anomaly in his timeline), Viktor forever closed the linked loop, initially created by him in the first place.

And since we've established Viktor wields the power to send people both ways through time (as demonstrated on Jayce and Heimerdinger), it's easy to assume he could transport Ekko back to his own reality into any specific timeframe he wished, for instance, way sooner than Viktor became the Machine Herald and the situation was escalated beyond reason. Which only circles back to my original take, that EVERYTHING was Viktor's meticulous plan how to erase hextech and to do the most good in the process.

To this I can only add my belief, that Mage Viktor was willing to condemn himself to unbearable pain - Jayce mercilessly trying to kill him without sparing a word (twice) - to create a better outcome in the aftermath of his and Hexcore destruction. And I think he was strongly motivated not only by the greater good, but by ensuring Jayce's survival.

I believe it caused him much distress to bear witness how the only hextech free reality comes from Jayce's demise. I'm sure he was essentially at peace as to what must transpire to himself, but to believe that the "perfect" world is the one where Jayce doesn't exist? He wouldn't do that to his own Jayce. He lost him once, not again. For him Viktor will carve out the world if he has to.

Mage Viktor didn't have a shadow of the doubt that even after these betrayals and horrific transformations Viktor's love for Jayce was as strong as ever. He was confident that Viktor, being reminded of it and thus freed from Hexcore influence, wouldn't even hesitate to destroy himself in order to save Jayce ("You must go, Jayce") and the only world, where Jayce can even exist! Even if it meant that Jayce would hate Viktor afterwards.

It is obvious that our Viktor never even entertained the possibility of his feelings being reciprocated. The sheer disbelief and awe in his eyes, when he dares to believe that he is seen and loved.

Who knew, that Jayce loved Viktor more than life itself? More than the world Viktor was trying so hard to save him for. Did Mage Viktor? Did he realize the futility of all his efforts in trying to save him, when he looked in Jayce's eyes and saw love reflected there? I think so..

[sakkiichi]

HERE COMES THE SUN.

They comfort you while you’re having a difficult time.

ft. Childe, Lyney, Albedo, Shikanoin Heizou x gn! reader.

cw/genre: hurt/comfort.

for my dear @https-furina I know you’ve been going through trying times lately, so I hope this can comfort you a little <3 I also struggled a lot with Heizou’s part, so I apologize if it’s no good at all…

if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !

✧ CHILDE

Linen sheets feel like ropes on raw skin against the morning chill.

Its warm cream color, ashen, nothing like the mirror sunrises you were used to witnessing right after you opened your eyes.

What’s the point in opening them anymore? You wonder.

You bury your face against the pillows. In any other occasion, you would have been grateful for the coolness of its silk.

Now it’s just an iceberg. Like a missing shard of your shallow beating heart.

“Someone’s sleepy today.” A familiarly perky voice greets, the mattress dipping slightly with new weight.

You rolling in the other direction is all the greeting that meets him.

“Hey, love! It’s time to wake up!” Childe chuckles, his hand gently shaking your body.

Yet something already tells him this is not right; you usually would have already shoved him away by now.

But today you’re just… unresponsive…

The dull oceans of his stare rise in dangerous waves at your state.

Hesitant, he calls your name, his tone more like a question.

And this time, he does get an answer.

Familiar arms he adores wrapped around him loop around his middle, your face burying against his chest.

You’re warm, yet you feel so… faraway… as if the pain of past memories was seeping out your light.

Ajax is no stranger to the despair palpable in your strong grip around him, he’s endured it himself, through years robbed of him by an abyss that turned him into a master of all weapons.

So because he’s known the cold of endless nights where all he had was a tattered red scarf to remember the warmth of a distant home, he now holds you.

And for someone whose hands were tainted in the filth and bloodshed of a lifetime of slaughter, Ajax is undeniably gentle.

His fingertips ghost over your skin, easing the burning anguish of bed covers that felt too rough, too suffocating, too wrong.

When your lover’s hands get lost in your hair, combing it, you swear sun rays filter through the deep sea you’re falling through.

And then, suddenly, the choice to swim upwards presents before you, scarred sun-kissed hands extended towards you.

You take them.

When you open your eyes, russet sunsets and constellations over your beloved’s skin greet you.

His lips find yours, a bit chapped but gentle; not his usual playfulness, but soothing aquamarine waves.

You swear Childe’s kiss tastes salty. And that’s when you realize the dry tear-tracks down your cheeks.

He made them dry, sunlight evaporating puddles after grey days.

You break the surface, the waters now turquoise beneath Ajax’s light.

He won’t let you sink again.

✧ LYNEY

A whole audience’s cheers fill the Opera Epiclese. Lights shine upon every smiling face, every vigourous clap of hands after the magician’s grand finale echoing through the theater.

However, the illusionist’s gaze of amethyst is focused on the sole grim expression amongst millions of joyous others.

Yours.

Your hands move, clapping together, as if automated; your eyes stare at everything, seeing nothing; your mouth is a taut line, your lips devoid of their usual vibrant tint.

Lyney doesn’t like that being his last memory before the curtain closes.

When you step out of the Opera House, an infinity of starfields is abloom across the crepuscular skies.

What a mockery; a cruel jinx on display, for you to see the unfulfilled sparks dimming inside your heart.

A sigh escapes your dry lips, a small cloud forming when it meets the late night chill.

“You’ll catch a cold there, mon coeur,” Someone you know, tricks and all, utters behind you.

Welcome warmth tinted in lavender envelops you the instant your eyes meet the magician’s starry ones.

A small smile tugs at your lips, the curse of melancholy still clinging to you through it.

“Lyney…” You start. The twilit breeze picks up around you, your arms instinctively wrapping around yourself for some semblance of a warmth you haven’t felt in days.

“That won’t do, ma chérie.” Your lover chuckles.

Then, with a wave of his hand, a piece of the night sky itself seems to become tangible in his grasp.

“Here,” he offers, draping it over your shoulders.

Upon closer inspection, you realize it’s a shawl; the cloth feels delicate to the touch, quite fine too, and yet, you feel the warmth of a thousand suns. If you had to describe its color you would come up empty. Silver glitter seems to be embedded in the fabric, but at the same time, it looks like multiple tiny lights had been stitched to the material. You suppose you’d call the hue, dark; a myriad of indigoes merge into violets, threaded together with navies and cobalts. And yet, when you move it, the colors seem to shift, almost like the clouds drifting across this midnight.

“I take it you liked it.” Lyney smiles, softer than his usual cheshire-like grins, when he observes your wonderstruck features.

“Very…” You muse, awestruck at the magical silk.

“It’s a châle de ciel,” your beloved explains, “It will change depending on the state of the sky at each time of day.” He pauses, eyes, the color of lumidouce bells and rainbow rose petals merged, glinting as he admires how the garment fits you. “But I can guarantee,” your illusionist steps closer to you, plucking something out of your hair. “That it will always keep you comfortable… warm or cool, whatever you need.” He finishes, handing you a pluie lotus.

You take a few seconds to appreciate the second gift of the night. The flower’s petals are the same color as Lyney’s eyes, yet not as vivacious.

“Shall we go, mon amour?” Your boyfriend inquires, already offering your arm to him.

Together, you leave the opera house behind.

You hope for light blues on your new cape tomorrow morning. And somehow, you know that’s what you’ll find.

You squeeze Lyney’s arm gently. The sun will rise soon.

✧ ALBEDO

When he sets foot on his camp in Dragonspine, Albedo finds the heater already on.

Strange.

The sun hasn’t even quite awoken yet, the snowy peaks outlined against skies still clinging to dreamless cloudy nights; shards of ice, embedded in the softness of dawn clouds. An accurate representation of the region of freedom’s snowy mountains: menacingly beautiful, brimming with lethal charm, for one step in the wrong direction, and the cold might as well consume you for good.

At this hour, no one was ever already working at his lab, making of these moments calm sunrise-tinted memories in the alchemist’s mind, before the day’s hustle and bustle began.

However, today, the running heater is not the only out of the ordinary salutation to greet the chalk prince.

The acute sounds of clicking vials, books being rearranged and crunching snow are confirmation enough that he is, indeed, not alone.

With silent steps, Albedo advances, keeping one hand hovering over his trusty sword. Then, he finally lays eyes upon the cause for the commotion, and despite the lack of danger, the sight doesn’t calm him any better.

“My dearest?” He calls. The instant your gaze meets his, your condition scares him more than any bandits ransacking his research material. Your hair is messy, falling on your face; dark circles are etched beneath your lower lashline, darkness clinging to you like remnants of turbulent nights; and you’re shivering, whether from the cold or because you’re distempered he can’t quite discern, although it’s most likely due to both.

“Hello, ‘Bedo…” You mutter, the flesh of your lips bitten, flecks of Dragonspine’s freeze coating them, the cold lacing with your bones, chilling you to the core. Your eyes widen when you notice your lover’s teal gaze scrutinizing you. You quickly busy yourself with classifying some potions, by color and texture, whatever takes the longest for him not to worry about your less than ideal condition.

However, perhaps you underestimated his attention to detail; for he has a skilled artist, after all.

“My love, are you feeling alright?” He questions, gloved hands gently taking the crystal vial-filled wooden box you were carrying off your trembling hold.

And in that instant, you don’t know if it’s the warmth of your prince’s hands on yours; or the comfort of his voice, like honey on bitter tea, but you find yourself taking a deep breath, the fresh air of a midwinter’s sunrise filling your lungs.

And then you talk. You spill every worry and bad dream, your shadows opening up to the gilded starlight of him.

And through it all, the alchemist’s hands warm yours, fingers interlocked, very much in the way your souls are undeniably so too.

Because no matter how daunting the river seemed when you faced it alone, when you were with Albedo, its typhoons calmed down, stone bridges and his outstretched hand painting safety and comfort in hues of gold before your eyes.

While the kreideprinz grounds you, the sun reaches its peak, a canvas of aureate and cornflower blue grazing the mountaintops.

You would be okay.

✧ SHIKANOIN HEIZOU

Emerald eyes read through you as if you were made of clear glass.

The way you worry your lower lip between your teeth; your fingers almost going white at the knuckles as you clutch a pencil, its wood creaking in your grip; and the general absentminded state you’re in, papers scattered over your desk, several case files stacked in disarray.

Something is clearly weighting on your mind.

“I think a break’s in order, wouldn't you agree, sweetheart?” Heizou suggests, standing up, those striking eyes of his fixed on you.

The detective’s voice is enough to stop the quickening clock ticking in your mind, regrets and dark spirals momentarily coming to a halt.

When you rise your furrowed brow, shades of maroon and viridian flood your sight, vivid as summer and warming your up just as much.

Nodding, you stand up too, limbs feeling heavy despite the comfort of your lover beside you.

The brown shades of your office turn into blue skies and soft pink sakuras not long after, the scented tree branches swaying above you, like fragments of dreams someone had given up on, waiting to be picked up by another soul who dared to imagine.

Your back rests against your lover’s lean but strong torso, the sweet smelling breeze combing through your hair, as Heizou’s chin rests on your shoulder.

“So will you tell me what’s wrong, darling?” Are the words of his that break the birdsong-filled calm.

A pang settles on your chest, you didn’t want to take away that cheeky grin that most of the time decorated his quick-witted lips.

“I…” You hesitate. “Well, it’s- it’s complicated, Heizou…” Your lids flutter closed, a shaky breath raking through you, as you turn around in his embrace, your hands bracing on his shoulders. “I don’t want to bring the mood down, you know…”

The detective places a thumb on your lower lip, smoothing over the bite marks you left there earlier.

“You never, ever, bring the mood down, dear. Never.” He leans in, brushing a soft kiss over your forehead. “My intuition told me right away there was something up.” He takes a stray cherry blossom petal from your hair. “So, why don’t we take the rest of the day off, love?” Your partner proposes, as he takes your chin in between his fingers, mischief flashing in his features.

And perhaps your lover’s smile was more infectious than you had ever given it credit for; and maybe the way he flashes his green eyes at you has your heart trembling in ways that have nothing to do with the fear and guilt you’ve been festering, but you find yourself retorting back, with a grin of your own:

“Don’t you have cases to solve, detective Shikanoin?”

This time, he takes a full sakura flower, delicately placing it behind your ear.

“I have something more important to solve right here…” He smirks, cheekily, as he admires your now flustered expression.

When you lean the side of your head against his chest, he cradles it with one of his hands, the other playing with the ends of your hair.

It would be unfair, if gloom were to take your soul captive when spring seems to linger through Inazuma’s breeze.

With a last look at you, the detective’s maroon lashes flutter closed too. He hopes, at least for today, he managed to protect precious you from the crimes of cruel sorrow.

He leans his head on top of yours.

The case is solved.

[rel124c41]

MONKEY BITE. floyd leech

SWEET CREAM, WET DREAM. floyd leech

DEJA VU. floyd leech

MONKEY BITE. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: cheesecake (arranged marriage AU) with fresh fruit compute (hurt/comfort)

“Hey, why the long face?” You pass him one of the two — a new matching couple set — wine glasses that you received from the bridal registry. “C’mon, you knew it wasn’t going to be you.”

Floyd stays numbly silent. His suit is in disarray as usual. Tie like a boa around his neck and nostril blood speckled on his cuffs like sequins. Though, he does take the wine glass full of whiskey from you, so you suppose that is a small victory in the war that just happened in the reception hall. Making yourself comfortable, you sit down next to him, cupping your dress backside as you go down. 

“Aah,” you sigh, relieved to stop carrying your weight on taut, squeezing heels. Chin up, you observe the open ocean stretched out before the two of you. 

Floyd simply slumps deeper into the palm he is resting his cheek on. He is all languid tonight. His human limbs are loose like his skin has been stretched like baking dough. Acting like collapsing, dead weight, he simply tilts his wine glass more towards himself because he had accidentally let it drip on the cobblestone in his weak hold. All his fight is extinguished just like that? It’s only appropriate, you suppose.

Sipping your whiskey, you congratulate yourself on how well versed you’ve become in human limbs. A month ago, you would have broken an ankle in heels — honestly, more like stilettos! — like these. 

But, watching the unfurling waves that bounce back and forth under a pitch black sky, you think you would have preferred a childhood-dreamed wedding, with all your traditions, the pearl necklaces and the safety blanket of home. That one was probably one of the easiest sacrifices of a hundred that you have made in just one itty bitty month. A wave hits the sand hard and you take another gulp of whiskey. 

“He doesn’t love you.” 

Aren’t you at least going to look at me while talking? Turning back to the ocean, which Floyd is intently staring at, you reply, “Don’t be ridiculous. He has no obligation to love me.”

“‘To love and to cherish’. It’s right there in the vows.”

“You know those are nothing more than words to the both of us. Something that could happen, probably never will.” Still not looking at you, jeez. He had no problem staring at during the entire ordeal and now he wants to avoid eye contact. “Besides, what good is love?”

Love has yet to do you any favors. For infinity, it has been a leash on your person, and now after tying the compressive knot of a loveless marriage, you can be free of the loathsome tick of love. At that moment, you clink your wedding ring against your glass and gulp down a sphere of whiskey. 

“What about the love between us? Wasn’t that good?”

There it is; the pith of this. The central essence of why Floyd crawled over your husband’s stunned body like a starved predator and used his hand like a mechanical piston to hit, hit, hit until your husband’s nose bent into a curved sausage of red. He acted so raptorial when tearing apart your groom because there was love between the two of you. 

“No.” You finish the remaining whiskey quickly. With your thumb, you cover up the golden swirls that write out an eyesore word, Mrs., on your cup. “It was just teen romance. Fun but nothing of substance.”

Floyd throws his wine glass on the cobblestone. It is reminiscent of how violently he attacked early; his languid arm zaps into life and suddenly there are shards of glass spreading like an arching rainbow in front of your and Floyd’s expensive footwear. The gold, swirling Mr. is ineligible in the shining shambles. Back to silent it seems; he covers his mouth with both his hands and leans low into his hunch, groaning deeply like you shot him.

Waste of good moonshine. Fast-acting alcohol puppets your tongue. “Face it, Floyd. It was never going to work between us. I’m sophisticated, Floyd. You’re nothing but a brute. You eat fish raw off the bone; I dined on cooked surface food. I’m refined and you’re a slob. I live life in first class. You’re riding the coach. We weren’t gonna last.” 

Dating an eel-mer as a mermaid had to be one love’s tightest leash on you. It was never going to work. Differences between the two of you were too stark to ever blend together. When you intertwined hands, you could feel the corporal proof of how incompatible both of you were — the softness of neatly trimmed nails and delicate fingers held in the callousness of talons and dense, compact flesh.  

It had been a quaint experience but nothing of substance. 

Basking in the aftermath of your lies, you smile happily of how self-assured your speech sounded and how it sure swayed Floyd’s opinion. Positive that you had painted a convincing picture, you turn to find Floyd’s eyes on you. 

(It’s so unusual to see him with peach-toned skin. It will help that this will be the last face of his you will see; it would hurt more to depart viewing his original face.)

“Then why ya cryin’?”

“Crying?” That must be some human expression that you are not yet familiarized with. “I don’t think I’m doing that.”

He points to his own — there are little snakes of red in the whites of his — and declares, “you’re cryin’ and leakin’ up a rainstorm.” You touch your dry face. “Hah, made you check.”

You huff, humorless. Typical Floyd. He used to pull a trick similar to that when both of you were growing toddlers. That’s all over now. You swirl an empty glass and watch one droplet spin at the bottom. 

“You’re gonna be miserable.”

“Yeah, I am.” Smiling, you raise your Mrs. — absent and incomplete with it’s broken Mr. —  and say, “That’s why I got this sweetheart. I’ll be less miserable with her.” 

You two sit in silence after that declaration. Reality sets in like a bruise. The fast-paced alcoholic talks are done and the fast-paced sober fights are finished. Simultaneously, the both of you look at your childhood home extended out in cobalt pulses. What a beauty the ocean is from the surface; a blue, shriveled heart that bleeds and bleeds.

“Your … that guy, knows nothin’ about merfolk tradition.” You turn, intrigued, but Floyd is still watching the waves of childhood. “He didn’t get you a single courtin’ gift, so I can tell he’s dumb as a stone boat. Ya don’t got a single necklace on you. Your parents know nothing about the surface. Not zilch. They rarely travel up here, so …”

So? You wait as Floyd turns towards you. “So, we can make an excuse for this. Say ya got bit by some other animal.” Your blue heart beats like a blitzkrieg bongo as Floyd trails a finger diagonally along your neck before grasping the middle between your left cleavage and left shoulder. He lingers there, warmth shared by your combined flesh.

When he leans in, palm pressing in the white petals of your bridal dress, you figure out his intent quite quickly. A good girl would protest. I’m married! I just got married today, for Seven sake! You don’t think those thoughts as you lean, exposing more of your neck to Floyd. As his breath warms your shoulder, you put in one last joke for old time sake, “The mosquitos are huge this time of year.” 

“Haven’t ya heard? The zoo let some rabid monkeys out and they’re on the loose.”

You giggle, for the first time in twenty-four hours, and look towards the ocean as Floyd bites in, scarring you with love, in the form of two puncture holes in your neck.

SWEET CREAM AND WET DREAM. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: marble cake (NRC) with citrus glaze (smut) and edible flowers (fluff)

You are sitting on your boyfriend’s lap, staring down an erect penis. Salivating.

This has to be the beginning of a work by Shakespeare. Written in his own blood – something primitively disgusting and erotic. Yet, it is a labor of the body which is why the pen is inked with genuine, honest sanguine. Taken from a wrist or a chest.

Or, you could just be very pulled by hunger. Your first sight of a penis makes your stomach rumble, starved. 

Go with the more artistic one, you decide just as large hands rest upon your hips, pulling you backwards. 

But, Shakespeare interrupts, this did not start with you sitting nude on your boyfriend’s stomach, sizing up the dimensions and shape of what you desired more than anything to put in your mouth. It started with –

Turn off the stove. I haven’t seen ya all summer, Shrimpyyy.

From Ramschakle’s renovated cooking station, courtesy of long hours at Mostro Lounge, you glance away from the stove. The aroma is magnetizing and thick. Sizzling pops are musical like siren calls. You cannot comprehend why he wants you to turn it off. Before your eyes, Floyd leans against the countertop, chin set on top of crossed arms. Boyish and in love with you, he stares back with half-lidded, amorous intent. 

The toothpick in your mouth makes a question quirk up because – why would I turn off the stove when dinner isn't close to being ready? 

Haven’t got to taste ya all summer long either. 

Something moves within your viscera like a giant, slithering tapeworm. It is a scarlet warmth. 

It is a quick melange of sounds that add together like ingredients. Faint click of the stove, switched off. Harsh hit of hip-bone on countertop. Rustling thump as a freshly untied apron collides with ground. It is all overwhelmed by the groan Floyd lets out as you two collide at the kitchen island. Your toothpick is still in your mouth, held messily on the junction of your mouth’s right side, pressing and hurting the skin.

You cannot kiss with your tongue around the pick. So, Floyd takes the outward point in his fingers and draws it through your lips like unlocking a zipper. Obedient, your mouth falls open with his ministrations. 

He places the toothpick on the bed of your tobacco-flavored tongue. His golden eye stares at your dangling uvula. 

Say aaaah. 

His intentions are: silly.

Aaaah. 

Your intentions are: serious. 

Fluid and lubricious as cooking oil, you two kiss. Floyd throws the toothpick away, not caring where it ends up in your house. Then, after shedding more of your clothes, you two end up here on the plate of your mattress. 

It is a really pretty cock. 

Standing before you in full attention, the weight of it in your curious hand sends a small shiver down your spine … and sends a large shiver down Floyd’s as you watch the muscle in his thighs tighten up. There is a slight right taper to it. Holding it at the base, you stare down at the bulbous head that almost arrows itself up towards your mouth. The anticipation and speculation of your boyfriend’s cock’s flavor profile leaves a sweet metaphorical taste of your tongue. Guessing is as fun as knowing. 

Thrill numbs out a majority of your nerves. You feel like one, big, blue-white neuron. Though you can section out the feeling of your abdomen clenching hard when you feel Floyd move your knees so they are settled by his head rather than below his armpits. 

Salvia is so thick in your mouth it feels like a second tongue. At least you know you will have enough natural lubricant. 

Just as you open your mouth, lips glistening from previous kisses, a tongue oscillates down the center of your sex. And, deterring from your original goal, caught off guard, you moan brokenly with a sharp gasp. That’s what a tongue feels like? Oh OH — you are going to devour Floyd whole.

Two hands curl up around your hips, fingers digging on the bottom hook of each designated asscheek, palms squeezing flesh. Just as his tongue departs from the midline’s end at your anus, Floyd dives just back into your wet center and attempts to suction up all your slick like his tongue is a napkin.

You would almost feel bad about your knee-jerk reaction if it didn’t immediately speed up Floyd’s tongue. Caught off guard, still in the middle of your sharp gasp, your body unconsciously pushes itself back as far as it can, suffocating Floyd. Chasing indulgence and never pulling away from it. You pin him firm between the mattress and your pussy.

Quickly, you go to lift up. That motion is snuffed when Floyd’s fingers tighten on your ass and pulls you down harshly. “Flo- ah — Floyd, you don't have to. Mmh … Oh my god … !!”

Biting your own lip, you think you feel the letters of stay grumbled into your lower lips. 

Even though it sends an earthquake through the miles of your intestines, it does not distract you from your intent. You are not the only one starving. Teeth from a wrist bracelet made long ago, ivory-speckled-brown like elephant tusks, jingle as you grip onto the shaft of his cock. Your own teeth part as you slowly slide Floyd up on the mattress of your tongue. 

In the neurological wave, your heart stops … then jackrabbits in doubletime. 

It tastes like running your tongue over a block of salt. Tentatively, you spiral your tongue around in short swings, lapping up the precum already coating him. The musky scent of sex wafts up from him like perfume. Right away, you are smitten with the taste and aroma that has greeted you.

Because it is the taste of Floyd, and you love Floyd dearly to the point of devouring. 

It is an ouroboros of pleasure — a never-ending circular connection of moans and licks on each other’s hot, dripping genitals — that goes round and round. When a moan vibrates on Floyd’s dick, it sends an eruption of a heated gasp across your folds. When a thick groan hums onto your clit, you are left moaning whorish around the cock in your mouth. Back and forth with a heartbeat of cannibalism between the both of you. Devouring the most sacred parts within your mouths. 

Floyd spits and giggles. He brings up little beads of salvia from his throat before smoothing them out over the folds of your labia. His affection towards you leaves him pressing fat kisses on your clit and sharp thrusts with his tongue up in your vagina.

It’s vulgar. Primitive. As you said before, something written in the blood of poets. Something smeared with jam-like red. A fun and lovey-dovey brutality. 

Eventually, those tentative licks evolve into more. A mixture of precum and saliva follows your brief pop-off Floyd’s dick before you go down messily — the sounds are squelching like stepping in a pool of wet, glistening organs, the loud hollow muffle of your moan creaking — until it hits that fated uvula. Floyd’s spine arches like a girl’s, like he is your bitch, when you suck hard.

Then, you start bobbing. It is almost instinctual as a symphony of moans and licks play itself against your slick which dribbles, dribbles, and dribbles across Floyd’s face. A warmth spreads through your neuron-body as a large palm reaches down to rub at your shoulder, not even pushing or pulling, just a light massage to feel the heat of your body. The gesture makes you feel dizzy with love.

I love you I love you I love you — right there right there rightthererightthere! Your body jumps like it was shot as Floyd sucks roughly on your clit like it’s hard candy.

It is evolving more and more into vigorous fucking. The poem is losing its stanzas and the order of words has become jumbled. Your sexual ouroboros is burning a hot white hue as the sounds in the room grow grosser and grosser. 

You damn near choke yourself on him as you fiercely rub up and down the length you cannot fit in your mouth, the side of your hand repeatedly hitting and splashing the wet puddle on his ballsack, filling yourself up to your heart’s content. “Shrim— Shrimpy — I’m gonna ! Mmh mmh mhh! I’m —!” God or Sevens or whoever, you cannot wait until he explodes in your mouth. 

Me too Me too Don’t stop Don’t stop! You think in response to Floyd’s brief … well, he probably meant it as a warning but you take it as a blessing, knowing you get to swallow his cum soon. An involuntary moan from just the mere thought bristles around Floyd’s dick. Bobbing eagerly, you suck harder and harder with each passing second, feeling the heartbeat in his dick pulsing.

There is a smidgen of lightheadedness seeping in, fracturing your body into pieces. You are doing a poor job on remembering to keep your breathing even. That dizziness makes you feel like a stretched plain of cotton until you congeal together, hard and fast, rushing into an orgasm when Floyd zig-zags his tongue roughly on your clit.

It is almost poetic how you both cum at the same second. Because as soon as you realize that feeling of snapping in your viscera, a tidal wave bursts up into your mouth.

You gasp and cough around his cockhead, relishing the warm liquid in your mouth. Almost completely off his shaft, you take the head in your mouth and lap up everything he is giving you. It comes in forceful squirts and you have to hold down Floyd’s bucking hips to savor the moment.

You swallow all of it, gorging yourself on your boyfriend’s salty-sweet tang essence. Even then it is not enough for your appetite; thus, you begin to lap at his shaft, making sure you clean up everything. 

So enamored with the taste of him, you do not even realize what is happening behind and beneath you until you hear a choked out “To - uuk — Too sensitiveeee!” Floyd groans, his hands squeezing and lifting up your ass as you nurse at his cock. You almost get a knee to the forehead when one of his legs involuntarily pulls up in pain with the overstimulation.

You keep eating until you’ve had your fill.

DEJA VU. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: genoise sponge  (specific to requester: time loop AU) with fresh fruit compote (hurt/comfort) and sprinkles (specific to requester)

Unusually, Floyd Leech took a shine to you right away – and with no difficulty either. 

It almost seems like he has been waiting a long time to become friends with you. The nickname Shrimpy! slides out his mouth easily. His dominant left hand repeatedly finds your shoulder as if the two pieces of flesh were magnetized together. He shows up when you need help most, as if your body pulses out distress signals directly to him.

You didn’t know what to make of this at first. To you, the dimensions of Floyd Leech are off kilter like puzzle pieces of a picture forced into wrong spots. When you squint at him, an innate stomach-ache makes you feel something is off with how he presents himself.

It is the oddest and strongest sensation of déjà vu. 

His face will shift and morph into some expression — laughing, scowling, craving — and you can swear you’ve seen him make that exact face before. It is like seeing copies upon copies of his face, stretching into nebulous creams and teals, yet never being able to identify where you first saw him make such a face before. 

A melting, water paint portrait of creams and teals is what greets you again because you’re crying hard enough to distort your vision and you can’t make the expression on Floyd’s face. You’re sure it is one you’ve seen before. 

 “It’s just so sad!” You bawl out. The small paperback in your hand is squeezed tight enough to crinkle the pages. “I’m never gonna read another book again!” On the verge of hysteria, you slam your borrowed library book on Floyd’s desk.

In response to your despair, Floyd offers nothing more than a musical, high-falsetto laugh that winds itself around the dormitory like one, long note. He is rather unsympathetic to your plight. Though, he does wish to reach out to scoop up the tears on your cheek and taste them on his tongue. He won’t … yet.

“Ya such a crybaby, Shrimpy. It ain’t nothing but a story.” 

The hacky sack hits his palm, emitting a sharp crunch of beads. Floyd throws it up to the ceiling, emitting a sharp thunk of wood. In the underbelly of this repetitive sound is you sniffing to yourself. You are trying to be as silent as possible, but the tears keep coming steady and hard. 

“To just keep forgetting like that,” you hiccup into your uniform sleeve. “I wouldn’t wish that upon anybody. It’s just too sad.” 

“You’re really moved by this, aren’t ya, Shrimpy?”

“Mmm.”

The book you rented from the library – because you were almost always in the library, nose in books, mostly ranging from teleportation spells to opening gates of the Underworld to anything resembling interdimensional travel – was five short chapters. Something about a pair of sappy lovers. Something about one of them being immortal and the other reincarnating in a cycle. Something about memories. Floyd can’t remember it fully; it wasn’t interesting enough for him.

His gaze simply had skimmed over the summary when you handed it to him. It’s not like Floyd was going to read a book like that. Action novels reeled in his interest, not romance. His heterochromic eyes glide over the arch of his pillowcase to view your meek visage.

It feels like some kind of cavernous hunger of Floyd’s is fed watching you cry. Slow droplets thread down your face like molasses out of a bottle’s mouth. Back arched like a shrimp’s, you cry in his desk chair yet don’t rub away those tasty tears. Mournful of something you never experienced – weird. 

Floyd catches his hacky sack without checking its angle of descent and comments, “Humans are always forgetful. Half of the Lounge’s lost and found goes to me and Jade because no one remembers anything anymore.” Even his new hacky sack is from those pyramiding stacks of boxes of forgotten objects.

You sniffle, nose scrunching like a snout. Hands are folded stiffly on your lap, cold and dry, cracked like crocodile skin. “What? So you’re some kind of perfect being?”

“Yep. Couldn’t get more better than me, hehe.”

“More better?”

“I’m better than better.”

That at least makes you crack a tiny smile, wobbly as it may be. The bottom of your eyes are still puffy and those snail trails of slow saltwater have yet to stop. Flimsy eyes glance away from Floyd’s gaze to the swirling, tentacle pattern on the dorm floor. “It’s just so sad … and odd. That sensation of being in a room and being able to swear that you’ve been there before. Even the conversations … seem identical to another time.”

“And the people?”

“Yes, the people too.” Tearful eyes search the violet tentacle as if you expect it to unravel and reveal something. 

Suddenly, you spring forward on Floyd’s desk chair, as if in revelation. The back legs lift slightly off the ground as you lean in close. Still untouched, the warm trails are visible on your face. “And, isn’t that so odd!

“I just can’t wrap my head around it. You spend time creating memories. You spend time having conversations and creating relationships. You spend time being. And, all that time just, what? Goes and slithers down a drain, and you don’t get it back?”

Floyd blinks at you. Spots of flushed skin rest in the center of your temple and on each cheek. Your skin glistens in hot hues. “Eh, some things are just more important to others.” Floyd untucks his arm from behind his head, reaches out with his index, and wipes under your right eye.

He licks up the saltwater on his finger’s side like licking residue off a fork as you say, “I could never forgive myself if I did something like that to someone.”

The hunger to recapture past moments. It is quite an intense craving. Floyd takes his thumb and smears a crescent smile in the water under your left eye.

“C’mon, Shrimpy.” He licks his thumb. “You’re just the type of person that would do that to someone.”

[whovian223]

Shards of Infinity: Saga Collection Coming Soon from Stone Blade

Shards of Infinity: Saga Collection Coming Soon from @StoneBladeEnt @UltraProIntl

One of the more exciting deck building card games that I’ve played is Shards of Infinity (and its two expansions). There’s just something about the game that’s attractive. It’s not hugely bloated with expansions, but the expansions it does have are very useful (including fixing one of my main problems with the base game). Now Stone Blade Entertainment has announced something really cool, or at…

[jellyfish-on-the-staircase]

Warp Trotters are very suspicious creatures in Honkai Star Rail.

Description :

"An interdimensional creature lost in the stars. Docile in nature. Sweet in taste. Inedible. Spends most of its life feeding and fleeing. Travelers who encounter these creatures see them as good omens."

Trotters are described as "interdimensional creatures" and "trans-latitudinal organisms". They are lost creatures that are always scared and try to flee when facing a fight. They can teleport by murmuring equations related to black holes like the Schwarzschild radius. They can basically move between dimensions.

In the Interstellar Travel (phenomenon) entry, it's stated that only beings that can manipulate the Imaginary Tree's energy such as Aeons or Emanators can travel through space. What the Trotters do is no ordinary feat.

Normal (golden) Warp Trotters have physical, quantum and imaginary weakness.

Don't you think it's weird that Trotters are literally everywhere, even in dreams (Penacony) ? Trotters can travel to the Memory Zone without using a Dreampool. In the Radiant Feldspar, some Trotters have been attracted to the floral scent of the swimming pool.

Even weirder, there is a Trotter in A Child's Dream, a realm created by Mikhail's memories.

In the Where Are You, Mystery Trotter mini-event, Trotters can shapeshift into inanimate objects like vending machines, but they can also disguise themselves as humans and imitate human speech to a certain extent. (Although they don't seem to understand it, the Trotter in the event was just repeating the same things over and over again)

Acheron is an Emanator of Nihility and her technique literally one-shots enemies in the overworld, except Elites and Trotters. Trotters > Acheron

In the Simulated Universe, Trotters have special abilities related to the Abundance, Preservation or Destruction. This could imply that Trotters can become Pathstriders or, since the power of the Aeons stems from Imaginary energy, that they borrow the energy as well.

The Trotter in the Aetherium Wars (Pokemon event) is an unique Aether Spirit with a mind of their own.

If you interact with the Trotter in the Astral Express as Hanu, this shows up :

If Trotters are lost, what are they looking for ? Their home ? What are Trotters ?

My theory is that Trotters are either Leviathans or their descendants. (like how chickens are descendants of dinosaurs)

Leviathans are ancient lifeforms that were in the Galaxy before the Aeons were born. It's possible that they could have Aeon-like abilities. Most of them have been wiped out by the Dusk Wars and their corpses are used by the Antimatter Legion to create Tramplers and the Doomsday Beast. There aren't any known Leviathans except Oroboros who is both an Aeon and a Leviathan.

After the Dusk Wars, the Trotters (the Leviathans' legacy) have been forced to wander across the universe. They are trying to find the Leviathans' homeworld, unaware if it has been destroyed or not.

A controversial theory in the Species of the Galaxy : Wubbaboo readable explains that remnants of the Leviathans became Astral Spirits (Heliobi). It suggests that they could have taken another form.

Trotter are the only enemies (excluding the Trashcans) that drop Stellar Jades when defeated.

"A fleeting gleam", "Catch it before it's gone"

The Oneiric Shard can be exchanged to Stellar Jades. The description coincidentally mentions Leviathans.

In that case, it's easy to make an association between Trotters and Leviathan.

In the Planar Infinity event (where the geniuses mess with the SU), Stephen Lloyd tries to attract Leviathans by using the Shattered Star Bait and ended up attracting Trotters. If the theory is correct, Stephen has unknowingly succeeded.

Note how Leviathans are attracted by an "unique aroma of cosmic dust"

What about Numby ?

Numby is a smart Trotter that can write mails and do actuarial sciences. Could every Trotter do the same ? If not, could Numby be special (like a Trotter King) ? How has Topaz tamed a Trotter if they always try to escape ? Topaz and Numby might be the Xiangling and Guoba of HSR

[pupkashi]

Pupkashi! Congratulations on 1k!! You deserved it!!🎉💙 may I please request a drabble with the prompt  “aw, sweetheart you know you don’t have to ask...come here.” From the Water category with  “you’re my everything.” From the Cocktails category with our favorite white haired man, Gojo Satoru!💙

thank you friend !! i hope you enjoy this little piece :3 let me know what you think <3 !

warnings: mentions of feeling insecure / not good enough

3:27 am

your eyes were burning, but the second you laid down the tears you were holding back threatened to flow, and the sobs you were keeping at bay would slip past your lips.

it wasn’t something satoru did or said to make you feel insecure, he was always so perfect to you. in fact, it’s because he was so perfect that you felt like you’d never be enough for him.

why you? from everyone he could choose from, why would he choose you?

‘he chose me.’

‘he chose me,’ you’re trying to remind yourself, hot tears flowing down your face. your fingers ghosted over the keyboard, debating wether or not you should message him. you put your phone down, you shouldn’t bother him.

it’s like he had a sixth sense when it came to you. your phone lighting up only seconds later with a text from him.

hi baby <333

through teary eyes and shaky hands you typed out your message quickly, biting your bottom lip as you sent the text.

can you come home?

he replies in seconds, attentive as always.

are you okay? I’m omw

you hear his footsteps before you see him, the door to your shared bedroom opening quietly, satoru quickly taking in your state and rushing to your side.

“oh sweetheart” he mumbles, not bothering to slip out of his uniform as his arms wrap around you, bringing you close to him, one hand rubbing your back and the other smoothing your hair. “I’m right here baby,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head.

when you finally calm down, he’s slipping out of his uniform, sliding under the covers with you. “you wanna talk about it?” his voice is gentle, thumb wiping away a stray tear from your face.

you nod your head, clearing your throat a bit, sitting a bit straighter and fiddling with the edge of the blanket, was that string always there?

“i just” you let out a shaky breath, satoru doesn’t rush you, only staring at you with soft eyes, “am i enough for you? don’t you deserve better?” you don’t look up as the words leave your mouth.

satoru can feel his heart break in his chest, he can feel the shards of his heart lodging into his sides as he stares at you.

“you’re my everything” it feels second nature to tell you that, to tell you how much he loves you and how much you mean to him, “you’re more than enough for me sweets” he’s leaning closer to you, one of his hands slipping under you chin, gently making you face him.

“you’re all i ever need” telling you that was easy to him. it’s easy to love someone as perfect for him as you were.

“who else is gonna tell me off? who’s gonna laugh at my terrible jokes? who am i gonna watch bad romcoms with?” his eyes look like they’re shimmering with love as he stares at you, like you created the universe.

you laugh a bit, sniffling as you tear your eyes away from his, wiping away the couple of tears that ran down your face.

“i love you, pretty” his words are dripping with sincerity, and the feeling of his hand intwining with your serves as a reminder of his words. the warmth of his hands mending your heart, because it’s only you in the entire world who feels the warmth of his palms.

it’s only you that know how warm he runs, how cuddly he gets at night. it’s only you who he never has his infinity on with. it’s only you he drops everything for at a moments notice.

the two of you only sit there in silence for a second, letting you compose yourself before you’re excusing yourself to wash your face, coming back and finding satoru standing at the foot of the bed.

“are you leaving?” you ask, satoru smiles at you.

“you think I’m gonna leave you at a time like this?” he’s throwing his uniform in the hamper and taking large strides to you, kissing your nose before sweeping you off your feet and throwing you onto the bed.

“I’m not going anywhere sweetheart” he mumbles, “just picking up after myself” smiling as he peppers kisses on your face. he only stops when your lips capture his, smiling into the kiss.

the two of you slip under the covers quickly, battling for the blanket for a second before you both finally settle in.

“can i be the little spoon?” you whisper.

“aw sweetheart you know you don’t have to ask” he mumbles, extending his arms and scooting a bit closer to you, “cmere.”

he’s kissing the top of your head, arms gripping you tightly and sighing happily. you felt the warmth of his body on yours, his lips just barely ghosting over your shoulder before he presses a kiss there.

“gnight sweets” he whispers, “i love you so much” he presses another kiss to your shoulder.

“i love you more, my angel boy” you mumble, eyes heavier by the second, the comfort of his body against yours paired with his cologne making it harder to stay awake, “sweet dreams.”

you’re asleep by the time satoru replies, “any dream with you is sweet” giggling to himself before closing his eyes, squeezing you a bit closer to him.

[kpforpresident]

Chapter 7 | Part 2

Thanks for sticking with me, kids. A snippet for your patience x

Lexa, refusing to be cowed within her own private chambers, continues on her path away from the door.  Only years of training and instinct keep her steady in her slow methodical movements to pull the three throwing blades from where they buried into the head and neck of the dummy. Shards of wood flutter slowly past Lexa’s hand as she works the honed blades from the soft wood, landing across the dull black leather of her well worn training boots. Lexa can practically feel Clarke burning a hole in the side of her head, arms crossed angrily in front of her body as she taps her food impatiently on the worn wooden floors. She hasn’t moved more than a foot into the room, clearly unsure about being in this space despite her angry entrance. 

Polis feels a million miles away in this small space, a buttery stream of sunlight pouring through an upper window to fan out in a dreamy pattern on the far wall. The entire structure of the converted stable is wood, the mere memory of two horse stalls standing against the far right side, now filled with practice dummies, spare training weapons, and a jug of water that a young Natblida is tasked to refresh daily. A small tin bowl sits on the rickety table beside the stall entrance, a few apples and a small linen bag of jerky tucked carefully inside. This had been Anya’s addition to the space when Costia had died and Lexa hadn’t left the stables for a week, the silent plea the closest Lexa had ever seen Anya come to a concession. 

The silence seems to grow teeth as the two women look at each other- one with barely muted scorn, the other with trained neutrality. Far away, the river’s melodic trickle is the only reprieve from this moment that seems to drag out into infinity.  

Lexa flips her dagger slowly as she crosses from the spot by the training dummy to perch onto an stable door, leaning into the wood that had been worn smooth with centuries of use. This had been Heda’s private stable for many lives before Lexa’s, the war drums a constant and unending companion to many previous Commander’s reigns. Lexa was the first to lead a life that didn’t fall asleep and rise in the morning with a constant refrain of war just beyond her doorstep. 

This was a life that was mean to be dotted with peace, and propserity for her people. Lexa had fought and bled and strategized and lost to make it so. 

Lexa remembers with a pang how little Madi who worked in the kitchens had run in the week previously, breathless with joy over the return of the robins to the nearby meadow, where young children took their outdoor lessons. Lexa, who had yet to be broken of her habit of sneaking into the kitchen to sneak a few pieces of cheese and the end of the daily loaf of bread- much to Anya’s continued chagrin– had nearly swallowed her tongue in surprise when the door flew open to reveal the breathless, beaming youth. 

The birds had avoided Polis for Lexa’s lifetime thus far and her parent’s before her. Not that she blamed them- the clatter of the hammers in the smiths as they foraged swords from glowing hearths and the pounding of horse’s hoof beats had been the constant in the sunrise years of Lexa’s young life. 

Now, birdsong would sometimes float through the morning markets, the entire city seeming to hold its collective breath as the quavering notes filled the honey-sweet summer air. 

Madi’s little brother–Roni– had died in the attack by Nia. A pang hits Lexa deeper in the heart as she remembers the little boy’s tawny eyes and deep dimple in his cheek that would appear when Lexa snuck the little boy the scraps of her morning meal, studiously avoiding Lyra’s eyes as she tutted silently from the far end of the dining room. 

Lexa refuses to turn her back to Clarke as she storms farther into Heda’s sanctum. This is her space. She will not be cowed by some sacred blonde girl, sent down from the skies as if destined for her personally. 

Flip. Flip. Flip.

“I must speak with Aden regarding his inability to keep Heda’s location confidential.” Lexa hears herself saying as she runs a finger down the tightly wrapped leather handle of her weapon, feeling the worn material give slightly as she rubs the pad of her thumb into the spot just below the throat of the blade. 

Lexa practically watches Clarke catch fire in front of her as the blonde swells with the force of her anger, blue eyes sparking with barely withhead fury as she bears down onto the Commander with all the wrath of a summer storm. 

“It’s been days, Lexa! I had to practically emotionally black mail a twelve year old to tell me where you were! Because you, a fucking LEADER OF A COUNTRY decided that instead of comforting your people in a time of uncertainty and strife, you were going to hide in your quasi-man cave, SULKING!I”

Lexa blinks under the assault of Clarke’s spat accusations, Clarke’s pulse thrumming at the speed of light as the light shines passionately in her gaze. A moment passes as Lexa continues to turn her knife over and over in her hand, clearly finding some small comfort in the repetitive movement. 

“A man- cave…?”

“Not the point, Heda,” Clarke practically snarls. 

For the first time in Lexa’s short reign as a leader, she dislikes the sound of her title. Coming from Clarke, it sounds like a curse. 

Clarke’s so close now she can almost count the freckles that spray across Lexa’s nose like sand stuck to a wet canvas. Even gaunt and clearly sleep-deprived, whether from an unknown outside threat or her own doing, the Commander was beautiful. Grey-green eyes held steadfast to Clarke’s own, the deep calm within them unruffled despite the rapidly tightening corners of Lexa’s mouth, muscles growing taught as Clarke bears down on her. 

Clarke is suddenly reminded of a fox she had come across in the forest, trapped into a corner by a slightly larger, heavily mutated bobcat. The fox had grown stiller and quieter until it had exploded with fury at its attacker, snarling as blood sprayed from the ferocity of its attack. Still growling a challenge, the creature had bounded into the dense of the trees, scarlet tail flashing in the dying light of day. 

The way Lexa holds herself as Clarke closes in reminds her of the fox- and yet, she can’t find it within herself to stem the tide of her tirade as she moves even closer to the grounder. 

“I even came by your room, there was never candles lit inside and regardless of the hour, the guard would lie for you and say that you weren’t there–”

Lexa can’t stop the way her eyes linger on Clarke’s cupid bow as she talks, despite the absolute vitriol that coats her tone as she spits words at Lexa like arrows loosed from a bow. 

Has she always had that freckle?

All of a sudden Lexa’s skin feels too tight, sweat still dripping down the small of her back. The handle in her hand is the only thing anchoring her to this moment and her tenuous threads of sanity, keeping her from falling into orbit with that dammed freckle–

She wavers. 

“It’s because I wasn’t there, Clarke.” 

The trudge back to Polis in the weak light of a dying day is not a pleasant one. Clarke, seemingly able to keep herself quiet only through some herculean force of will, glares daggers at Lexa throughout the entire, muddy walk through the rolling hills outside of Polis. And through the streets of the city, dodging sellers and shoppers alike as she silently follows a hooded, semi-disguised Lexa back towards the heart of the city, the tower. 

Moments prior, a silent brow had arched as Lexa sheathed her throwing daggers quickly and draped a light black shawl around her shoulders, carefully tucking her hair beneath and arranging it so most of her features were thrown into sharp shadow. 

Catching Clarke’s questioning gaze in the cracked mirror piece that had been hung at the door, Lexa shrugged as she tucked an errant curl behind her ear. 

“Keeps me from being spotted as Heda. Helps me move unnoticed through the city.” 

She leaves through the door within another word, leaving Clarke to ponder what occasions the leader of an adoring public would want to move through the city without the mantle of Heda. 

Now, back at the tower, Lexa lets the shawl fall back, the guards moving in a practice wave to let her in as she strides towards the rickety elevator. She quirks an eyebrow as Clarke hesitates. 

Gathering the remnants of her patience and courage, she follows Lexa into the hated rusty box and into the heart of the tower. 

///