#and looking back on last years its... palpable how much better I feel

[sketchy-nick]

Birthday Doodle!

[bucksanklescrews]

car shopping- e.b. x fem!reader

Warnings: None, pregnant!reader, fluff

"I'm not driving a minivan," Evan said, his voice stern, but a hint of amusement still shined through.

You ran a hand over your bump. "Jesus, Buck, how many of them do you think are in here?"

Evan chuckled, shaking his head as he looked at you with that familiar mix of affection and playful defiance. "I don’t care if it’s one or five, I’m not trading in the Jeep for a minivan."

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips as you ran a hand over your growing bump. “Come on, Buck, don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? It’s not like we’re starting a soccer team.”

He grinned, leaning back against the counter, his arms crossing over his chest. “I’m just saying, this Jeep has been with me through a lot. I’m not ready to swap it out for something... practical.”

"I said practical, which means a Jeep that doesn't stutter when it starts-"

"I made an appointment for it next week!"

You placed a hand on your hip. "And what about the appointment last week?"

He sighed, knowing you had a point. Despite all the love and care he had poured into maintaining his Jeep over the years—new tires, a well-kept motor, and a slightly faded paint job that he swore added character—it was clear that the old Jeep was reaching the end of its life. It had racked up miles and had started showing signs of wear, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. Sure, his car had been fine before, but now that you were expecting, the last thing you wanted was to worry about Buck and your little angel stalling at an intersection or, worse, being stranded somewhere.

Evan ran a hand through his hair, the reluctance in his eyes giving way to a resigned sigh. “Alright, I’ll look at new cars... but I’m not making any promises.”

You smiled, knowing it was the best you were going to get from him. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Car shopping turned out to be more of a challenge than either of you anticipated. Every car seemed to have something wrong with it—too worn, too expensive, too small, too impractical. The first dealership was a bust, with Buck dismissing every option the salesman showed him. The second one wasn’t any better, with Buck complaining about the lack of character in the newer models. By the time you reached the sixth dealership, you were starting to lose hope.

Then you spotted it—another Jeep, practically identical to his. It was a little newer, with fewer miles on it, and in good condition. For a moment, you thought this might be the one. Buck approached the Jeep, his eyes lighting up as he inspected it closely. He ran his hand over the hood, checked the tires, and even peeked inside the cabin.

You watched him, hopeful that this could be it. But as the salesman approached to seal the deal, you noticed the look on Buck’s face. The excitement had faded, replaced by something more subdued. He thanked the salesman politely, but instead of heading back inside to discuss numbers, he started walking back to your car.

You followed him, your heart sinking a little. “Evan?”

He glanced back at the Jeep, then at you. “It’s just... it’s not the same, you know? It doesn’t feel right.”

You sighed, understanding where he was coming from. “I get it, Buck. But we need something reliable, something safe. For all of us.”

He nodded, though you could see the reluctance still lingering in his eyes. “I know. It’s just hard to let go.”

You slipped your hand into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll find something that feels right, I promise. But maybe it doesn’t have to be another Jeep. Maybe it’s time for something new.”

Buck considered your words, his gaze softening as he looked down at your intertwined hands. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

As your due date approached, just over a week away, the anticipation was palpable. You sighed, flipping through yet another car catalog, this one featuring used cars being sold directly by their owners. Your hand absentmindedly rested on your bump as you turned the pages, glancing over sedans and SUVs, none of which seemed to stand out.

But then, you spotted it. Another Jeep, just a few shades darker than his current car. It had low miles and was moderately priced, a rare find that immediately caught your attention. You smiled to yourself, thinking maybe this was it, the compromise between nostalgia and practicality. You turned the catalog towards Buck, who was sitting next to you on the couch, and pointed it out.

“Look at this one,” you said, your voice laced with hope. “It’s just like yours, but with way fewer miles. What do you think?”

Buck’s eyes lit up for a second as he took in the image, the familiar look of excitement flashing across his face. But then, just as quickly, he seemed to hesitate, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“It’s nice,” he admitted, nodding appreciatively. “But... I already found something.”

You quirked an eyebrow in surprise. “Oh? And when were you planning on telling me?”

Buck chuckled, pulling out his phone. “I was going to surprise you, but since we’re on the topic...”

He scrolled through his photos, searching for something specific. You watched him curiously, wondering what he had found. Finally, he stopped on a picture and handed the phone to you.

The image on the screen was of a new Jeep, a different color from his current one but still unmistakably in the same spirit. It was slightly newer, with a sleeker design, but it still had that rugged, adventurous look that Buck loved so much.

“I saw it when we were on a call,” Buck explained, his voice carrying a mix of excitement and nostalgia. “It was parked on the street, and I just couldn’t take my eyes off it. I jotted down the number before we left, and I went back to see it with Eddie before heading home.”

You looked at the photo, then back at Buck, and couldn’t help but smile. There was something endearing about the way he was so attached to his Jeep, and yet willing to find something new that still honored the old.

“You really like it, don’t you?” you asked softly.

Buck nodded, his eyes twinkling with a mix of excitement and a touch of sentimentality. “Yeah, I do. It’s not exactly the same, but it feels right, you know? Like it’s time for something new, but it still reminds me of the old one.”

You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m glad you found something you love, Buck. And if you’re happy with it, then I am too.”

He smiled, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close, his hand resting protectively over your bump. “Thanks, babe. I know it’s silly, but this Jeep... it means a lot.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth and love between you both. “It’s not silly at all. It’s a big change, and I’m glad you found something that feels right.”

As you sat there together, the car catalog forgotten on the coffee table, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. The Jeep was just a car, but it symbolized so much more—moving forward, making room for new memories, and embracing the future together as a family.

[tsumuus]

For prompt 2 for your event, could you do that one Leah and Rob sound. "You don't hate me?" "I could never hate you." with Oikawa? tyyyyyyyyyyy

₊✩‧₊˚ toru oikawa + prompt 2 ˚₊✩‧₊

₊✩‧₊˚ ‘so you don’t hate me’ ‘i could never hate you’ ˚₊✩‧₊

You had always thought you knew Toru Oikawa like the back of your hand. From the days when you first met in middle school, his charisma and infectious energy had drawn you in, and over the years, you had become inseparable. You shared laughter, tears, and countless late-night conversations. So when the sudden shift came—when he started pushing you away, his demeanor growing colder and more distant—it threw you into a whirlwind of confusion.

At first, you thought it was something you had done. Had you unknowingly said something to upset him? Or perhaps your busy schedule had pushed him to the background? The questions buzzed incessantly in your mind, but you couldn't find any answers. Each time you tried to reach out, he seemed to withdraw even further, leaving you feeling lost and adrift.

It was during one of those quiet evenings, when the moonlight streamed through your window, that you finally confronted him. You had just returned from a particularly painful day at school, your heart heavy with the weight of his cold shoulder, and the sight of him at the park, sitting alone on a bench, felt like a last straw.

"Toru," you said, your voice trembling slightly, "what's going on? Why have you been pushing me away? Did I do something wrong?"

He looked up at you, his eyes softening as if he was seeing you for the first time in weeks. He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The usual charm and confidence that he wore like a second skin seemed to be stripped away, revealing a vulnerability you rarely saw.

"I've been an idiot," he admitted, his voice low and rough. "I didn’t want to hurt you, but I didn’t know how to handle everything I was feeling. It’s like every time I’m with you, I want to spill everything out—everything I’ve been keeping inside—but it scares me. It’s so unnatural for me."

You listened, heart aching, as he continued. “You make me feel things I’ve never felt before, and I don’t know how to explain it. I thought if I distanced myself, it would be easier for both of us.”

You stared at him, processing his words. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotions, and the moonlight cast a gentle glow on his troubled face. Slowly, you approached him and took a seat beside him on the bench, your presence offering a silent comfort.

"So you don't hate me?" you asked softly, the fear of losing him gripping your heart.

He turned to look at you, his expression a mixture of relief and regret. "Hate you? I could never hate you," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "The way I’ve been acting, it’s because I care so much. It’s because you mean everything to me."

The tension between you seemed to melt away with his confession. You reached out, taking his hand in yours, feeling the warmth and the sincerity in his touch. His eyes searched yours, and for the first time in weeks, you saw the familiar spark of affection in them.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were the problem. I’ve just been struggling with my own feelings, and I didn’t know how to handle it."

You squeezed his hand gently, offering him a reassuring smile. "It’s okay, Toru. I just needed to know where we stood."

He nodded, his relief palpable. "Thank you for understanding. I promise I’ll work on this. I want to be better for you, and I don’t want to let my own fears ruin what we have."

The night continued with a renewed sense of closeness, the distance that had grown between you now replaced by the understanding and the warmth of a bond that had weathered the storm. As you sat there together, the moon casting its gentle light over you both, you knew that despite the struggles, you were still there for each other. And for the first time in a while, everything felt right again.

a/n RAHHHHHHH i don’t like this but here you go🙏😓

₊✩‧₊˚ 555 follower event ! ˚₊✩‧₊

main masterlist

[rhysazriel]

Smoke & Light Part 2 SNIPPET

A/N: THIS HAS NOT BEEN PROOF READ I JUST WANTED TO QUICKLY GIVE YOU GUYS A SNIPPET SO I COULD CONTINUE WRITING JKSJDKJS THE FULL PART TWO IS COMING TOMORROW!!

//

His first stop was to Sean, a lean Asian guy that had been buying off Azriel for two years now. He was decent enough, never tried to haggle or complain about the prices. They shared a mutual respect and minimal words were shared when Az handed him a Q and Sean gave 140 in one swift motion. 

And just like that, Azirel moved onto the next.

And then another. 

And another. 

Until he was waiting at the Old Tower and watching your silhouette approach the Mustang. You entered the car just like you always had done, though you didn’t meet his gaze this time. Instead, you kept your line of view ahead. Your hair obstructed the side of your face, effectively shielding you from his prying eyes. 

“Sorry I’m a little late.” 

Azriel absolutely did not like the quake in your voice as you spoke, nor did he like the way you seemed to cower into your body and clothes. Clothes that didn’t seem to match your usual vibe—instead, the mismatched black sweatpants and bright pink puffer jacket gave off the impression you threw on whatever was around you. 

Somehow, Azriel still thought you made it look good. On you, the outfit looked both planned and effortless. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that that wasn’t the case. 

“You good?” he asked through the piercing silence. 

You hummed, twisting the bulky silver ring on your thumb. “Yeah, just tired.” You tried your hardest to offer a convincing smile as you turned to him, but Azriel noticed the way it didn’t meet your eyes—the eyes that appeared slightly bloodshot, though he had a suspicion it wasn’t from smoking.

Not wanting to press on the matter, Az opened the compartment and pulled out a baggie of your usual amount and kept it pinched between two scarred fingers. You reached for it, the cash in your other hand but he kept his grip tight. 

Azriel raised a brow. “You’re sure you’re alright?” 

You could see the concern flood his hazel eyes, and the sight pulled on your aching heartstrings. How could someone who was a virtual stranger care more for you than the ones who were much closer in your life?

You didn’t trust your words, so you nodded and he finally released his hold on the bag. “Alright,” Az sighed. “It’s a different strain than my usual stuff, so go a little lighter with it. It’s pretty strong.” 

You were incredibly thankful for the warning, though you couldn’t help feeling a little offended. Did he really think you were so naive and new to this world that you couldn’t handle a new strain at your usual strength (which, admittedly, was very weak) without greening out? 

But as quickly as that feeling rose, it faded. He was a dealer, afterall, and he couldn’t afford to lose business all because someone thought they knew better and had a bad trip. 

“Thank you,” you muttered out, already reaching for the handle when his ruggedly soft voice stopped you. 

“You wanna smoke before you go? I can drop you back after.” 

You whipped your head to him, blinking through slightly blurred vision. With a brow raised and widened eyes, your lips parted. “Together?”

A smile stretched across his full lips, one so full of charisma and keen interest that it awakened something deep in the pit of your stomach. Something you distinctly remember feeling the last time you saw him. 

“Why not?” 

You swallowed as your hand slowly fell from the handle and made its way back in your lap. Your smile morphed into a smirk that matched his and the air shifted into something unreadable. Something palpable but not quite real. 

“Really? Do you normally smoke with your clients?” 

His wicked grin widened. “I do with the cute ones.” 

You choked on a laugh, rolling your head back until it hit the headrest and Azriel didn’t think he’d ever seen or heard anything so fucking beautiful in his life. That laugh would haunt him in his dreams to a blissful paradise. 

“First I’m pretty, now I’m cute… what’s next?” 

Damn the rules he set himself. Damn the restrictions he forced when it came to someone who piqued his interest. It was about time Azriel took what he wanted for once. Even if that meant he started with no longer feeling guilty for flirting with you. 

Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Azriel started up the engine and shifted the gearstick. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

[doevademe]

Slightly angst idea: during a fight, Nico is injured during the battle, it looks worse than it actually is, but Nico (who isn’t dating Percy right now, Percy has already confessed but Nico rejects him because he doesn’t take Percy’s feelings seriously) watches as Percy goes into what I playfully calls “Hurricane Perseus” where he is just going across the battlefield, wiping out everything in his wake, other people have to get out of the way to avoid being dragged into his path of carnage. After every monster is dead, Percy goes to Nico and cries tears of relief that Nico is okay. Nico can’t tell if he is touched that Percy loves him that much, or he slightly concerned considering that put other campers lives in danger. One thing he is certain of, he doesn’t doubt Percy’s feelings anymore and gives Percy a little kiss on the cheek saying the need to talk once he gets looked at.

Blood can be a bit of a drama queen, Nico had found out.

Some places, like anywhere near the head, tended to gush with blood at even the slightest scratch, despite it being superficial.

There was just no way to know for certain how bad an injury was until an expert looked at it.

The only thing Nico knew for certain was that his head hurt, there was blood flowing into his eye and blocking his view, and that he felt a little dizzy from the cyclops that had whacked him, but that he would ultimately live.

Try telling that to Percy Jackson, though. The young man was holding him up in pure panic, even ripping his shirt to try and wipe the blood from his face.

"Nico, just... just hold on, all right?" He asked desperately. "Help is on its way!"

"Percy, it's not that bad," he tried to say, though his speech was a little slurred due to the hit and came out more like "Purshy, izzon't sabbat."

"D-don't force yourself, okay?" he said softly. Behind them, the other campers kept fighting the small army conjured by some big name monster general that had returned from Tartarus after a few years trapped down there. "Help's on the way."

"...Not Will," he managed to say. Having his ex-boyfriend take a look at him in the middle of a battle was not high on his list of priorities.

Percy chuckled.

"I'll take any medic right now," he said. "And hey, better him than me, right?"

Nico winced. It hadn't been even 24 hours since Percy had asked him out, and the awkwardness had been palpable.

Nico knew that Percy was on the rebound. His break up with Annabeth had been relatively recent, and that in his state he would have asked out anyone who was available and made him feel not alone.

It was not that he didn't like Percy. It was that he knew that it would be a short-lived and unhappy relationship.

Taking his history with Percy into account, Nico felt they deserved a real romance, if it ever happened, not a temporal thing to get the son of Poseidon back on his feet.

"I'll take care of him," a girl, Kayla, said. "You need to go back there. Kampê is slaughtering us!"

"But Nico—"

"I expected more of the generals who felled me the last time," the half-dragon woman screeched as her whip snared a child of Hermes's sword. "I guess the Hekatonkheir was the reason they won."

About five demigods threw themselves at her, but Kampê just cracked her whip again and sent them all flying.

"Even one of their champions fell to a hit from a lowly foot soldier," she gloated, looking straight at Nico. "I'll enjoy torturing him as payback for what his father did to me!"

Percy's eyes darkened. He gently placed Nico on Kayla's lap and turned, drawing out his sword.

"You won't ever touch him again," he said in an eerily calm voice.

The monster laughed.

"And how do you plan to..." Kampê stoped herself as rain started pouring heavily, the raindrops hitting her and then going to Percy, making the water gather around him like a typhoon. "Troops! Focus on that one! Destroy him!"

The cyclopes, dracanae and hellhounds barely had time to register her order, as Percy jumped and started slicing the monsters apart.

The strength of the winds and water around him dragged the monsters to him, leaving them open for slaughter.

"Florian!" She gasped, as the small son of Demeter who followed Kayla around was sucked into the maelstrom along with the hellhound he had been fighting.

"Clossmy woond," Nico slurred, Kayla turned to look at him. "Now! You... can sheck me laterrr."

Terrified, the daughter of Apollo nodded. Nico felt the itch of his wound disappear as Kayla sang a hymn to her father. Nico thanked her and ran towards the newly formed hurricane.

"Retreat!" Kampê shouted, but it was too late, her whip had been caught in the storm, and it was dragging her into Riptide's bloody path.

"Your stupid revenge scheme hurt him," he heard Percy say coldly. "Everything that happens to you now, you deserve."

Nico gulped as Percy slashed like a madman. Due to Kampê's dragon skin, the slashes weren't deep enough to kill her, but they all bled, and the half-dragon woman cried out in pain as Percy continued his assault.

The campers were shouting, about three of them had joined Florian inside the maelstrom, and at least one of them had lost consciousness.

"Percy!" Nico shouted, making Percy look at him. "End this now!"

Percy nodded and waved his hand. Kampê screamed as a flow of water came out of her, dehydrating her and making her so fragile the next slash cut her in half.

The storm stopped, and the campers caught dropped to the grass like dead flies. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kayla and Will rushing to help them.

"Nico, how are—oof!" Nico hit Percy with the hilt of his sword in the stomach. "What was that for?"

"That was for endangering the campers!" He said, glaring. "Control your powers better! You can't just... are you crying?"

"I'm just... so relieved that you're okay!" Percy sobbed, hugging Nico. "I... I thought I would lose you!"

And Nico couldn't help but wonder, was he really so sure that Percy was just rebounding, or was he... too scared of finally having him?

Nico hugged him back and separated himself a little, giving him a experimental kiss on the cheek.

Percy lit up like a christmas tree.

"N-Nico?"

"My head's still pounding," he announced. "I need to have a full check-up."

"Uh... right, right," Percy said dumbly. "I'll take you to the infirmary."

"After that... we need to talk."

"About what?"

Nico smiled and tightened his hug as Percy picked him up.

"About yesterday," he said softly. As the adrenaline left his body he felt more and more exhausted. "I think we owe each other an actual conversation."

[wolfgirl-valentine]

Dreamling Week 2023 Friday 9 - Confession

(A continuation of Day 7 submit)

After Matthew flew away they were left in a very uncomfortable silence, only cut occasionally by Hob coughing.

Dream was again looking at his hands as if they held the secrets of the universe,  Hob waited for him to deny his raven's statement, but when this didn't happen Hob took a deep breath(or as deep as his poor burned throat let him).

“so” he suppressed another cough “a date?” he tried to sound casual but between his injury and the surprise he sounded a little strangled

Dream closes his eyes and sighs heavily, regretting the promise he made to Hob of not leaving in the middle of their conversations unless is a real emergency (as in, the universe is in danger emergency) 

“I apologize Hob, I’ll understand if you want our meetings to be every 100 years again, or if you want them to stop altogether”  

“What?? NO! fuck, Dream look at me” he didn’t  sound upset, but then again, his voice is deeply affected by his earlier accident.

Dream takes a deep breath he doesn't really need, before looking at Hob, only to gasp in surprise at Hob's expression, a big smile and soft eyes.

“There you are, now listen to me please” He reaches to take his hands over the table “I’m not upset to learn you want to be more than friends, I only would have liked to know by your own words and not by your raven ratting on you” 

Dream looks at him astonished, surely he doesn't mean…

“Would you be…amenable to be courted by me?”

“Oh Dream, I would loved nothing more in at least the last three hundred years”

“Then why you did not say anything?”

Hob winced with a pained smile “I was afraid of making you storm out on me again”

Dream didn't flinch, exactly, but it was something close, he tried to retrieve his hands, but Hob clenched them.

“Hey no, I already told you, that's all in the past, we both make mistakes that night, don't let it prevent us of making a good choice now”

“My love has proven to be a calamity for mortals in the past” a voice inside him was screaming for him to shut up, but Hob needed to know what he was getting into.

“Well, good thing I’m immortal right?”

“I do not think that is how it works”

“Even so, I think I have proven in the past to be a stubborn idiot when I really want something”

“And what do you want now?”

“I want to love you…if you let me”

Dream feel breathless again, at how Hob makes it sound like the most natural thing in the world.

“I…may be amenable to let you”

Hob's smile gets even brighter, and reaching out he puts his hand on Dream cheek, which makes him let out a little gasp, before melting on the caress, like a cat.

“Would you let me kiss you?

“Please” It would be embarrassing the quickness of his response, but he can’t care less when Hob si moving towards him, stopping briefly as of to let him back track if he wanted, but Dream have found to be weak when is about Hob, and so he cross the last distance to press their lips together.

Suddenly centuries of tension between them broke free, and not much time passed before the kiss had turned frantic, Hob hands burying in his hair, moving him in a better position to deepen the kiss.

It feels too soon when they need to part, both panting, one of Hob hands has moved to his coat, clenching on its lapel,  and he lets go and tries to smother it in vain.

“Alright, I think you are indeed in another place”

“Hm” his palpable displeasure makes Hob chuckle

“Tell you what, you go and attend whatever ‘dream’ business you are needed for, and meanwhile I go and prepare to make a dinner for two back at my apartment?”

“I think it is a good course of action”

“It's a date then” Hob gives him another quick kiss, before letting him go, with promises of making up for all the time they have been oblivious fools.

Dream finally forces himself to return to the Dreaming, he has duties to attend and a raven to thank.

And later, a date.

(I have a diferent idea for today, but @hsdreamling wondered what happened with this two after Matthew escaped, hope this its at least enjoyable!)

(english is still not my first lenguage)

[incrediblemirai]

Fanfic - Don't Watch Me Die

I wrote this a year ago for the Bad Things Happen Bingo, Public Execution/Torture prompt.

Danganronpa V3 spoilers

Summary: Monokuma decides to change the execution for the third trial. Shuichi suffers deepy.

Trigger warnings: Graphic gore, gun violence, suicide/suicidal ideation, psychological horror, trauma, sexual abuse mentioned, incest, vomiting. This is very dark. It is not an easy read.

Fic under read more

Korekiyo could never forget where they were. He spent half his life outside, walking around the world in field studies, looking up at the beautiful sky. Beautiful in all its imperfections, the irregular clouds crossing it, the way it would shine gray and blue and white. This sky here was fake, too blue, the clouds too regular, the night sky full of fake constellations too well placed. 

It was unbearable. The lies. The untruth of it all. Being trapped in a real place would feel better. Still, some things made being here better. Perhaps passable. Acceptable, for now, knowing he could leave someday. And these things were precisely two (he noted in one his many unfinished notes). One, his lab, with all its amazing artifacts and books, the smell of history that despite everything was real. Two, Shuichi. Shuichi didn’t have a classification, the way one would put on a government form. Circle one: friend, colleague, acquaintance, lover, other. If he had one, it would be other, though Korekiyo wouldn’t choose something as vague and unexplanatory as that. 

Today, he was laying on the soft grass with Shuichi, reading books they chose from the library. After Rantaro’s death, the library was filled with a silent, palpable dread - to most people. Korekiyo didn’t particularly care, but Shuichi seemed uncomfortable and couldn’t stop looking at the stain seeping into the floor, so they left. They took the books outside, leaning against a tree in the courtyard. His book was fascinating, but alas, he was uncharacteristically distracted (yet characteristically self-aware). He could sense Shuichi next to him, hyper aware of everything about him, the way he sat so close their shoulders touched when he turned the page, to how he smiled at his novel (an embarrassing romance novel that he would never actually admit to liking, because he was easily embarrassed like that), to how he was breathing. 

It wasn’t unusual for him to stare, he reassured himself. He was an anthropologist after all, it was right for him to observe others. Right, and normal, and not disobeying any rules. Shuichi bit down on his lip as he read (maybe it was a romantic scene?). If he asked, Shuichi would kiss him with those lips. He was sure of this, Shuichi had told him himself last week, his face red with want and embarrassment as he took Korekiyo’s hand and asked to kiss him, half-whispering, his eyes shining. 

He had to say no, of course, because he had Sister, but for a moment he let himself imagine what would happen if he said yes. Shuichi would kiss softly, but with a passion behind it, the quiet fire that shone out of him, the one that made Korekiyo look, ah maybe he stared too much? Maybe it wouldn’t be soft, maybe he would kiss hard, his hands running through Korekiyo’s hair, kissing until he forgot he had ever kissed anyone else, until the world and the past disappeared.

“Are you alright?” Shuichi asked, bringing Korekiyo’s mind out of the maze he had gotten lost in, turning to face him, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“Ah, I got carried away daydreaming. I apologize,” he responded, swiftly turning back to his own book. He shouldn’t have thought that, he got carried away, it was wrong, a mistake… Sister would be angry. 

“So, what’s your book about?” Avoidance is the best way to suppress awry thoughts . Shuichi closed the book, hiding the cover against his chest. 

“Uh, Sherlock Holmes.” An obvious, terrible lie. Sherlock Holmes would not be impressed.

“You don’t have to be ashamed of reading romance books. It’s normal to want such things, isn’t it? Love, affection, comfort… pleasure.” It was sweet, watching Shuichi blush. “And I hope you know by now I don’t judge.” 

“You do judge. I see the way you look at Kaito.” Shuichi said pointedly, but he was smiling. 

“He deserves it.” 

“Hey, no fighting.” He poked him in the arm, in Shuichi’s charming awkward way, unsure if this touch was okay. Korekiyo himself wasn’t sure whether it was okay. 

It was difficult to stop thinking. He had always been like that, mind running a hundred miles an hour underneath the carefully crafted cold exterior. A statue, hands carved together in prayer, no expression on its face. Now he was thinking too much, letting himself get carried away. Sister had been enough, more than enough, his whole world and universe, and then came Shuichi, with his genuine interest in what he had to say, who wasn’t afraid of him, who truly enjoyed his company in a way no one else had. Shuichi who was gentle, who worried for him when he hurt, who wouldn’t hit him or yell at him or drag him to bed when he wished not to… though of course those actions were acceptable, they too were signs of love, it was understandable that Sister hit him. It was deserved. His heart fluttered, and his mind responded, soothing himself with well-rehearsed phrases.

Shuichi was a bad influence on him, making his mind tremble with uncertainty like this, tempting him , perhaps unknowingly, when he was happy with Sister.

He was happy.

Korekiyo’s bandaged hand just barely brushed the fingers of Shuichi’s right hand, enough for plausible deniability, teetering between platonic affection and something more that his Sister would not like to hear about, and maybe that was alright, since it didn’t really mean anything. Friends could touch hands. Acquaintances could touch hands.

I don’t believe you, Korekiyo. Don’t tell me you’re developing feelings for this little whore? Aren’t I good enough for you?

“Saihara, would you kill for someone you love?” He didn’t know he would speak until he was done saying it, left almost breathless, as if it was his admission of guilt. It silenced Sister for a moment. He was a bad brother for wanting to silence her, he knew that, but surely just one moment of silence could be forgiven? No, probably not. He’d deal with the consequences later. 

Shuichi turned to face him, looking concerned.

“Huh?”

“When Akamatsu was found guilty, everyone forgave her because she had good intentions. Would you kill, if you had a good reason?” He paused to take a breath. “The morality of a person is defined by many influences. Your family, friends, the media you consume… everyone is a unique patchwork of their own experiences that cannot be replicated. I want to hear what you think about it. ” If Shuichi noticed him tense up, he didn’t comment on it.    

Shuichi thought about it for a moment, mulling it over, biting his lip in concentration (he always did that when thinking – it was one of things that were charming when Shuichi did them that weren’t charming on anyone else).

“I don’t know if I could. I’d like to say I could do it to save someone’s life, but I don’t think I could actually force myself to do it.” He looked at his hands. “I can’t imagine the feeling of it. Knowing that someone died because of you. Watching their life drain away…” Suddenly, Korekiyo regretted bringing this up.

No one knew better than him that it wasn’t a good feeling.  

He remembered his first kill: standing in the victim’s bathroom, washing her blood off his hands with her lavender scented soap. She was a nice girl, studying nursing at a local university. He met her in a library, when she approached him with a question about the book he was reading and he could see in her face that she had no intention of listening to his answer. She was twenty, only a little younger than Sister, and he told her he was twenty too. 

She took him home that day,  took him to bed. Vaguely, he was aware this was illegal. What would she do, if she found his school ID, and realized he was fourteen? He closed his eyes and thought about Sister. It was her idea, to kill this woman, make her Sister’s friend. 

He turned the tap to hot, as if boiling water could cleanse the sins those hands committed. 

The mirror didn’t show his reflection when he looked at it, but Sister’s, her yellow eyes and lipsticked mouth, and he watched tears roll down her face. I’m very proud of you, Korekiyo , she whispered to him, her hushed voice wrapping thorns around his chest, making it hard to breathe, a feeling that belonged to her, that he felt only because he belonged to her.

“You’ve gone quiet. Are you alright?” Shuichi pulled him out of his memories, one of his thin fingers trailing across Korekiyo’s chest, half-soothing, half a plea for touch. Shuichi was a physical creature, seeking out touch, holding on hard onto every embrace. Maybe if it weren’t for Sister (blasphemy), he’d offer him all the touch he wanted, let him remove his mask, kiss him in the moonlight, let himself become his.

“Shall we switch topics? I realized this question was… rather uncomfortable,”

He’d leave you if he knew what you’ve done. He’d hate you. Imagine his face if he realized what a damaged little whore you really are, the kind of things you’re willing to do. That’s why we stay together, isn’t it? Because no one but me could ever love you.

The horror of the case had infected the room. The tall windows of the courtrooms created slivers of silver light that did nothing to alleviate the darkness that had settled into everyone. For a moment, Shuichi was hyper aware of everything around him. Kaito clenching his fists, Himiko’s pooling tears, Kokichi’s uncharacteristic seriousness, his own breathing, his pounding heart. They were all waiting for the inevitable, the moment Monokuma dragged off the blackened to his death.

There were ten of them there, the room filled with students, but Shuichi could only see Korekiyo. In an hour, he had fallen apart, his composure in pieces. After his last speech, he dropped to the floor, tears shining in his eyes, and now he was weeping loudly, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. 

The calm exterior had been ripped off, leaving an undignified mess, a raw, hurting creature. Before, he moved with purpose, every touch of the hand meant to convey an expression he couldn’t with his mouth behind the mask. Even now, his mannerisms were delicate, the way he wiped the tears out of his eyes, feminine and familiar, and Shuichi was struck by how this was the last time he’d ever see him like this, because every minute was the last, and he should have been relieved, and that he wasn’t.

His mask had become wet with tears, so he pulled it down to his chin, wiping the flowing tears off his cheeks, covering his mouth with his other hand. He hid his mouth like he wouldn’t exist if he showed himself.

Shuichi had learnt how to read Korekiyo’s eyes before (he knew even as it was happening that there would always be a before and after ) and now those golden eyes were full of fear and pain and Shuichi’s own eyes blurred with tears. Silver light shone onto Korekiyo from the window, making his pale skin glow, and for a moment he looked like a ghost, his bloodless face polished with tears and shining lipstick that was all wrong. 

It made him otherworldly. A shadowed ghost. 

Part of Shuichi wanted to rush over to him, offer some last comfort, selfishly wanting to be held just one more time, just one more memory to hold onto, one memory to cradle when he will lie in his cold bed alone tonight. However, his legs were rooted to the spot, and he didn’t dare move.

“What’s with the long faces? I thought you’d be excited this time.” Monokuma laughed, appearing out of nowhere with his Monokubs. “Don’t you all want this freak dead?” He walked up to Korekiyo and pulled his hair, making him whimper in pain. “He hurt your friends. He hurt many, many others.” 

“He’s our classmate. We won’t celebrate his death,” Maki said, voice hard as nails, and it was that which really broke Shuichi, the severe way she spoke, as if it was inevitable, something unchangeable. 

A broken sob escaped him, tears escaping his eyes, trailing down to his mouth, their salty taste a sick reminder that this was real, not a nightmare. Even after all he had heard, all these horrible truths, he kept seeing the person who had read with him, told him stories, smiled under the fake stars, who cried when Shuichi told him he cared for him ( I love you went unsaid, because Korekiyo had told him there was someone else, but he still sensed his thoughts and let it happen), who had climbed into his bed and turned off all the lights so he could kiss Shuichi without being seen with his mask down. 

He fell fast, and he always knew Korekiyo would break his heart, but he didn’t think it would hurt like this.

Monokuma grinned. “Does this make you sad, Saihara? Imagining your pretty boy toy dead? Knowing how he’s going to suffer terribly?” He refused to give Monokuma a response. He let the tears run down his face, looking down, avoiding everyone’s eyes. 

“You fell for the act hard, Shuichi. If you were a serial killer, wouldn’t you seduce the Ultimate Detective? He tried to save his ass and look where that got him.” Monokuma laughed horribly. 

The others never knew the two had something between them (something informal, not lovers, because Korekiyo wasn’t willing to call him his lover but let himself be loved, something undefined which could never satisfy Shuichi’s heart), because they wouldn’t understand, they didn’t like Korekiyo before this either. Everyone’s eyes weighed heavily on him, and without seeing their faces it was easy to imagine their judgment, their disgust.  

The silence stole all the air out of the room. How long had it been since the verdict was called? It felt like an eternity. It would be easier if Monokuma gave them a countdown, letting them know how much longer they had.  

Would Korekiyo forgive him if he turned away and didn’t look? Would he forgive himself? After what happened to Kirumi… how badly would he suffer?

A bandaged hand slipped a handkerchief into his own, and Shuichi looked up without even thinking. “Please take it.” Korekiyo’s voice trembled. It’s something to remember me by went unsaid. “I want you to know—” He couldn’t keep his voice stable anymore, letting it waver as he spoke, “it was never an act or a ploy.” 

Shuichi took the handkerchief, put it up to his eyes. “I really wanted to travel the world with you.” Shuichi’s chest ached, and he wanted this to over more than anything, and he wanted this moment to never end because what will be next will hurt more. His bandaged hand brought the handkerchief down to his cheek, stroking it with his thumb, and Shuichi put his own hand on top of his.

He had a hundred things he could say.

“I don’t want you to die,” he whispered, all the strength leaving him.

“You’ll be alright. You’re much stronger than you know.” He’s never felt this small, crushed by the weight of his own feelings, so fragile the wind might break him into pieces. “I do not mind if you do not want to watch.”

“Alright, that’s enough. Execution time!” Monotaro yelled out, and Shuichi clutched the Korekiyo’s hand so tight he must have left half-moon marks, marks that won’t even get the chance to fade.

Monokuma jumped out again, standing at his podium. “Y’know, I’ve thought about it. We’ve done the execution thing so many times now! Isn’t it getting boring?” And for a moment he saw hope in Korekiyo’s eyes, felt it in his own heart, a ray of light breaking through the night.

“Yeah, I’m practically falling asleep here!” Kokichi yelled, and Shuichi felt a rush of affection towards him. “Let’s keep this telenovela relationship drama going,”

“We’ll just make a jail to put him into. That’s still fun for you, isn’t it, Monokuma?” Maki asked.

“Pupupupu, now you’re getting ahead of yourselves! We can’t let the blackened go unpunished, that’s the rules of the game! I’m just proposing an… alternate punishment.” He laughed, a strangled cacophony, filled with malice and hate. “I’m giving you a choice. You can either let dear Korekiyo suffer a regular execution, or one of you can shoot him dead!”

Shuichi’s hopes shattered, cutting into him, shredding up his insides.

There was no way to save Korekiyo. It was torture, or being shot. The alternate punishment was just Monokuma throwing one last rock at Korekiyo, crushing his hope again.

Next to him, all Korekiyo did was let out a strangled gasp, and somehow it was the worst sound he’d ever heard.

Monokuma pulled out a box, and opened it to reveal a pistol. “It only has one bullet, so make it count!” He laughed maniacally again.

Silence spread over the room again, but it felt loud with everyone’s thoughts buzzing around. All eyes were on them now, but no one would say a word, waiting for Korekiyo to say something.

“Being shot would probably be less painful than what Monokuma is going to do,” Kaito said, and Shuichi hated him for it, hated him for saying out loud what everyone was thinking.

“Unless it’s a trick, and Monokuma’s execution would be better?” Keebo asked, static seeping through his voice.

“It’s unlikely,” Maki spoke, looking directly at Korekiyo. “I can do it. You know I won’t make a mistake.” Her words were strong, but there was sadness in her eyes. “I’m used to the feeling of killing someone anyway.” Her nonchalance was a lie, hanging heavy in the air.

Before Korekiyo could respond, Monokuma cut in. “That’s not how this works! You can’t just choose who gets to do it! It’s meant to be a punishment .” He picked up the gun, spinning it around for a moment, before walking up the students. With a wicked grin, he handed the gun to Shuichi. “You’ve hurt so many people with your actions. All those grieving families. Now here’s your final victim – the only person who actually cared about you. You get to ruin him too!”

The gun was heavy in his hand, cold as ice, and his heart stopped beating. The gun was wrong in his hand, he couldn’t, he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t – Korekiyo would suffer if he didn’t, Monokuma would torture him, tear him apart, make his final moments hell—

“Shuichi, I can’t do this to you. Please, just let Monokuma execute me. It will be easier.” Korekiyo gripped his shoulders, but even as he did his hands were shaking. Shuichi looked into his eyes, bright molten gold, and imagined them dull and lifeless, the passion they once exuded gone.

“I don’t want you to suffer,” he said, slowly, the horror of his own words seeping into him like poison.

The night Kaede was executed, Shuichi wept, after she died, and then in his bed all alone. Blankets swallowed him, entangling him. He was hot, and the tears made him sticky. The force of his sobs hurt his lungs. When he closed his eyes, he could still see her expression as she was pulled up, and hear the torturously peaceful notes of the song that she was forced to play as she died. The tears would never stop, he would never forget, the sorrow would never ebb.

Someone sat on his bed. A hand reached out to pet him through the blanket like a frightened animal.  

“I brought you some food. A full stomach will bring you some comfort.” Korekiyo’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but it couldn’t hide its rich tone that now sounded like refuge. The hand had found his back, rubbing it, the motion barely there through the thick fabric.

Shuichi slowly pulled off the blanket, sitting next to his friend. “One learns to live with grief over time. It does not fully disappear, but life becomes bearable,” he said, his gentleness underscored with a familiarity, as if he had felt this suffering before. Slowly, Shuichi turned to lean on his shoulder, a silent beg for healing touch.

“Have you lost someone important to you?” he whispers, as if it would hurt less if he said it quieter.

“Yes, someone very dear to me… but I came here for you, not to talk about myself. Let me ease your pain, if only for a little, Saihara,” he said, wrapping one hand around Shuichi’s waist, pulling him closer. “Let me take your pain away, at least a little.” Shuichi closed his eyes and let himself relax against him, the other’s warmth melting the heaviness of his heart just a little, the pain easing if only for a moment.

“Let me take away your pain,” he said breathlessly.

This might kill him. He will never recover from this, never forgive himself, blood will stain his hands crimson until the day he dies.

“Shuichi, you don’t deserve to have this on your conscience. You won’t be able to forgive yourself,” he said, as if he had read his mind, because they knew each other, and maybe loving someone was just pain in disguise.

“I won’t be able to forgive myself either way. If I do it, I’ll hate myself for it, and if I don’t, I’ll hate myself for letting you suffer,” Shuichi’s voice broke. This punishment was not about letting them have hope and then taking it away – it was to force suffering, to create an impossible choice that would break him. Cooperation is our downfall . “I want to do what is least painful for you, even if really hurts,”

Korekiyo seemed to struggle for words, letting out half formed words he couldn’t make sense of. It was Shuichi’s job, after all, to render the blackened speechless. To win his argument.

He felt hollow, an empty vessel filled with pain and guilt and fear. What would be left of him, when the deed was done? He couldn’t imagine an after. He would never leave this room, never move on from what happened between these walls, the suffering they saw.

“If you kill me, I can never forgive myself for the suffering I have inflicted on you.,” Tthere was genuine devotion in his words. Tenderness. Proof that those nights spent together were true, that Korekiyo, who claimed he couldn’t love anyone but his sister, still had a space in his for Shuichi, that it was always real.

“It would be easier to hate you,” he said, caressing Korekiyo’s cheek, wiping his tears away. “But I can’t, so I just have to live with the pain of loving you.” His voice shook., “You won’t have to live with the pain,” —he inhaled— “so let me live knowing that I didn’t let you suffer.” He hesitated, looking away, his eyes falling on the gun in his grasp, focusing on its metallic shine. It felt like death in his hands. “I’ll aim well…” he whispered, his voice breaking, slipping into nothingness at the end. 

Korekiyo broke from his grasp, turning around to face Monokuma. “What if I don’t let him shoot me? What if someone else does it?” He said it forcefully, but it felt like a lie, like fear hidden by a voice slightly too loud. Even from where Shuichi stood, it was clear his hands were shaking. 

“Then that person is going to get executed instead of you!” Monokuma yelled, hands raised in anger. “Now get on with it!”

For a few seconds, the world stood still. Slowly, Korekiyo turned back to him. Defeat clouded his tawny eyes, and Shuichi knew .

 “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry,” he said hoarsely. Ice filled his lungs, leaving him numb. Tears blurred the world, running into his mouth, suffocating him. 

“I’m so sorry.” There were no words for how he felt, the regret, the guilt, so he kept saying sorry. A weak, useless phrase that was never going to be enough. A bandaged hand took his empty hand, intertwining their fingers, a last little bit of warmth before Shuichi’s heart freezes and shatters on the floor. “Don’t apologize, please.”

“You wanted me to—”

“It’s all over for me now,”  —he squeezed his hand harder— “so take care of yourself.” Finality rang through his voice. It’s the last of everything. Last words .

Korekiyo motioned him to close his eyes, and so he took one last look at someone he had loved. In the darkness, he felt a bandaged hand hold the hand with a gun in it, forcing the gun in the proper position. In a few seconds, his hand will be lifted to his head, and he will pull the trigger. I’m sorry .

He lifted his hand slowly. Then, Korekiyo pulled his hand hard, tearing the gun out of it.

He heard the gunshot before he could open his eyes. The recoil knocked him backwards, his ringing ears barely hearing the sound of a body falling, liquid splattering on the ground, on him. Maki grabbed him, one hand over his eyes, pulling him away, trying to turn him around, and she was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her over the sounds of his screams (when had he begun screaming?)

“It’s okay, you’re okay now. Stop crying,” Maki said, pulling at him. Kaito grabbed at him, trying to calm his flailing hands. Horror reverberated through the room, and he needed to see, he had to say goodbye or he could never leave this place in peace.

“Let go,” he hiccuped, “I want to see.” 

By now, his two friends held him in place, but he fought, trying to fling himself out of their grasp.

“Shuichi. Don’t let the way he died spoil your memories of him. Remember as he was when he was alive.” Maki’s voice was confirmation of what he already knew.

“No…” His voice wobbled. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. “I don’t believe you, he can’t be—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, the last word stuck in his throat. Maki didn’t respond. 

How much longer could they keep holding onto him? It felt like an eternity had passed. “If we still have him, we should at least” —he paused to breathe, inhaling raspily— “bury him. It’s only right,”

“Shuichi, he wanted you to close your eyes so you wouldn’t watch him die. Don’t waste his consideration.” Gentleness seeped through her voice, and it stilled him a little. The ringing in his ears was subsiding. Energy drained out of him, leaving him limp, until he collapsed on the floor, still held by Maki. Even now, he was painfully aware of Kiyo lying not so far from him. Before, he could always feel him in a room, his passion making him shine. That passion left his eyes now, expression growing cold, the warmth he exuded gone. He closed his eyes willingly.

They stayed closed until he felt the cold outside air hit his skin. Gonta carried him back to his room, because they all knew he’d never get off the floor otherwise. He’d be ashamed of it later, he knew, but now the pain numbed all other feelings. At least his ears had stopped ringing.

Looking into the bathroom mirror was a horror of its own. Crimson stained his clothes, tear shaped splatters staining his uniform, more concentrated around the top of his jacket. Tear shaped drops spread out over a wide area. Characteristic of a gunshot wound at close range. 

He hated his talent. And maybe himself.

In the shower, he washed off someone else’s blood. That blood came from his head. How could he have looked after? There must have been a lot of blood. Is the phrase blowing your brain out accurate? Maybe his skull was blown to pieces, leaving him unrecognizable. The long hair that he could see from across the room, partially covered by his hat. Golden eyes. What was left? Maki and Kaito didn’t let him see, so it must have been horrible. Sickeningly, he imagined a pool of blood, brains scattered on the floor—-

Shuichi jumped out of the shower and threw up in the toilet. The red spaghetti they had for lunch came back out looking like intestines.

Before he put his uniform in the laundry (he would never wear it again, no matter how well it was washed. He would always see the blood), he pulled out the handkerchief. It was white, with red embroidery around the corners. A little heart. It looked self-made, the stitches a little crooked, white showing through spaces in the heart. He wondered when Korekiyo had gotten it, if it was something he bought on his travels, if he had it at home and embroidered it for practice. If it was a gift. Those long fingers would surely be well suited to embroidery.

Dressed in his pajamas, he climbed into bed, holding the handkerchief in his fist, curling up on himself and putting the handkerchief to his face. 

Sleep would mean nightmares.

Before, a nightmare could easily be forgotten. He’d stand outside of Korekiyo’s door and ring the bell and soon he’d be lying in his bed soothed by gentle whispers and kind hands running through his hair.

That would never happen again.

The clock beside his bed read 10:42 PM. Normally, he’d be training with Kaito and Maki, but he hoped that they understood that he couldn’t today. In a desperate attempt to run away from his own thoughts, he watched the clock intensely, waiting for the minutes to change. 

When he closed his eyes, the gunshot boomed in his head, blood splattering him anew. The memories of today were on the brink of teetering into his consciousness, buzzing around his brain like flies. In a desperate attempt to calm himself enough to sleep, his mind flitted between thoughts, lovely memories from before today, random things he had learnt at the school. Eventually, he even began recounting evidence from earlier trials, listing them. Still, these distractions were as weak as tissue paper, nothing but pathetic distractions from the memories he kept at bay. 

Then, the world went dark, and within a moment his eyes were open again, fresh anxiety coursing through his veins, his heart beating like a jackhammer. The clock now read 11:02 PM. 

He couldn’t handle a night of this. 

A dangerous, enticing thought creeped into his mind.

He couldn’t go to Korekiyo, but he could go to his room.

He sat up on his bed, sliding his feet into his slippers. Cold air struck him as he left the safety of his blanket.Shivering, he walked out of his room, quiet as possible to avoid anyone seeing him. Still, he paused at the doorknob, but only for a moment, before opening the door. 

Korekiyo would understand. 

It was even colder inside the room, with no warm body to heat it. The cold had never bothered him before, because it was easily rectified with a little touch, or if he was really cold, he would take the blanket off the bed and sit around like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Korekiyo always found that amusing. His uniform kept him warm enough. 

The room was the same as he left it. The bed was neatly made, while every other surface in the room was covered in notes, books taken from his lab, pens strewn around randomly, sticky notes with last minute notes that were tacked onto papers randomly. He stood next to the desk, looking at the pages of messy scrawl, observations about the school, the students. Touching the items would be a trespass, damage, the room turned irrevocably precious by its owner’s death. 

Korekiyo spent his life studying such items, finding the remains of people lost, trying to figure out how they lived, imagining what they thought. Now, Shuichi stood there, picturing Korekiyo sitting on the very chair he was sitting in now, scribbling notes, his thoughts running faster than he could write. His eyes lit up when he talked about anthropology, passion exuded with every breathless word. He spoke of it as if he had never spoken before, as if every listener was a rare opportunity. Maybe it was so, and he remembered how Korekiyo stood in the background whenever they were together, alone, observing. Lonely.

He wouldn’t let all this work go to waste. When they left, he would take these with them, give them to a university or some journal. So there was always some part of him left, other than memories. Something good.

The closet held nothing but the many exact copies of his uniform. He stroked the thick material of the jacket, feeling its ridges. For Korekiyo, it was the ultimate symbol of his sister’s love. Before today, he thought that was sweet, but now it seemed sickening, how she dressed him up to be a soldier. 

Still, he couldn’t imagine Korekiyo without this uniform, and touching it only reminded him of all the time spent with him. The starched material stiff was on his cheek when he had leaned on Korekiyo’s shoulder, the buttons he had hurriedly undone with his own hands in the warmth of his bed…

The room was so cold. 

Deftly, he slid one jacket of its velvet hanger, pulling the jacket over himself. It was too wide in the shoulders, and too long, the cuffs covering even the tips of his fingers, fitted for someone taller. 

Slowly, he warmed up. 

His bathroom was much neater than Shuichi’s own. A cologne bottle decorated the shelf above the sink, golden brown, the source of the smell that had become so familiar to Shuichi, a mix of sandalwood and musk and bergamot. He picked up the bottle, holding it in the palm of his hand, the fragility of it accentuated by the heavy weight of memories it held, the truth that it had become a relic of a bygone era. 

The scent forced him to remember the long days spent together, scribbling notes side by side, listening to stories, lying together in bed, running away from the killing game that ensnared them through the comfort of each other’s bodies. Then, a sharp memory threatened to burst the comfort that had settled around his heart, a memory of today, and he quickly put down the bottle. 

Or… maybe it would be alright to take it with him. Korekiyo would understand. But he would leave it till the morning. Subconsciously, he had already made up his mind to not leave this room tonight, to grieve in another bed, to sleep comforted by sheets that now had no one to claim them.

The lipstick tube next to the bottle caught his eye. It was quite small in actuality, the length of a finger, unassuming, unaware of what it symbolized, what horrors its owner made it do. He opened the tube, feeling dirty for it. The lipstick itself was painfully ordinary, a dark red bullet, curved by months of use. Deft hands had picked it up, spreading pigment around their owner’s open-mouthed pout, a horrible secret masked as a beauty ritual.

Disgust spread through him, toxic mold that suffocated his lungs, tore apart his heart and mind.

Yet he had loved those lips.

He lifted the lipstick to his mouth, letting the pigment rub on his lips, his hand shaking. It felt strange, the wax coating his mouth.

He couldn’t recognize the stranger in the mirror, with Shuichi’s hair and eyes and certainly someone else’s mouth. Did Korekiyo feel that way too, that he had lost himself in the mimicry of his sister? That person who he knew… did he even know he never existed?

The lipstick tasted like vanilla, a sweet taste that was dreadfully wrong for this horror. The burst of pleasantness brought Shuichi back to his senses. Quickly, he pawed for the tap, trying to rub the lipstick off with water. It wouldn’t come off cleanly, leaving him looking red around the mouth.

He couldn’t do this. Take his jacket, cologne, lipstick, turn himself into him , hide in his skin to avoid this grief, not feel. He wasn’t going to be Korekiyo, who held on so tight he shattered. Sister had scooped out everything that made him him , and grief had broken him apart and gutted him until he was nothing but cracked remnants of a person held together by suffering and pain.

I’m sorry that I didn’t notice sooner.

He put the bottle back. The jacket too. He looked at the room one last time. The notes that would be the last thing Korekiyo had ever created. And he knew that in fifty years, he wasn’t going to be known for his contributions to anthropology. A case for criminology students. For psychiatrists. Maybe Shuichi was the only person who ever saw good in him. He turned off the light and left. It wasn’t the last time he ever saw that room. No, as the days went on he would return, filled with sadness, or rage, or both, with love and hate and shame. And it would get easier, slowly, after a while, and one day everything they were would be nothing but a memory, Korekiyo stuck as an eternal tortured sixteen year old. But that was far away, and today Schuichi crawled back into his own bed, clutching his sheets like they were a lifetime, and tried to sleep.

@badthingshappenbingo

[clotpolesonly]

Lean On Me

for @foofsterroonie and the Stiles Shipping Central discord's monthly exchange, the theme for which was Alpha April!! opted for an OT3 option this time, which i don't think i've done before in this event for some reason 😂 | Stiles/Scott/Kira | Gen | 1k | Established Relationship | Alpha Scott | Stiles Gets The Bite | (also on AO3)

.

Stiles stared at the teeth marks in his forearms. Every puncture was distinct. A dentist would kill for this bite print. His dad could probably solve a murder with it—not that Scott had committed any murders, so that probably wasn’t relevant. It also hurt like a bitch, but hey, anything with this much blood and flesh-rending was bound to, right?

The venom hurt too. Its exact composition was a mystery, but Deaton’s alarm when they had dragged Stiles into the clinic and described the creature that had clawed him up had been all the information they’d needed. Whatever it was, it was bad, and even their local guru didn’t have anything to offer them. 

A soft hand on Stiles’ shoulder dragged his eyes away from their hail mary. Kira hosted herself up on the metal exam table beside him, close enough to swap her hand out for her chin and press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Scott will be back in a minute,” she said. "Once he gets Liam’s broken arm sorted out.”

Once he got himself sorted out, Stiles filled in. The look on Scott’s face when he realized that giving Stiles the bite was their best option had not escaped him; they had both known it wasn’t what Stiles wanted. Scott had known that for years, and he had always been wholly in favor of Stiles making the choice for himself.

And, Stiles would argue, he had. The circumstances were not fantastic, and there was definitely an element of coercion in play, but it was not Scott’s coercion. Stiles didn’t want to die, and therefore, he had made the choice to get the bite for himself, but Scott’s guilt had been palpable before the blood was even on his teeth. It was probably for the best that he had let himself be drawn away to tend to his injured beta because otherwise he might have cried on the spot, and that would’ve been awkward while they sat around waiting to see if Stiles survived.

“He can take his time,” Stiles told Kira with faux nonchalance. “I haven’t died yet. If I was gonna reject the bite, I would’ve died by now, right? Spewed black goo all over the place and keeled over? That’s usually a pretty quick process, if memory serv—”

“Maybe try not thinking about death," Kira suggested. "Think living thoughts!”

“Mind over matter?” Stiles said wryly. “Think that works?”

Kira snorted. “God, I hope not. My mind is not a best-case-scenario kind of place. I don’t want to see what it would manifest if given the power.”

Stiles’ laugh was interrupted by a grunt of pain. He pressed his good arm against the bandages around his middle, still contaminated with fucking acid spit or whatever the fuck that thing had secreted into his abdomen. He wasn’t sure what hurt more, the muscle-deep wolf bite or the burning gashes in his stomach. They both fucking sucked.

Kira took his hand gently, carefully not to jostle him and make it worse. “I wish I had the pain drain mojo,” she said with a grimace that made Stiles smile in spite of everything; it was the only thing their resident kitsune envied about the werewolves. “Is it better or worse than before?”

“Hard to tell. You hurt in enough places at once and it all kind of blends together.”

The door flew open before Kira could do more than squeeze his hand in sympathy. Scott was at Stiles’ side in an instant, hands flitting around like he couldn’t decide what he needed to examine first. He had rinsed the blood out of his mouth at some point in the last eight minutes. His eyes, while red-rimmed, were dry.

“Stiles,” he said, a world of care, relief, and worry in that one word alone. “How are you feeling? Has there been any— I mean, is the bite— The venom, is it—”

Stiles pulled his hand from Kira’s to take Scott’s instead. “Deep breath, Scottie. I’m doing fine. So far, at least.”

“No black goo?”

“No goo of any colors,” Kira assured him. 

Scott visibly deflated as the tension left him. The hand in Stiles’ turned to lace their fingers together properly and, with a softly released breath, he let his veins flood black.

Stiles groaned as the burning and the throbbing and the multitude of other pains leached out of him. “Oh, that’s so good, I could kiss you.”

Even with Stiles’ pain in his own veins, Scott smiled. “There’s literally nothing stopping you from doing that,” he reminded him.

Except for Kira’s head still on his shoulder, dislodged when he leaned forward. She pouted about it, but she perked right up when offered a kiss from both of them in apology. Then she shuffled down the table, tugging Stiles gently along with her to make room for Scott to join them. It was a bit of a tight fit for three teenagers, but they didn’t mind.

Stiles, now with his boyfriend on one side and his girlfriend on the other, flexed his hand, watching the muscles of his masticated forearm shift with morbid fascination. “Is it my imagination or does the bite look, like, older than it did before?”

Kira leaned close to examine it, unperturbed by the blood in a way that Stiles still had yet to achieve, at least when the blood was his own. “It definitely does. Does it hurt less?”

“Dude,  I just got pain-drained, I can’t tell.” He turned to Scott. “If this works, you gotta teach me how to do that, first thing.”

Scott put an arm around him, pulled him closed, and pressed a kiss to his temple. “When this works,” he said, “I’m gonna teach you everything.”

That sounded wonderful. Stiles melted into the embrace; the activity and stress of the day was catching up with him. With Scott’s arms around him from one side and Kira’s warmth settled against the other, he let his eyes slip closed.

“Can’t wait.”

[the1975attheirverybest]

A/N: I don’t fuckin know what this is. Nobody requested it or asked for it. It’s not a thing. It’s nothing. Here goes nothing.

Warning(not a warning. More like a an invitation. A dare, if you will): Arctic Monkeys.

A bit of Matty x live band member Y/N? Or maybe Matty x opening act Y/N? Idk.

—

She surveyed the club from her position onstage like a lioness keeping a watchful eye over her kingdom.

“Have they made it smaller? I remember the stage being bigger than this.” She turned to ask Adam, who stood next to her, tuning up a guitar and testing its sound.

“No, they haven’t.” He said, his eyes on the tremolo bar, itching to touch it. “Youth.” He added.

“Hmm?”

“It’s youth that makes everything feel bigger and more dramatic. That, and…being in the audience. Things look a lot different from up here.”

She simply nodded. That seemed to be the lesson of the evening. Adam had shown her around the establishment all night. A place she’d been to countless times before. As a young artist, dreaming of one day donning the stage, she’d scrape together whatever money she could afford to get tickets and see shows here as often as possible. But, getting the exclusive, behind-the-scenes tour of the place, now, as a grown up and an artist, was a complete mind-fuck. Torn between the mechanical, technicalities of actually playing the venue and the child-like awe of wanting to believe in the inherent specialness of this building. The spirit of the music that has played here over the years. The symbolic significance that it has to the Manchester music scene. It was all overwhelming. That, and, the fact that, at 3 am, that it had been a long night already.

“Okay, try it now.” Adam took the guitar strap off, handing the instrument over to her.

“Thanks.” She held the guitar in her hands, but before she could even test it out, Adam intervened again.

“See? It’s too big for you. There’s a mini strat in my case back there. I’ll go get it.” He suggested.

“No, no. That one’s red, isn’t it?” She’d spotted Matty at the other side of the room. Her eyes fixed on him as he leaned against the closed bar, surrounded by chairs turned upside down and hanging by their respective tables. He was having a secret indoor smoke, talking to Ross about something, his sunglasses on his face to shield his eyes from the direct light blaring out from the box-shape lights in the floor- a ridiculous idea he’d had while stoned the night before, and somehow managed to talk the owners of the club into letting him do it.

“Why does it matter if it’s red?” Adam asked, but she was hardly listening. Her mind had already wandered back to fantasies of Matty finally shoving her up against the sweat-covered walls and kissing her. She swore there was a palpable spark between them. Or maybe it was all just in her head. If she’d gotten it wrong somehow, perhaps it was better not to find out.

Adam tapped her on the shoulder. “How about this one? It’s black, does that suit your aesthetic?”

“My man! Thanks very much.” She grabbed the guitar. Fiddling with the tone and volume controls.

“Alright, give us a little something. Let’s hear it.”

She nodded, smiling to herself and taking a deep breath. She took one last glance at Matty, then began to thrum a single suspended chord over and over. She grinned as she saw Matty’s ears perk up, his head turning to face the stage as he recognized the tune.

She clicked the microphone on, “there’s this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat. Until I fall asleep. Spillin drinks on my settee.”

An amused smile took over Matty’s face. He took his sunglasses off, placing them firmly in his slicked-back hair. He couldn’t quite explain why, but he was convinced that the way her mouth moved when she said “spillin’ drinks on my settee” was purposefully taunting him.

He made his way over to her, chanting in his mind “be cool, be cool, be cool,” and exercising every ounce of self-restraint in him to keep from speeding up his footsteps.

Her fingers continued to play the pre-chorus, though watching Matty, with his eyes in hers, made her go silent for a moment.

“Sorry, love.” Matty cocked his head when he was close enough to the stage “wrong artsy white boy. Arctic Monkeys play here NEXT week, actually.” He smiled when she put an abrupt end to her playing, crashing her whole hand against the guitar strings to silence them. “This is the 1975, so, we were looking for ‘The Sound,’ or ‘Paris’ maybe?”

A light flashed across her eyes, she repositioned her fingers on the fretboard and began playing the opening of ‘Chocolate.’

A series of chuckles erupted through the venue, making Matty smile, too. He shook his head ever so slightly “oh, now you’re just showin off.” He whispered, climbing the stage and standing alarmingly close to her. She struggled to keep her fingers on the correct strings, her breathing getting heavier. Was he going to kiss her? Why else would he be standing so close to her face? In all her daydreams about Matty, she hadn’t imagined their first kiss to be to ‘Chocolate,’ but so be it. Reality is always stranger than fiction. She prepared herself, closing her eyes.

Matty simply stole her mic, walking away to take his own position onstage.

Her eyes shot open, surprise and embarrassment overtaking her. She tipped her blushing red face back starring up and the ceiling and breathing rapidly, mouthing ‘fuck’ to herself.

“Now we run, run away from the boys in the blue” when she looked to the side, Matty was smiling, watching her from the corner of his eye. He SAW that.

“An my car smells like chocolate.”

[a-bucket-full-of-feels]

A retrospective look on Hibike! Euphonium S1&2 and what it means to me

"Because I like the Euphonium."

Amidst Hibike S3 airing in 2024, I decided to binge re-watch the first 2 seasons because it had been a long while since then. I've first watched season 1 some time after it aired (maybe in 2016?), and followed season 2 during its original run in 2016. Back then, I had just started university and fresh out of junior college. I played in a music ensemble in junior college and took part in an inter-school music competition (actually it wasn't so much of a competition but there was judging involved), so when I watched both seasons, it filled me with a fresh sense of nostalgia for those days that passed not too long ago. And now, as a 27 year old watching this series and living vicariously through the characters once again, while the experience is pretty much similar, my perspective towards this story feels somewhat different.

Throughout the series, it explores the question of "why do I play music?" through the lens of different characters. And though the motivation for each character is different - for example, Midori plays the contrabass simply because she loves music, Reina plays the trumpet to become special, and Mizore plays the oboe to be connected with her best friend Nozomi - it ultimately boils down to this: because they love their instrument. And because they love their instrument, it ultimately motivates them to continue playing in the band and reaching for the top despite the journey not being easy.

As an outsider looking into a music club, it can seem absurd how these kids can spend hours several times in a week devoted to gruelling practice sessions, all for the performance for 2 pieces lasting less than 15 minutes in total. And for most of these kids, the time spent in club activities won't have a direct impact in their future, in for example, preparing for college/university admission exams, unless they're going to music school. But having lived through that same experience myself, at that moment when you're preparing for that performance, you're just so emotionally invested in it, and what I absolutely love about Hibike is that it makes that passion feel so palpable.

At the same time, what makes Hibike especially compelling for me is how real it feels. Nobody is a true antagonist in the series, and everybody has their own motivations and backstory that you can empathise with, which makes the disappointments all the more heartwrenching. In particular, one story arc I didn't expect to hit me this hard during my re-watch was the Reina vs Kaori solo audition. Although Reina was more deserving of the solo based on merit and skill, I could feel Kaori's determination and even desperation to get the solo, being a third year student and being denied a chance to play solos in her junior years even though she was better because the band prioritised seniority over skill. And when she finally heard Reina's audition in front of everyone, the realisation hits her, and when Taki asks her if she would play the solo, she responds calmly "I won't, I can't". And at that moment, the anguish of it all just hit me. Perhaps having lived through my schooling/undergraduate days, the feeling of wanting to achieve certain goals or go through experiences but falling short of the chance to do so, knowing that you'll never get to do that again because you're only a student once... At that moment, I really felt for Kaori more than ever.

Ultimately, Hibike is an extremely poignant series for me because it so beautifully captures that fleeting moment of how it's like to be so invested an after-school activity, purely because you like it. When I went to university, like Kumiko, I was ambivalent about joining back the same music band that I once did in junior college, and wanted to try out another club that seemed more meaningful and looked better on my resume. I did both eventually, but the only club I stuck through till my final year was the music one, simply due to one reason - because I like my instrument. And now as a working adult, as I look back on my schooling days, the best moments of my life were definitely not sitting in class with my head spinning in increasingly difficult accounting lessons, but instead spending my days practicing and performing music with the band.

And it's that same sense of nostalgia and wistfulness that I felt as I re-watched Hibike - experiencing the characters go through their high school days preparing for the band competition, knowing at the back of their mind that these are the last few years they can do something they're passionate about, before becoming an adult with a boring job and caught up with real responsibilities. As I think about Asuka's farewell with Kumiko, and the third years realising that after the competition, it is truly the end of their concert band days, it hurts not only because of my emotional attachment to these characters, but the feeling of closing a chapter of your life in school is bittersweet.

To wrap this all up, when I first watched Hibike, I didn't expect myself to be so invested in it. I watched it because it was about high school band which was sort of relatable to my experience, and also the few Kumiko/Reina scenes I saw seemed very cute. But right now, Hibike is one of my all-time favourite anime series - its story is told with so much love and attention to detail by KyoAni, and this has truly made it a special series for me.

[vairiance]

I really think Pokemon should go back to 2D. Not even necessarily like HD 2D or whatever like Octopath Traveler (although that'd be cool I guess), but just what they had going in Gen 4/5, but polished up to modern tech standards.

So much charm was lost in the shift to 3D (not without benefit, of course, but still), and it brought a whole host of space issues, all in the name of making Pokemon look less appealing and having awkward movements. Like, compare these images of Hippowdon:

Leftmost is Gen 5, middle is modern, and rightmost is the (leaked) sprite from S/V.

Gen 5's is awesome! Grainy, obviously, by design, but otherwise it's super cool. You see a fierce looking hippo, posed threateningly, spewing sand to demonstrate its signature mechanic. Perfect.

Modern Hippowdon makes me sad. It's still kind of grainy (beyond what the resolution change of this image did to it), and it just looks like me on a Monday morning. You'd have no idea that this thing shoots sand, and you'd only get to see it look cool for a fraction of a second when it attacks, sometimes.

Then there's S/V Hippowdon. It's just a menu sprite icon, but look how clean it looks compared to modern Hippowdon! Imagine the Gen 5 Hippowdon pose, with the SV Hippowdon style. That'd be ideal for me I think.

3D has its benefits for sure, obviously, but I think 3D should be saved for spinoffs where a smaller scale can be enforced, and thus more care can be put into what is in the game. Comparing the 3D animations of Pokemon Colosseum/XD and what we have now proves this; in the Orre games, the Pokemon really feel alive, because they move in a way natural to what you'd expect, whereas in the modern era, everyone stands there idly and twitches once in a while to attack or get hit.

Move animations suffer as well. Let's compare the animation of Earthquake, a move that's supposed to be a terrifying massive quake of the earth. Here's how it's depicted in Gen 4:

Pretty cool, right? The magnitude of the quake is shown by literally everything shaking violently, with some dramatic flashes and rock effects. Not bad. But this could really benefit from 3D, let's take a look at how a powerful explosion of the earth is shown with the cutting edge graphics of Gen 8:

It is what would be considered a god awful green screen effect if seen in a movie.

Sure, but how much better could a 3D Earthquake animation be? Well, let's turn to the love of my life, Pokemon XD, to see how it's done:

Look, maybe you disagree with my assessment of these images, and that's fine. But I strongly encourage you to go back and play, say, Emerald, or Platinum, or what have you, if you haven't recently. You'll be able to palpably feel the difference between it and the newer games, and the visuals are just the surface of this. They're just what tends to come to mind whenever I think about it.

Idk I just miss when Pokemon games were delivered as strong single player games with multiplayer capabilities meant to last a decent while and then be put down, and returned to in a few years when you're feeling wistful, as opposed to increasingly lightweight multiplayer focused games with increasingly less single player endgame content so that they can push subscriptions of the god awful online pass

[fadeouttowhispers]

hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near

A/N: see the ‘disclaimers’ in the first one. Same thing applies: unbetaed, imperfect, probably not their final-final form. Rewatching the show has meant getting lots of ideas, and I was able to write this one rather quickly. Let's chalk it up to being sick when I wrote it. It's a bit different from the others (and not just because it's over 500), but not less ridiculous. I think it's obvious but this is set between Arctic Radar and Holy Night, in S4. Enjoy ♥️

Christmastime was probably the best time of the year to be at the White House – it was joyful, with its colorful lights and lovely live music, and this year, after an overwhelming victory at the polls, the jubilation in every staffer’s face was palpable. Unfortunately, Katie knew this feeling wouldn’t last for very long... Which is why the words in the email sent by her former mentor sitting in her inbox didn’t really surprise her. In fact, the kept promise made her smile.

“Hey, Mark,” she called for the colleague sitting behind her, poking him on the shoulder playfully. When the redhead turned around, he followed her finger to the screen. Katie’s eyes begged him to keep it quiet as she whispered, “Danny’s coming back soon.”

“For good?” Mark sounded as surprised as she has been, but the email answered it all. “Oh, okay, just for a couple of days. So… For now.”

As the email read, the erstwhile senior correspondent was coming back for the holidays, making a brief pit stop in DC to say hello to his friends, and to make sure his apartment was still standing, before flying out to his family’s home in Michigan for the remainder of the holidays. But first, he was heading to Bermuda for a short vacation. “No doubt to drink some rum,” Katie quipped. “He could’ve left that part out, so we didn’t have to feel jealous.”

“Maybe he wants to get lost there, after spending so much time traveling around the other side of the Atlantic,” Mark joked back. “Maybe this is the proof of life we need in case he’s not back here on December twenty… something.”

“There’s also this…”

Katie realized she needed a bit more cloak and dagger, as C.J. had entered the room to get Steve about a quote from earlier, and they were now standing by the doorway. Her mouse highlighted a passage – the one with the special request.

I’m pretty sure my press credentials are still valid, but I’ll ask around to make sure. I say this because I’d love to drop by as a surprise just before everyone leaves for the break. Is there any way you could keep my return quiet? I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I’d love to see everyone again.

“Can we do this?”

Mark considered for a second, pondering the possibilities. Keeping it quiet should be relatively easy, especially if only the two of them knew about it. “You know what? He would make a pretty fun Press Santa.”

“You just want to get out of it,” Katie pointed out, biting back a smile. “You know C.J. will make a crack about Canada not having the same simple traditions as the US. Again.”

"Or how redheads are interchangeable," Mark smiled affably. “Think about it. Unless somebody else finds out and tattles, C.J. would have no idea who’s under the costume. He’s already cleared, so there shouldn’t be a problem there. And… You know she’s the person he wants to see the most.”

“She would be thrilled, too. So excited, actually. They’ve always had this…”

“Indescribable thing?” he completed.

“Yeah. She was happy to see Sawyer on his pit stop after Myanmar, but this…” Katie just raised her eyebrows, wordlessly conveying what she couldn’t say out loud. “It’ll be better.”

Mark nodded in agreement, looking discreetly at the Press Secretary. “I heard the other day that she brought our wayward friend up to Mitch… So I think his return would be a good present on its own.”

“You’re not wrong,” Katie said diplomatically, as she watched C.J. leave the Press Room. She had a front-row seat to their dynamic for months and knew better than to bet against Danny. “Let me find out about his travel plans, make sure he’ll be here that day. I’m sure he’ll be game with whatever we throw at him. We can discuss specifics as we get closer, but I think the Santa idea might do. We’ll get some laughs out of this Christmas miracle.”

[sparatus]

🍇 because your food descriptions are so ghibli-like

that is the greatest compliment i could ever receive thank you

snippet asks

🍇 share a snippet with food(or the palpable lack of food)

went looking for a longer one specifically to fit that compliment. from The Weight of Memory ch1 [read on ao3]:

Valis was already picking through Des’s little herb garden on the counter when [Saren] walked in. She flicked one mandible in acknowledgment. “You hear from Nihlus?” He hobbled over to the kitchen table and pulled out the nearest chair to sink down into. He hoped they got the new leg built soon, only having one hand available was going to drive him insane. “Every night.” He undid the wrist strap and propped the crutch up next to him, then sat back in the chair, idly rubbing at his wrist. “We watch vids and play games, sometimes, if his connection is stable enough. Mostly, we just talk.” Valis thrummed understanding. Of course she did, she and Des had had their fair share of being long-distance over the years. Still did, with Desolas being a general and getting sent to work his charismatic magic on troops all across the stars. “He doing alright? Des said he was in a bad state.” Saren clicked his mandibles. “Better, now that I’m out of the hospital, but he’s… shaken. He didn’t want to leave, but I insisted. He…” His mandibles moved in and out slowly, remembering the sunken eyes and tense posture Nihlus had worn the last time he’d seen him. He needed time to recover, too, psychologically if not physically, and he hadn’t been allowing himself any. He’d argued, of course, and Saren would be lying if he said he didn’t want him to stay there with him, but as much as it hurt to send him away, it was killing him that much faster to watch Nihlus swallow back his own stress for the sake of not upsetting Saren. “He needed to go home.” Valis nodded along, padding over to check the temperature on the roast. Any turian worth their teeth preferred their meat rare, but with Lucipius still being only eight, they had to be careful. “Everyone’s shaken,” she commented, grabbing a mismatched pair of oven mitts off the counter. “Been hearin’ from people who ain’t reached out in years. Nobody knows what to do when a Titan falls.” She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that Saren almost didn’t process it at first. Then one mandible twitched as the word wormed its way in, and he had to stop and stare. Titan. Was that really what they all thought of him? He certainly didn’t feel like one, sitting in his brother’s kitchen in a loose band shirt and old cargo pants. Titans were people like Desolas, burning bright and strong and inspiring everyone to follow them to something better than themselves. He was strong, yes, unstoppable on the battlefield, but a force of nature was no Titan. Maybe he might have believed himself a god, once upon a time, but he knew better now. Holy things didn’t grow old and retire; he’d only ever been a man. If Valis realized what she’d said, she made no indicator, just calmly taking the roast out of the oven and setting it on the counter. The air swam before Saren's eyes as the rich, honey-drenched scent flooded the kitchen and elbowed everything else out of the way. He leaned forward in his chair, sniffing deeply. Valis chuffed. "Uh-huh. Should taste better'n it smells. Wanted somethin' special for you lot to come home to." She started sprinkling herbs over the roast, her claws clicking together with every little rub of her fingers. Saren settled back and leaned an arm on the table, closing his eyes to savor the scent, and – “So, when were you two planning on telling me Harper’s back?” His eyes snapped back open. There was an edge to her voice, something in her subvocals he couldn’t quite name. Uh-oh. He froze, watching her patiently pull a carving knife out of the block, trying to decide how best to answer. They had, in fact, barely discussed it at all – Desolas had asked him you know we can’t tell Valis, right?, he’d agreed, and that had been that. Valis had been through enough at Shanxi, and Des didn’t want to reopen old wounds. He was taking too long, evidently, because Valis sighed as the knife touched the meat. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she grumbled.

[rusty25]

There's so much I want to tell you. There's so much I want to hear about from you.

I couldn't afford to meet your eyes when we crossed paths today. A split second was enough for me to recognize you; although dazed, I averted my gaze intentionally.

I could feel that you were staring at me, though; maybe your glasses fogged up? you've heard I was in France and didn't expect me back so soon? failed to place me among your acquaintances? I will never know.

As I passed you, a whiff of your scent found its way into my nose. I only recently realized how sensitive my nose is. It's better than the average person's, did you know? The scent instantaneously transported me back to that little room, and that little hall before it. It was almost palpable.

...

Have you ever thought about me? Will you think about me now, after this? Will you write a poem, a fragment, two lines? Will you reminisce about our love and how it was lost? Will you cry? Will you banish the thought of me to the back of your brain, will I become a nagging feeling, bubbling up from your subconscious, where I have been neatly tucked away all these years?

Do you remember our promise? The time and date? Have you forgotten it, perhaps on purpose? I recall it clear as day: 4PM, May 11, 2029. On that bench. I have to admit, eight years is too damn long.

Maybe you hate me after all. Maybe I'm no good for you, no solice, no safety. Maybe your memory of me is rotten, tainted, smeared by the rhetoric you've heard since the last of the last had transpired. Maybe you don't want to catch up with me.

Perhaps you won't tell me how you're doing. Perhaps, the same way I can't, you won't tell me your heartbreaks, hardships, achievements, and joyful moments of the past 20 months. Perhaps you won't even be there.

There was a time when I thought that I didn't have the right to even think of you fondly. When I denied myself access to our good memories together. Talking to you in any way, shape or form was out of the question. It still is, I think.

I haven't been in love since you. Others came and went, and I felt a lot of things for them; but all of that was lightyears away from my love for you. I look for you in all the girls that catch my eye. I look for your intellect, your grace, your resilience, your cheer, your creativity, your empathy.

I just want you to know that I think about you, wherever you are in life. Our city is not big enough, we're bound to lay eyes on each other again. I swear I won't pass you by if you just utter a single word. I will turn back, I will brake, I will make a U-turn to look you in the eye.

If you're ready.

If not, I will keep pretending you only exist in a corner of my brain, and carry on with a heavy heart when I see you.

We'll make Heaven a place on Earth.

-dummy

[nycterent]

@crimeloyalty left a message: there's no use in talking. i know what you think.

wayne tower still looks halfway like a mausoleum. he can't bring himself to change it, no matter how hard he tries to. and he does try, sometimes. it feels right to make something different out of it, but he can never unfreeze it from that moment. if he lost that, then what would remain of the place he calls home? would it even feel like home? it's not something he has the time or energy to think about, with his nights occupied how they are. so it's pushed back every so often. even as alfred insists, again and again, he waves it off.

the company investors, he knows, don't like meeting him here. they always look palpably uncomfortable, standing among high windows and hints of dust in the corners, looking like they want to shrink back from it all. back into the light and out of the dark. bruce barely thought about why until he actually invited harleen over, and then had to think about it for more than the passing seconds he usually does.

so here they are, in the room with its round table, gotham's cloudy sunlight pouring in. a room full of ghosts. of the last time he saw his mother fix his father's tie. of the last time things felt easy and fit into place.

now they're arguing in it. or—not really arguing. bruce hasn't really disagreed with any of it. he's been listening.

the worst part of walking the tightrope of his life is how much he has to divorce what the bat would think, what he really thinks, from whatever bruce wayne would think. it's lying more often than not, or finding ways to accidentally wander into the truth. it's funny, the things bruce wayne sometimes says. of course, he doesn't really mean that. or think it.

"i don't — trust me, you don't always know what i'm thinking." despite himself, bruce manages a dry smile. there's nothing actually mocking about it. it looks more tired than anything. "i know it's your job to be able to work out what people are really thinking. so i'm not going to fault you for that. and i'm not looking for kindness about all of this either."

how can he, when he hasn't earned that kindness yet? he's a recluse. he has kept to himself as gotham crumbled for all these years, to the point where he's still more of a story than a person. stories are set in stone. they don't think. they follow their narratives until the end. he has to be better than that.

"so tell me what you're thinking about all this. about arkham, about the projects i've been putting money into. i can only keep an eye on so many of them at once."

[anafihs]

New beginnings or new insecurities

 Hello wanderers,

                                 It's been a long time since our last post. Sorry for this long absence, My semester kept me busy, but I'm back!. How are you all doing this year?

Well, now it's a new year, new resolutions, new goals. But do we need a new year to introspect and start a habit or stick to a new diet? I think the pressure on a new year and its resolutions are slowly fading replaced by new goals that extend beyond a new beginning.

    Well, it's refreshing to us but at the same time, it makes us introverts a little palpable. We tend to change our habits and routines on our own but the very world that intercepts this line makes us feel estranged when we discover others are doing a little more than that.

    I wondered if we were really committed to it, or if it was a spurt of our innate emotions. Eventually, I came to an understanding that how we perceive it matters the most. I am usually the one who feels this way once I hit the right spot after a long profound monologue going on in my head.

When I first started to improve my knowledge of a new topic of study, my peers were busy learning another topic that was way different from the one I chose. I felt revolted I couldn't discuss my understanding and thoughts which me feel isolated. I felt that my choice was bad and others were kinda made it look like it could be taxing for me to carry on my own.

 But I stuck to my choice and tried to navigate where it made me understand it much better and eventually, I gained new skills. My peers were surprised, but it was my trust in my own intuition that truly empowered me to overcome those challenges and embrace the journey.

Thus, I personally think that it's how strongly we emphasize our thoughts and goals that really make a difference. How about you guys? Have you ever felt conflicted between societal expectations and your own inner voice when pursuing a goal? Have you encountered such incidents or happenings? Feel free to share it.

Well, this is a short post guys,,,until then cheers to this new year and new happenings 

                                                                                     Yours truly in solitude

                                                                                                    Anafihs