#anyways i made this for the bit. bone apple teeth.

[scalpelsister]

Barbie: Death Of The Lord Edition*

*sword sold separately

[ideasarestuckinmyhead]

I think the bittersweet trio going on a camping date or something in the same spot Sugarboo talked to Seth would be super cute maybe? (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)

Camping date.

Sugarboo sighed as they tried not to slip while walking the trail. Seth planned the date this week for the trio, saying how he wanted them all to be in the same spot where he felt they met before. Alphonse was chatting about how one of the older men tried to make a comment on him and he shut it down. Both boys were just talking in front of Boo as they enjoyed the view of their boys enjoying themselves, it's been a while since all three have went on a date.

The basket in their hand made them think of the reactions to the goodies they made for the date. Smiling a bit wider Boo's thoughts were interrupted by Seth, who was worried that they were walking slow for some reason.

"Sugar you good? Do you need help carrying the basket?" Worried filled his tone as he asked them. Causing Alphonse to stop and look behind him as well now both were looking at them. Giggling at the boy's worry for them Sugarboo waved their hand nonchaluntly.

"I'm fine just enjoying my partner's having a good time is all. And I don't need help carrying this little basket, hell I could carry some more." Sugarboo was't allowed to carry another bag only the basket. The boys made sure they couldn't saying they would do the heavy lifting for them and not to worry.

"Nope! Your not going to be carrying anything else. Your not use to these trails like we are, Boo." Wagging a finger Alphonse knew if they didn't stop Sugarboo they would try and carry everything for them. "Plus don't want you to slip and hurt yourself. These trails haven't been kept right after Seth left." It was true most of the trails in the forest were kept up by Seth. He was really the only one that went through those woods daily, other than the occasional townie wanting to hunt a deer or rabbit for a stew.

"He's right Sug, don't worry were almost there anyways! It's a beautiful view. I was so exited when I found it because I wanted to show you two!" Giddiness was in the brown haired man's voice as he cut down some bushes to show a clearing. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, a willow tree in the middle with flowers everywhere and a river by it.

"Oh my god Seth this is beautiful!" Awe was in Sugarboo's voice as they looked around the clearing. Seth was smiling at the praise and looked at Alphonse who was smiling at him.

"Ooo Sethfrey wanted to show off huh?" Teasing lightly Alphonse walked with Boo to the Willow tree. Seth gave Al a 'really?' look but decided not to comment and just help set up for the date.

"Here Al grab the other side of the blanket." Both boys started to place the blanket down while Sugarboo looked over the groups things. Just to check if they had everything.

"Cimeome boo you made us triple check before we left remember? Dint worry everything's in there." Easing SB's thoughts Alphonse and Seth finally placed the blanket down. It was one that a older woman made for the three of them. It had candies, ghost, sweet treats and even some little mothmen on it.

"Yeah sug, pinkie is right." The pinkette threw a side eye at the brown haired man for the nickname. "Also, even if we forgotten anything. I'm glad we're all here to have a good time." Sugarboo smiled at their boy's, they always did know how to calm their mind.

"Place some rocks down at the corners so the blanket don't move too much. I'll set the food up okay?" Giving instructions the boys nodded and went to find good heavy rocks. Boo was humming a tune as they set the blanket, smiling wider as the boys joked around by the river. Then rushing back with four good rocks to place down, after doing so they marvled at Boo's food they made.

"Bone apple teeth." All three giggled at the saying before eating some of the food. They all made sure to not eat so much in the morning before going on the date. With chatting and eating they finished quickly. So they decided to play some games to pass the time before they had to set up their tent.

"TAG YOUR IT!" Alphonse slapped Seth's arm before running away.

"HEY NO FAIR!" Jumping up Seth threw a devilish smirk at Sugarboo.

"AH! NO NO NO NO!" Scrambling to try an get away Boo was able to swerve away from Seth's out stretched arm. Laughter was all around them as Seth got Alphonse.

"No tag backs!" Hearing this Alphonse set his sights on Boo. Who, sprinted away from him. Laughing manically the pinkette ran after them and Seth was giggling at the sight of them.

After Boo finally got tagged the person who was it switched a few times before they called it off. Panting all three fell on the blanket joking around and giggling like children again.

"God you guys run fast." Groaning Boo flopped their head on Alphonse. Who made a noise when their head connected with his stomach. Seth laid his head on Boo's stomach and all three looked at each other.

"....Wanna swim?" Questioning the two looked at Seth who was smiling. Pushing themselves up Boo started stripping to their underwear.

"I'm so going to jump in!" Cackling at the boys made the ki k into action. Following the bakers lead they rushed to the river for a afternoon swim. The water was cold but after running so much it felt heavenly.

Playing in the water for a couple of hours tired the trio out even more. But the boys had enough strength to make the tent quickly since day light started to slowly turn dark. Boo set up some lanters for the three of them and changed to their sleep wear when they weren't looking. After finishing the tent Seth made a small bond fire for them to sit at.

Alphonse made a clothing line with a. Stick and the tree. Handing up the wet underwear so it can dry easier. After all three were changed and clothed Alphonse went through his bag. Pulling out ingredients to make smores he showed the other two.

"What's camping without making some smores?" The other two thanked him as they were given a skewer and a Marshmallow to burn to their liking. A debate in what was the best type of burning for a Marshmallow all three had made their arguments. It caused Seth and Alphonse to take theirs a bit more.

"Why would you scorch your Marshmallow so much??" Giving a disgust look at Seth's very burnt Marshmallow. The brown haired man in particular rolled his eyes at the childish face Al was pulling.

"Sorry that I like to to be a bit smoky with the chocolate. Not everyone is crazy about candy as you are hon." It was true Boo though as they munched on their smore. Alphonse always like his stuff sweet and if he could he'd make everything extra sweet.

The debate went on that their specific way of cooking the Marshmallow was superior. Then how to build the smore did too, Al liked to melt the chocolate a bit but Seth said it'll just get messy. That was another rargument in itself, but they agreed on how to use the gramcrackers.

"Are you both done with the arguing?" Yawning out Sugarboo looked at their boy's that was still kinda heated from the argument. Both nodded at the tired person.

"Go lay down hon we'll clean up okay?" Not fighting Alphonse's words Sugarboo went into the tent and laid in the middle. Closing thie eyes for a bit they waited to fully fall asleep with their boys next to them.

"Sug? Why're you still awake?" Quietly asking Seth went to their left. Getting cozy he then saw Sugarboo open their eyes.

"Wanna sleep with...both of y'all next to me..." Sleeply saying Boo pawed the masks high before for Alphonse. Who awed at their sleepy state.

"I'm here Boo give me a sec together comfy 'k?" A nod was his response. Finally getting into place on Boo's right they smiled at both of them.

"Night..." Getting good nights from both boys they finally passed out.

[poetryandfluffycats]

helloooo may i ask for afab!reader degrading and pegging keito if it’s possible? maybe him whimpering too… have a great day!

A/N: i bark like a feral dog every time I get a keito request AF AF AF AF WOOF WOOF. anyway, enjoy

Pairing: Keito Hasumi x fem!reader

Content: You've been wanting to try some new things out in the bedroom, but Keito isn't one to stray away from what he believes is 'normal'. So, you come up with a brilliant plan to convince him.

Warnings: NSFW, pegging, degrading from both sides, spanking/ass slapping, handjobs, one use of the petname daddy, use of slut & whore, teasing

Words: 1.5k

NSFW oneshot under cut!

You want it?~

"You must be joking"

The green haired man who once laid relaxed on the bed now sat upright, face as red as a strawberry and hands clenching the bedsheets as if they might fly away from underneath him. A simple ask, and he had become a horrible blushing mess. God knows how he'd be during the actual act of what you were suggesting, it made your core tingle with delight.

"You think I'd lie?" You feigned sadness by sticking out your bottom lip as much as humanly possible, batting your freshly applied eyelashes at him. The perfect image of innocence. "You're very mean, Keito"

A groan left his lips, eyes darting backwards and forth from his feet to wall, like he was trying to look anywhere but your body, the racy set of lingerie you wore, and the leather strap-on and dildo held in your hand. "And I apologise for that, however, this.. thing... you have asked of me, its simply inappropriate! You cannot expect me to indulge in these silly ideas of yours"

You would have rolled your eyes if you weren't trying to keep up the image of someone innocence and sweet. Keito was clearly trying to convince himself he didn't want it just as much as he was trying to convince you he didn't, his face said it all. Flushed cheeks, fidgety hands, the faint budge growing visible through the confinements of his pants-something that he shamefully tried to hide by crossing his legs.

It was a challenge, one you were more than willing to accept.

"So you're telling me, I could strip myself naked right now, climb into your lap and ride your cock and drain your balls so much it looks like you've pissed yourself, and you wouldn't have an issue with that" You lifted the strap into the air, waving it around a few times. "But this is too scary for you?"

"Get out of that stupid outfit and put your clothes back on, (name). Now" Keito scolded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he finally made eye contact with you. "If you don't listen to me I swear I'll-"

You cut him off by jumping onto the bed, straddling his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck, biting open mouthed kisses into his collar bone. "Don't go all Daddy on me now, I'm meant to be the dominant one here"

Keito gulped, his adams apple bobbing up and down as his eyes glossed over with a sweet mix of fear and anticipation. A layer of sweat had begun to form on the skin of his forehead, the redness of his cheeks moving to cover nearly his entire face. It was adorable how pathetic he looked, his hips grinding upwards into your barely covered heat.

The hard-on he had been so desperately trying to hide was now poking into your thigh, the tip leaking droplets of pre-cum and staining the front of his jeans. His teeth bit down hard against his bottom lip, drawing a tiny bit of blood as he fought back the urge to scream, to whimper, to beg for you to fuck him senseless. He was failing miserably, though, you could see right through those yearning green eyes of his.

"I know you want it~" You cooed, brushing the tip of the dildo against his cheek, coaxing a small grunt out of the man beneath you. "It's okay, you can let go. Better than cumming in your pants like some sort of horny teenager, no?"

Keitos eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of the cold silicone on his skin, his whole body tensing and untensing with each breath he took. "Just do it, please"

"What a naughty little slut you are"

"(name)~"

You giggled, bringing your hand not holding the dildo down to palm the outline of his cock through his pants. He was practically bursting through the fabric, throbbing with each tiny movement you made. You couldn't help but crack a smile at how adorable he looked. Finally at your mercy after months of teasing and denial on his part.

/--------

It wasn't long before your clothes had come off and you had Keito bent over on the bed, ass high up in the air and face pressed down into the pillows to muffle his moans and sounds of bliss. Slender fingers traced over the boney structure of his back and back down to his ass again, squeezing it and leaving bright red handprints all over.

The strap was tightly attached on your hips, the tip of the lube-covered dildo prodding against his puckered up hole. Keito let out a whimper at the feeling, arching his back even further so that just the smallest bit of the silicone spilled inside-almost like a desperate puppy begging for its masters praise.

"Don't fucking tease me-" SMACK!

You brought your hand down hard on his ass. The slapping noise echoed throughout the room followed by Keitos groans of pleasure. "Don't be a brat, or else I'll leave you here whining for me" There was a hint of sadism in your tone as you cooed out the cruel words, massaging over the area you had spanked. "Patience"

The man beneath you grumbled something unintelligent in response, probably something along the lines of 'I am patience' and 'just fuck me already'. But you decided to pay no mind to his mouthing off this time. Punishment for that could come later, right now all you wanted was to fuck your boyfriend stupid.

With that thought in mind, you at last started pushing the length of the dildo inside of Keito, slowly, inch by inch so you could indulge yourself in the sweet, beautiful moans he let out each time the toy sunk in deeper. His hole was so tight, sucking it in like a vacuum, like he was made to be used like this.

"Feels good? I bet it does, your such a whore for me, aren't you?" You bottomed out, his whines as you hit the deepest part inside him like music to your ears. "You like this?"

Keito nodded his head, whole body shaking as he reached one of his hands behind his back to wrap around his cock, which had been rock hard and leaking all kinds of juices onto the sheets this whole time.

But, you weren't going to let him get that release he craved, not by his own hands at least. So, you grabbed his wrist and pulled it back, earning another whimper and another mutter of curse words. "No touching, alright? You'll only cum when I say you can"

He didn't respond, too far deep into the pleasure he was feeling just from being full to do so. His face and the way his knuckles gripped the sheets until they turned white was enough of a yes for you, so you pulled the dildo all the way out, only leaving just a smudge of the tip inside, before slamming right back in without warning.

You set a fast paced and rough rhythm within the first couple of thrusts, your hips bouncing and slapping off of his with each one. The room immediately filled with lewd sounds; Keitos moans of pure ecstasy, your grunts of effort and sadism, the bed creaking from all the movement on top. Like an orchestrate of sex.

"Shit!~ Fuck, (name), you~!" The man was a mess, drool dripping down his chin, eyes blown wide with lust, the works. He could barely speak, only really able to let out babbles of your name and attempted insults.

You thought of how he usually acted, so prim and proper, controlling, and bossy as ever. Seeing him reduced to nothing but a dumb slut whose only thought was your fake dick inside him? It had your core clenching around nothing at all, and a ring of wetness pooling around your hole.

With one hand rested on his hips to keep you steady, you used the other to reach down and gently stroke his cock, meeting the thrusts of your hands with the thrusts of your hips. "Wanna cum, baby?" You leaned forward to lick a stripe from his ear to his neck, "Wanna cum like a little bitch? Then do it, show me how messy you can get all for me"

Keito didn't need to be told twice. Maybe half a secound after those words left your lips, hot ropes of cum were shooting out of his aching cock, covering your hand in the white sticky substance. His back arched until it looked as if it might snap in half, and his moans were so loud the whole world might have heard. It was a sight that left you in pure awe, truly, Keito had never looked more gorgeous in your eyes.

You continued to thrust into him through his orgasm, only stopping once he had gone limp and slumped down onto the bed into what could only be described as a puddle of sweat, cum, drool, and a withering mess of a man.

And damn, was it beautiful.

[artistsfuneral]

(this contains graphic description of violence and is absolutely skippable if that's not your thing!)

the VOTE and FANART are UNDER the cut because of this

✨🌿🌼✨

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.6

“Gentlemen,” he greeted the soldiers with a face-splitting grin and a courtly bow of his head. “It appears, there has been a misunderstanding.” The men stared at him, unmoving, tense. Behind them Aiden was still caught in his rage, not able to recognize Jaskier by his scent or sound anymore. “Why don't we all just sit down and talk about this like civilized people? I'm sure we can find some common ground.”

The bard's smile never wavering, he took a step forward only for the five soldiers to draw their swords at him. Steel for humans, Geralt's voice echoed in his thoughts as if any of that mattered. Silver had never stopped Jaskier before. Holding his hands up in what he knew was commonly understood as a surrendering gesture, he cocked his head to the side, watching as the archer reached behind his back for his bow. “How about some tea? I have this lovely mixture of zerrikanian spices that goes great with the apples you can buy around here. Oh, that reminds me! I wanted to keep some for apple cakes! Which would mean we can't use all of the tea, but surely some of you would prefer chamomile anyways, there's always one person that-”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Jaskier's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of his teeth. His initial smile had fallen off his lips as he stared at the man that had interrupted him with pure bewilderment. “Well that was incredibly rude. You are not getting any tea from me now.”

“I told you to shut the fuck up!” The same soldier as before yelled at him, spitting towards Jaskier's boots as he did so. The bard pulled a face in disgust.

“In the name of the crown of Redania, you are under arrest to be executed in the capitol!”

The forest was quiet around them, silent except for the wind in the trees and the metallic sound of the redanian soldiers readying themselves to arrest him.

The bard stared at them unblinking.

“Drop to your knees, this instance!” another soldier ordered harshly.

Jaskier's head fell back as he started to cackle loudly. The sound coming from deep inside his chest and forcing way through his throat like creature of its own.

“I don't think so, darling.”

Jaskier took a deep breath and exhaled it as the world slowed down around him.

They had hurt Aiden. Five soldiers in front of him, despicable creatures, faceless and worthless. Throats easily accessible from above. Exposed ankles. An unprotected back.

The Archer; almost too easy to kill.

A sixth trying to sneak up on him from behind. Useless.

His pack and lute slipped from his shoulders. The dull thumb cushioned by the forest floor. Aiden cried out in pain.

Jaskier inhaled and spun his body around, faster than any witcher ever could. His short sword was off his belt and in the man's eye socked before the soldier could even react. It popped with a horrible squelching sound that turned into the cracking of bones as the blade dove deeper and deeper into his skull. He was dead before his scream could form in his chest. Jaskier took hold of the man's throat and pulled his sword out, blood and chunky bits of soft tissue being forced out of his skull. He had been the one that made fun of the scar in Aiden's beautiful face. Now his body dropped to the ground lifelessly. Jaskier released his breath.

An arrow seared past his head and struck the bark of a tree not an arms length behind Jaskier. The archer's face lost all color as he watched the body of his fellow soldier hit the dirt floor. Freezing blue eyes fixated on their new target. Pulling a knife out of his blood splattered sleeves, Jaskier mourned the death of his favorite teal doublet and threw the barbed knife at the archer. He dropped to his knees like a puppet who's strings had been cut, cradling his stomach as a fearful scream broke from his lips. They always screamed in the end.

Running towards the next soldier, Jaskier couldn't help but to roll his eyes when the archer pulled the knife out, gutting himself in the progress.

The horses whinnied in panic, fighting against the reigns. Aiden snarled.

The soldier closest to him raised his arm high above his head, ready to strike down at the bard. Jaskier scoffed. Angling his own short sword upwards he closed the distance between himself and the other man and stabbed him right into the pit of his raised arm. The tip of his blade tore through flesh and bone until it hit the underside of the soldier's shoulder guard. Jaskier's opponent let out a primal howl as he dropped his sword to the slowly reddening forest floor. The bard ignored him, jerking his blade back out with brute force and kicking him to the side, eyes already focused on the next one.

Their swords met, loudly crashing against each other. The screeching sound of steel carving into steel seemed dull to Jaskier's ears. He inhaled and the world slowed down once more. He easily parried the next attack, taking hold of the man's elbow and twisting both of their bodies around, so they were chest to chest. As a result the redanian soldier that had tried to surprise Jaskier from behind found his sword stuck in his comrade's back. Jaskier slit the wounded's throat without hesitating and shoved his dying body towards the other soldier who easily crumbled under the unexpected weight. Mercilessly, the bard jumped on top of the fallen man's chest, breaking his rips and crushing his organs within seconds. This one had dislocated both of Aiden's shoulders for fun. Now he was choking on his own blood. He deserved worse.

Jaskier snarled and took hold of a stray sword, ramming it into a whimpering mess of human flesh on the ground. Two left. His face-splitting smile was back.

Aiden woke to the familiar taste of swallow in his mouth and a pounding headache. His first attempt to open his eyes failed miserably, the midday sun so bright it hurt enough to make him hiss out loud. It still hurt like a bitch the second time, but Aiden was now prepared for it and could work through the awful sensation, thinning his pupils through sheer will.

He found himself lying on the floor, free of chains and rope and with his wounds slowly mending themselves together thanks to the potion. The bard was kneeling right next to him and when he noticed that the Cat had woken up, his cornflower blue eyes softened with relief. During the last month Aiden had been in this exact same situation often enough that he could call it familiar. And yet something in the back of his mind was gnawing at him like a feral dog. “Thank goodness, you're awake again. You honestly had me worried there for a moment! Didn't I explicitly told you not to get caught?” Jaskier scolded him lightheartedly as he helped him to sit up. Nothing about the bard's gentle scent or the typically playful behavior warned the witcher about what he was moments away from seeing.

Aiden's breath caught in his throat as he took in the fucking massacre around them.

The corpses of the redanian soldiers that had overpowered him a few hours earlier littered the floor, broken and mangled as if they'd been mauled by a full pack of werewolves. The stench of blood and death was overwhelming and yet, Jaskier was completely unharmed.

His hands and face were covered in drying blood, as well as his boots and the rest of his clothes, but the bard himself had not a single scratch on him as far as Aiden could tell. “I thought about searching through the camp, see if I can find anything worthwhile, but I wanted to be here for you when you wake up. I hate waking up alone, but the troop leader had a sword that could possibly replace your broken one and hopefully we can find some spare clothes and other useful stuff. If we take their horses with us we can carry a bit more,” Jaskier babbled happily on, completely oblivious to the witcher's inner turmoil. “Not like they need the horses anymore,” he laughed.

Aiden grabbed him by the wrist, finger nails digging into Jaskier's blood-caked skin.

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[lemonzestywrites]

seven sentence sunday

tagged by the most amazing and wonderful @eddiebabygirldiaz and @devirnis

listen this is in no way shape or form seven sentences (its not) and im not gonna pretend like i even made an attempt (i didn't) i wrote a fuckton at the library yesterday so im rewarding myself by showing off my work

anyways bone apple teeth-

“Yeah? And why’s that?” Eddie asks, a rising ebb beginning to grow in his tone. God, Buck should’ve figured Eddie would have a bit of a brat streak flowing through him.  Coy bastard, he thinks to himself. Thankfully, though, it takes one to know one. “Cause if you really just cared about getting off, you wouldn’t have called,” Buck replies easily. “And I have a feeling, deep down, you just wanna be good for me, don’t you, Eddie?” There’s a sudden shutter on the other end of the line. Subtle. Barely noticeable. Barely. A wide grin curls at the edges of Buck’s lips. “I ask you a question.” “Y-Yeah, I do,” Eddie whispers through the other side, just barely audible under his breath.  Buck's chest burns with pride. A hot, growing feeling he’d absolutely devour if he could. Gotcha. He never would have guessed how much fun he would have teasing Eddie all the time. Hell, it’s slowly starting to become a new favorite pastime of Buck’s. He can’t help it, really.  But seeing him slowly become riled up. To take someone like Eddie, surefire and controlled and just ever so carefully watch him devolve beneath his touch. It’s a part of what Buck finds so enjoyable about this. This exchange of trust between a dom and sub, the fact that Eddie will be so willing to hand this over to Buck, knowing he’ll be okay during the entire thing. That there’s this unspoken understanding lies between them one that lies so heavily on trust and care. That night, Eddie had asked Buck to take him apart and told Buck he needed to feel himself let go. To be able- allowed- to do that. And the fact that could find that safety with Buck- it’s a feeling that defies gratitude and gratefulness. If such a thing even exists. “I should’ve known after our last scene. You’re just so eager to please,” he says, his voice wrapped in awe, making sure there’s no room for even an inch of condescension or humiliation in his tone. “Buck,” Eddie whines, the word curling around itself, sounding as if being pried from him. Buck only takes a few seconds to let himself relish in the minor victory of getting Eddie to fold so fast. That has to be a new record for him or something. He smiles to himself a bit more before readjusting his focus again. “What is it, Eddie?” Another heavy breath fills in the space where an answer might rest, “I want…” The words drift off, the need and still present need still lingering in the heavy pants that follow. There’s a brief pause. A building moment that stays as Eddie gathers himself. “C-Can I touch myself? Please.”

tagging @kitteneddiediaz @aroeddiediaz @wildlife4life @shyaudacity @goforkinard @hippolotamus

[paperhalfshell]

season of the soul

Pairing: Rise!Raphael x Reader

Word Count: 1,473 words

Warnings: None

You are surrounded by red.

An apple-crisp breeze flutters through the branches, plucking loose leaves from their homes and carrying them away. One catches on the thick stitches of your scarf. You tug the leaf off and hold it up to your face.

It’s soft to the touch and a bit ragged looking, big and beautiful. Red. You quickly let go of it.

Red, red, red. You wish you were sick of the color by now.

In the distance, you hear crunching underfoot. And then, a voice.

“[Y/n]? Hello?”

Your heart plummets into your stomach.

“It’s me. Raph. I just – I just wanna talk to ya. Are you out here somewhere?” His words drift over to you on the wind, and you curl up even more. “It’s … it’s just me. Out here … alone … if you’re not here …”

His anxiety is palpable. Guilt wracks your body, but fear keeps you locked in place.

The sound of crunching leaves grows louder. You hold your breath, bottom lip caught between your teeth, tucking your legs up as far as possible and pressing close to the tree trunk.

Raph stops right underneath your branch. The bright red of his bandana almost melts into the sea of maple leaves, but to you, it sticks out as much as he does in a crowd.

“Get it together, Raph,” you hear him mutter. “Maybe you should try calling again. Yeah, that’s a good idea. At least you’ll get the cute voicemail if there’s no answer …”

(Oh, geez. He’s so nice you want to cry.)

Hardly daring to swallow, you watch as he digs his phone out of his pocket.

Wait. If he’s calling you, that means your phone –

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

If Raph didn’t hear your phone vibrating, the panicked squeak that launches itself out of your mouth gives you away, anyway.

His head whips this way and that before dropping back to look upwards. Large, worried eyes meet your own, and a broad smile graces his face.

“[Y/n]! There you are!” he shouts, relieved.

You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “There I am,” you echo, defeated.

“Can you …” His brow furrows as you stay where you are. “Can you come down? I’d join ya up there, but, uh, I’d probably break the whole tree.”

He doesn’t sound frustrated or annoyed, or even particularly embarrassed. But then again, Raph has the habit of trying to spare people’s feelings, and the thought of being gently rejected makes you feel nauseous.

“I …” don’t feel like it, you want to say, but you can’t, so the singular ‘I’ that makes it out simply trails off and dies in the cold.

Raph’s gaze softens.

“I got apple cider,” he says. Unzipping his coat halfway, he fishes out a small thermos from one of the inner pockets. “Mikey made it special for ya. To apologize.” He scratches the back of his head, looking at his feet. “They’re all real sorry for makin’ you so uncomfortable.”

You stare down at him, arms wrapped around the tree. It’s chilly up here, and the thought of Mikey’s signature hot apple cider sinks down into your very bones. “It’s okay,” you reply, even though it isn’t. “I was just being sensitive.”

“And that’s fine! Ain’t nothing wrong with bein’ sensitive,” Raph insists, coming closer to the tree. “I shouldn’t have let them go so far with the teasing. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say sorry.”

“I feel like I should, though.”

Despite everything, you huff out a laugh. “You’re such a softie.”

Raphael grins, goofy and blushing and him. The weight in your chest feels a little lighter because of it. “That’s Raph. A big ol’ softie. Will you come get your apple cider now?”

“Okay.”

Gripping the rough bark, you start to descend.

“Careful,” Raph warns.

“Mhmm.”

You think that you know which branches to step on and which to avoid; this is your tree, after all, and you know it like the back of your hand. Mindlessly, you rest your weight on a branch about as thick as your arm.

Crack.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You swipe at a nearby branch. Miss. Plummet down towards the hard and unforgiving ground at a speed that is much, much faster than you had thought.

A name leaves your mouth in a scream.

“Raph!”

He shouts something – your name, maybe, you don’t know. There’s a jolt. And just like that, you’re safe and cradled in his arms.

“I told you to be careful!” he cries, loud and booming. He doesn’t mean anything cruel by the volume, you know this, but you find yourself bursting into tears anyway. “Oh – no, don’t cry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. Or did I hurt you? I hurt ya, didn’t I –”

You press your face against the front of his sweater. “I’m fine,” you babble. “’M just … just crying, I dunno. I’m sorry. Thank you for c-catching me.”

“I wouldn’t not catch you,” he exclaims, as if offended that you would even think of the possibility.

A gross sniffle. “I know.”

Raphael shifts on his feet. You’re equal parts overjoyed and mortified by your position, cheeks wet with tears, eyes screwed shut and surrounded by him on all sides.

“Look,” he eventually speaks again, his hands firm underneath your knees and upper back, “about what they said …”

Your grip on his coat tightens. “We don’t have to keep talking about it.”

“’Course not. I was just gonna say that I talked to them, and they won’t tease you about that kind of stuff anymore.” A pause. His voice quiets. “Since you don’t actually see me that way, and all.”

Your crying comes to a halt out of sheer confusion.

“Huh?”

“Well – well.” He clears his throat. “I mean, you got real upset when Leo said you had a crush on me the size of the Chrysler building, so, y’know …” His hold on you seems to soften as he shrugs. “A-And I get it! Everyone’s got the wrong idea and you’re tired of it, right?”

There is no way. No way that he hasn’t realized.

Everyone knows about your crush on Raph. Even Donnie caught wind of it a month ago. You’re famously horrible at hiding your feelings, so surely Raph … why else would he be so awkward when they tease you, laugh so nervously and avoid your eyes at the mere suggestion that the two of you should go out?

“But I do,” you hear yourself say meekly, so soft that you almost think he doesn’t hear it.

It’s just your luck, though, that he does.

“Wait, what?”

You sniff. No point in hiding it now. “I do,” you repeat, more loudly, “have a crush on you the size of the Chrysler building.”

“Really?” Raph sounds incredulous. You can hear the gears in his head creaking and turning. “Like … a crush-crush?”

This is becoming more painful by the minute. “Yeah. A crush-crush,” you mumble.

Raphael absorbs your confession as you wallow in the misery of your own making.

“… I didn’t know.” His voice is strained.

“I’m sorry.”

“No!” You wince, and he quickly adds, “No sorries. It’s – it’s okay.”

“It is?”

“It is.”

You frown, pulling away to gauge his expression. “Why?”

Raph sighs heavily, the hint of a crooked little grin on his face. He puts you down gently and squeezes your hands.

“’Cause … ’cause I like you too,” he says.

You stare.

Heat floods your cheeks.

“You … like me?” The question is but a croak.

“Yep.”

“How long?”

“The … the past year.” Raph chuckles wryly, hanging his head before sneaking a glance at you. “Guess I shoulda said something sooner, huh?”

You laugh. It’s hoarse, but relieved, and you lean forward to bump your head against his plastron. One of his large hands comes up to cup the back of your neck, stroking it idly.

“Do your brothers and April know?”

“Leo figured it out after New Year’s, and I was pretty much done for.” He groans. “It was a nightmare. I thought all the teasing was mostly to make me suffer.”

“Leo and April found me out on Valentine’s Day,” you say.

The two of you stand there in the cold for a little longer, considering.

“I can’t believe it. They played us like a fiddle.”

“They’re all horrible.”

“I’m cold,” you mutter.

Raph chuckles. “Same. Let’s head back. Here’s your cider.”

He presses the thermos into your hands. Wraps his arm around your shoulders after you assure him that you’d like that. You lean against his side as the two of you trek back to the lair together, lifting the apple cider to your lips and taking a sip.

And it tastes red.

[minevn]

here is a reminder that!! make sure youre taking care of yourself, star!! also i wanna kiss yani so bad. wrapping my arms around her and gently kissing their jaw for real

WAAAAAAAAA THANK YOU!!! YOU'RE SO NICE! I actually feel like I've been doing really good recently, not with sleeping(Also I'm so sorry to the discord server that has to see me awake at 3AM), but that's for other reasons that don't have to do with my stories of anything! But yeah, Friday I drank TWO ENTIRE water bottles which I know still isn't the recommended amount but it's way more then what I usually drink, so now I'm trying to keep it up. You!! Also make sure you're taking care of yourself!!! And that goes for anyone else!!

It had been a long day for you. You were fed up with the Kikuchi brothers harsh words and awful behavior towards you, tired of your boss ignoring the issue and being gentle with his sons, and the customers were awful. Dealing with hangry people is something you never wanted to deal with, you don't think anyone would. People can simply be so inconsiderate. They don't see you as a person, they see you as a servant who brings them their meals, and if you're being honest with yourself, you feel like you are as well. You wanted to go home and see Yani, you hoped they would be somewhat calmer today though, just because of how tired you are. You finally reach your apartment and go to unlock the door, but Yani beats you to it!

"Darling~! Welcome home! I made dinner!"

"Oh god, what? You've lost kitchen privileges, what were you doing in there???" You try to peek past them, horrified of what your kitchen, and possibly the rest of your apartment, looks like. Surprisingly everything looked...not charred! That's great! You looked at the coffee table in front of the couch and noticed takeout. "...Yani..."

"Shhhh it's fine, lets just pretend for tonight that I'm a good cook and that I made it, kay? Anyways! In!" Yani grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside, quickly sitting you down on your couch. "Bone Apple Teeth!" Yani spread out his arms, presenting the takeout food that Yani 'made'. Yani sat down next to you and started digging into her own meal.

"Thank you for dinner, Yani. Bone apple teeth." You chuckled before digging into your own meal. Takeout, sometimes it REALLY hits the spot, especially when you've had a bad day and want to do nothing. You two finished your meals in no time. Yani doesn't eat a lot and typically has leftovers, but she always makes sure to finish her food eventually. You always get sad when you think about Yani's childhood and how badly it affects her behaviors now.

"Wanna watch a movie?" Yani's question snapped you out of your thoughts. You gave a smile and nod at Yani. She stood up and walked over to the tv stand, looking through your movies trying to find one that looks interesting. Eventually, Yani found one that piqued it's interest and put it in the DVD player.(Do people still use DVD's or do people just find all their movies on streaming services??) She scampered back to the couch and crawled under the blanket and curled up next to you, wrapping her arms around you. You wrapped your arms around Yani as she rested against you.

Despite the movie playing, you couldn't help but let your mind wander to your earlier feelings. You felt horrible with what Yani had been through in their life. As the thoughts of sadness grew, it became harder to control your feelings of love and affection towards Yani. You pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, your arms tightening a little bit around Yani. Yani's focus on the movie had shattered completely as it looks up at you, surprised by the sudden act of affection before a giant smile gets plastered on her face.

"Hehe~ Y/n. Do you wa-" You cut her off with a kiss, and then another, and then another, peppering her face with gentle kisses all over. Her lips, her forehead, her cheek, and her jaw. Kissing her jaw felt so right, so you focused on that area, causing Yani to giggle. "Y/n, that tickles!" Despite Yani's slight protests, you carried on. Yani needed to know how much you loved him, but you weren't sure words could even describe your feelings for him. The smile on it's face was stunning though, it was a smile you wanted to protect.

"I love you, Yani." The surprise on Yani's face when you say those three words breaks your heart even more. You repeat yourself until Yani is certain that you love him.

[helioyx]

Post-First Encounter (Vamp AU)

Characters: Thief, Cowboy (Misfit)

CW/TW: None

*Set in an AU where Kevin is a vampire and Kreacher is a village thief thrown to the borders for his crimes. He was to be sacrificed to the nightprowlers (feral vampires) in the woods but Kevin managed to save him in time.

~

“So what, they'd throw a mere pickpocket out of the village to feed the literal demons in the forest? Just because of one stolen apple?”

The glare Pierson sent his way made chills run down his spine—dark and clouded with anger, grief, spite and whatever else was there in those tumultuous eyes of his, deep sunken circles beneath them making him seem twice as intimidating. What a strange sight—it was rare that Kevin found himself feeling genuine unease around a human.

He swallowed the lump in his throat as the thief said nothing, merely turning away in an attempt to get some rest.

“Well,” he said quietly, softly, treading lightly, “you wouldn't really make for a fine meal, anyway.” It was true—the man was all skin and bones. How he had even survived this far, Kevin had no idea.

The thief scoffed, picking at his fraying sleeves as he casted his gaze to the woods beyond the window. “Th-thanks for the assurance,” he said softly, albeit sarcastically. “Th-this p-place don’t make for a nice home either.”

Kevin raised an ivory brow. “Well I can’t play housekeeper when I got vampires to hunt now, can I?”

The human made a noise of acknowledgement. “Suppose not,” he replied quietly. After a beat, he threw him a glance over his shoulder. “Why’d you hunt ‘em an-anyway?” 

“Well...” He paused to choose his words carefully. After a moment, he settled for an answer with a sigh. 

“... Who else is gonna do it?” He mumbled, crimson gaze fixed upon the burning embers of the fireplace.

“But you’re one of th-them.”

“No.” He narrowed his eyes at the other who seemed to shrink beneath his gaze. “I ain’t.” It was said rather brusquely, with a snap of teeth and flash of fangs that left the human flinching. He quickly reeled in his composure, feeling the slightest bit guilty. 

“... I’m sorry,” he said after a while, eyeing the thief remorsefully from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

It pained him to see the thief pressed flush against the wall, eyes wide and pupils contracted in apparent fear as shivers wracked his body. He hadn’t meant to scare him at all and now, he felt like a major hypocrite for it.

“Hey,” he tried again, raising his hand up to show that he meant no harm, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare ya.” He tried to speak in a softer tone, watching as the thief eyed him dubiously. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Okay... okay, I can see that you’re doubting me. ‘S fair,” he reasoned, shrugging. “So how ‘bout I... leave ya fer the night, and jus’ mind mah own business? Deal?”

The thief seemed to panic at that, eyes widened and fearful as he sat up in bed and grasped at the sheets tightly. “You’re leaving?!”

“No- naw, not at all.” He was quick to reassure him, thinking that he probably should’ve worded it better. “I’m jus’ gonna be around the kitchen, y’know, so you can get some rest.” He cleared his throat. “I ain’t leaving ya alone to be hounded—who do ya take me for?” He chuckled softly, a wry smile on his face as the thief eyed him silently.

“Oh,” he muttered softly, shoulders lowered as he exhaled softly. “Th-thanks,” he said, and Kevin felt a jolt of... something as he laid his eyes upon that hesitant smile.

“No problem,” he croaked out, clearing his throat soon after. He stood up, dusting his pants as he jerked a thumb to the dining room. “Holler if ya need anything.”

The thief’s gaze was calculative, but the slight smile that emerged on the bottom half of his face threw Kevin’s suspicion off completely. 

He was a strange human indeed.

[fruitcoops]

Hi, I love your blog so much! I recently got ankle lateral ligament reconstruction done, and as an athlete, it sucks so bad. I watched my basketball team play yesterday, and it felt really horrible to watch them lose by one point in overtime when I know I would have made a difference if I were on the court... I know you have lots of asks and prompts, but if you have the time and want to, could you possibly hurt me more than I’m already hurting with some angsty ankle injury stuff😩 like maybe Cap watching the Lions lose without him.

Thank you for all the awesome fics you write! Your blog is amazing!

Anon, this ask really struck a chord with me and I wanted to do it justice as best I could--going through a sports injury like that is the worst feeling in the world, and watching your teammates play without you just adds salt to the wound. Sending all the love and healing vibes your way, okay? Please keep me updated on how you're feeling if you feel comfortable <3

Combined with an ask for pre-Coops and Sirius' photo of Remus! SW credit goes to @lumosinlove

TW for canonical injury and mentioned scars (Remus)

Sirius felt a nudge at his arm and his irritation flared, but he did not take his eyes off the game. “Fucking hell,” he muttered as James missed yet another blatant pass. There’s three.

The next nudge was more insistent.

“What?” he snapped, sparing half a glance to his left and feeling his stomach swoop.

Remus raised his eyebrows and held the mouthguard out further. “Either put this in or unclench your jaw.”

You’re not my mother, Sirius almost snarked back, just to be even more of an asshole. He was cold from being at the rink without his gear, severely pissed off by the general bullshit happening on the ice, and the itch in the boot locked around his stupid fucked-up ankle was slowly driving him mad.

Remus offered the mouthguard again, and Sirius’ temper cooled by a few degrees at the soft encouragement on his face. Pretty, his brain supplied. He swallowed hard around his sudden dry mouth and shoved the plastic between his teeth, beating back the unruly emotions with a mental baseball bat. Nope. Not tonight. Focus on being angry.

Logan got distracted, and Finn paid the price as an enforcer slammed him against the boards; he bounced back immediately, but Sirius ground the mouthguard so hard it squeaked. “Tabarnak—”

“Come with me for a sec,” Remus said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the angry shouts of Lions fans.

Sirius shook his head. What he wouldn’t give to be in the heart of the fight, letting off some of the steam that had been building with no outlet for weeks. “Game’s not over.”

Remus pressed his lips together, but said nothing; Sirius’ throat constricted as he looked at the scoreboard. There may have been three full minutes left on the clock, but the Lions had already lost—unless they pulled a miracle out of their asses, this game would be a stain on their record. Or if they just let me play.

Sirius sighed through his nose. The urge had been growing stronger the longer he stayed cooped up and restless, banging at the walls of his brain and bringing headache after headache.

“Cap.” The hand on the back of his bicep was surprisingly gentle and he closed his eyes as Remus gave him a light tug. “Come on. We can at least be productive instead of sitting here and stewing.”

He smells nice. How does he always smell so nice? Sirius stood and followed Remus down the tunnel, not even bothering to force smiles for the people pounding on the glass partitions. Don’t focus on the game.

Focus on his shoulders, something close to his heart suggested. You like his shoulders.

He scrunched his nose up at the thought—if he dwelled on the smooth, strong curve of Remus’ upper back for any longer, he would start remembering the one time he saw them bare, covered in sweat with scars that shone like moonlight and—

“Are you okay?” Remus asked, snapping him back to reality. Sirius jumped and concern flickered over the golden planes of his face. “You’re twitchy tonight.”

“Just…” He made a vague, aborted motion toward the ice before continuing toward the PT room, though he did not miss the worried look Remus shot him. Fantastic, now I look like a dick and an idiot.

“What’s going on, Sirius?” The door clicked closed behind them and Remus leaned against it with his arms crossed loosely as Sirius limped over to the table and sat down, pulling the mouthguard out. He stared at the floor and the hunk of plastic—don’t think about how nice his voice sounds around your name. Don’t.

He shook his head; through the door, the sounds of the game were faint. “They’re better than this.”

“Yep.”

“They’re all going to be angry tomorrow, which makes them sloppy.”

“Probably.”

“Coach will be upset.”

“No question.”

“It’s the Badgers.”

Remus made a face. “I know, right?”

“They’re a good team, but—” He tightened his jaw again and looked away.

“But we’re better,” Remus finished for him.

“Yeah.” Silence fell between them for a few moments, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Being quiet around Remus was never uncomfortable, and Sirius was pathetically grateful for every scrap of it he could get. “I—the game would be different if I was out there.”

“Would it?”

“It would.” He had been going over every mistake for two and a half hours, placing himself in like a chess piece to stop the missed passes, fumbled pucks, and thoughtless plays. “They need me with them.”

The paper crinkled as Remus sat down next to him, and every one of Sirius’ senses went on high alert. “They need to you get better,” he said simply, those caramel-apple eyes making Sirius’ knees go weak. “Have you been doing your exercises?”

“Of course,” he scoffed.

“Good.” There was no defensiveness or indignation in Remus’ voice—guilt snapped, a firecracker behind his teeth.

“Sorry.”

Remus smiled wryly. “When you’re around injured hockey players all day long, you get used to a little bit of bitchiness.”

“I’m not bitchy!” Sirius spluttered. The poorly-concealed amusement on Remus’ face made mortification heat his cheeks. “I’m not!”

“Uh-huh.” The note of smug disbelief should not have been as attractive as it was. “Alright, lay down.”

Sirius swore he heard a few crackling noises as his brain short-circuited. “Quoi?”

“I’m not kneeling on freezing linoleum to check out your ankle, Cinderella,” Remus snorted. “Now get a wiggle on.”

“You have the strangest sayings,” he said as he laid back and stretched his leg out, bewildered and yet somehow relieved.

“And you—” Remus pulled the top buckle free. “—have no appreciation for the great American north.”

“I can take it off,” Sirius mumbled, feeling redness rise once again.

He cocked an eyebrow. “The boot? I might not be a muscle-bound athlete, but I’m pretty sure I can manage a couple strips of Velcro.”

“No, it’s—doesn’t touching people’s feet freak you out? Like, the sweat and everything?”

“If it did, I’d have to find another profession, because I’m damp all the time from you fuckers and you all seem to have a habit of breaking things below the knee. Bend.”

Sirius complied, drawing his knee toward his chest. His bare foot looked weird in the bright lights, pale and still swollen, but Remus was as golden as ever. You can watch from afar, he conceded when the cute little furrow appeared on Remus’ forehead while he felt around the bone. Just for a little while. “Your hands are warm,” he said before he could stop himself.

Remus glanced up, and his small smile caused a flood of butterflies in Sirius’ stomach. “Thanks. They’re usually pretty cold, so I’m glad I’m not accidentally giving you foot hypothermia.”

“Is that real?”

“No,” Remus laughed. Sirius wished he could keep that sound forever. “How’s that feel?”

“Uh, fine.” He blinked a couple times to come back to himself as Remus put light pressure on the sole of his foot. “Still fine.”

“You’re a lot more flexible than before. Things are healing well.”

A loud buzzer went off outside—Sirius closed his eyes as disappointment and frustration fired up once more. The crowd wasn’t cheering. The windows weren’t shaking. He didn’t even want to look at the TV to check the score. I should be out there, he thought for the umpteenth time. I’m letting them down.

“I’m sorry,” Remus said quietly as he worked through a few more exercises.

“Not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either.”

Sirius wanted to believe him. “I’m the captain.”

“And you’re being responsible by doing this with me so you can heal faster.” People rushed past the door outside, but the PT room remained peaceful. Sirius stared at the plain ceiling and wished for a miracle. “They miss you.”

“Y’know, that’s not exactly making me feel better.”

“Sorry.” They lapsed back into silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Cool.”

Sirius chewed the inside of his lip for a solid two minutes, following Remus’ simple instructions without looking at him. He should have been out there with them, ankle be damned. It was basically healed anyway; they were just tying up loose ends, and maybe Remus needed to be a little less careful. “Is this really necessary?”

“I’m gonna give you five seconds to ask a different question.”

“I’m just saying, it feels fine and—”

“Time’s up.” Remus let go of his foot and Sirius only spared a moment to mourn the loss of his comforting touch before he caught the stormy, mulish stubbornness that took the place of Remus’ concentration. “Sit.”

“I am.”

He narrowed his eyes, and Sirius dragged himself upright with a huff. Arguing with Remus Lupin was about as useful as arguing with a brick wall, and that was coming from someone who won the ‘Most Stubborn’ superlative at their last end-of-year party. “First of all, ankles are annoying and the soft tissue will still be damaged even if the bone is healed. Second, it’s my job to fix you up so your boys stop whining to me about healing you faster. And third, I’m not giving up on you.”

Sirius paused for a long moment. “What?”

“I’m not giving up,” Remus repeated. His jaw set and he made direct eye contact. “I would love nothing more than to kick Snape in the kneecaps and let you go out there as soon as you can stand on your own, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to make sure you’re ready to kick ass and take names no matter what that little shit was trying to do. So don’t you dare sit there and try to chicken out at the finish line, because I know you want this even more than I do.”

In his chest, Sirius heart was hammering like he had just run five miles. I’m not giving up on you. Sirius had never wanted to kiss him more. “Thank you.”

Remus softened with a slow breath. “We’re in this together, Sirius. You and me.”

“I know.”

“Then let’s get to work. Next time you play the Badgers, make ‘em regret this game.”

--------------------------------

Sirius walked back toward the locker room feeling rather nauseous. The whole team leaked their bad moods into the air—Arthur had barely looked at them before sending them home with a quiet “we’ll talk more tomorrow”, the equivalent of an arrow through Sirius’ heart. I need a pick-me-up, he thought as the rest of the guys trooped out in a melancholy raincloud. He fist-bumped each of them, per tradition, but their responses were weak at best.

Ice cream sounded good. Maybe a milkshake. Oh, who was he kidding, he needed a solid hug and something other than ice to look at. Not for the first time, he contemplated getting a dog, just so the house wouldn’t be empty and dark when he returned.

Laughter rang out ahead and Sirius inhaled sharply, letting the sound roll over him. “I’m not kidding!” Moody chuckled.

“Bullshit,” Remus countered, still snickering. “There is no way—”

“I’ve been around here longer than you’ve been alive, kid.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Remus groaned, though Sirius could hear the smile in his voice even from around the corner. “You only bring it up every goddamn day.”

“Brat.”

Sirius entered the room just in time to see Remus playfully knock the side of his foot against Moody’s; both were grinning. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, old man?”

Moody nodded to him. “Night, twelve.”

“A demain,” Sirius called, offering a slight smile as his eyes lingered on Remus. He was leaning back against the wall with stick tape in his hands—his hands, which never failed to make Sirius throw caution to the wind—and raised it in farewell. “See you, Loops. Thanks again.”

“No problem, Cap.”

He grabbed his duffel off the floor and slid his keys, wallet, and phone into his pockets as Moody and Remus resumed their conversation. He wondered how long they usually stuck around, and if they would oppose him staying—he wouldn’t interrupt, but being around people who weren’t going through the five stages of grief already felt nice.

An idea struck as Remus’ laugh raised goosebumps on his arms once again. With a careful glance over his shoulder, he slipped his phone out and snapped a picture before hurrying off toward his car. His breaths were shallow; that was such a creepy move, and surely one of them noticed—

No voices chased him. Nobody gave him strange looks. He waited until he was safely in the front seat of the car before unlocking his phone, and all the air in his lungs left in a rush.

The photo was perfect. It caught the lopsided tilt to Remus’ mouth, his slender-but-strong fingers, his long legs, the scrunch of his nose mid-laugh. Everything Sirius never let himself look at for long. He didn’t have much space left among the collection of paper memories on his dresser, but maybe if he put it in the back where nobody would see it unless they knew where to look…

He turned the car on. Later. He would print it out and deal with the taut rubber-band-ball of feelings later. Until then, he could settle for the imprint of Remus’ warmth taking away the pain in his ankle and the determination on his face as he promised to bring Sirius back from the personal hell he was living in. You and me, he had said, and Sirius wanted nothing more than to believe it.

[void-adjacent-particles]

Content warnings: Death, gore, fire mentions, scars, murder, violence.

Totems of Undying are strange things. They’re warm, and will pulse in time to the heartbeat of whatever is holding them, emerald eyes glimmering even in the pure dark of the void’s absence of light. While Totems are made of gold, there is no malleability, they are as solid as bedrock. The emeralds and gold and magic have solidified into one unchangeable object until its use, and then it is gone.

They leave their mark on whatever uses them. For some this could be a prize, another thing to be proud of, because they survived the unsurvivable only through their own wits and forethought. To others it is a mark of shame, for ever having been in such a position to lose their life, even if it is only one of three.

On a specific server, there are those who have need for Totems in their long pasts, who have used them right before our eyes, and those who will surely use them in the future.

Technoblade was one such person to use one before our eyes. We saw him dragged from his home to a farce of a trial, facing justice on rigged scales for grievous cries nonetheless as he was pushed into a cage. The fall of the anvil, the crushing, crunching of a body that never seemed fragile until now when everyone witnessed its end. Then the sparkling cloud of green and yellow, bones clicking back in jigsaw puzzle pieces, the knitting of muscle and tendon and skin, and there is only a moment of paralyzing death before his heart skips a beat and he lives again. This is the prestige of his trick, no turn to raise suspense, and a pledge everyone who knew his name already was aware of, a promise and threat all in one that he always delivered on. Technoblade never dies, and he lives right now to kill again. Later he will be in his quaint cottage in the merciless tundra, and his own reflection will glitter strangely back at him, forcing him to examine himself instead of resting and trying to forget the lingering aches. He will stare as the night sky leaves the window more a mirror, lantern lights low, but the flashes catch his eyes anyway. His tusks, once white and bone, now seem to be fully made of gold. He taps one with his hoof, and feels the pressure reverberating subtly down into his jaws, as real as before. With a shrug, he moves his hoof away, only to watch as pink fur and skin split against the now razor sharp point of his tusks. Those tusks will remain as gilded as any enchanted apple, and as sharp as any netherite sword, until one day he will fail his audience, his pledge a battle cry he brings to one or more of his graves.

Quackity would covet a Totem in all of his paranoia, his fear of death and pain and losing even more than he already has. If he died, be it by pickaxe or nuke or strangling, desperate hands, the Totem would bring him back all the same. And all of his scars would ache in their newfound golden hue, shining and standing out even more as a testament to his inability to protect himself or what he loves. The scars would hurt, old and new, in warning of dangers to come. It only partly calms his paranoia, the fear ever present and simmering in the background of his mind, waiting to boil over and burn him.

When Tubbo or Tommy use their Totems of Undying they will appear unharmed. It is not until they bruise that it becomes obvious. A small bump against the corner of furniture, a tumble while out exploring the wild, a sharp elbow to the face, the blunt side of a weapon, they bruise the skin, blossoming into purples and dark indigos. They fade far too quickly, as if someone splashed healing potions on them. Yet then they stay at that disquieting green and yellow stage, where the next day it could appear as if they were never there, but they stay, shimmering slightly in the wrong lighting, still hurting as much as if they were fresh even weeks later. Only fading when forgotten about, and they have wonder if the bruise was ever there. If only they had Totems when they died before. Tubbo’s face would be a mess of bruised gold that would seep into the skin until only pink scar tissue remained, a starburst remnant of a festival’s fireworks, but he would still be alive, gasping for air and hunched over in that box, on that stage, but alive. Tommy would have handprint bruises around his neck, across the break in his nose, the imprint of a fist against his cheek that had whipped his head back too far, his neck slamming at the worst angle against the harsh obsidian walls. But he would have been alive, clawing his way back into life, latching his own hands around his killer’s throat, finishing the job, doing what should have been done instead of daring to imprison a dream.

George passes out if he uses a Totem. Instead of the rush of adrenaline, of life that floods the system of whatever uses one, it overwhelms to the point of just unconsciousness as his body repairs itself, fueled only by magic until his heart begins pumping and his lungs begin breathing again. Later when he wakes, maybe with cracked sunglasses, anyone who’s looking properly will see the dark bags under his eyes, a sheen of gold overlaying the dark purple of sleeplessness. When he sleeps it will be deeper, without dreams. Alarms and shaking won’t wake him. Nights will be sleepless as he examines the bags under his eyes, fretting over the burnt orange of the gold deepening, digging into his skin, around his eyes. He will continue to sleep, but days will pass, and when he wakes he wonders if next time he will simply be unlucky and sleep forever.

If Dream uses a Totem of Undying it will shatter him. He will feel every bone shake themselves into dust and back again, a glimpse of what everyone eventually returns to. His spine will burn with pain, arcing upwards to the base of his skull, spreading outwards like a deep set rot that always goes unnoticed until it is far too late and the structure crumbles. His mask shatters, likely from the final strike that killed him, but maybe just from his fall to the ground, a person one moment and a corpse the next, until the Totem brings him back. Gold lines every crack in the porcelain of his mask, across the monochrome of the glaze burned into it, bisecting an eye, a smile, a face. The green of him becomes so much more vibrant, deadly, similar to prey animals that evolve into their bright colors to indicate they are poisonous, saying if you kill me, I take you down with me.

If Niki ever uses a Totem, it would burn. She would feel it burning, more than the all encompassing pain of whatever killed her. Bright, sparking pain would race down her body, through every nerve, every blood vessel, until it was all she knew for that brief suspended moment on the precipice between life and death. She would grit her teeth through the pain, eyes narrowed as she reeled back from the magical force, only to march onward in doing whatever was necessary to achieve her goal. Later she would be looking at her hands, washing off blood real or metaphorical, and see that instead of chipping nail polish in whatever color of her choice, instead her nails would be intact, a brilliant gold. Nails that would make her appear vain, still absorbed with one final thing, or simply clinging to it. Nails that would sharpen into what some might call claws, digging into the fine wooden handles of her weapons, scoring lines that would never go away, even if the nails would upon her death.

If Hannah ever uses a Totem of Undying it will react strangely to her innate magic. Plants die off, withering away, leaving just the roots, the basis of their whole survival, to lie in wait underground until the rain falls again and the sun shines again. Any of her wounds will bloom with roses, the flowers ragged, shaped like bloodstains, but every leaf and petal will be edged with gold. The greenery of her roses’ vines will brighten and soak up sunshine more than ever, revitalizing her until her heart aches with it, until she finally lets fate claim the life stolen from it.

If Puffy ever uses a Totem of Undying, she wouldn’t notice side effects at first, aside from the usual anguish and pain from having died. The likely conflicts she had thrown herself into out of duty would capture her attention anyway, away from examining herself for any lingering problems. It wouldn’t be a problem anyway, not until she looked in the mirror and saw that all of her greying hairs from stress became gold, her mass of curls even heavier, no lock of hair without its reminder, its own thread of gold to weave into thick hair. Later, in a moment of true rest, when someone runs their hands through her hair, braiding it or simply trying to calm her, they would find that every golden thread burns and tries to tie itself around their hands, keeping them there, keeping them at her side where they could be safe.

If Antfrost or Fundy ever use a Totem, it settles on their skin like a weighted blanket, forcing their muscles to accommodate, forcing them to make room in their lives for the extra chance they stole. Later, when they rest, so much more tired with their aching bodies, they will curl up in the sunshine wherever they feel safest. When the sunlight catches just right, beige or burnt orange fur glimmers like a pelt of gold. Any breeze would be unable to rustle fur, their bodies motionless and unmovable as any statue, their breathing far shallower and subtler than ever before. If one wasn’t watching close enough, they’d assume there was a corpse just curled in the sunlight, begging for a final bit of warmth before letting go. They will start awake from nightmares with a hiss, and stretch out in the dying light to go pretend like they don’t feel that extra life weighing on them.

Phil only has one life to lose, and so he holds Totems close to his heart, always just one movement away from being clutched as the lifelines they are. When he’s killed holding one, wings splayed, feathers falling from the force of his death, mouth open and choking on last breaths, his death will hurt.  It will always hurt, the moment stretching through his lived centuries and snapping back into the present, so much life to flash before his eyes that they are rendered sightless and glassy, death clouding them greedily. Flashes of gold and emerald green dance on the sheen of inky feathers and glossy eyes as dead as a doll’s. When he lives again, his wings will no longer be the cape of shadows, the midnight extensions of self that they once were. His secondary feathers will be golden now, shining in the sun, always growing back that same shade. Those gilded feathers will just be another thing his murder of crows hoards, another shiny object, but to Phil it will be a permanent reminder of how he has always only had one life, and how fleeting it is.

If Wilbur got his hands on a Totem, he would never let it go. To die again and again and again, to suffer through the agony of an eternal listless limbo, to suffer again as he is replaced by a mockery of himself… he could not stand for it. So he never lets go of the Totem in hand, his thumb worrying over the facets of its emerald eyes when he thinks, nails breaking against the rigid golden effigy. There are many reasons he would die, several from his own actions, as it was before. If he did die, he would wake choking on blood and tears, hacking and wheezing and lacking all the grace and charm he once had. It wouldn’t be until he coughed once again into his hands that he would see his blood, no longer a dull red, now glimmering and golden. And he laughs, as he now resembles a god in all but the immortality, his blood turned to ichor in its molten sunlight, its deep dark shades of beauty and riches, and he keeps choking on his blood as the Totem works still to restore a body dead for the fourth time.

When Ranboo uses a Totem of Undying the magic will seep into his skin, counteracting strangely with his biology, trying to strengthen him, trying to mark him however it can. So the short black velvet of fur he received from enderman genetics will spread, the skin and fur stronger, in hopes of protecting him. It seeps like ink, a slow spread that burns as if trails of water settled on his skin. It hurts, and he hides for days, coming out with his green eye just a bit brighter, black crawling up the white side of his jaw like an outstretched hand. His own hand will reach out, and under the white skin on his forearm will be golden veins, burning with life stolen from a Totem. He forgets using Totems every time he does, the experience is so jarring and intense as it changes the fiber of his being, as with every use he appears more enderman than whatever else he is. One day, far in the future when he goes by another name, he will look in the mirror and see two emerald green eyes, his entire body the black void of fur his endermen kin have. 

Foolish is a being whose entire being had always been defined by death. Once, it was the carnage, the lives lost in droves, sent into Her embrace prematurely in their violent ends. Then Foolish changed and became a Totem of Undying himself, a god now more mortal than even he knew by resisting his domain. When he died the denial was almost too much to bear, the Egg trying to worm its way into his mind when it realized this weakness, a grief for what he lost. If he dies again, he will likely have a Totem in hand, maybe even one of his children, held close as he fears an end, selfishly cannibalizing the life force of one of his own in order to extend his last two lives. There will be no markings from the Totem. He is already one of them, eyes of gemstone and skin of metal, created and made of that space between life and death, the lull after a last heartbeat when the next is expected, the resting note in the song of life that he has conducted himself, has cut short himself, destroying all in his path without a single goal in mind in his times as a Totem of Death. There is no scar or blood or feathers or bruise to mark him, because he is a Totem. A Totem given sentience and life, given free will and thought, but at the end of the day a living doll, and the now lifeless, apathetically terrified look in Foolish’s emerald eyes is enough to show just what measures he took in order to survive another death.

[makoodlesarchive]

when i was young i fell into a river

pairing: kirishima x reader

word count: 5k

warnings: none, really! a bit of angst, a bit of fluff i guess?

notes: hello, it's me, back again with some writing! it's been a long time and i'm very sorry about that, but i've finally gotten around to writing and posting my spirited away au! i'm v stressed with college so this turned out more vent-y than i had originally intended, but hopefully it's enjoyable anyway! thank you all for being so patient with me, i am endlessly grateful for you

The dream is the same as always, comforting in its familiarity.

A salt-scented breeze cools your sweat-soaked brow as you pause behind one of the sliding screen doors, the rice paper windows doing nothing to block out the chatter of the other workers. The bubbling noise of the bathhouse is constant, and the quiet little moments you steal away for yourself in the middle of the working day is the only solitude you’ve gotten since you came here. The work is physically back-breaking, but you know that you’re working towards a goal. It’s just a shame that you can’t remember exactly what that goal is.

One of the other girls calls your name, and you sigh as your unofficial break comes to an end. You slip back into the room, ignoring the way the frog spirits snicker and hold their noses as you pass. They like to complain a lot about your human stench, but it doesn’t stop them from threatening to eat you every time you make a mistake. Fear, you’ve found, is an uncomfortably successful motivator.

The days bleed into one another, full of scrubbing dark wooden floors and the rich earthy scents of the herbal mixes they use in the baths. The spirits that frequent the bathhouse, that once inspired so much awe and fear in your heart, become so commonplace that you hardly spare them a glance anymore. From the cackling masked spirits that always travel in threes to the grinning cat spirits to the sombre, unspeaking river spirits, you only go as far as to offer them a polite bow before scurrying out of their way. They never spare you any attention, anyway -- most of the time, the spirits’ eyes seem to look right through you.

All but one, that is.

He looks to be a boy around your age, but appearances can be deceiving around here. His red eyes are often dull and blank, but even so they have a certain ageless quality about them that no human twelve-year-old could ever possess. His scarlet hair sticks up in gravity-defying spikes, and his skin is as smooth and clear as running water. His face is often stuck in a carefully cultivated blank expression; the only thing about him that doesn’t seem intimidatingly otherworldly are the deep purple shadows under his eyes.

He helped you once, when you first came here. The rare act of kindness had stuck in your head, made even more remarkable in the face of the following weeks and months of harsh work and cruel co-workers. You wonder if he remembers; he doesn’t often look at you, but sometimes when he does you swear you can see a flicker of something in his eyes.

Two of the girls start yelling at each other, arguing heatedly over the way the work is being divided. A foreman appears to break up the fight, but then they both start shouting at him instead. You take the moment of distraction to relax, wincing at the pull of your tired muscles in the back of your neck. All the other girls working at the bath house are older and bigger than you, which means you need to work twice as hard to keep up with them and prove that you’re worth keeping around.

In the brief moment of rest, your eyes are drawn slowly to the corridor, where guests and workers alike bustle past as they travel to the treatment rooms and bathtubs deeper into the bathhouse. As if you’ve conjured him just by thinking about him, the boy stands in the doorway.

You straighten up on instinct, suddenly self-conscious of your sweat-soaked body and dishevelled uniform. He’s not even looking your way, preoccupied with the two girls who are still yelling at the frog foreman. Slowly though, his eyes began to travel the room, and you take a deep breath and hold it as his dull ruby gaze lands on you like a physical weight. You crack a nervous smile, feeling the muscles in your cheeks that have gone unused for weeks ache at the strain, and raise a hand to give him a tiny wave.

For just a moment, that blankness in his face seems to quiver and fall away. He smiles back.

You jolt awake, breathing heavily and coated in a light sheen of sweat. You’ve had the same dream, or some variation of it, regularly ever since you were twelve years old and while it’s become familiar to you, you still find yourself feeling vaguely panicked when you wake up after it, as though you’ve forgotten something very important.

Once your heartbeat has calmed down a little, you pull yourself out of bed and trudge into the kitchen to make yourself some tea. The weak, milky light of dawn filters in through the windows, lighting your apartment up just enough so that you don’t have to turn on a light to make your way around. You take your tea out to the balcony and sit, gazing out at the purplish early morning sky.

Most of the time when you wake up from those dreams you feel blessedly lucky to be living alone with no one to question or bother you, but sometimes you can’t help but be overcome by overwhelming loneliness. The dreams are silly and most of the time they don’t even make any sense, but in the aftermath of them you’re always left with a vague sense of unfulfillment, though you can’t put your finger exactly on what it is you’re missing. You always end up exactly like this; sitting outside on your balcony in the early morning light, drinking tea alone and desperately wishing for something more.

You sigh, and go back inside.

The dream is the same, but different.

The garden is in full bloom, greenery overlaid with bursts of beautiful bright colours. Camellias, rhododendrons, and oleanders wave and shiver gently in the warm breeze, and apple blossoms hang heavily from a nearby tree. The flowering garden is enormous and maze-like, and you have yet to see it in any state other than fully flourishing.

It’s a beautiful place, especially after the hot, cramped working quarters of the bathhouse. You inhale the sweetly fragranced air and feel the knot of tension in your spine unfurl; it feels like the first time that you’ve been able to breathe all week, but that’s not the only reason that you’ve found yourself outside.

At the bottom of the garden, the grass drops off into a sheer drop. The cliff face overlooks a seemingly endless ocean, and you perch a safe distance from the drop before leaning back in the grass. The sky is an almost surreally deep blue and you watch as enormous fluffy clouds float by, looking as though they’ve been painted on a jewel-blue canvas.

It’s not the first time you’ve had this dream, and you know what you’ll see if you keep patiently watching.

It doesn’t take long — it never does. You time your lunch breaks precisely, all so you get to see this sight.

The clear blue sky makes it so much easier to spot the shiny white scales, flashing jewel-bright in the sunlight. The dragon writhes in the sky, streaking through the air like a great serpent caught in the wind. Even from this distance, you can see the knife-like teeth, the great sharp claws that gleam like pyrite, and the twisting horns that erupt from his head like daggers made from calcified bone. He looks deadly, a living weapon that swims through the air like a salmon in open water, but the sight of him makes something settle in your stomach.

You wonder what it would feel like to fall through the air with nothing but the wind to break your fall. You imagine it must feel like freedom.

The dragon flutters through the air, buoyed by the gentle sea breeze. If you didn’t know better, you might almost think that he was showing off — his movements are hypnotic, dreamlike, more like a dance than anything. His scales glow pearlescent in the midday sun, otherworldly and earthly all at once.

You could happily stay and watch him skim through the sky forever, but already the bell is being rung to call all workers back into the bathhouse. You heave a sigh so deep it feels as though your chest is about to crack with the force of it, before hauling yourself to your feet.

Your break is over, and now it’s back to work.

Sometimes you find it difficult to tell when you’re dreaming and when you’re awake. It feels as though everything is always happening all at once, in the present tense, forever. You don’t get to rest when you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, because the dreams just keep coming and coming. Sometimes you don’t feel like your life is real when you’re awake.

Riding on the train has always been therapeutic, especially at this time of the early morning. The sun rising lazily over the horizon sends milky threads of purple and pink across the cloudy sky, and you cradle your chin in your hand as you gaze out across the moving landscape. You love these little trips, feeling more at home in the creaky, overfull train carriage than you do in your own bedroom sometimes, though you can’t quite work out where that particular feeling comes from.

You know sometimes that stories end with “And then I woke up — it was only a dream”, but in your experience the story simply doesn’t end. You cannot fully wake up without the tail-ends of your dreams clinging to you for the rest of the day, and you never fully sleep. You just dream, dream, dream.

Sighing, you lean your head back against the seat that you’re slumped in. The train carriage is too full, and you were lucky to get a seat in the first place — from your vantage point, you watch as people sway in tandem with the motion of the train. It’s almost hypnotic, how they undulate back and forth with every turn, brushing against each other only to be pulled apart again by the lurching train.

Through the sea of bodies, you catch a man’s eye. It breaks the monotony of the morning commute and your own spiralling thoughts, and your spine straightens unconsciously. He quirks an eyebrow briefly, slightly, in such a way that no one would be able to safely accuse him of having done it.

You look away, startled for no good reason. Do you know him? He feels familiar in a way that you can’t quite put your finger on. The train rattles on, and it takes several long minutes before you work up the nerve to glance the man’s way again. He’s still watching you, but you’re ready for it this time. His attention isn’t such a shock, and you allow your eyes to wander over his face properly.

You must know him, you think. Your eyes track over his features as though they’re winding over a well-worn path, admiring the curve of his nose and the fullness of his lips and the arch of his eyebrows over his intense, watchful eyes.

He smiles at you, and it feels as though you’re sharing a secret from across the crowded train carriage. You smile back — it’s just a small tug of the corners of your mouth, but it’s the most you’ve smiled in months. Longer, maybe.

In the middle of the carriage a woman laughs at something her friend has said and sways backward, blocking your view of the stranger. It feels like a loss.

The train trundles onwards, and the carriage gradually empties out. You watch people step off the train with friends, with their heads ducked low, lost in thought, arguing over the phone, distracted with their book bags. By the time it comes to your stop, the man is gone.

You try not to feel disappointed as you step off the train — it’s silly, after all. You don’t know the man, and whatever you thought you felt as you looked at each other was surely all in your own head. Your head has been awfully full, recently.

As you step off the train you grapple with your bag, side-stepping a businessman who is busy shouting down the phone at some unfortunate coworker. You’re distracted, which is the only reasonable explanation for how long it takes you to realise that the man from the train is standing in front of you.

“Oh.” You blurt, startled. You had already begun to resign yourself to never seeing him again, so you can’t help but feel distinctly caught off guard at the sight of him standing before you. “Hi.”

“Hello.” The man says. He’s looking at you expectantly, but you have no idea what he’s waiting for — as it is, you get completely distracted by his eyes. You hadn’t noticed on the train, but now that he’s up close you see that they’re a truly unusual deep burgundy. He tilts his head when you remain silent, and bites his lip. Now that you’re really looking, you notice how sharp his teeth are. “You’ve barely changed at all.”

You blink at him. “Er…” You trail off nervously. You don’t recognise him, but you feel like you know him. Clearly, he thinks that he knows you.

“It’s fitting, isn’t it? Meeting again on a train?” He smiles, and it’s an impossibly knowing expression. You don’t think you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a look that intimate in your life, though you have no idea what he’s talking about.

Someone collides hard with your shoulder and you stagger for balance. You only look away from the man for a mere second, but it’s enough; when you look again, he’s gone.

You take to walking. There’s a wooded area behind the town, and you enjoy traipsing idly through the trees. Ancient roots erupt out of the dirt and fan over the ground like hairs, and the moss that covers the trunks of the trees is such a deep green that it almost seems like paint pigment. It’s soothing, being surrounded by nature like this. It reminds you of childhood — the simplicity of being able to jump over tree roots under a canopy of pale green leaves, of being able to leave all your thoughts and stress at the boundary of the forest.

It’s where you come after waking sweat-soaked and disoriented from a dream that clings to you like a burr, where you walk among the ferns and the needle-leaved weeds until you manage to shake the last vestiges of memory from your mind. You need it, especially in the mornings where you wake up with the acrid scent of herbal cleanser stinging in your nose or the bite of hard calluses on your palms from non-existent rough cloths. On mornings like that, you walk and walk until you no longer feel as though you’re more alive in your dreams than you are in reality.

Deep in the forest is a great red facade, painted a flaking, faded red. You wander by it frequently, admiring the overgrown greenery that crawls up the walls like reaching fingers, the mossy stone guardian that stands sentinel amongst the cracked flagstones that lead into the tunnelled entrance. You’ve asked around in the town, curious about what exactly this building was for, but most of the locals either don’t know what building you’re talking about or admit that they’re not sure. One man told you that the facade was built for a theme park in the 90s that had ended up going bust in the recession, and that the building only looked old.

You remain unconvinced on that front. The building has the kind of presence that only very old things have; it feels like it’s watching you.

For the most part, your walks in the forest are peaceful. Recently though, you’ve found yourself plagued by an insistent, irritating sense of deja vu. You don’t know where it’s coming from, and it hits you at the strangest of times — when you’re making tea, or in the bath, or cleaning your apartment, or on the train, or admiring the sky on a cloudless day.

The man from the train is the boy in your dreams. It takes you weeks to come to that realisation. You just wake up in the middle of the night on a random Tuesday, with wide eyes and clammy skin and his name slipping from the forefront of your mind.

It shouldn’t be possible, but once it dawns on you, you’re certain of it.

Even stranger is that once you realise it, it feels as though you see him everywhere. You see flashes of red hair when you’re walking down the street, when you’re grocery shopping, when you’re walking home late at night. It’s only ever the barest glance out of the corner of your eye, just overt enough for you to know it’s him, but subtle enough for you to question yourself immediately after.

One night, you travel to a local city to meet some old school friends. At night, the city seems to pulse. The music from seedy clubs spills out into the neon-lit streets, muffled shouted arguments echoes from alleyways and apartments alike, and the streets are peppered with people either scurrying or stumbling home, with very little variation. Though the perpetually overcast sky hides any trace of the moon or stars, the streetlamps reflect in the ever-present stagnant puddles littering the street, lighting them up in varying shades of sickly yellow.

At night, the city seems alive. Chronically ill and struggling to breathe, maybe, but clinging to life all the same.

The way the neon lights flicker in the gloomy darkness, just barely illuminating the shadows of people hurrying through the streets to get in out of the rain, reminds you of something you can’t quite remember. It sits in the back of your mind like a sour taste, but no matter how much you reach for the memory it remains just out of reach.

You spend most of the night staring out of the steamed up window of the pub, entranced by the sight of the night streets and frustrated by the memories that seem to dangle just out of reach. You know that it doesn’t make for good company, and you feel guilty for that. Your friends don’t seem overly surprised at your detachment. You’ve been drifting away for years, and though tonight was supposed to be all about reconnecting it seems clear that it’s not going to work.

When you eventually stand up to leave, with forced smiles and awkward goodbyes, you can’t help but feel melancholy settle over you like a second skin. As you slip out of the pub and onto the dark streets, the thought crosses your mind that you’re not used to being alone like this. It’s a silly thought, really; you’ve been alone for years. But sometimes, in those liminal moments between waking and sleeping, you swear you can hear the gentle drowsy breaths of dozens of people sleeping all around you, as though you’re surrounded on all sides. On those nights you wake up hot and claustrophobic and uncomfortable, but never feeling lonely.

It is probably your own fault, you reflect as you drift down the sidewalk like a ghost. It’s difficult to make an effort to know people when you feel as though you don’t know yourself. You don’t know how to bridge the distance between yourself and other people. You think sometimes that you’re missing chunks of yourself.

You pass an open shopfront that’s serving street food, and glance briefly in at the kitchen. The cook is illuminated only dimly in the smoky room, standing out as a shadow figure more than anything, and for a split second you could swear that he has six arms. You look away quickly and carry on walking — you don’t want to look again only to be proven wrong. You want to preserve that little second of magic strangeness for as long as you can.

The puddles on the street seem like they’re glowing with the light reflected from the neon streetlamps, and you weave your way carefully around them to avoid getting your feet wet. The night has a strange quality about it, almost as though it’s holding its breath.

Considering the combination of your pensive mood and the expectant air of the evening, you don’t feel surprised at all when you look up from the wet cobblestones to find the man standing only a few feet ahead of you.

He smiles like he’s nervous, his gaze tracking carefully over your face. In his hands, he’s holding flowers. Camellias, you think. It’s the first time since you first saw him on the train that hasn’t been a fleeting glance out of the corner of your eye— he’s here in front of you and he’s real and solid and sturdy. He seems more substantial than the streets around you, than your friends back at the pub had been.

“Do you remember me?” He asks, voice soft as though he’s afraid of the answer.

“Remember you?” You croak. It feels as though the words are catching inside your throat. “No. But I’ve seen you every night in my dreams for years.”

If that’s the answer he’s expecting, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps looking at you, your face, your body. You wonder exactly it is that he’s seeing. “These are for you.” He says eventually, holding out the flowers. “I didn’t- I wanted to bring you something, when I saw you again. And I know that you always liked the garden.”

He’s talking as if the places that you’ve dreamed about are real. It doesn’t come as the earth-shattering surprise you might have expected — rather, it feels like a key turning in an old lock. A click, and then a sense of yes, that’s right.

You take the flowers, and clutch them to your chest. They’re a fleshy pink, with a vibrant yellow centre. The petals are as soft as velvet. Holding them feels like holding a safety blanket. “Thank you.” It’s the only thing that you can manage to say right now. Your thoughts are too full, and nothing else makes it out of your mouth.

It’s rather startling, the feelings that bubble up in your chest. It feels like something has just been unlocked, as though you had stored away all this emotion somewhere deep in your ribcage and then forgotten about it only for it to resurface at this precise moment, for this precise person.

“Eijirou.” You croak. “Kirishima Eijirou.”

His whole face brightens, and his eyes sparkle. “Yes. That’s me. You do remember!”

They’re not quite memories, you don’t think. They come in dreamlike flashes — the garden, an ocean, train tracks, the feral snarling of a dragon with sharp teeth, hard work and hot food, friends.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Kirishima is saying, his face open and earnest. “But I told you that I’d come and find you again, remember?”

You do remember, sort of. A flash of a warm hand holding yours, pushing you forward over a boundary between one world and another, and a goodbye whispered behind you that sounds like a promise.

“You saved me.”

Kirishima laughs, though his eyes look a little shiny. “It was the other way around, actually. I would have stayed trapped in that bathhouse forever, if it weren’t for you.”

“The bathhouse.” You murmur, wide-eyed. It was real, real, real.

“Things are different now.” He edges closer to you. He’s large and imposing and taller than you, but he’s hunched slightly in an attempt to make himself unthreatening. “That’s why it took so long for me to come for you. Things were changing. Me and Katsuki run the bathhouse now.”

Katsuki. In your mind's eye you see a boy with wild blond hair and a dangerous look in his eyes, a boy who gives you extra rice when he can manage and takes over parts of your chores when you get so tired that you’re fit to pass out.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait.” He says quietly, and the tide of emotion that you had just barely been holding at bay comes crashing over you. Before the first tear has welled over the edge of your eyelids, Kirishima has stepped forward and wrapped you in his arms. The flowers are crushed between your chests as you cry.

“I didn’t even know what I was waiting for.” You cry into his silk suikan.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair. “I’m here now. I’m not going to leave again.”

You don’t release your grip on him. You’re not willing to take the chance.

After a moment, Kirishima speaks again. “Are you ready to go?”

“Go?” You echo, finally pulling away. “Go where?”

“Home.” He says, and he means the bathhouse. He means the spirit world.

“You want me to work for you?”

“I want you to help us run it.” He corrects. The distinction is important for both of you — though the memories are distant, you both know what it feels like to have your names and voices erased so cleanly that it makes you wonder if you ever existed fully at all.

“I don’t know anything about running a bathhouse. Especially not one for spirits.” You say, but Kirishima just laughs.

“You were always a hard worker. You’ll learn as you go. That’s what we’ve all been doing.”

You want to say yes. The word beats in your head like a drum, and you can’t think of a good reason to say no. The bathhouse. Home. The chance to feel real and awake at the same time.

“Okay.” You say on a breath, staring at him with wide eyes. “Stay with me, this time.”

When Kirishima’s face lights up in a smile, it’s the first time that you think you can accurately describe someone as incandescently happy. “Good luck getting rid of me again.”

You laugh, feeling nearly delirious with relief and joy. It’s real. He’s real. He’s come back for you, and now you’re going back with him. You think you should probably feel nervous or hesitant, but this brief encounter has felt more solid and right than the rest of the night spent with distant school-friends made uncomfortable by your silences.

“So, how do we get there?” You ask, but Kirishima just grins at you like you should already know the answer.

The train station is tucked away down an alley just off a busy main shopping district.

“It’s easy to miss if you don’t know exactly where you're going.” Kirishima tells you with a sharp smile, and it’s easy to believe. The red brick building that housed the train station is unmarked, and the trains couldn’t be seen from the main street. The alley itself is home to many curious sights -- paper lanterns bob overhead (though they don’t seem to be suspended by anything in particular), a yellowed flyer from the 1950s advertising Marlboro cigarettes drifts along on what seems to be a breeze despite the noticeable lack of wind, and three magpies sit on a wall wearing little golden timepieces on chains around their necks and caw in time with the ticking.

“Ready to go home?” Kirishima asks quietly. In his hand, two train tickets flutter in a non-existent breeze.

A family of mice scamper past your feet, pulling a miniature suitcase between them. A tall, thin woman wearing a blank white mask assists them onto the train.

You laugh at the whimsy of it all — it feels as though you’ve stepped into a fairytale, into a dream, into your childhood. “Yes,” You grin, “I’m ready.”

Kirishima beams back at you, and holds out a hand to help you onto the train. Finding a seat was easy — despite all the passengers you had seen boarding, the carriage was oddly empty. As soon as you’re seated, you sigh. It feels as though you’re sinking into an old overstuffed armchair, comfortable and familiar. When the whistle blows and the train starts moving, you turn eagerly to watch as the train begins to pick up speed. Within moments, you find that you can barely recognise the landscape blurring past the window — It seems that you’re zooming passed a beautiful sea-view, despite the fact that the city the train station was located in was conspicuously land-locked. You sigh happily and lean against your seat.

You still don’t remember everything about your experience in the spirit world all those years ago, but you think you remember hearing someone telling you “Once you meet someone you never really forget them. It just takes a while for your memories to return."

You make eye contact with Eijirou, who smiles back at you so fondly that it nearly hurts to look at. He’s changed so much from the boy in your dreams, in your memories. His eyes are no longer glassy and distant — now they’re shiny and expressive and so bright. His hair is longer too; still spiked and wild, but longer and curling softly over the curve of his neck and shoulders. He’s the boy your remember from all those years ago, but he’s also a man now. Grown, like you have, but smiling at you gently just like you’re ten years old again.

Through the window behind his head, the sunrise begins to bathe the water in delicate pinks and yellows. You’ll wait for as long as you need to for the memories to return, but even if they don’t that’s alright. You can just make new ones.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hiiii, so I decided to continue my combing through the books for random specific Everlark related content series. This one is Katniss and Peeta taking care of each other. This is Part One and only includes stuff from the first book because it was getting too long. 😭😅. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy.

-

I gently unzip his jacket, unbutton his shirt and ease them off him. His undershirt is so plastered into his wounds I have to cut it away with my knife and drench him again to work it loose. He’s badly bruised with a long burn across his chest and four tracker jacker stings, if you count the one under his ear. But I feel a bit better. This much I can fix. I decide to take care of his upper body first, to alleviate some pain, before I tackle whatever damage Cato did to his leg.

-

Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he’s lying in what’s become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky. I have to dig the stingers out of his tracker jacker lumps, which causes him to wince, but the minute I apply the leaves he sighs in relief. While he dries in the sun, I wash his filthy shirt and jacket and spread them over boulders. Then I apply the burn cream to his chest. This is when I notice how hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of water have disguised the fact that he’s burning with fever. I dig through the first-aid kit I got from the boy from District 1 and find pills that reduce your temperature.

“Swallow these,” I tell him, and he obediently takes the medicine. “You must be hungry.”

“Not really. It’s funny, I haven’t been hungry for days,” says Peeta. In fact, when I offer him groosling, he wrinkles his nose at it and turns away. That’s when I know how sick he is.

“Peeta, we need to get some food in you,” I insist.

“It’ll just come right back up,” he says. The best I can do is to get him to eat a few bits of dried apple. “Thanks. I’m much better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?” he asks.

“Soon,” I promise. “I need to look at your leg first.” Trying to be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then very slowly inch his pants off of him.

-

I scoot my square of plastic under him so I can wash down the rest of him. With each bottle I pour over him, the worse the wound looks. The rest of his lower body has fared pretty well, just one tracker jacker sting and a few small burns that I treat quickly. But the gash on his leg . . . what on earth can I do for that?

-

I know the tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so I start with those. Within minutes of pressing the handful of chewed-up green stuff into the wound, pus begins running down the side of his leg.

-

“What next, Dr. Everdeen?” he asks.

“Maybe I’ll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?” I say. I do and the whole thing seems a lot more manageable, covered in clean white cotton.

-

I help him dress, leaving his feet bare so we can walk in the water, and pull him upright. His face drains of color the moment he puts weight on his leg. “Come on. You can do this.”

But he can’t. Not for long anyway. We make it about fifty yards downstream, with him propped up by my shoulder, and I can tell he’s going to black out. I sit him on the bank, push his head between his knees, and pat his back awkwardly as I survey the area.

-

When Peeta’s able to stand, I half-guide, half-carry him up to the cave. Really, I’d like to look around for a better place, but this one will have to do because my ally is shot. Paper white, panting, and, even though it’s only just cooling off, he’s shivering.

I cover the floor of the cave with a layer of pine needles, unroll my sleeping bag, and tuck him into it. I get a couple of pills and some water into him when he’s not noticing, but he refuses to eat even the fruit. Then he just lies there, his eyes trained on my face as I build a sort of blind out of vines to conceal the mouth of the cave.

-

I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don’t know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead.

-

I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Peeta, refreshing the bandage.

-

Peeta sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. “Go to sleep,” he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don’t want him to stop and he doesn’t. He’s still stroking my hair when I fall asleep.

-

I give him more fever pills and stand over him while he drinks first one, then a second quart of water. Then I tend to his minor wounds, the burns, the stings, which are showing improvement.

-

Peeta’s stretched out on top of the sleeping bag in the shade of the rocks. Although he brightens a bit when I come in, it’s clear he feels miserable. I put cool cloths on his head, but they warm up almost as soon as they touch his skin.

-

I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. “Who can’t lie, Peeta?” I say, even though he can’t hear me.

-

I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily.

-

He doesn’t seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I’m just too beat-up and I’ll hear about it later when I’m stronger. But for the moment, he’s all gentleness.

-

“You need to eat. I’ll go hunting soon,” I say.

“Not too soon, all right?” he says. “You just let me take care of you for a while.”

-

Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin.

-

Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Peeta has built a sort of canopy over my head and upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rocks above me.

-

“I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it’s bedtime anyway,” he says.

My socks are dry enough to wear now. I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it’s likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won’t agree unless I’m in the bag, too, and I’m shivering so hard that it’s pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I’m struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow; the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else’s arms have made me feel this safe.

-

I set a good dinner out, but halfway through Peeta begins to nod off. After days of inactivity, the hunt has taken its toll. I order him into the sleeping bag and set aside the rest of his food for when he wakes. He drops off immediately. I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I’m so grateful that he’s still here, not dead by the stream as I’d thought.

-

Although I’m shaking in the biting wind, I rip off my jacket, remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as swiftly as possible. That brief exposure sets my teeth chattering beyond control.

Peeta’s face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie down before I probe his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs over my fingers. A bandage will not be enough. I’ve seen my mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don’t have a stick, so I take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting it as tightly as I dare. It’s risky business — Peeta may end up losing his leg — but when I weigh this against him losing his life, what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in the rest of my shirt and lie down with him.

-

“Are you cold?” he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. It’s a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop. Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice.

“Cato may win this thing yet,” I whisper to Peeta.

“Don’t you believe it,” he says, pulling up my hood, but he’s shaking harder than I am.

-

Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for Peeta and bring a second to my lips.

-

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there’s no way I’m letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder.

-

“It’s my fault,” I say. “Because I used that tourniquet.”

“Yes, it’s your fault I’m alive,” says Peeta.

“He’s right,” says Caesar. “He’d have bled to death for sure without it.”

I guess this is true, but I can’t help feeling upset about it to the extent that I’m afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta’s shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it’s better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover.

-

[ibijau]

Futures Past pt15 / on AO3

Nie Huaisang returns to the Unclean Realm after his failed year in Gusu

The Unclean Realm, usually a noisy place, had fallen nearly entirely silent as most of the disciples and quite a few servants gathered around its gate. They were all careful to keep a respectable distance from the gate in question, in case things went wrong, but still did their best to be close enough to get a good view. Not that it was particularly necessary to be near enough to hear what was happening. Nie Mingjue had a voice that carried, and it only got worse when he was angry at his brother.

Which he currently was, of course, and for good reason everyone thought. After all, Nie Huaisang had just returned from his time studying in the Cloud Recesses, though he’d apparently done little learning there.

But it wasn’t his failure to pass his exams that had his brother so upset. It was more the fact that on the way back home, Nie Huaisang had decided to leave on his own and disappeared for well over three weeks. The other Nie disciples travelling with him had just found a note on his bed one morning announcing that he didn’t feel like going home yet. They had panicked and sent an urgent message to their sect leader, who had also panicked and launched a search for his brother, in vain.

“You could have been kidnapped!” Nie Mingjue shouted at his brother, who had arrived that morning, looking as careless as if he’d just been gone for a shichen on an errand. “You could have been attacked by bandits! Did you even have your sabre with you?”

“Of course I did!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed, patting the weapon at his waist. “What was I going to do, walk around?”

“It would have been safer than flying in your case! What if you’d fallen?”

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes. His cultivation had actually improved quite a bit while he was in the Cloud Recesses, if only because the Lans didn’t let him avoid training as much as his brother did. He was even quite close to forming a golden core, something he’d more or less given up on, and for which he hoped he’d get praised, whenever his brother calmed down enough to hear the news. So while he wasn’t the strongest of flyers, he was doing much better than he used to.

Not that Nie Mingjue was in any mood to hear that.

“I was careful, I swear,” Nie Huaisang sighed. “You’re always saying I should be more independent anyway!”

“Independent, not reckless! And who’s that?” Nie Mingjue roared, pointing at the person next to his brother.

That had been the question on everyone's mind since Nie Huaisang had arrived a little earlier, a boy much younger than himself walking at his side, but so far Nie Huaisang had avoided answering.

“Oh, that’s Xue Yang,” Nie Huaisang cheerfully announced, patting the young boy’s shoulder. “I picked him up along the way. You should test him, I really think he’s going to be a great cultivator someday! Xue Yang, that’s my brother, say hi to him?”

Xue Yang threw Nie Mingjue a very unimpressed look, and gave a half-hearted bow.

“It's an honour to meet Nie zongzhu,” he said with some uncertainty, probably wishing he hadn't been so close while Nie Mingjue shouted at his brother like that.

“Huaisang, where did you find that child?” Nie Mingjue asked.

“It’s a long story,” his brother said.

Nie Mingjue nodded, and waited for the story in question to be told. Nie Huaisang just smiled at him.

“Are you going to tell me how you found him?” Nie Mingjue insisted when nothing more came.

“No. It’s a long story, but it’s not very interesting. He’s here now, though, so that can’t be helped.”

Hearing this, Nie Mingjue turned his attention to Xue Yang, as if hoping he might get an explanation there. The young boy just gave him a wicked smile.

“He said I’d get candies if I came,” Xue Yang said. “Am I gonna get them now or what?”

Nie Mingju’s eyes snapped back to his brother.

“Huaisang, did you steal a child by offering him treats? You realise how bad that looks?”

“It’s not stealing when it’s a person,” Nie Huaisang protested, nervously twisting his fingers for a moment before hiding his hands behind his back. “And I think children count as people, not things. Right?”

“Fine. Did you kidnap a child?”

A little embarrassed, Nie Huaisang hunched his shoulder and looked down at his feet without answering. A mistake, it turned out, because Xue Yang took that as his cue to explain things.

“It’s okay, I don’t have a family anyway,” Xue Yang announced. “He asked before taking me with him, to make sure I’m an orphan. And your brother’s nice. He took me to all those nice inns along the way, and every time he made sure I had food and a bath. He said the baths were very important.”

Nie Mingjue glared at his brother who winced because that could indeed be misunderstood. Which was exactly why Xue Yang had said it like that, he suspected. But really, Xue Yang had been in a pretty bad state when Nie Huaisang had picked him up. His hair was nearly stiff with dirty, he’d recently bled all over his clothes, and he had lice, and...

“Fine, I guess I’ll have to tell the story,” Nie Huaisang grumbled. He had already come up with a sanitised version of events that he could actually share with his brother, but it still annoyed him to not be trusted more. “So, I wanted to visit Kuizhou, you see? Everyone says the landscapes around it are so gorgeous, and so melancholic, and they are by the way. I want to go back to paint and write and…”

“Focus, Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue ordered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, right. So, I went there,” Nie Huaisang said, playing with the hem of his sleeve. “And I was visiting and stuff, and then I see a grown man punching and kicking a kid! Just because the kid had grabbed a few things from him!”

“Yeah, it was just his purse, and there wasn’t even that much money in it,” Xue Yang helpfully provided. “Well, and a few buns from his stall, and those apples from the stall next to his, and…”

“Shut it,” Nie Huaisang hissed, before returning his attention to his brother, a bright smile on his face. “So, you always say we have to defend the weak, and nobody’s weaker than a kid, so I went to check what was going on, right? And the man told me that kid is a terrible thief that’s plaguing their town, and he’s going to beat him up until all his bones are broken and he can never bother anyone else. But it’s just a kid!”

“Yeah, I’m just a kid!”

“Shut it! Anyway, I rescued the kid, because he really was in a bad state. And then I figured, well, how can someone that’s just a kid be such a good thief, right? So I checked and he’s got good dispositions for cultivation!”

It had been a lucky realisation, because he hadn’t known for sure that Xue Yang even was meant to become a cultivator, nor a talented one for that matter. In fact, the whole thing had been unbelievably lucky. Sure Nie Huaisang had spent three whole days searching everywhere for Xue Yang, but he’d been about ready to give up when he’d finally found him in roughly the exact way he'd described.

“The local sect are a bunch of pricks who didn’t want to take him in when I asked,” Nie Huaisang explained, as if he could ever have left Xue Yang into the care of strangers who might have failed to stop him from becoming evil. “So I brought him home. He’s going to be a great disciple!”

Having listened to that story with mounting annoyance, Nie Mingjue glared at his brother.

“Huaisang, that’s…”

“You always say people deserve a chance no matter their background!”

“Oh so you do listen when I talk sometimes?”

“He’s an orphan, and he’s talented, and someone has to do something, and we can’t send him back or else he might continue stealing maybe!”

“I’ll definitely continue stealing if you send me back,” Xue Yang promised with a smirk.

Nie Huaisang glared at him. Evil or not, Xue Yang knew how to be annoying.

He also knew how to be charming, though. He’d been absolutely delightful with a bunch of people they’d met on the way to Qinghe whenever he’d thought he could get something out of it. And it had worked, too. Xue Yang had obtained a lot of sweets from a lot of people, as well as some money here and there. And that was without mentioning the stuff he’d just outright stolen, sometimes from the very people generously sharing something with him. He was a little pest, all right.

But he was smart too, smart enough to understand what an incredible opportunity he’d been given. It would have been easy for Xue Yang to run away into the night, taking with him all of Nie Huaisang’s money. He was a skilled enough thief to manage it, especially once he’d realised that Nie Huaisang wasn’t a skilled enough cultivator to pursue him. But he hadn’t, because he’d been promised a chance of becoming a cultivator if Nie Huaisang could just convince his brother.

Of course, that was a pretty big 'if'.

A year earlier, Nie Huaisang would have been certain that he could convince his brother of anything. He’d never had any reason to doubt that, not until his future self had come into his life uninvited and whispered poison to him about Nie Mingjue having a bad opinion of him. And maybe he was right, that old prick. Nie Huaisang had messed up so badly in the Cloud Recesses, failing his classes in a way most people never did. He’d shamed his sect, his clan, his brother, and now he had the galls of asking for a huge favour, as if he had any right to…

“How old are you?” Nie Mingjue asked Xue Yang, who shrugged.

“Dunno. I think I’m older than nine, maybe, ‘cause I remember that bad drought we had one year. But old Cheng says I’m probably less than twelve, ‘cause I don’t have all my teeth yet.”

To prove his point, Xue Yang clenched his jaw and bared his teeth. He was indeed missing one canine on the left, while the right one was just starting to regrow. It made for a very odd smile, and yet Xue Yang knew how to use that to look cute sometimes.

Cuteness wouldn’t work on Nie Mingjue though. Years of dealing with Nie Huaisang had made him nearly immune to it.

"What did my idiot brother tell you to convince you to come all the way here from Kuizhou?" 

"He said I'd learn to be a cultivator, and people wouldn't beat me up ever again for stealing," Xue Yang recited. "And he said I'd have to learn to be good and stuff, because it's a second chance for an honest life, and I figured, well, it's better than the streets."

Nie Mingjue nodded, though he still looked severe enough that Nie Huaisang wasn’t sure yet of his victory. 

"We have a certain way of doing things in my sect, and dishonesty isn't allowed. And I'll need to check if you can be taught at all. Come closer and give me your hand." 

Xue Yang, impossibly cocky a moment before, suddenly hesitated and glanced at both Nie brothers before hiding his hands behind his back. 

"Which hand ?" 

"Either one, it makes no difference." 

"It might a bit," Xue Yang grumbled before reluctantly raising both hands. 

Nie Mingjue frowned when he noticed that one finger was missing, but Nie Huaisang took it to be an encouraging frown and finally relaxed. It expressed concern rather than anger, and that had to be a step in the right direction. 

"That looks old," Nie Mingjue noted, grabbing Xue Yang's left hand to inspect it. "Hm. That's not neat enough to have been cut off. What happened to you?" 

"Someone's cart ran over my hand on purpose," Xue Yang muttered, trying in vain to pull his hand free. "I was little. It's fine now, I swear!"

It was far from fine, actually. Xue Yang himself might not have realised it since he was used to it, but Nie Huaisang had noticed that the young boy favoured his right hand a lot more than was normal, even for a right-handed person. In another sect, that might have been a problem. But Qinghe Nie was more martial than most others, a little more reckless too, and they had their share of cultivators who'd had nasty accidents. 

A missing finger in a stiff hand wasn't so bad compared to some people. 

"We'll have to get you a light sabre," Nie Mingjue said, mostly to himself after a quick check of the boy’s meridians. "Something you can use one-handed, like Huaisang. And I'll ask our doctor to have a look at it. It looks painful." 

"No, it's fine, I don't feel pain anymore," Xue Yang proudly announced as he pulled his hand free. "Trained myself out of it, mostly."

"You are definitely going to see Zhilan," Nie Mingjue replied, frowning harder. "Huaisang’s right, you do have potential, so we'll train you.” He turned toward their audience of disciples, and gestured for one man to walk closer. “Zonghui! Come and give that kid a tour, and a meal. When he's eaten, take him to see Zhilan, and have a bed prepared for him."

“I’m in?” Xue Yang asked, so startled that for once, he really did look his age.

He glanced at Nie Huaisang who grinned at him and nodded, then turned his eyes back to Nie Mingjue who nodded as well.

“You’re in. Go with Nie Zonghui, he’ll explain everything you need to know about being part of this sect.”

With surprising obedience that had to be a side effect of surprise, Xue Yang trotted away with Nie Mingjue’s first disciple. Nie Huaisang tried to follow, equal parts curious and worried about what might happen next if he lost sight of Xue Yang. He hadn’t taken two steps before Nie Mingjue grabbed him by the collar to stop him.

“And where are you going?”

Nie Huaisang pointed toward Xue Yang. His brother gave him a pointed look, and started dragging him in another direction, leaving him no choice but to follow or be strangled.

“I’m tired,” Nie Huaisang complained. Then, noticing that they appeared to be going toward the training grounds, he struggled against his brother’s grasp. “Wait, da-ge, I’m really tired, I mean it! We’ve had to walk so long, you know! We’ve only been able to hitch a ride on carts for some of the way, so I can’t feel my legs anymore for how much walking I’ve done lately.”

“If you’d come home directly from the Cloud Recesses, you’d have ridden in a carriage,” Nie Mingjue retorted without an ounce of pity. “Now let’s see if you’ve made any progress with your sabre, aside from using it to run away. We’re going to spar together.”

“I can’t, I’m so tired!” Nie Huaisang whined. “I’m going to die if I have to move! And you’re so much stronger than me, there’s no point in training together, the difference is too great! Da-ge, have some mercy, let me eat something first! Let me rest! And I need to change clothes too, and I really should check how my birds are, and…”

“Shut up you brat! This is your punishment for getting me so worried!” Nie Mingjue snapped, pushing his brother onto the softer soil of the training ground. “Do your warm-ups!”

“But I’m starving, da-ge!”

“That’s your own fault for running away!” Nie Mingjue replied, showing yet again he was the most cruel person in the entire world.

And yet as soon as Nie Huaisang started stretching in preparation for a friendly fight, Nie Mingjue asked a disciple to go ask the kitchens if they might send some fresh buns and a little tea that way. Aggravated as he was that his brother only cared about checking his cultivation and martial art progress, Nie Huaisang couldn’t help but smile.

After everything his older self had said about Nie Mingjue really despising him, he’d been worried that his brother would indeed be furious at him for everything he’d done, from failing his classes to forcing him to take in a miscreant. But no matter how shouty and frowny he currently was, it was clear to anyone who knew him, as his brother did, that Nie Mingjue was worried-angry rather than angry-angry.

Nie Huaisang had gambled and won, thus proving to himself that he definitely knew his brother better than his older self did.

[promiseiwillwrite]

Silly UPG that no one should Ever listen to under any circumstances:

Thor likes Fried Chicken.

I like my broom, and I refused to leave it at my last house when I moved out. And my troubles would have followed me anyway.

Skadi once taught me what I realize now was a series of skills critical to mental health and discernment regarding breaking negative thought loops. Though, at the time, it looked like we were hunting and killing these wiggly little black things, like slugs with cartoon eyes.

Odin once made me laugh while I was busy crying my eyes out by saying sarcastically that only gods were allowed to "speed-run the enlightenment shit, and that it simply wouldn't do to have people with breasts getting all uppity, thinking they could make a decade's worth of changes in 6 months."

Whenever I see a child version of Loki's son Vali, he is always wearing a Stuffed plushie Wolf hat.

Loki enjoys Cherry Danish, and particularly the Last Available One from a shop or tray.

Angrboda is like Kali's 4th cousin twice removed, somehow, and speaks with a thick Russian accent.

Cats sometimes eat faeries.

Gods that are known to wander and travel in myth Absolutely have friends in other pantheons and go visit them. Furthermore, said deities go to one another's parties and festivals. (We all know they throw some wicked awesome parties for their deities in India)

I once saw Hel throwing dinner plates at her Father's head. For reasons.

Jormungandr gives great hugs.

Heimdal once taught me a lesson about boundaries, and at the end, he bit into an apple piece and held it over his teeth like a grill, grinning at me before he finished eating it.

I carry around a carved bone salmon as a charm for Loki.

[canonical-transformation]

Sweet girl. Dead, though. (noir!Fischl)

Did you think I'd forgotten about noir Fischl? Of course you didn't, you forgot about her; it's not your brain she's living rent-free in.

Anyway today I found myself Googling (1) Dashiell Hammet quotes and (2) the opening to My Immortal, so, you're welcome I guess. Enjoy!

(SCENE: "Fi", private eye, is on the case, helping Bennett prove Razor's innocence.)

There were a few haunts where you might find a heavy drinker on a weekday evening. Cat's Tail, ritzy and perfume and fruit slices. They did fine enough mocktails, but it was all young couples and trendsetters, dancing their worries away in blissful ignorance. On the other hand, Angel's Share had been closed for a year now, since the old owner, Crepus Ragvindr, had passed away. His son had ordered the place closed before disappearing from town. Rumour had it the man was running from gambling debts, but my money was on him having one of those spiritual 'finding yourself' quarter-life crises like the main suspect in Who Killed Tamago Kenji?.

That left Little Red Biergarten as the favoured haunt for less fancy drinkers. Cosy place, courtyard with a nice view of the stars, constantly getting noise complaints from the neighbours.

It was mid evening so there were still plenty of families and couples just here for the food. The place's dinner service was good; I'd been there many a time with Amy and our folks, and their schnitzel and gravy was indescribable.

Gods, she'd been insatiable when it came to that gravy, Amy had. Always trying to escape extra bits from our folks' plates.

Amy was my stepsister. (Or was she? All would be revealed.) Sweet girl. Dead, though.

It was a work day so I didn't feel too bad showing up here in office clothes. I was in my charcoal pinstripe suit with matching slacks, my second-best silk purple shirt, and a lavender-grey striped tie. My derbies were already scuffed from when I'd polished them this weekend--the streets of Mondstadt are no less mean to a grizzled detective's shoes than they are to the dame herself--but they were still a sight nicer than most of the wrinkled boots I saw about the place.

I know what you're thinking: gee, this Fischl character's one suave guy. Hey Oz, ask me if I'm a suave guy.

...really, Fi?

Just do it.

Gee. Sounds like this Fischl character's one suave guy.

Wrong, Oz. I'm no gent; I'm a dame, and I clean up nicely at that. My name's Fischl von Luftschloss Nafidort with hair the colour of pale ale (which I can't drink yet) with tar black clip-on extensions that reaches my mid-back. A lot of schmucks tell me I look like Amy (the dead stepsister I mentioned before, pay attention will ya) and yeah sure I fit her clothes but I'll save the cocktail dresses for when I need to infiltrate a high society soiree. I'm a private investigator but my teeth ain't crooked yet. I've got eyes the colour of apples and unlike my namesake I don't cover it up with no eye patch. And yeah I own a tie collection with every combination of lavender, lilac, and slate grey stripes you can think of but this is city living, who doesn't?

Fi. You got five feet into the Biergarten and stopped moving.

...you try monologuing and walking at the same time, Oz.

My informant in the Knights was called Kaeya. Easy man to find in the evening, if you knew where to find a heavy drinker, which as I mentioned before, I do. He was fleecing a fellow Knight at cards, and I waited til the game had wrapped and the other guy was leaving before I made my way to his table.

"Evening, Kaeya." I drew myself a chair and motioned to his winnings. "Is that a stack of Mora, or are you just--"

He cut me off. "No. No, we're not--" He lowered his voice. "Fischl, level with me: do you actually know what that saying means?"

"Does a dead cat bounce?" I quipped wittily.

"Don't dodge the question."

He looked serious, so I figured I'd throw him a bone. I gave him the simple yes-or-no answer he was clearly angling for. He asked me how many books I'd read where people say things like that without knowing what they mean; I explained to him that a hard boiled investigator doesn't have much time for leisure reading, but Amy used to read a lot of detective novels and she had mentioned the answer was 'none'. He told me that as a condition of being my informant, I was never to use those kinds of lines on him. I acquiesced and asked if I could have a sip of his ale; he said no.

"So, how can I help you?" said Kaeya, leaning back into his seat.

"It's about one of your perps," I said. "Razor. As in razor's edge, where we're all dancing."

[missramu]

A kiss to wake up

Hello everyone! I'm bringing what I believe is my longest piece so far. As a disclaimer, this was a little bit self-indulgent, so I didn't want to spare a single detail. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

As a top note, this is kinda the prequel to this one! One day I'll make some sort of timeline, I promise. I just keep writing as the ideas come to me

Kiss number 32: to wake up

The last weeks had been an actual chaos for the fashion deisgner. Indeed, they had been chaotic, but in a sort of good way. After so many years waiting, Ramuda was about to undergo top surgery. He was finally getting his mastectomy done and, although these days he had to sign, read and send plenty of papers, he was happy. He was excited, but he was a bit scared too. After all, it was an operating room and he was still afraid of needles.

The designer sighed as he put the pen down, looking up with a faint smile. Jakurai walked by, taking his chance to kiss Ramuda’s forehead before leaving him a cup of warm tea, keeping the other one to himself.

“I can sense you are nervous”. He said tenderly, grabbing a chair and sitting by his partner’s side.

Ramuda glanced over the papers that were scattered in front of him, sipping from the cup. “Well, yeah… I’ve been waiting for this for so long, and now that’s here I just… Can’t imagine it”. His tone was calm, revealing his true self. It had taken a lot for him to learn to trust Jakurai again –they both had to relearn how to trust each other–, but he knew he didn’t need to fake anything. Not anymore.

Jakurai mumbled. “I see…”. He gently put his cup on the table, making space for the pink-haired man in his arms. As if the doctor had predicted his movements, Ramuda leaned forward and placed his head on his partner’s chest, closing his eyes.

“It’s perfectly normal to be nervous. It is a surgery, after all”. He did a brief pause, lifting Ramuda’s chin tenderly. “But everything will go smoothly. I cannot be on the operation room that day, but you will be in good hands. You will be okay, my dear”.

The designer smiled, nodded, and went in for a kiss. Jakurai eagerly corresponded, wiping Ramuda’s tears as they kissed.

“Plus, you deserve this”. Jakurai added after they broke the kiss. “You have fought bravely, and you had a lot of patience… Although I may recognize I didn’t think you were capable of having it”. The doctor added jokingly, which earned him a pout from his partner as well as a bump on his arm.

“Rude!”

Jakurai laughed softly, which made Ramuda’s pout go away quickly.

“My point is, you needn’t’ be nervous. You earned it, Ramuda. You deserve good things too”.

The designer took a deep breath, repeating those words in his head to himself. He still had a hard time believing that; but his Posse and Jakurai had been making a hard effort to help him realize his self-worth.

“Thanks, babe. I… kinda needed to hear that”.

“Then I am happy I could be of assistance, my dear”.

The days went by, and before the couple could realize it, it was time for Ramuda to check in in the hospital. Since they had agreed to live in Shinjuku, the surgery would be done in Jakurai’s hospital; and one of his co-workers was in charge of it.

Sadly for the doctor, he had to work to do. Ramuda understood that he couldn’t be in the operation room –although he wished he could–, but Jakurai felt bad about it. Old habits die hard, and he was distressed about not being able to directly help during the procedure.

However, he used his lunch break to make his partner some company. He knew his teammates would be coming soon, as they had promised to keep him entertained until the moment came. His surgery was scheduled at 16:00, and they would also wait for him to come out of the operation room.

Jakurai knocked softly on the white door, and entered the room after hearing Ramuda’s voice confirming he could come in. He knew that the designer mustn’t eat now, so he tried to somehow hide his lunchbox. As soon as the younger man realized, he laughed and encouraged him to eat.

“It’s your lunch break, silly! If you don’t eat now you won’t be able to do so later, and your patients need you on tip-top condition!”

“But it would be rude to eat in front of you, since you cannot eat before surgery…” Jakurai’s voice sounded sincerely concerned, as he was forgetting his own needs.

“Here you go again” he mumbled, rising to his feet and walking to the doctor’s side. “I’m ok, dummy. I will eat later, and y’know, my Posse will bring me a whoooole feast!” he laughed it off, grabbing the sleeve of his white coat. “Seriously, don’t worry about me. I will be fine! I mean, I’m kinda hungry, but you are working and need to eat”. Jakurai was going to counterattack, but Ramuda shushed him down. “If you don’t eat now Imma get angry! If you won’t do it for yourself and your own health and well-being, then… Do it for your patients?”

The doctor sighed softly, having been hit on his weak spot –his need to help–.

“Very well, then”. Ramuda wasn’t the right one to talk about self-care and preserving his own health, but he left the argument for another day. It was something they both have to keep working on, and they decided to help each other out.

“Bone apple teeth!” Said Ramuda jokingly as he saw him eat the first spoonful, making the older man to raise an eyebrow.

“Fascinating… I think that’s not the proper way to say it; however, it does sound similar”.

Ramuda bursted out laughing, and the doctor smiled tenderly. He would do anything to keep that smile on his face, and was willing to protect it forever.

Between laughs and fascination, Jakurai’s break was over sooner than they would have wanted it to be. The doctor neatly put everything back on his lunchbox before leaving, letting it down for a moment by the bedside table.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours, then” said the designer, leaning in for a kiss. Jakurai was already on his way to kiss his forehead, so the gesture was well received. After that he nodded, cupping his beloved’s pale cheek.

“I will be by your side by the time you wake up. I will be waiting for you as long as I need to wait”.

Luckily for Ramuda, he wasn’t alone with his thoughts for long; for his dear friends arrived barely 25 minutes after his dear doctor left.

“Hey there man! How ya feelin’, huh?” Dice announced himself in that way, taking the seat by the left side of the bed.

“I’m tootes good! Not nervous at all, nope!”

“Heavens, and yet you dare call me the liar…” Gentaro added, closing the door behind him.

“But I’m not lying...” The writer rose an eyebrow, keeping direct eye contact with his leader. “Geez! Well, okay, maybe I am!”

The writer chuckled, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. “As if we didn’t know you enough, dear Ramuda”. The chuckle turned into a reassuring smile, and the leader of the Shibuya division thanked the gesture.

“I know this shit is scary and tough, but you got this! In no time at all you’ll be jumpin’ around again, you’ll see!” Dice smile was broader than Gentaro’s, but it was as reassuring as the writer’s was.

“I’m soooo lucky to have you two!” Ramuda yanked them both into a hug, and although it took them by surprise, they joined as soon as they felt his leader’s arms around their shoulders.

“Yeah, and we’re also lucky to have you!” the blue-haired announced with pride, ruffling the designer’s pink hair.

“As our beloved Dice once said,” Gentaro started saying, clearing his voice in order to make it similar to his partner’s, “we are the best, amazing, bounded-tight Posse!”

“Hey, quit messin’ around!” the impersonated man grumbled, much to the impersonator’s and his only public delight.

Their dialogue was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door, and soon after a nurse entered the room.

The three members of Fling Posse quickly went to check the time, realising she came to bring Ramuda to the operation room. He took a deep breath, hugged his teammates tightly, and bis them farewell.

“See you later, Ramuda! I’ll make sure to bring you plenty of snacks!” Dice hugged him as tightly as he was being embraced, sad to leave the hug.

“And I will finance that, for our beloved Dice is as penniless as always”.

Ramuda laughed at their bickering, happy to see them as cheerful as always. Maybe it was selfish of him, but he thought they were doing that for him. Gentaro and Dice didn’t want to see his leader gloomy, so they did their very best to cheer him up. The designer thought that perhaps it was selfish to think so; but that was the truth. They loved him dearly, so it wasn’t selfish of him. It was a reassurance that he was loved and cherished.

The hours went by, the clock ticking its way to noon and, after that, to dawn. Three hours passed, and around seven o’ clock in the evening, Ramuda’s top surgery was successfully completed. All that was left was for him to wake up.

The usual procedure would have been to leave him in the awakening room for up to two hours, until he had fully recovered from the anaesthesia. However, Jakurai’s turn finished a couple of hours ago and, after pulling a couple of strings, he managed to let them take him to his room, where he would personally supervise Ramuda until he woke up. The doctor felt he owed him that, but it wasn’t his only reason- he wanted to be by his side when the designer woke up and, if something happened, be the one to tend him.

When the clock hit quarter to nine, Ramuda started to come back to his senses. Jakurai was by the window, watching the neon lights of Shinjuku flicker; but as soon as he felt movement, he rushed by his partner’s side.

It took the designer fifteen more minutes to fully wake up, still a bit disorientated. When he fully opened his eyes, he encountered Jakurai’s vast oceans looking directly at him, as well as his calm smile.

“Wake up, my dear”. He approached his side, taking a seat by the verge of the bed. He tenderly moved his bangs with his hands, kissing Ramuda’s forehead as full of love as possible.

Ramuda smiled sluggishly, still having a hard time focusing. “I’m awake, silly…”

Jakurai chuckled, caressing his hair softly. “I can see that, dear. You did a great job”.

The designer smiled again, reaching to grab his lover’s hand. “Did I?” Jakurai nodded in response, leaving him do whatever he wanted with his hand –which was to cuddle it against his cheek–.

They spent almost an hour cuddling in silence, enough for Ramuda to completely awake. As his energy came back, he felt more and more excited to feel his chest. Thankfully enough, since he was small and slim, the scars wouldn’t be that big. They would be visible under his nipples, but it didn’t matter. He would wear them with pride, as a badge that showed his victory over Chuuoku again. The doctor felt he was fully recovered from the anaesthesia now, and was glad to see him cheerful again.

Ramuda turned to him with puppy eyes, as if asking permission. As much as it pained Jakurai, he left him out of the embrace, helping him to sit on the bed. He understood his look: he wanted to check it for himself.

“I wouldn’t advise taking the bandages off, but you can feel your chest. It should not hurt much”. Ramuda’s smile broadened, and as he muttered his thanks, he put his own hands on his chest. The anaesthesia was wearing off and it was a bit uncomfortable, but the sheer joy of feeling himself completely flat made him forget about that. After years of using a binder, of feeling those tiny bumps under it no matter what, they were finally gone. No more binding, no more swimming shirts and no more hiding. There was nothing to hide now.

Tears of joy started to roll down his cheeks, and Jakurai quickly wiped them for him.

“Congratulations, my love”. His voice sounded full of joy, hope and love. All of that, things that Ramuda and he deserved, and now they were getting. Seeing the designer unable to move much due to the bandages and his own feelings, he made the first move and hugged him, letting Ramuda’s head on his shoulder. The embrace was mutual, the younger man hugging his waist as tightly as his chest let him.

With teary eyes and the brightest of smiles, he looked up to Jakurai, who cupped his cheek and kissed him fondly. They remained like that for a couple of minutes, which quickly turned into half an hour.

“Ramuda?” He asked with a gentle voice, as if he was afraid it would scare him. He then realized he had fallen asleep, and let out an affectionate sigh. He carefully moved him back to the bed, letting him rest after tucking him in. As soon as he was sure he was soundly asleep, he walked to the window, watching the restless streets of his Shinjuku as alive as every night.

Jakurai was happy. He knew this was important for Ramuda, so he tried his best to look calm. Inside, his brain had been worrying about the designer all day, making it difficult for him to focus on his job. He spent all his free time sighing and looking at the clock, which was unusual of him: he never worried about how much of his shift was left; but today he was driven by his own worries and guilt. Jakurai fought bravely against said guilt and managed to control the situation and himself. Still, he couldn’t wait to see Ramuda. He needed to see him alright, and being unable to control the situation was driving him insane.

And now, after a long intervention and an even longer day, it was done. The doctor watched Ramuda sleeping in the reflection of the window, and smiled again. He could see his chest rising softly as he breathed, and that was what ultimately made him keep smiling. All his worries left with that sight, his mind regaining peace.

Fatigue was taking its toll over him, so the doctor decided to sit down by the bed. His plan was to rest his eyes and legs for a bit, wanting to keep himself awake all night to watch over Ramuda. Before he could realize, though, he fell asleep holding his partner’s hand. It had been a long day, and his body talked louder than his plans.

As if the designer knew whose hand was holding his, he grabbed it back in his sleep.

Outside, the hustle of bustle of Shinjuku was never-ending. It didn’t matter to the couple, as they were soundly asleep side by side. At the end of the day, that was what kept them moving forward. They had been through a lot as a couple, but it was their similarities and wills what brought them back together. They still had a lot to work on, but one step at a time. For now, they had earned their peace and happiness, and they were going to spend it doing what their hearts desired the most –although it took them long to realize it– : being by each other’s side.