#drabble tag

[hopefromadoomedtimeline]

Traveling through time often could skew one's view of it quite significantly. Yesterday could be five years ago, an hour could've been last week, or a month could've actually been a few minutes. This had been a necessity for a certain swordsman, as there had been numerous reasons to travel through time more than once: Doomed futures, planet ending threats, or simply just wanting to check on timelines he had already been to. And of course, there were times where he unexpectedly landed in entirely different worlds other than is own due to unforeseen circumstances.

These visits varied from casual conversations to fighting to ensure no one gets killed by a maniacal monster. For the most part, they allowed him to build connections to people he never would've met otherwise, for his home lacked many things the worlds of others contained. Devastated by destruction for decades, the process of it healing was slower than many felt it should've taken. The large wastelands were only beginning to be sprinkled by greenery, the sounds of construction machinery were foreign to the ears of those who returned to the cities. It was hard for anyone attempting to rest with both eyes closed. Sometimes people looked towards the sky and held their breath as they waited for those two ominous figures to descend and rain hellfire upon the populace once more.

But they never came. They were truly gone. Taken down by someone who refused to give out his name. But they knew who he was. There was speculation on why he neglected the fame and the glory that came with saving the world, though they would spot him frequently, flying around like a mythical being. He'd be carrying food, or water to others, approaching strangers and asking them what they needed without prompting, and even helping rebuild houses alongside mother. There were some that feared him, believing his good intentions to be a facade to get others to lower their guards before he struck. And those who thought he merely was a false champion and the androids merely flew off somewhere to toy with another planet's population.

While those that speculated on what happened or denied his victory had earned some irritation from Trunks, he refused to let them eat away at him. He knew he avenged everyone, it didn't matter what others thought. All he thought about was how he was going to help his home heal.

But first, it was time to visit his own home. Having been away from it for quite some time, it would be nice to visit Scratch for a bit, maybe tinker on some machinery that he had found in his latest search for supplies, or just simply eat his fill and rest on his mediocre bed.

When he opened the door, he would call out to Scratch, who would give a small meow in response, earning the man's genuine chuckle. As he took a few steps inside, he'd be surprised to find Bulma, fast asleep in a chair, her head and arms resting against a table as she quietly snored the day away.

She was always the workaholic, there had been times where it would be weeks before they'd see each other, even before the time machine was first completed. But it was rare for her to come into the house to sleep, she'd often fallen asleep due to exhaustion in her workshop instead. Rather than question what changed, he would quietly make his way to the bedroom, and grab the sole blanket on top of it before returning to her and draping it over her body.

The gentle pressure causes the gadgeteer genius to stir, opening her weary eyes to spot her only son and putting a smile on her face as she attempted to get up. However, her son would urge her back to rest, which the rest of her body would agree with, even if Bulma would mutter some words in defiance. And following that, she mumbled some other words Trunks couldn't quite make out before she returned to sleep.

A kiss is placed atop her head before he now returns to his own needs, mainly food. He'd move to check the fridge in his kitchen, only for his eyes to widen in surprise as something immediately caught his eyes: a cake.

A small, white, misshapen cake, and with a single candle crudely stuffed onto the top, it was no mistake that this was his mother's attempt to bake. But it couldn't have been his birthday already, could it? He was only gone for a few days, his birthday wasn't for another month.

He'd scan for the calendar in his home, figuring his mother would've changed the dates while she stayed in his home. There were marks on the paper were made, one circle for the big day, and then sporadic slashes following it. It wasn't his birthday, it was a few weeks after. To think, she'd wait around hoping to be the first to wish her baby boy a happy birthday. She was typically the one to remind him anyway, even when they weren't living in times of peace.

He merely smiles as his gaze returns to his mother, and then to the fridge.

A few minutes later, he takes a knife to the cake, putting a slice for his mother, who now barely hung onto consciousness, and another to him, who would've barely remembered the occasion. And a bowl of cat food for Scratch, who was with them no matter what. It was just the three of them, but he couldn't ask for better company.

Bulma mumbled again, this time, her voice is a little louder than before, and he can make out the words.

"Happy Birthday Trunks."

[yumenosakiacademy]

hello. for ur consideration: "woke up new" by the mountain goats w ajaw after inheriting kinich's body/ajawnich angst.

ajaw wakes up one day n hes free from his small dragon form, n the feeling is amazing n free n stretching out his limbs instead of blinking open pixilated eyes is such a neat feeling! but smth feels Wrong. n hes used 2 always talking n yapping 2 kinich. but w kinich gone all he can rly do is talk 2 himself bc the silence feels 2 weird. 2 Wrong. what's the deal with tht.

one time when he gets up, typically kinich is telling him 2 settle down after getting up begrudgingly at ajaws persistence as he makes their food. he needs Smth so he makes some coffee to shake off the odd feeling he has n energize his new human form. coffee wasnt smth they often drank together bc it was quite expensive, but sometimes b4 big jobs theyd have some 2gethr so they could stay awake (or rather, mostly kinich, but hed give some 2 ajaw anyway w sugar, jus how he liked it).

but since it was just him, there was so much of it. but he drank the too-much coffee bc he knew kinich hates wasting things bc Things Cost Mora; he was always like that.

the drink was far 2 bitter. he much preferred kinichs fruit juice.

the 1st time he wakes up, he wakes up cold bc he was previously made of phlogiston b4, which is such a hot substance, but these human bodies... he doesn't have that warm fuel anymore. all he can do is huddle in kinichs blankets. is this why the boy would curl up at night? when he'd laugh at him for looking like a shaking yumkasaurus whelp despite his powerful abilities & how his own mighty form was warmth incarnate? when kinich would sometimes shuffle a bit closer to ajaws position on the bed 4 warmth? the cold pierces so sharp, now. he understands the boy's plight.

but this empty house, with its cold air n its silence n its dark walls n its lonely stifling aura--it reminds him of smth.

The Ruins.

the walls suddenly look more scuffed up then they should be, the air becoming thick n the smell of dirt n dust rising in his nostrils n--

he hisses with a start n runs outside n his legs feel so clumsy, like an uneven fawn. he's not used 2 these elongated limbs after being able 2 hover n fly 4 so long. he stumbles n he nearly trips over himself but out in the bright natlan sun he's at least out of that cramped space, breathing heavily n glaring at himself with a barked out scoff. he thought he was past this. he SHOULD be past this.

so why does everything feel like he's back in time. why does everything feel wrong. He Wanted This.

[arcanaaa]

"Do not go far from me" and it's a promise they swore as children, hushed and in darkness, but a promise sealed in tiny pinkies locked hold little sanctity when in the face of cruel destiny.

"Do not go far from me" but forces beyond their control will inevitably meddle and conspire to change them, for better or worse, and this is faced with the cold, terrifying realization that for all their efforts to cling to one another, they will eventually drift apart.

"Do not go far from me" except Gray must walk a different path from the rest of his loved ones-- and especially from Cana. And she knows it.

"Do not go far from me" because Cana knows that death follows Gray. It has followed him, perhaps since the beginning. Since the destruction of his village and his family. It has touched him and stained him and he will never escape it, no matter how much he tries to bury his past in ice, it lingers beneath the surface watching. Waiting. Until it takes him for a brief second-- and then time spirits him from its grasp. For now.

"Do not go far from me" but no matter how much Cana pleads, she knows he will go where she cannot follow, and she has no choice but to let her brother go.

"Do not go far from me" and they won't. Not even death would keep them apart-- after all, they made a promise, right?

[offrozenmemoirs]

Cat in the Cradle

"It seems as if Vadu has deigned to give her blessing to your younger brother. I'll admit, I'm surprised that he was chosen, given his...deficiency."

Ariortos frowns as he listens to his father. He knew nothing of his sister, otherwise, he would've known that his brother, was a sister, and to speak of her as if she were useless because she couldn't call upon the elements...It annoyed him. Had he paid attention, he would know that she showed an interest in alchemy, a field that only a few from Nihiran took up as a study. Especially within the nobility, it was frowned upon for being seen as common work, but that hadn't mattered.

Part of him does feel a sting of jealousy at Nelia, the one member of their family who couldn't use magic, and she was the one who was chosen to be blessed by Vadu. It wasn't enough that she was the only one of them to be born with the hooves of a fiend, showing just how strong their hellish inheritance was within her.

[It seems almost unfair, to have put so much work into my practice, to become one of the greatest necromancers to ever graduate from the Graneyean Academy of the Arcane Arts, to have surpassed my grandfather...For someone who can't use magic, in a family known for magic, it makes no sense!]

He bites his tongue, controlling his body so that his tail doesn't lash in irritation. He tires of listening to his father speak about his sister, but it's not her fault that he's angry. Part of him knows it's wrong to be upset with Nelia, she didn't ask for the blessing, and had even went out of her way to cover up more and more to hide the changing pigmentation of her skin. Where there had been a rich, brown color matching their usual tone, splotches of red had been popping up and growing larger. She had come to him first, thinking that it had been a sign of sickness and that she was dying.

"Indeed. Though, I believe she is more afraid than anything. She does nott understand what is going on, at such a sensitive age...Nelia is panicking. Perhaps it would do her well to have you explain the changes?"

Leonardo raises an eyebrow once his son speaks, and where he might've shrunk under the other's gaze before, Ariortos simply stares back at him, eyes hidden behind his glasses. He could never read his son anymore, as if he never relaxed, or let himself be known by others. Rafan stuck to herself, even moreso once she began to work as Vadu's enforcer...Naeem, no, Nelia, when had that happened? Liyan was far too young to do anything other than babble and crawl around, and he left her to be cared for by his wife.

"I suppose you have a point. I'll make a note to have a talk with her. To explain the gift she's been given. Lack of magic or not, she's the one who will lead us to greater heights. Vadu's blessing has not manifested in centuries. She shall come to understand her role within the house soon enough."

Ariortos gives a stiff nod, waiting to be dismissed from his father's office. His eyes scan the room, despite being highborn, he never liked being in here. Everything was far too gaudy, gilded portraits, a collection of his father's accomplishments, but what stood proudly above the fireplace, was the head of a dragon, its bones perfectly preserved.

He never liked the idea of such majestic creatures being reduced to trophies of all things. He understand the history and them being reduced to near extinction, but to have done this...Horns capped in gold, spiraling along the grooves, ruby red gemstones placed in the eyes, engravings done to the bones, and filled with silver...It did not deserve the fate of being a trophy.

"By your leave, father."

Before Leonardo could say anything, he hears his son's retreating footsteps, broken from his thoughts.

[I remember when he used to hang on to every word of mine. How he would always ask me how to apply magic to more practical uses. Where has the time gone?]

He sits in silence, contemplating just how little he knew about his children nowadays. Had he become the same person his father had been to him? No, he couldn't have been that bad. At the very least, he acknowledged his children.

Ariortos found his way to his own office, much less decorated than his father's, a simple setup, with more lab equipment within it, and built to be functional over fashionable. Within it, sat a simple desk, with no decorations, save for a photo of himself and Corvus on their graduation date. He had even smiled, or what his friend teased him as a smile. Really, it had been more of a quirk of the lip than anything. His window was open, letting some air in. He sighs as he sinks into his chair, opening a drawer at the bottom of his desk. Within it, sat a bottle of Avernian Fire Wine, he never drank, but he couldn't refuse the gift from his only friend.

He could brew some tea right now, but he felt exhausted. He sat up, preparing to get up until he saw a familiar head of hair peeking within his doorway.

"Come in, Nelia. I can see you hiding within my doorway."

"Nuh-uh."

His lips twitch in an urge to smile.

"What do you mean, 'nuh-uh'? You are not intangible."

He hears her giggle as she steps into his office, wearing a smile. Ariortos knows that things have changed, she is chosen, and he was not...But does she deserve to be punished for that?

"You said you'd spend time with me today, big brother, so I'm here to bother you, now that...dad's not spending time with you."

He hates how her smile falls at talking about their father...Sperm donor, really, it's not as if he's ever made any effort to spend time with them or get to know them. He's been the one who really took care of Rafan and Nelia, and he knew that. She carries a book of alchemy, the basics, but she's already taken to it like someone years above her own.

"Do not fret over him. Pull up a chair, we shall go over the applications of alchemy for combat today. I know you have been excited for that portion of lessons, correct?"

As quick as it faded, it came back in full force, and she excitedly took a seat next to him. She already begins questioning him, and he smiles at her.

[Perhaps she has been chosen for a reason. But she does not deserve my anger. No, I shall reserve that for father and Vadu.]

Right now, he took a small pleasure in getting to help his sister come into her own. If only to assuage her feelings of inadequacy, he would be happy to help her understand that she could be just as great as any member of House Zarin, if she put the effort in.

[valentinesparda]

here we are, reminded of how we're doomed.

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

the walls are far too close together, every inch of surface covered in plastered posters and ripped paper. this part of town is juniper's least favourite, but marble was the only place to be where they could be themself. and maybe it was because they'd recently seen a few more dead bodies than they're comfortable with, maybe it was the desperate crush that they'd managed to fall into, but being by date's side was the safest place they could be as of late.

"maybe i should find a place to stay tonight. the kumakura boys know where i live, and you seemed to make a bad first impression on them by asking a bunch of questions." juniper waddles past an overfilled trash bin, trailing behind date by a few feet.

"just doing my job, you know." he turns to face them while still walking, yellow eye glowing in the dark. jun skips a couple of steps to be closer to the detective, and date cringes at the sound of how heavy their boots are against the stone walkway.

"you could be louder," he jokes, and jun immediately halts in response to his dry words. perhaps they had been a tad bit annoying. their small "sorry" is second nature to them, and they're worried date is about to scold them even more when they notice he's stopped walking as well.

a pause. date snaps his head toward the lamplight parting two buildings ahead of them, and as quick as he had done so, he's taking tentative steps back towards juniper. their head is tilted, and before they can even ask what the hell he's doing, he has his hand in theirs and pulling them deeper into the darkness they had barely just emerged from.

juniper feels their heart jump in their chest, a kickstart of paranoid thoughts and quickened pulse as they find a particularly shadowy area out of sight to nestle into, date's body caging them in without a second thought.

a meek noise sounds out from the back of their throat, a question that will not receive an answer, and for several quiet moments the two of them stand there, unmoving, as they hear the sound of heavy footsteps and muffled chatter. and for those several moments, starting from when date braces himself with a hand against the wall next to their head, juniper feels uncomfortably warm.

they don't dare make a sound, because who knows who could be traipsing about after hours? or maybe they would be able to think better if they weren't able to smell the kind of body wash date used. they're sure they recognize it, but--

dammit, this isn't the time to be distracted. some goon with a gun could turn the corner at any moment, and they'd be caught unawares. juniper knows they can't handle themself in a fight, and it's possible date would prefer to not engage any criminals, which leaves them scant for options - and thus, pressed firmly against a heavy wood panel.

"aiba says we're clear," date whispers, his sights still focused on hazy lamplight ahead of him. when he finally tears his worried gaze away from it to check on his small florist friend, he realizes what he's done.

their hair is wild as ever, close enough that he can smell their shampoo, and their thick brows are furrowed, lips downturned and jaw set with anxiety. date feels his throat is dry at the same time that he's realized that he's spent possibly too long looking down at them. he feels as though he might start hacking up a lung when juniper casts a curious glance up at him.

oh.

juniper feels their breath hitch in their throat. date's artificial eye is a blazing yellow in this proximity, making his naturally green one seem oddly drab in comparison. they notice his lips pull into a thin line, mirroring their own, and against their better judgement they let out a shuddering sigh into the cold air between them.

oh.

date tells himself to relax, to not clench his jaw so tight, to not stare too long, and his lips part in a shaky breath. but now that they've locked eyes, it's impossible not to feel himself drift closer and closer to them, like magnets drawn together. he can feel the grain of wood beneath his palm, even through the fabric of his purple gloves. juniper has ridges digging into their back with how far they've pressed themself into the wall.

oh, no.

juniper can feel his breath fan across their face, cooling the warm blush that has bloomed beneath the pale skin of their cheeks. they're scared stupid, but not so stupid that they give in to the urge to pull him as close as they could, to press their chapped lips against his, because from this distance his lips look so soft in comparison to their own.

before they can do anything dumb, date squeezes his eyes shut, his face scrunched in a look of annoyance.

"um, date, are-are you okay?" they stutter, the question barely audible enough for themself to know they've asked it, what with their heart hammering in their head.

"I'm fine. just...." he hisses, tapping his left temple with a single finger, "have an unwilling audience."

juniper lets out a small snort of a laugh, still a bit dazed from nervousness. they tilt their head, and with a gentle voice, they coo, "aiba, are you making fun of him?"

date feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, a breathless chuckle leaving him lightheaded. "she is. says my hormone levels are spiking or whatever."

juniper nods. it's a sour feeling, knowing that they have to be the one to ruin the moment - if that was a moment, they double back around to overthinking. "maybe we shouldn't be out in the open like this."

in a last bid for some sort of contact, some sort of flirtation, they push themself from the wall, and date is taken off guard by this. he watches them with an astonished look in his eyes, pulling his arms back down to his side as he takes step after step in time backward while they move forward. perhaps it was too bold of them, to hold his attention the whole time, a suggestive tango of push and pull until they're left standing in the middle of the alleyway the way they had been before.

there's a moment's hesitation on date's end, where he looks back towards the light at the end of the alley and then drags his gaze back to juniper. with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat - for fear of his hands wandering, finding something to grab, with his body aching for the touch of their skin having been ripped away - he finally breaks the silence.

"do you still want to get a drink?"

[ephemeralove]

blood on the whetstone

Rusalka reminds her of what she can never cease to be.

When she was little, she had wanted a mother... though not specifically a mother, per se. She had wanted a family, a friend, a companion, a confidant -- she had wanted someone, anyone, who when they reached out their hand would not strike her down, but pull her back up. She had wanted to be loved.

By the time she arrives in Rusalka, Katarina has been slotted into the place where she belongs. Like one piece out of many to fashion a weapon, she is pointed twice over: first by the church towards the terrible unknown, and second by their guide Keranes. She presents them neither crimes nor comfort -- only familiar faces with which to bloody their hands. They number fourteen, a perfect mirror, and by their sacrifice they might dismantle this illusory village and cut the evil from its heart. Yet look as she might, all Katarina sees are the faces of those who have been loved.

Then one rainy day there came a woman robed in lovely colors-- a lady, not a mother -- who extended her hand. Not that Reese had known what to do with it. She shrank away as violets do, staring, quivering, scared. At that, the woman had laughed. It was a beautiful sound; no one had ever laughed for her before; and so she could not hear how still no one ever had. My name is Eremiyah, the woman had said, and that would be the first and only time Reese called her by name alone. Eremiyah, she had repeated, and there were stars in her eyes.

And there are stars in her eyes, brilliant, blue, and bright. The confusion of why Kris is here is rarely ever comparable to the joy of the simple fact of it. Her hand hovers by his elbow, but when he speaks, she knows: he is not her Kris. Perhaps he is not even Kris at all. Keranes' words echo in the back of her skull, a death knell that calls for half his number, but in her selfishness she does not want to give him up, not even if he is false. She worries that this will be their undoing, and worries more that she might regret not following him when he pulls away.

Her chin, poised between thumb and forefinger; the first hand to hold and not to hurt. "You'll do as I say. Won't you, Reese?" Pressure placed lightly at the point of bone. She could break away, if she wanted to, but then she would disappoint her. Clarisse would scoff, and Roro would laugh in the way she'd learned she didn't like. Blood smears on the fine edge of a blade Reese hesitates to hold, beading against the soft flesh of her palm, and Lady Eremiyah smiles the smile she would do anything for. "After all, your life exists for mine."

The sun has only just kissed its zenith in the sky when she looks down upon a young man's corpse. The first attempt on his life comes from the very man who had loved him into this place; the first to claim it from a girl whose mercy is to usher him away once more. It is through their first incendiary actions that Rusalka's soil turns copper and foul, though she cannot find it in herself to blame them. If not them, then someone else would have broken this tepid peace. Someone else would have hated her for the blood they spilled, faulted her for the crimes she learned because of them. Rusalka is not so different from Knorda.

Knorda was only ever beautiful when it was silent. Reese had never loved it, but she had liked it most when the night swept away the day and all its angels went to sleep, so that finally she could scrabble through the garbage for a bite to eat, and finally she could have a moment of rest until morning's first unfriendly heel found her ribs again. They were what Lady Eremiyah taught her not to be -- no, she was a weapon of a different kind. Her timidity, her soft-spoken manner, every facet of who she was refashioned into a tool until she could no longer trust herself. ...until she learned that earnestness was the best way to slip a knife between the ribs.

On their second morning, she is minded of Altea Castle -- not before her departure, but after her return. The once-and-no-longer tactician wears all the mistrust and suspicion with the familiarity of one who would be uncomfortable without it, instead standing at a lonesome edge in contemplation of her worry. Such mundane things as were her joy before (Had he eaten enough? Slept enough? He wasn't hiding any injuries, was he?) are vanished in the moment; are her sorrow now. And for good reason: Kris never comes back.

She killed because she was told to, because that was what she was made to be, and because-- she knew well this was the truth-- she had never chosen for herself to be better. In the end, she still never chose for herself, but for a bright blue star. He was the first to offer his hand and let her be; without carving her, without remaking her, she was enough for him the way she was. And he had laughed for her, once. It was a beautiful sound; no one had ever laughed for her before; and so she could finally hear how wonderful it was to be loved.

The path out of Rusalka they cut for themselves (she is not alone in her mourning, in her worry and sorrow) ends with a body. He lays in the dirt like some half forgotten thing, like his corpse is a pedestal to triumph, and Katarina hates it. Loathes it. Herself most of all for the fact that she will continue regardless of if he is true and real, because death is absolution for a sinner, and the things (the person) he loves remain behind.

The path into what she supposed was her home was as dark as she remembered, for she and they had lived there, and it was never a place meant for lovable things. But there was something worth saving now, though he would live on without her, and though he did not need to be saved. Yet he was the choice she made, and so she led them, light into the darkness.

One final act of defiance, the metaphorical guillotine at her throat--

--the metaphorical guillotine at his throat, the weapon he once polished now having bled him dry--

--the weapon she once polished now having bled her dry, and Katarina leaves her body in the dirt, blood sticky beneath her hands--

--and Katarina leaves his body in the dirt, wildflowers mournful beneath his hands, and it terrifies her that she has no answer for the question heavy at the back of her mind.

Am I... different than I was back then?

They return to Rusalka; light ebbs into darkness ebbs into light. She considers in frenetic, wounded, resentful cycles all manner of things: Who was it? Did they think he was real? Why did they choose him? Was his blood so easy to spill? They make a torrent, a maelstrom, gnashing the kindness she wants to be between the fangs of heartache. And Keranes asked this of them, did she not? She had set them upon their hearts and by this upon each other, a tepid why offered without so much as a how -- and they all had been so happy to oblige.

...In the end, she does not kill because she chooses not to, even if choice has been a hard thing to learn.

(The blade remains sharp, for the past can never be unmade. It is part of her, and she is Katarina: a lady's broken blade, the king's knife, and the sum of the love she has been given & the blood on the whetstone.)

[sicksoulmark]

For the @sterekdrabbles prompt: Neck, Connect, Unable.

Stiles forces his eyes closed and focuses very hard on not breathing. His neck is bared invitingly; his nails are buried in damp spring mud. Every inch of him is on fire. Stiles is burning, alight with fear and deep-seated want. 

He knows he should run, hightail it out of the woods, barricade his door and never, ever go snooping around the Hale house again, but Stiles is man enough to admit he can’t. His fascination with Derek has gone too far; he’s unable to let go.

When Derek’s nose finally connects with Stiles’ neck, Stiles deflates and breathes again.

[gnzma]

@skullkxd

find ree... 🗡️ after getting stabbed

months before...

Guzma rushed in as soon as Dosh gave him the news. A camera started working a little too late. A message recieved with enough delay to make the massacre inevitable. The Skull boss usually hated showing any hint of emotions that went beyond anger, but as he ran towards that small, abandoned house - one that even the other grunts avoid, thinking it was haunted, he couldn't help but keep in the pure terror.

Some other Skulls follow him as soon as he mentions Ree being in trouble, uncaring of his remarks. You don't see the Big Bad Boss panic every day, after all.

He almost stumbles when he arrives at the house. Stops, for a moment - and with him, his own heart seems to halt as he notices the blood outside it. Hears sobbing inside. Heavy breathing, a request to please remain conscious.

Look at me, says Dosh from inside the dark building.

And Guzma... can't move. He's still, the hand clinging on the doorframe grasping at it as if his life depended on it, every single breathe burn his lungs, every single hint of a movement like thousand needles.

Not again, he thinks to himself -- some grunts dare to surpass him; he sees PJ, especially, sneak under his arm, reach the admin's side. Sobs, calling out for Ree, just to be held back from shaking them. Not another one -- he blinks, his eyes adjusting to the darkness just as a thunder finally lights up the room. A rare occurrence, as if Tapu Bulu themselves felt pity and wanted him to see the consequences of his stupidity. Or, maybe. The god is mocking him. Them.

He couldn't care less. He couldn't even swear his revenge, get angry, punch the wall. He just feels... numb.

Hesitant steps make his presence known. Dosh'Te turns to him, his voice terrified, shaky, yet determined as he tells him that Ree is still alive... but for how long? The house reeks of blood. A foot ends up pressed in a pool of that red liquid, tainting first his shoes, then his pants as he falls on one knee. A shaky finger moves to the young grunt's throat, looking for a pulse - finding it slow, uncertain, as if it threatened to stop at any second.

Some other Skulls ask him what to do. He feels someone touching him on both sides - Dosh'Te leans on him, holding on his shirt, and PJ, on the other, hides his face against his boss, his sob getting louder. Another thunder makes him notice a few bandages on Ree - a hastly solution, likely the hacker's doing to stop them from bleeding to death -, and just then the Boss blinks, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

Be strong for them.

He asks who has a phone ready. To call the hospital, for someone to reach for Nanu for assistance. He manages to keep his voice firm despite everything, and yet his movements are mechanical, forced. He doesn't stand, letting the more level-headed grunts, those who didn't fully see the results of that massacre, take care of the phone calls. Dosh'Te's grip tightens as he stays down, taking just the time to remove his jacket and use it as an improvized blanket for Ree. They move, groan. Sob.

"Shh, shh. You're... you're gonna be okay, kid."

It's not.

"You're gonna be fine. You're--

You have to be fine."

it's all his fault.

[pyreshe]

the girl moves through the flickering firelight as though she's just another part of the flame. she doesn't seem the least bit bothered with the way the searing orange and yellow crawls up her arms and catches the ends of her curls. he sees her now, the way she can't be older than sixteen, big dark eyes glowing like coals as the fire reflects in them.

"there's this tree on mcleary road- or at least, there used to be. " she speaks casually like this is down to the weather, but he can feel his heart constrict in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke filling his lungs and stinging his eyes. she pins him in place with those eyes as she crouches in front of him, face carefully and deliberately blank. " it fell down a little while after someone ran a car off the road into it. i don't think they ever found the guy, "

he can hear his heartbeat over the roar of fire in his ears- he knows mcleary road. it's made him queasy every time he's passed the place where the tree had once stood. sometimes, if he closes his eyes he can see the shape of the little red car, the way the front had curled around the solid and seemingly unforgiving oak. he hadn't known about the man in the car until a few weeks after the fact when vincent soto had died quietly in the hospital and made the news- suddenly the case wasn't about finding a driver who put someone in the hospital, but a driver who caused this man's death.

the first year, he'd been a wreck. waking in the night shaking, his wife asking if he was alright. he'd quietly paid out of pocket for the repairs to his car; the deep dent in the front, missing headlight, long scratches of missing paint. he'd thrown in an extra thousand or two for their discretion. he'd been caught driving drunk the weekend before and the officer had told him not to do it again but otherwise sent him on his way. he was sure they'd throw the book at him if they knew about vincent soto and his little red car.

" what does that have to do with me? " he asks the flame wreathed girl in a voice that shakes.

her expression remains cold and impassive, " i think you know. "

and for a moment it's just him, this odd girl, the roaring fire that should be devouring him, but isn't. her eyes boring into his own, and an entire decade's worth of fear and guilt swirling behind his eyes.

" look- i didn't mean- "

" didn't mean to what? " she asks, her voice taking a dangerous edge. " didn't mean to get into the car after a couple of drinks with your work buddies? didn't mean to run the car off the road? didn't mean to drive away without calling for help? didn't mean to try to keep this to yourself? which is it? what didn't you mean to do, "

he swallows, tears starting to drip down his cheeks.

hadn't that article in the paper mentioned vincent soto being survived by a daughter?

" you- you're her- " he realizes, too little, too late. " oh god- oh my god- "

her head tilts to the side, curls falling over her shoulder, but she says nothing.

" i'm sorry- i'm so- i have money- i'll write you a blank check, just- " just let me live, he thinks frantically.

" and? " the girl presses.

" and i have cars- a whole garage full. classic cars, expensive cars. my house is paid off, its yours if you want it- i can sign the papers and give it to you by morning- and- and- i'll turn myself in right now. i'll sign a confession, i'll tell them everything- please- " his words are coming out in a hysterical jumble, tangling on themselves as he tries to speak, to beg. he reaches for the girl's hand but stops just short of her skin; she feels like she herself is on fire. much too hot, much too dangerous. " just- just tell me what you want- anything- "

the girl sits back on her heels and frowns thoughtfully for a minute. the fact she's considering his offer is good, he thinks, he can still make it out of here.

" i want my dad to help me with my homework. " she tells him, finally. " he was always really good at math, which is good, cause i've always been bad at it, you know? i want him to take me trick or treating again- he'd get so excited in october. i want my dad to watch my ballet recitals, sing me to sleep, give me another hug. i want him to teach me how to drive. one day, i want him to walk me down the aisle at my wedding, watch me graduate. "

once again, the realization dawns just a little too late. he can feel the color draining from his face and the tears dripping down his cheeks.

" i want my father back. "

" i- i- " there isn't an amount of "sorry" in the world that will stop what is coming next. even the fire seems to have taken notice of him now, closing in.

" i have a daughter- " he tells her, desperately, a final attempt. what will his little girl think when he never comes home?

" that's funny, " the girl across from him says. her hands wrap around the lapels of his jacket and she leans in. smoke pours from the spaces between her fingers and he swears its like staring into the sun. " so did vincent soto. "

[hopefromadoomedtimeline]

Trunks loves his world, he really does.

It's a post apocalyptic world with decades of death and suffering, but it's a world that he calls his home. A world that he hopes could grow and bloom in times where its population would no longer be hunted by nightmares and monsters. A world that would never heal quickly, but one that would have the potential to repair that damage one way or the other over time.

There are worlds full of color and life Trunks had never thought possible, but he never once believed that the damaged state of the world was a permanent one. All he ever knew were shades of greys and browns, and yet he delighted in the idea of seeing brilliant hues of greens and blues. A world he would help heal, a world he would help fix, no matter how long it took.

It was a version of the world that many would've abandoned the first chance they got, but not he. He wanted the best for the planet, and the humans that remained upon it. It was his home, and he'd give his life for it a thousand times over.

[hexellent]

His legs felt like lead, his ears were ringing and time seemed to be moving in slow motion.

He was stronger than this, he knew he was. It should be nothing to pull the dangling hedgehog up from danger, a pit of deadly debris, metal and concrete promising fatal concequences for the speedster. But the guardian's body was beaten, bruised and exhausted, the last of his reserves used up just trying to stay alive.

He couldn't remember exactly what was going on, too concerned with the situation he was in. One that was figuratively and literally slipping away from him. Sonic pleaded for his life, begging Knuckles to pull him up, what was he waiting for?

He was trying, but for all his efforts, it only served to make the speedster slip from his hands all the more. Each tug proving more and more useless. He could feel tears welling up in his vision, panic reaching a crecendo as he gave every bit of energy he had left into trying to lift his best friend up.

But it was all for nothing.

In a blink, all that was left in his hand was the tatered remains of Sonic's clove, the owner having slipped free and dropped to the earth from their great altitude.

He could hear himself screaming, feel his throat burning with the sound as he watched the only person he ever fully trusted, cared for, loved, plummet down, down, down until--

"SONIC--!"

The guardian shoots upwards, arm outstretched to grab at something that wasn't there. Their chest heaved with heavy, panicked breaths, mind working overtime to try and peice together what just happened. They sat in a limbo of reality and dreams until a vloce broke the silence.

"...Knuckles?"

Still wide, teary lilac eyes snap to the owner of the familair voice, staring silently at him as if they weren't sure he was real.

It didn't take longer than a moment for Sonic to realize something was wrong. The knucklehead rarely had such a frightened and broken look on his face, if at all. It made his stomach turn, and he wasted no time in speeding his way up the steps of the shrine.

"Hey, what happened? Are y--"

Sonic is stopped short of reaching out to the guardian, his wrist snatched up quick by a shaking hand. Knuckles stopped looking at him, head down and eyes hidden from his friend. But their breathing didn't calm.

His face softenining, he slowly gets down on his level, crawling into Knuckles' lap while facing him, legs on either side of the echidna's waist to get as close as possible. It wasn't until Sonic hooked his chin over Knuckles' shoulder that he finally let go of Sonic's wrist to opt for squeezing him tightly, arms and legs curled protectively around him.

There's a long silence as Sonic has one hand at the nape of Knuckles' neck and the other soothing up and down his back.

"I'm okay Knux..."

"...I know--"

"M' not goin' anywhere."

"This is stupid."

"Not at all."

Not many words were exchanged, but not many needed to be. They understood one another, their intentions, and needs. They've know each other long enough to understand without preamble.

[arcanaaa]

To @shinebrightlikealion, the love of my life, my partner, and my beloved friend, Happy Anniversary! Here's to celebrating 11 years of our friendship and the ship that we've built lovingly through blood, sweat, and tears. Here's my gift to you, and I hope to celebrate many more years together.

An argument between man and beast was not the scene Cana expected to encounter, and certainly not this late in the morning. For Cana, it was becoming a routine to wake to the sounds of the hustle and bustle in her small kitchen while the food was prepared for Loke and herself. But she didn’t expect her lover to berate their newest addition: Sol.

“Look, as a man with a certain familiarity with feline nature, I know you have instincts that you cannot control-- however, I will not abide by your wanton destruction of my plants!”

“Mrow!”

“I won’t hear any more of your excuses Sol, if I catch you biting my plants again, you’re going in the carrier.”

Cana winced in sympathy. Poor Sol. At this moment, the Seer chose this time to walk out into the living room and approach the irate Lion. She couldn’t quite contain her amusement, as it was apparent when her arms slipped around his waist from behind the chuckle that slipped past her lips. “Caught him chewing on the leaves again?”

“Yes!” The Lion responded with a terse sigh. “He’s already chewed one of the leaves off my Pothos-- which, by the way are toxic to cats-- and nearly killed it!”

Cana hummed sympathetically. “I take it Sol didn’t eat the leaf?”

“No, I took it out of his mouth before he could, the little--” Loke sighed. “I don’t understand why he’s so fixated on eating my plants.”

“Maybe he’s bored?” Cana said. “Or hungry?”

“I fed the beast this morning,” Loke looked at her, offended. “I might be annoyed with the little beast, but I still make sure he’s fed Cana.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Cana soothed, leaning up on her tip-toes to give his chin a kiss. “I know you take good care of him Loke.” She stroked her fingers through his hair, fluffing the signature ‘ears’ of his hair style playfully before flashing him a small smile. “Even if you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Loke corrected. “I’m simply establishing a boundary, as someone who is in charge.”

“Are you now?” Cana quirked her eyebrow, her lips ticking up in further amusement. “You think that you’re the man in charge, mm?”

Loke stilled. “Aren’t I not the man in charge?” He countered, a certain curiosity threading through the notes of his voice.

Cana hummed. “Well...if we’re being completely honest here...I think you’re forgetting who really runs things…”

Cana circled around him, her hands tracing around his back until she stood in front of him, her fingers lightly sliding up and down the silk pattern of his tie. Teasingly. “You might be in charge elsewhere, Loke,” Cana said softly. “But right now, the only person who is in charge right now…”

Suddenly she tightened her fingers around his tie.

“...is me.”

The Seer suddenly yanked the tie, pulling him down so her mouth could catch his, locking her lips with his in a teasing, passionate kiss. Cana may not be physically strong by comparison, but she can bring any man down to their knees without resorting to a contest of strength. With Loke, she didn’t need to exercise any physical tactics to prove she was the one in charge. All she needed was a soft touch and a kiss and he was all hers.

Their kiss lasted until she parted for air. But their mouths hovered close, as if they were on the verge of resorting back to their passionate kissing session.

“...mm...point taken,” Loke murmured huskily. “Forgive me for overstepping. I’m not sure what came over me,” His thumb caught her bottom lip and caressed the flesh, stroking back and forth in a teasing manner. “Though, I’m happy to receive another reminder...as many times as needed, if you would indulge me~.”

“First, you need to earn that reminder, starting with feeding me,” Cana retorted with a cheeky smile. “And second, not while Sol is watching. He might get jealous.”

“You’re worried he would get jealous?” Loke responded incredulously. “And not the man who’s making you breakfast?”

“Sol’s just a little baby,” She said defensively, turning to gather the disgruntled orange cat in her arms. “He doesn’t understand that what we have is not for his eyes.”

“On that we can agree.” Loke replied before smiling and shaking his head ruefully. Cana watched as he went to the kitchen to resume making breakfast-- a task he had been doing before lecturing her cat-- before she kissed the top of Sol’s head and carried him over to the spare room. With him safely put away, Cana could return to enjoy her meal in peace-- and perhaps the man who made it.

[offrozenmemoirs]

What Do You Fight For?

Seraph sits on the ground, exhaling softly. His spear and sword rest next to him, his eyes are closed, and the top half of his armor lay discarded on the other side of him. Meditation after his training sessions was how he grounded himself once more, working off stress from his duties, and the ever growing presence of Khorne within his mind.

He should be getting some sleep, but after his time with Soup, he was restless. He reluctantly climbed out of bed, redressing himself and heading out to the beachfront. The salty scent of the sea filing his nose, and feeling the sand shift beneath his boots. The moonlight itself looked rather beautiful, but bought him no reprieve from the thoughts in his mind. The beach is empty, given the narrowly averted catastrophe that just happened, Seraph understands their aversion to any midnight strolls along the beach. It was oddly quiet, aside from the sound of rolling waves.

He thinks of the future confrontation between the group and the leader of this tribe of Cetaceans. From what he recalls, they're big on honor and strength. He was banking on that to get a duel with the leader of this tribe, if he won, he would be acknowledged as strong enough to do as he wished. A duel doesn't need to end with the death of either combatant, but...

"Do you honestly believe such a proud creature like that would yield to you? How convenient would that be?"

The echo of the chaos god's words is still clear in his mind. He struggles with the urges that come with combat, to rend apart all of his enemies, and with how fiercely he can fight sometimes...To say that Khorne is pleased with that would be an understatement. Though, that's not to say he's the only one who apparently likes how Seraph gets in battle.

"Sometimes it scares me, a little... but you know what? I like it. I swear, when we were out cold... I was dreaming, wishing to experience some of what you unleashed near that lighthouse."

The words of his lover cause a faint smile to flicker across his face, before he steels his expression once more. It's odd, not having many voices in his head, to hold conversations with the Deathwatchers, or occasional conversations with his father. Seraph's mind has been mostly quiet, with the occasional comment from Khorne, or conversations with Freya. It's odd, and he misses the presence of his father and Pharasma.

"You were quite fierce in battle. Leaping into the skies to impale your foes and then scattering them...A spear suits you much better than that scythe you had. But then there's that sword of yours...What a marvelous piece of steel. Frigid to the touch, and it only seems to like you as its master. You've done well to christen it in blood as of late."

It was true that Skadi was temperamental about who touched her, giving people a nasty case of frostburn when they touched her hilt. Even Rok had spoken about how he never touched the blade after he forged it. It had been a comfort, to have a sword similar to Joseph, especially while his scythe was being reforged into a spear. It too, held a name, Susano'o, a Kitaian deity of storms, if he was recalling his studies correctly. He couldn't put his finger on it, but, it felt right to give the weapon forged from his very soul such a name. Susano'o was much like its master, seeking a purpose, to grow into what it was meant to be.

"What will you do if you cannot convince this 'Storm Thief' to stand down?"

Seraph frowns, knowing that in Cetacean culture, in some tribes, surrender was akin to being shamed. For someone christening himself as the Storm Thief, having stolen Rhalgr's trident, had the power to back up his name. Though it was a power that wasn't earned, and in a strange sense, perhaps he agreed with Khorne's assessment, another warlord looking to make a name for themselves.

"If he doesn't surrender, then I'll do what I must and end him. Nothing more, nothing less."

Khorne hums in acknowledgement of Seraph's answer.

"And if someone comes for revenge? If you kill him, you'll have to deal with the fallout."

The elf doesn't have an answer, and it's clear on his face, lips curling into a frown.

"If I can make a suggestion...Perhaps it would be better to kill him in such a way that any challengers would be petrified. Tear him apart, rip his throat out with your teeth. Bathe in his blood and let them know that challenging you is to court death itself."

Seraph opens his eyes, to see someone standing in front of him, he doesn't want to look up, knowing what he'll see. Yet, he meets the other's gaze, staring himself in the face, a wicked grin that was far too wide, filled with teeth sharpened like knives, and that damnable blazing, piercing red gaze. He wishes that Khorne didn't stand in front of him, the waves rolling past his ankles. The shadow walks forward, staring down at Seraph, meeting his gaze as he begins to speak.

"It's always better to be feared, Seraph. Many think of me as someone obsessed with killing, to see my enemies scattered to the winds. I enjoy my bloodshed, of course, but I know the power of a reputation as well. You know that you must do whatever it takes to protect the innocent. Even if they hate you for it, they will still be alive to do so. There's still honor in shedding blood for justice."

Seraph isn't naive enough to believe that. Even if he agrees that the innocent must be protected.

"I'm not foolish enough to believe that you have my best interests at heart. You tried setting Soup's blood on fire. You and I shall never be friends, nor allies. Not after all you've done to my family and loved ones."

A dark chuckle leaves the doppelganger's lips. Seraph hates looking at Khorne because he sees himself bulging with muscle, covered in ritualistic scarring and nails more akin to claws. He sees a vicious mockery of himself, and his once blue eyes are now entirely red, blazing with a crazed fury. Veins alight with an unholy glow, as if his very blood had turned to fire. Interestingly, Khorne didn't take his current appearance into account; instead, he had his original black hair, which was shorter, with daemonic horns. It's almost a mockery of his draconic heritage. It scares him more than seeing Makoto ever did. Perhaps it reminded him of the patient ward in Ingora, where that man begged him for forgiveness. It's a reminder of what he could've been had he continued on his path…Or what he could still become if he ever lost his way.

"Say what you will, Seraph. But you're a perfect candidate for my teachings. How many did you kill in that last fight? How many of your foes died screaming? Cetaceans don't often have fear struck into them, but you...You're something special. After all, I wouldn't have my eye on you if I thought you weren't worth my time. You have my favor...My blessings will give you strength beyond strength, if you would accept me."

Seraph says nothing in response, instead, grabbing Skadi. He unsheathes his blade, and cuts the mockery of himself down, watching as Khorne's form fades into the air. He almost expected blood and guts to spill out, but instead a black mist is the only reward for his efforts. He ignores the laughter leaving its lips, a deep, rumbling tone that he's come to associate with the god of blood. He would never accept Khorne's offers. Power always came with a price, no matter the source. He resumes training, not wanting to sleep any time soon, though he's sure he'll drag himself back to the shared hotel room, and get what little sleep he can...eventually.

[whole-wheat-trolls]

The Only Way

(Warnings for some graphic violence)

You watched that shuttle fly into space. You stared at the point where it exited the atmosphere and left you alone for an entire hour. You wished more than anything that it would come back, that some mistake would be made and they would turn right around and land back on Alternia. That you could run for hours and see Marais again. Deep inside, you knew it would never happen, but what else could you do? This was the closest you would get to having your goodbye, it was all you had left. Staring at a point in the sky with what little hope was left inside you.

The walk home hurt. Not physically, you were used to that kind. You saw Marais everywhere and it made your eyes sting, the restaurants you went after class, the odd hangouts you went when Bouros wasn't relentlessly giving you drills to perform. The studio where Marais tried to get you to pierce your ears, a pizza place you only went to for the arcade cabinets, a thrift store where she successfully convinced you to buy a dress shirt and tie. The trinket store... Marais bought you a black bear carved out of obsidian there, she said you reminded her of one. It's sat next to your bed ever since. You didn't know if you would be able to look at it when you got home.

Home. Ugh. Bouros would surely want to see you like usual after a tournament. You considered not entering, sleeping outside so you could watch the sky for a while longer, just in case. You thought about it until you remembered Aurora. She would make up for whatever trouble Bouros gave you. You tried to sneak inside, quiet as you could be, but right on cue the Serpent's voice boomed.

"Lilian? That is you isn't it? Come here, would you," he sounds almost. Taunting. Like he has been waiting for this, but you do not pick up on it. Ruefully you obey, and enter into the room that houses your lusus. 

"What do you want Bouros?"

"I was simply curious about how the tournament went, you are… back early after all. Is something bothering you?"

"It didn't take that long, I've fought every one there before."

"Ah, so you were victorious? Isn't that wonderful."

"Yeah, right. Did you need anything else?"

"Are you SURE that's the entire story," the dragon suddenly bursts his accusation. It rocks you to your core. Your eyes clenched close, your heart beat almost as loud as Bouros's voice. You almost forgot the feeling. Of being scared. 

"What-" you barely squeak out before he demands you speak louder.

"And do not LIE to me Lilian. I do not appreciate your futile deceptions."

"I LEFT. I couldn't be there-"

"Now why is that? You seemed fine staying late every time before this one," he hisses.

"Something happened! I needed to clear my head-"

"What you need is to FOCUS, Lilian. Clearly you were incapable of such a feat yourself and that is why I was FORCED to intervene."

Your blood runs cold. You think you could feel your heart stop for a moment. Then it sinks in.

"You- WHAT DID YOU DO? WHY DID YOU-"

"Is that what you call rage, dear? I send your little friend into space and all you can muster is a little yelling? You do not need the distraction girl, you are supposed to be strong, and she would only serve to make you weak."

"Why… why did you get rid of my only friend," you fall completely and utterly into defeat. Your attempts to think of a reason why this happened to you of all people come up barren. "We didn't. You couldn't even let me say goodbye."

"Those are hollow words. You would learn that lesson sooner or later and I know you THINK it hurts now but I am merely bringing the inevitable. One day you will thank me for this," his words kick you while you are already down. 

"What am I supposed to do now??? What is so important to you that you put me through this," yet still, you seek him for guidance. You know no other way.

"I am so very glad you asked. I've enrolled you into a different… School, one could call it. It is good you came back early you know? You are scheduled to begin tonight."

"Is that- is that really it? Is that SERIOUSLY-"

"Save your rage, Lilian. It finds no purchase here, and surely you will need it later."

"And what if-"

"Oh please, do not start with what-ifs. This is what you will do. You have but two choices and you will surely choose your brother over leaving this hive forever."

He stares daggers through your silence. Shreds you to ribbons before you've said a single word on the matter. Now, of all times, he is waiting for you to say he is right, though the wording matters not to him.

"Where is it," you concede.

He tells you where it is, his sickening smile plastered across his serpent features. You have barely enough time to make it if you leave now. As you slog to the doorway, too defeated to even storm out, he gives his final advice.

"Oh, and Lilian? Take your sharp sword. No time to question it, just listen to what you are told."

You stand before a door in a dark alley. Faintly you can hear the ruckus taking place right behind it, it is so loud you are almost overwhelmed before even opening the door. You force yourself to enter, you can not think of a way out other than through, Bouros planned. All of this. He will know if you did not enter, did not fight. The inside is a festival of scum in all its forms. You are accosted on your right by the sounds of people yelling over each other to place their bets, on your left by people arguing over what sounds like petty personal squabbles, and on all sides by the smell of smoke and alcohol. Morbidly curious, you step forward, the room slants into rows of bleachers, with a pit in the middle. The clash of metal can be heard, alongside cursing as people shout. Encouraging words to the fighters, like "rip his face off," and "fucking kill him already." 

"Hey- FREAK. I'm talking to you! Turn your ass around already," regrettably the words catch your attention, and you turn to face the source. A cerulean in a booth similar to the man taking bets beckons you over, trying to invoke your lusus' glare you walk over to the man.

"Sheesh, they told me a mutant was coming but you're right fucked up ain't ya? Lilian ain't it- I'll get you checked in. We don't get mutes often- least they don't last long when we do. Gods you are somethin' awful t'look at-"

"Shut up. I'll-"

"What, kill me? Good luck, they got me locked up tighter'an the empresses asshole in here girlie. Now how old are ya before the murderous thoughts take over?"

"I'm five and a half."

"Five, got it- you're a little fuckin' young for this don't ya think? Got nothin' better to do than enter an underground fightin' ring?"

"My best friend just got shuttled off to a fleet academy," you don't know why you confide in the man at this time. Bouros didn't let you get a word in edgewise and, you guess you had to tell someone.

"Don't go makin me feel sorry for ya, all my sympathies are half assed. Two more fights before you, wait back there," he gestures to a door nearby, a light turns from red to green and you walk through into some kind of locker room. 

It smells like mold and body odor, the wafting steam doesn't help any with the stench. You hear the sound of weights being dropped on the floor somewhere, guess it's a gym too. You walk past some racks of metal plates, armor crudely made out of spare sheet metal, never meant to protect the body fully, just enough to look the part though. You touch one of the helmets and notice how easily you can dent it, then put it back into shape. You'd feel safer wearing the helmets from longsword practice.

"Oy," just then footsteps appear behind you, you inhale deeply preparing for the worst, judging by the kind of place you wouldn't be surprised if preemptive fights occurred back here too.

"Since when do they let kids in here? You sure you got the right place? Ysvars' class is-"

"I got kicked out of there," you lie, it's easier to say than the truth.

"Scrappy then ain't you? Word of advice, all that armor's basically bait. Shit'll get dented in and you'll wish you'd never wore it," the stranger says, no longer questioning your age. Guess that's just how it is now.

"I realized that, it's all cheap metal," you say, denting the helmet for whatever emphasis it applies.

"You're gonna need some kinda armor if you're here- want my advice? Chainmail, then don't get stabbed," the stranger laughs, "seriously, you got somethin' right?

"I didn't know this place existed before I walked through the doors, so no," you hold up your sword, "this is all I came with." 

The stranger circles you, you hadn't looked at them yet, focused on your own things. They look you over, but you largely ignore them.

"You think you're good, girl? They're gonna eat you alive out there. The crowd around here doesn't root for mutants."

"I'm good enough-"

"This place- the fights go until the other person submits or they can't say anything. That usually means dead."

"I don't care, all the better even."

"You're gonna have to fight still. The only way out here is through. Door you came through opens one way, the door in the arena is the only one fighters can exit. If you don't win you don't leave."

You grit your teeth, you don't like the way they're talking to you, as if you don't realize what's going on. Like you're stupid.

"I know, okay? Fighting is all I've got right now. I'm not going to lose."

"I wish I didn't believe you girl. You should get out of here as soon as possible. There's more to live for-"

"Maybe for you. Whatever else I had is gone now."

"My condolences. They ain't empty, I promise-"

"Are you. Done? I'm pretty sure this is the worst day of my life, I get you're trying to be helpful but you can't be," you say so coldly. The last thing you could have wanted was more people who think they know everything.

"Fine- fine. Suit yourself, good luck out there."

You stare at the wall. You drown out every other sound through sheer willpower. And you think optimistically. You intend to win, to find a way onto a ship, or something, anything that can get you to Marais. Even if it's just for a while, just long enough to say goodbye. To make plans to do it again. 

A man calls your name, certainly not a referee, and ushers you through another one way door. No backing out. What must be a recycled garage door opens in front of you, the ringleader becomes audible. He is introducing you, the crowd bursts into a fit when you step forward. They are booing you solely on the principle that that is what they do here. You hold up your sword and the roars grow louder, they're pissed off now. Good.

Your opponent steps out from the other side, hailed to great applause. He is taller than you, older than you, but you can tell he is cocky. He does not know who your teacher was. He holds up twin axes, and all those that booed you cheer like he just saved the world. He takes off his shirt, eugh, his body is scarred but it compares nothing to yours. He feels proud of them, you feel ashamed. You are polar opposites. He twirls his axes and takes a wide stance, his center is left open. You remember that.

A bell rings, as predictable as it is your opponent yells and rushes forward, you take the fool's guard. It is just like practice you tell yourself, mind the edge alignment. Do not swing in haste. Go for the openings.

He lifts his arms to swing down on you hard, you deliver a rising cut that catches him on the left arm, and you transition to the next guard. One ax comes down, the other stopped short, you deflect it to your right, and your next cut digs into his back and you create distance with your sword tip. They're not deep enough, your heart isn't in it. You grip the sword tighter, the crowd yells jeers at your display of talent as the two of you circle each other.

"I'm gonna rip that tail off before I'm done with you doll," he tries to threaten you, to shake your resolve. You're sure it works on some, the way the crowd flips again. You don't respond to such hollow threats, you focus on your breathing instead. You watch his face only grow angrier.

"Got no voice- mute mutant or something huh? I'll make you scream for help," it all sounds so cliche, you beckon him to come at you with a hand and he promptly obeys. 

It is clear he is trying harder now, he doesn't yell this time, he stops just out of range of your sword, despite his height you have the advantage of reach. He tries to pull the tip of your sword aside with his axes, but you deftly pull it away, and cut the back of his hand during one of his attempts. You let out your first word, one solemn "damnit." You intended for more than a cut. You wanted to cut his hand clean off.

"So you can speak," he smirks. You can't understand why.

"And you can bleed, now are you going to FIGHT ME or are you just going to talk a big game," you're furious, with no other outlet than the damned loudmouth in front of you you explode. For once the crowd doesn't boo your every action, they're silent, he seems to realize it, he cares more about the crowd's favor than his safety. He rushes at you again, swinging wildly as the crowd roars once more. You step backwards. Wait for the opening. You find it between swings as he closes in, his stance too wide to defend himself. You thrust your sword into his gut, it offers little resistance as indigo blood spills from the wound. The fight should be over but he cracks the handle of an ax down on your face, catching you off guard. Your head rings, noises become warbled as the crowd's shouts fill the room. You twist the blade inside of him, from the handle you can feel his body tense at the sensation, but he doesn't stop. You see him raise the other ax, it appears all you've done is put him within range. You react before your brain has even decided what to do, you let go of your sword left embedded within him. You jump back, his swing misses you by inches, you wind your body up and punch him while his weapon is still lowered. You feel bones crack. The force pushes him several feet back, when he looks at you again his left eye is bloodied from the blow, and his jaw isn't set straight. You think there is flesh stuck to your fist. 

Your sword is still stuck inside him.

He laughs now, and pulls the sword out of the wound. The crowd eats it up but you see the bleeding worsen. He tosses it behind him.

"There goes your little toy, what are you gonna do now?" 

You feel for a moment like you are helpless, you are standing under the gaze of your lusus again. It lasts a mere moment though, you look at the back of your hand, stained with indigo. You raise your fists to continue fighting, and remind yourself that the only way out, is through.

He steps forward slowly now, he feels cocky, even after that punch. For some reason he still tries to intimidate you, scraping the ax blades together as he approaches. When he thinks he's gotten close enough he swings at you, you dodge backwards. He swipes sideways and you duck underneath it, you've done the same so many times with Bouros. Before he can swing again you punch what must be the weakest part of the body- the hole you left in him. It's a sickening noise as your hand enters the gaping wound. You grab the first thing you can inside and rip it out. He drops one of the axes and coughs up blood, crippled by whatever you just tore from his stomach. You grab the ax off the floor, and slam it into the side of his head while he's still stunned. He doesn't go down immediately, you do it again and he falls to the floor. You don't stop even when the crowd explodes into scattered applause and screaming. It does little to drown out the crunching of bones. When you finish what's left of him is scattered across the arena floor, the bell chimes finally and you snap out of your stupor, long enough to grab your sword before someone beckons you through a door you hadn't noticed before. 

"Congratulations, you know most fighters don't make such a first impression- people LOVED that guy-"

"Yeah, I see why," your sarcasm surprises you. The weight of what you did hasn't fully set in just yet it seems. 

"You're a riot kid- we got showers, go clean up you're a mess. Dex will give you your money on the way out."

"Money? I get paid for this?"

"Duh? People don't fight to the death just for the glory- seriously girl, wash up you're a mess. Got his blood everywhere. I gotta start the next fight," whoever that was walks away and leaves you by yourself. 

You catch a glimpse of purple in a mirror, and take a closer look. Your forehead is split open from where he hit you, it's bleeding worse than you realized, but not enough to ignore all of his blood splattered across you. You really are a mess, looking at your right hand now you worry that the indigo will never wash out and you'll live forever with this blue stain covering your arm. You turn the water to a nearly boiling temperature. You scrub, and scrub, and scrub, and scrub. The blood comes off but you keep scrubbing. You wish you could pupate again, your entire body feels dirty and the feeling refuses to be expunged, it clings to you now like other painful memories. You remember his cocky laughs, how they pissed you off every time. Then you killed him, not because of the laughs, but because there was little else that could be done. Fights to the death are not very forgiving. The only way out is through, you remind yourself. You're not sure how you are supposed to feel about it now… but at the time? It felt. Good. You can't dance around that fact. You can try to justify it as all your frustrations coming out at once focused on the wrong person, but you can't deny the catharsis you felt painting the arena with innards. You put your bloody clothes back on and leave, the troll at the exit to this shower area hands you your money without a word. You decide quickly that he is your favorite person here. 

You step out into the cold night, and take a deep breath. All at once it feels like your body gives up on you, adrenaline is one hell of a drug, but you have other things on your mind now. You take your fight money, and walk the opposite direction of home, instead heading in the direction that will take you to Marais. You head to the shuttle port where she left Alternia, sword tied at your side, one of the few things you can trust. It's a hell of a walk, and it seems like most of the nightlife around here isn't interested in bothering someone carrying a weapon, and already covered in blood. You bless the troll working the front desk for not asking any questions. She does ask if it's your first time flying off planet though, and you answer honestly. She tells you everything that could go wrong while you're barely listening- not that it will, she insists. You buy a ticket. You wait patiently. They call for boarding and you trudge your way to the dock, all the way to the loading platform. You are so close now.

But you freeze. 

Mid stride your every hair stands on end, and you look up. Into the infinite. You find yourself hyperventilating, you try to focus your breathing, to take the next step.

But you can't.

The only way out is through. It is the only way. You have to push through. You take a step.

Backwards.

And you watch the shuttle leave without you. 

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes but you choke them down. Why? Why couldn't you do it? You are so strong Lilian, she told you that hundreds of times. So why couldn't you get on that stupid fucking shuttle? You survived a fight to the death. You survive the onslaught of your dragon lusus on a regular basis. Still the question rings in your head like tinnitus. Why? Why are you scared? What are you scared of? 

[plantfell]

Canon Update!

As of today, Knives' canon point is being moved up to Chapter 97 shortly before he makes the decision to leave Vash and create the apple tree. This means relatively little to any of the characters Knives interacts with. The only noticeable change is that his hair is now completely black, but he'll be lying and saying it's hair dye for as long as he's able to get away with the lie. Other than that, his personality will be slightly more mellow and reticent, but that can easily be explained away by recent events in Spirale putting him in a low mood.

Drabble of Knives noticing the change below the cut.

Even as rays of sunlight dance across Knives' face, it takes the plant a while to groggily open his eyes. He feels heavier this morning, in a way he can't quite describe. Perhaps it's something about the dreams he had that night. Memories linger on the edges of his mind, but he can't quite make them out. They feel too real to be dreams, but they mix too oddly with his other memories to be real.

Something to think about later, he thinks to himself as he rubs the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand. After all, waking up exhausted is becoming more and more common in this place. For all he knows it's just the precursor of some strange event that will come back to bite him later. Better to deal with it when more details come to light.

Which happens to be sooner rather than later. Knives shuffles sleepily into the bathroom to deal with all of the annoying parts of being reduced to the level of a human. He fumbles around oblivious to the mirror until he bends over the sink to wash off his face. Even then it's not until he's drying off with a towel looking directly into the mirror that he notices something is off.

Knives wouldn't admit it to anyone, but his first thought is wondering why Vash is in the mirror. He just woke up, give him a break. It's only for a second, then he hesitantly reaches up to run a hand through his hair. When reflection follows, the memories all click into place and Knives remembers it all. Fighting his brother, flying away from the Earth fleet's assault, and stooping so low as to beg at the feet of humans.

The towel is allowed to slip from his hands as he shifts to press the heels of his hands against his eyes and dig his nails into his forehead. And then Knives laughs. It's a harsh and manic noise devoid of anything a laugh should have in it. As he laughs he falls to his knees and curls up into a ball, his hands shifting tug at the hair on the back of his head.

Soon, the laughs morph into sobs and, once he's tired himself out, the sobs give way to silence. Knives lay there for what feels like hours before he stiffly pushes himself back up. He rewashes his face to wipe away the sticky residue left behind by his tears and he keeps moving forward. There's no time to wallow, he needs to figure out what he's going to say to Vash.

[priceoftheduchess]

thinking of old, retired!simon riley who hangs out pubs in his free time. he’s a tank of muscle, with a soft layer of fat over it all. he’s got the peak dad bod, and he’s a bit tanner than he was from working in his back garden. his tattoos are lining his body and he is scrumptious.

and he meets you. young little thing, sweetest bird he’s ever seen. shining, soft grins and plump, curvy edges.

he nearly drops to his knees to pray for you to grace him with your presence when you do it on your own volition. he forgot he was even playing blackball, the cue still held tightly in his hand. he was just practicing, just a hobby.

“mm, can ye teach me how to play?” you ask, and you’ve got a thicker accent than he does. he drinks it up, with a straw and all. he nods, handing you a freshly chalked cue.

you struggle enough to learn the mechanics for him to decide to stand behind you, front pressed to your back as he bends you over with his body weight — one hand on your waist and the other steadying your cue as you aim to break.

fuck. he’s so hot, burning even through your skimpy dress. his voice rumbles in your ear,

“c’mon, birdie, just steady y’rself. even out yer breathin’.” he instructed, as patient as ever.

you beat him when you guys actually started playing! yay! and then… you decided to make a silly little bet.

“if you can beat me,” you whispered in his ear, liquid temptation mixed with the way you were pulling him by his shirt collar down to your level — you knew he could easily beat you — “i’ll go home with you.”

simon has never won a game of blackball so fast.