#finally I write something here!

[bakingforgoobers]

Baking Powder and Baking Soda

Okay It's about time I start adding things to this. Let's start with something simple- Baking Powder and Baking Soda. What's the difference? Welp according to This article here Baking soda is a pure compound- Sodium Bicarbonate right? Wheras Powder is the Baking soda mixed with an acid and a statch- I would suspect corn starch but this is me guessing, so make sure you read the igredients of your preffered baking powder of choice in case you have Gluten intolerances.

So with this in mind you know why it's Baking SODA used as a cleaning agent/de-odorizer because there's substances in Powder that aren't condusive to both cleaning and de-odorizing. But what about replacing Baking Soda for Powder and Vice versa? Back to Google I search and come across this Article According to which it's suggested that while Baking Soda is more powerful it is missing the activation igredients of Baking powder (See the acid they add into the product), It isn't quite as versitle without adding something to ensure the activation and getting the gas to make your baked stuff fluffy. - the article suggests Cream of Tartar. or buttermilk. Maybe Vinegar or Lemon Juice could work too? I dunno I've never had to make this substitution so I can't say how well it would work, especially if you're not careful the taste of both ingredients could clash with the original flavour profile of what you wanna bake.

[astearisms]

fionna and cake drawings before and after watching the episodes so far. it’s nostalgic and somehow cathartic and poignant and relatable and—it just started

[azzo0]

You sat on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, when you caught your boyfriend approaching you. Shirtless. Seeing Sero hanging around your guys' shared apartment without a shirt wasn't anything new. You were quite used to it, in fact. But it was the look in his eye that made you put your phone down. It's not every time he looked at you like that. 

Half-lidded eyes, head tilted slightly to the side with raven hair falling on his cheek, slow steps, taking his sweet time to walk over to you. You couldn't fight the heat that had crept up your face as he looked down at you from where he stood. He kneeled on the ground, hands on your knees, bringing his face dangerously close to yours, hot breath hitting your lips. He forced your legs apart, settling in between them. 

Your heart raced, and you leaned a little closer, only for him to sit on the floor and turn around so his back was facing you. You looked down at him in confusion as he massaged the back of his neck. 

"Ahh, babe, can you please massage my shoulders?" He asked, "They hurt so much." 

You felt like someone had thrown a bucket of water over you. All that drama, just for a massage? Half-heartedly, you put your hands on his shoulders. 

Sero was well aware of the effect he had on you. He couldn't help but smirk to himself as you gave him a massage. He knew what you wanted, and he was going to give it to you. But only after teasing you a little more <3

[fatedroses]

More than just the Demon.

[umblrspectrum]

ive been struggling big time coming up with anything funny to draw that hasnt been done yet so have my rw au art dump

[churrobird]

"okay, okay, okay! uhm! close your eyes, please?"

under his mask, clown allowed himself a fond smile, watching as ros anxiously bounced on her toes in front of him.

he had been sitting in his room in the castle, polishing one of his enchanting daggers, when the architect had knocked on his door. she had poked her head in, beaming with nervous delight at the sight of him, and had told him that she had a gift for him.

"a gift?"

"yes! a gift! i've made everyone hats for the ball- obviously, i already gave you yours, but... i decided to make something else for you!"

that brought them to now. obediently, he shut his eyes, his keen ears picking up rustling as, presumably, ros pulled something from her inventory.

"you're not peeking, right?" he heard ros question, a hesitant skepticism in her voice.

"and ruin such a grand surprise from the royal architect herself? of course not, my dear ros!" clown replied, shifting his voice into his grandiose "archmage" accent

pride bubbled in his chest as he heard ros barely suppress a giggle. that silly voice had always made her laugh, so naturally, he did it as much as possible around her.

"no, i believe you! just hold out your hands!"

no sooner than had he followed the command, something was placed into his open grasp. ros' hands guided his own to firmly hold the object. he ran his fingers over it, attempting to figure out what it was before he opened his eyes. it was round, convex, and cold. even with his gloves preventing him from feeling the finer grooves, he could tell that there were streaks of a different material in the middle, with a smoother, glossier texture than the rest.

"okaaaayy... open your eyes!" ros said, and so he did.

in his hands was a mask. white porcelain, with a wide grin and cross-like eyes just like the one already on his face. the difference was the thick cracks of gold that ran down the length of the entire mask, as if binding together the different shards of porcelain. he reverently ran his thumb over the cheek of the mask, admiring the whorls of red and gold paint that decorated the rest of it.

it took him a moment to reply, so enraptured by the design, before he quickly realized that ros had slowly been going tense, clearly worried that his silence was one of displeasure. he snapped back to reality, quick to assure her, "oh, i love it, ros! it's wonderful."

her entire body sagged with relief, "oh, thank you, thank you! i got the idea for the gold cracks after reading a book about pottery! it's called "kintsugi"- when you repair broken pottery with gold? it took me... a couple of tries to get it right."

"how many is 'a couple'?" he asked, playfully.

her pause spoke volumes, and she meekly mumbled, "sixteen...."

he snickered, and had to hold back a snort at her adorable pout.

he then returned his attention to the mask, and was suddenly struck by an intense thought, an urge:

try it on.

unseen, his gaze flickered back up to ros, who had continued rambling softly about how frustrating the failed fifteen attempts were. normally, he would have listened to every word from ros' mouth with rapture, but his brain was fixated on the thought.

he didn't want to wait for ros to leave. no, his mind called, despite all reason, try it on now.

but that would require ros to see my face, he thought back, and...

he wasn't bothered by that, actually. he hadn't shown anyone his face on the realm, a hesitance always keeping him from doing so, but he had long since decided that ros and sneeg would be the first. it was just a matter of... when he finally felt comfortable.

and finally, his subconscious decided that that moment was right now, apparently. a bit overdue, honestly.

without allowing himself to second guess himself, he pulled back his jester hood, letting his curly black hair spill free. he distantly heard ros make a confused, questioning noise, and as he fumbled with the clasp of the straps on the back of his head, he heard a loud, startled squeak as she realized what was happening.

he finally managed to one-handedly undo the clasp, and after pulling it off, he was met with the sight of ros having jumped back a few inches, her hands desperately smacked over her eyes.

he couldnt help but smile teasingly at her antics, "ros?"

"you- wuh- huh!?" she stuttered out, bewildered. "you- you were taking off your mask!"

"yes, i was?"

"but!? your face!? i cant see your face!!"

"why not, ros?"

"because- because you're really private about that!?"

affection flooded through him, and his teasing smile became more soft. it was truly touching how ros was so respectful of his private nature, even when he couldn't be more obvious about where his boundaries laid now.

placing both masks on the desk in front of him, he stood, reaching forward and cupping one of ros' hands with his own. she startled, clearly having not heard him get closer in her reeling.

"ros," he muttered coyly, "why would i take my mask off right in front of you if i didn't want you to see my face?"

the architect opened her mouth to retort, then quickly shut it again, her face flushing in embarrassment, "i.. well! i was just... caught off-guard, you know!? you gave me no warning that something so important would happen, clown!"

something so important, his heart echoed. he didn't know how she managed to burrow her words so thoroughly into him without even intending to.

he patted the back of her hand, urging her to move it, "well then, roscumber, i'm telling you now. i want you to look at my face."

there was a pause as she nodded at his words. she took in a shaky breath, as if hyping herself up, before she finally tore her hands away from her face, taking clown's hand with them.

he could tell the moment she registered what she was looking at when she froze, her darting eyes her only remaining movement. he could tell when she took in his red irises, his crooked-from-battle nose, the facial scars he acquired from porcelain-cracking crystals and axe strikes.

he didn't break eye contact with her, even as his heart pounded in his chest.

finally, the silence broke,

"oh..." ros whispered softly, as if she didn't realize he could hear her. "you're really pretty, clown."

against his will, he could feel his cheeks grow warm, such a sincere compliment taking him off guard. he saw the moment ros realize she had said that aloud, her face violently flushing an adorable pink.

"what!?" she yelped as he began to laugh, "i'm right!"

she smacked her hands over her mouth, clearly not having meant to say that either, and he laughed harder as she let a muffled, frustrated yell into her hands.

"well, i'm glad you think that, ros. you're pretty too, you know." he winked at her.

he savored the smile that tugged at her lips, despite her embarrassment, "aww... thank you, clown."

"always, ros. now! there was a reason why i decided to show you my face now." he announced, only getting a glimpse of her perking up as he turned back towards the desk.

he picked up the kintsugi mask delicately, before placing it into its creator's hands.

"i want you to help me try it on, ros."

[theactualsunshinechild]

I think Aventio and Screwtio shippers shouldn't fight. After all, Ratio has two hands!

That's right. Two hands.

One for his chalk.

One for his codex.

Both of which he's holding in an embarrassed death grip as they chat away with each other about him.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

perhaps my most #cancelable videogame take i can post on this website is i think that the kind of people who say that anyone who picks the "morally wrong" or "mean" options in video game dialogue should, as a player, feel bad about their own choices/morals in real life. is that those people are just another flavor of the kind of dudes who play Disco Elysium and get mad for not being rewarded for picking the facist options. both of these groups are reducing games to "a thing I want to agree with me and everyone else who doesn't either suffers or does not have the option to play a character who behaves otherwise" rather than "a medium where you get to (or even Have to) explore different kinds of characters in order to experience the full depth of the story and characters in it."

When I want to pick options in a game that are mean, negative, arrogant, or ignorant, it's because I want to explore what would push a character into becoming that kind of person. Sometimes I want to see how the NPC characters who I-The-Player like/agree with react to someone who is fundamentally different from them. I think it's GOOD actually when the narrative allows you to push limits and especially when it has the option to then punish you for it in some way, such as losing options/routes later on, or companions straight up abandoning you for your choices. It DOES often make me deeply, viscerally uncomfortable to make choices in a game that are so counter to my own, but it means I get to experience that discomfort in an isolated environment and also think about what it means, what would push the character or even yes a real person into actually feeling those things. And I get to play with what ways the narrative could challenge them/make them grow over the course of the game--or on the other side, it can let me make a character who does start off more open/accepting but let the events of the narrative push them into being more reactively closed-minded instead.

I like that we have invented a medium where you can play a game multiple times and experience it differently depending on the character you play as. Books and TV and movies are all static--the greatest draw of games to me is the ones that are responsive, that can tell a slightly different story every time--when other characters in the game respond differently to you because of it, or some paths open up and others don't. And so yes it did disappointment me when a franchise that previously had these elements, Dragon Age, did not include them in the most recent installment. I don't think games should have options where you get to just hit a button to say something racist with no consequences or exploration into why a character would do that. but like, if i can only ever play a game as an upstanding person who is morally right all the time in basically the same flavor for every dialogue. I only get to truly play that game Once, you know? And I only get to see the way the companions react to someone they like and trust. And never really go deeper than that.

So like... I just sit and think about the scenes you can get in Inquisition. with Cassandra breaking down, because she fears she placed a would-be tyrant at the head of a powerful organization--that she searched and searched and chose wrong. Of Varric who is desperate to convince you not to become a monster, like the last person he feels betrayed him. Vivienne intentionally pissing you off because she wants to see how far you'll go when angered, how much she has to worry about your reactions. They say so much about the companions, what they fear most, and where they will draw the line. And especially in Inquisition, at these crisis points--you don't have to double down. Your character can have a come-to-Andraste moment where they go "woah... is that really how people see me? is this what i want?" and I think that kind of option can do way more for encouraging actual players to examine the choices they make in stories, more than locking the player into supportive, non-aggressive options does.

now. do i think all games execute these flavors well? no. writers and devs will have their own biases and blind spots, even if they are otherwise well-intentioned. and I don't think the ends of the scale need to extend from "absolute angel" to "horrible bigot", because the real complexity of course lies in the middle. I am not asking for games to let me be bigoted at every turn, what I want is games that let me make the protagonist deeply flawed in one or more ways--fearfully closed-minded to things outside their upbringing, or afraid of change to the status quo, or who want to advance their own aims regardless of consequences to others. I actually agree that the game was correct not to include any options for disrespecting Taash and their personal journey for example, but I do wish... idk maybe that we could have had a scene where if for instance the player character avoided outside-world missions relating to clearing away blight, they could confront us on how this might devastate the natural world and its creatures like dragons, and push us into trying to resolve it. Or in the other direction, if you spend the (currently meaningless) time giving money to background NPCs begging in the cities, Neve could could have a special cutscene thanking you for your attention to people otherwise beneath notice. You know?

And of course not every game can do this, I can write those sentences up there that represent hundreds of hours of dev time, of course they can't do it all. But the prior games usually did have at least a little of this, and that was enough to make me really fall in love. I KNOW the tumultuous development cycle, restarts from scratch, interference from higher-ups all contributed to why Veilguard was unable to hit those same marks this time. And we probably won't ever know how much of the loss of options/reactivity was intention vs a side effect of these things. But I wish people wouldn't frame players who miss these aspects as insane/morally corrupt. When for most of us it's because we genuinely enjoy challenging and exploring these aspects of reality in fiction in a way entirely unlike what we actually support in real life. i fully acknowledge not everyone desires to play this way. and that's fine!!! i am glad people can enjoy doing a "good" run each time that brings them joy. but for me it really limits the potential bounds of my enjoyment i guess. I like media that is complicated and messy and makes me think, and extra so when I get to see how playing that way impacts the greater story around it.

[naffeclipse]

Temperate Tail

Tigertaur!Eclipse x Reader. Sickness. Non-consensual touching. Kidnapping.

Prev

You moan quietly at the arms underneath you, lifting you away from the cool cave floor. Blearily, you peek between heavy eyelids to watch the deeper shadow of stone break away to red evening, burning into a black-blue twilight on the horizon. The leafy foliage flutters with a warm breeze. You shudder underneath it as the arms that hold you squeeze you a little too tightly. The motion of being carried away is not as smooth as the nagas ought to be.

Sun and Moon went to hunt for themselves. You thought they had only awakened you a moment ago, gently fed you another sensitive plant, and told you their plans.

They worried, whispered, but you had shooed them away. They can only hunt together in the dusk or dawn, and you’re well aware that they’ve kept from satisfying their stomachs to watch over you in your sickness. You can survive a little while on your own—all you do is sleep.

And the nagas are not the only dangerous creatures in the jungle.

“Back already?” your hoarse voice crackles under the ill strain to speak. You allow your head to loll against the firm arm cradling you. 

You desperately long for the flower to kick in soon and spare you the furious whiplash effect of fevers one moment then chills the next. Sun and Moon have been diligent in tending to you; a fact you still have to stomach. Under their constant care, you’re useless, at their ever gentle mercy.

This body pressing you close is not the warmth of a sun-heated patch of grass nor the cool shadows stretching underneath a misty tree. It’s even, neutral, calm. The being is steady in a way that betrays the skilled strength hiding under short fur of orange and deep red. An unagitated killer, carrying away his prize prey.

Your eyelids fly open.

“Eclipse,” you half growl, half groan.

A large hand, tipped in compacted but curved claws, slaps over your mouth. Your weak protest is muffled under his near smothering palm. Deep red eyes flash in warning. His gait is swift and seamless, not the swaying motion you register with Sun or Moon. The beast holding you flies over the forest floor upon four tiger legs, his upper half bearing the resemblance of a man in form. The silent pads of his paws let him ghost through the forest, you caught in his muscular embrace.

His focus remains on the forest as it deepens with shadows and reddens with the last slips of sunrise. You boil internally, not only because of your sickness, but at how long he must have been lying in wait, watching, willing Sun and Moon to leave you for but a moment. The fiend.

Eclipse is the only beast who stands a chance against Sun and Moon, save for one other in this mad jungle.

You try to bite his hand but only succeed in scraping your teeth against his palm and getting hair in your mouth. His round ears flicker. Turning his head, he watches for a moment, still bounding between thick, mossy trees before resume his cunning getaway.

You want to snarl at him, threaten him, demand he puts you down now. His hand gags your every attempt to throw threats. Furious and festering in your feverish state, you struggle to find a way out of his arms. His claws press against your cheek, almost squishing the flesh against your molars. The promise of bruises hangs over his fingertips.

His own threat flares in his round, black pupils—so unlike the slitted gaze of Sun and Moon.

You glare at his orange, light yellow, and dark red mane-like growth of fur around his head, flaring around him like sun rays. He’s always made you think of a dark sunset, eclipsing a land of light. Upon his face, he’s marked by an orange and deep red jagged crescent, and around his deep red eyes are vertical white stripes that cut from the corner of his gaze.

Through the quiet buzz of the jungle, you fight his vice-like hold and your own fading strength while he carries you from the lush and verdant part of the jungle to tall grass, wild and whipping in the summer breeze, to thickets speckled with rocky crevices. 

Eclipse’s territory. The pulse in your throat quickens. You try to kick but weakness sets upon your sickly form.

He stops in the center of the verdant field. His large head tilts down to gaze at you. The appetitive glint in his wine dark eyes fills you with acidic apprehension. He nimbly folds upon his tiger legs, sitting not unlike a cat pleased with the mouse he’s brought back. His large palm lifts away from your mouth—there’s no worry that Sun and Moon will hear you now. He lays you down on the thick grass. The emerald green colors darken just as the sun slips away, leaving a purple twilight against the sky. The lush vegetation brushes against you like strands of hair. You shudder.

“Take me back, right now,” you demand is overwhelmed by your croaking. That is not the fierceness with which you want to address Eclipse.

His wide grin upon his large head splits to reveal curved canines. He licks his teeth once. You force yourself to not flinch, though holding your head off of the ground is beginning to take its toll on your limited energy.

“No. You’re staying here, with me, until I say so.” He bows over you. Large tiger paws dig slightly into the moist dirt as his hands arch for you. “As if those two snakes were taking care of you. You still have a fever.”

You glare. He has too many limbs, too many claws to watch for. Though you fade under the aching pulse eradicating your body, you refuse to close your eyes for even a moment.

“I don’t need your help.” Before his hand takes a hold of you, you twist onto your belly. Shoving your knees up and working your elbows, you begin to crawl away—as slow and pitiful as you are, you refuse to stay here a moment more. You push with strength you do not have. Glass blades swipe against your arms. The almost muddy ground soaks into the fabric of your long khakis. 

A large hand seizes your ankle. With a rattling breath sucked out of your lungs, you’re dragged back over the grass and flipped upright. Before you can curse him, Eclipse tucks you under his white hirsute belly of his lower tiger half, two massive paws pinning your arms by your sides. His weight holds you down like a striped blanket. 

You groan sickly. Throwing him a half-lidded stare of disdain, you can only watch as Eclipse lays down on top of you, his arms crossed over your midsection as you struggle to breathe under his weight. He tilts his head, his mane-like fur too short to take after a lion, but the tufts are spikey and vibrate with orange, light yellow, and deep red hues.

“You won’t get any better crawling around in the mud,” he drips with derision. “Why are you so difficult?”

Clutching your hands into fists, you bare your teeth as if you had as sharp of fangs as him. He laughs. The harsh, sharp sound makes you vibrate within your ridiculously chilled body. If you weren’t sick—if you had your machete—

“Get off me,” you rasp. 

“Relax, kitten,” he purrs, lifting a hand to trail a black claw over your arm, tracing from the crease of your elbow to the curve of your shoulder. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” 

He does not feed you, and you very much want to bite.

You shiver. Goosebumps prickle your skin under the lethal brush of the tiger’s hand. Your breath catches when his touch nears your neck. Your fever spikes. Caressing your throat, Eclipse’s claws linger on your jugular vein. The very beat of your heart pushes back on his presence. You will your frantic pulse to not give away the violent fear flooding your veins, too weak to throw him off you and run.

His deep red eyes flash with a predatory smugness. You squirm. In what you can only understand as delight, he shifts his hand to firmly press on your shoulder, restricting your movement further.

A moan slips past your teeth.

“I will make you feel better,” his throaty growl fills your body. You freeze, eyes wide like a gazelle. 

“Eclipse,” you try to argue, but you cough.

Softly, so softly you almost don’t understand what’s happening, Eclipse begins to purr. You feel it within his tiger half as well as his chest. Fully laid out underneath him, deep rumblings fill you like the echoes of thunder. A strangely gentle vibrancy soothes the edge of the fever. You gasp quietly at how sweet the relief is—how swift and consuming it is of the ache that’s been plaguing you for a day and night now.

“What are you doing?” you ask, harsh in your allayed confusion.

“Giving you what you need: me.” His wicked maw splits into a wide smile. “Don’t deny you feel better. I can already see it in your face.”

“No,” you groan, but it’s not your best lie.

He laughs softer this time, condescending but adoring, as if he can’t get enough of your antics.

Internally, you writhe. The aching soreness, the flip-flopping of shuddering from chills and melting from the fever is washed away like mud from a stone, but you wonder if that could be due to the flower you consumed earlier. His purring… it is enticing, seductive in how it urges you to stop resisting. You hate that a sliver of you wants it. You loathe that you want him to keep taking away the sickness.

You’re useless. Eclipse has stalked you time and time ago, and pounced just when you were foolish enough to believe you were safe. Now, you don’t even have a weapon to brandish against him. He’s too swift and cunning—he always has you before you realize what’s happening. 

A perfect ambush predator.

He keeps telling you that you need him. You have never revolted against such a bold declaration more than this. His bone-snapping strength and his sound-breaking speed are intimidating, certainly, but you won’t let him play with you. 

He acts hungry, he keeps looking at you as if you were a sweet morsel, and you refuse to believe that he is anything but a monster yearning for flesh after he’s finished playing with his food.

Depleted of adrenaline and reserved energy, you can do nothing but soak in his healing rumbles.

Eclipse’s body lays lightly over your own. You carry vague suspicions that he’s not resting his full weight on you—crushing you to death is not his means of slaughter. He has far too many claws and a pair of powerful jaws for that. Instead, stomach to stomach, he longues over you as if soaking in the starry light. This close to your chest, you wonder how well he senses your angry heart.

Insects buzz through the grass. You have an urge to shiver in the lack of safety in the night, but Eclipse’s purring keeps you from feeling too aware of your surroundings. In the darkness, his orange and deep red hues have melted to a muted color. The length of his tail playfully flickers behind him, long and tipped in black. He is too cat-like, too large, to be trustworthy.

“Relax, sweet little kitten,” he croons in a low voice, “I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

You glower in the dark. His predator eyes can see your expression perfectly, but he only sneers in reply.

As if sweeping aside your ungrateful attitude, Eclipse plays with wisps of your hair, twirling the strands around his claws with a casual intrigue. He never tugs on the strands. You do little but breathe. His purrs are alleviating the worst and you need every ounce of strength you can steal to get away from him. The gleam of his deep red eyes become black in the crescent of moonlight.

He leans down. You turn your head away but that does little to stall his nuzzling. He rubs affectionately against your nose, your neck, even your hair, and you protest with loud grumblings. You squeeze your eyes shut at the stroke of his sleek fur—something so dangerous shouldn’t be so soft. A whimper escapes you, and you bite the inside of your cheek to hold back the next one. His purr picks up. He effortlessly ignores your half growled cursing while fussing his fuzzy short mane against your cheek.

When will he have his fill? Is he ever going to be satisfied bating you around like a delicious little mouse? Your heart skips a beat.

“Why are you doing this?” you grunt.

“You smell like those awful snakes,” he growls lightly. He pulls back in the slightest so you can catch the sizzling pleasure in his gaze. “You have no idea how much better you smell with me all over you.”

“I don’t smell like anyone but me,” you hiss. But you’re not sure. Have Sun and Moon left their scent on you? The thought hadn’t crossed your mind seriously until now.

Eclipse tilts his head slightly. The wild fluff of his head speaks to his jungle prowess. Hanging only an itch above your mouth, he muses in tune with his purring. 

“You do smell lovely.” He traces a tapered finger from your temple to the edge of your jaw, as if sizing up a morsel. “Like dried petals with a slight spice.”

A shudder takes over your shoulders. He hooks your chin in his grasp then deliberately rubs his fluffy cheek against your mouth. A thick sultry ting of amber and dark earth fills your senses, ending with a lingering, spicy musk.

You sputter, tasting hair. He snickers with a simper when he lifts his head.

The strong scent reminds you of when he first surprised you. He pinned you to the ground before you realized you were being hunted. A mistake you refuse to make again. There was no doubt in your mind that he was going to tear your throat out, but he purred and fawned over you, and dragged you off to a rocky crevice to find out more about you. You were terrified then—but you at least had your machete on you.

The shiver that rolls down your body is not for his pleasure, despite his smirk. You’re going to find a way to wring his neck.

“Stop it,” you snap, your voice thick and labored.

“I am good for you. You can’t deny that,” he leans in closer. He lays his head beside your own, covering your chest. You swallow at the graze of his teeth against your soft neck. 

His voice lowers, “You like to think you have claws, but you don’t. You need me. You need to trust me.”

You screw your eyes shut.

No. You can’t. You can only rely on yourself. Sun and Moon are sweet, they practically begged to help you, but you can’t accept that, not truly. You won’t let them have your back just to get a fang or claw in it.

It hurts. You remember.

When push comes to shove, you can only hope you’re out of reach of everything and everyone.

“Kitten,” he purrs, turning your chin with a sharp finger. “You’re safe with me.”

You stare back at him, eyes narrowed with disbelief. The rhythmic swells of his purrings have yet to wane. The delicious relief holds you down still. He envelopes you like a waterfall, crashing down, drowning you where you stand.

A sliver of you wants to trust him, and that part of you is very, very wrong and weak.

His one round ear twitches, and then both lie flat against his skull The summer breeze ceases. Unease pricks your spine. His expression sharpens as he rises, hands pressed into the grass on either side of your head, claws extended.

The deep purr within his body cuts off. For a fraction of the night, he holds your gaze with a promise.

I will steal you away again soon.

His jaw splits open in a snarl that quakes the meadow. Your heart climbs up your throat, rattling under his force. The next second, Eclipse leaps off of you. You gasp at the sudden loss of the tiger’s presence. A flash of midnight blue scales darts through the grass. 

Moon.

The naga strikes in the blink of an eye. Moon’s fangs snap inches from Eclipse’s neck, vicious spit dripping from his sharp incisors. The flare of his hood makes him larger, and horrifying, and the glinting red and yellow diamonds flaring underneath his intimidating display promise lethal retribution. The tigertaur dives deeper into the field, effortlessly lunging out of reach from a furious swipe of Moon’s claws. Eclipse grins; there is nothing humorous in his glinting jaws.

The meadow rustles to the side of you. A sweeping mass of golden scales circle you, crushing grass and smothering vegetation. Hands take your shoulders. A low hiss fills the air with a threatening rage but soon softens. You look up, stunned. 

Sun, too.

The naga instantly grabs you and holds you against his warm chest. You lock your arms around his spindly neck, minding his sharp head spikes. His blue eyes are dark as if ink were spilled into his irises. His arms tremble for one moment before steadying around you. In the emptiness of Eclipse’s purrs, your entire body shivers and the fever returns in thick, heavy waves.

You twist your head back, fighting the ache dripping back into your limbs. Moon is coiled upon his tail, tall, taller than you’ve ever seen him hold himself up. He watches the meadow with a fervent rage. His red eyes are wide, glinting dark like arterial blood.

Sun says Moon’s name. In a snap, Moon is slithering to your side, his hand brushing the small of your back with a reassuring—or in need of reassuring—touch. You try to say their names. Sun tucks your head against his shoulder.

The moment they turn away, you see Eclipse in the tall grass, not yet gone. He’s crouched, half-hidden. He grins like the Cheshire Cat between wavering blades of green. His fingers dance in a goodbye. Your heart drops into your stomach.

Sun and Moon shoot away—a fight avoided is the only good fight. Cutting through the grass, rustling through it with thunderous hissing, they spirit you out of Eclipse’s territory. You cling tighter to Sun and watch Moon’s and his long tails become whipping blurs, scales glinting with shards of starlight.

“You came?” you gasp. You try to not choke Sun with your crushing grip.

“Are you hurt?” Moon hisses.

“No.” You shake your head. “Eclipse was watching the cave.”

“We put that together,” Sun gives without his usual musical timber. “Did he do anything to you?”

“No.”

He nods, relieved, but it’s short-lived as a dark cloud passes over his usually sunny expression. “You scared us, lily pad. That’s the second time I’ve found you gone.”

“We should have stayed,” Moon says, his snarl lowering into remorse.

You let your head fall against Sun’s shoulder, bouncing along with his swaying. Moon’s concern rings in your head like a bell. 

They came for you. They didn’t let you go. You close your eyes even as liquid spills underneath your eyelashes.

They take you far away from the tall grass, and they don’t stop until you’re well into the densest, darkest shadows of the jungle. You cling to the quiet sound of the nagas’ hissing.

You still feel Eclipse’s purr deep within your chest.

[castlebyersafterdark]

🌈REVELATIONS ⛪️

Safe. Out of breath, but out of sight.

They locked the doors to the church and strained and struggled but pulled together to drag one of the pews in a barricade against the doors. Just as one extra precaution. They'd lost the demodeer herd a mile back but adrenaline kept them on a steady bolt, overly panicked as their reconnaissance mission failed and turned into one of survival and waiting.

When in danger, find shelter. Blockade. Stick together. Stay quiet. Wait for the next signal. Hope your radio didn't die and you reminded unseen.

"I think we're alone now. We're fine. We're totally fine." Breathless, and braced against the side of the nearest pew, Mike gave himself reassurances out loud while Will crouched down and focused on level breathing.

"Yeah. Safe," Will repeated. Not something he'd accurately felt in years. Couldn't remember.

"Hey. Hey come here."

Mike pulled Will to his feet and held him close. Chest to chest. Arms wrapped around Will's back. Big hands cradling skull and shoulder blade as Will sucked in a shakey breath and held on just as tight.

"I got you. We're good. We're safe."

"Sure," Will disagreed, voice a dark laugh and cheek a wet stain as he reluctantly pulled himself away from Mike's neck.

Mike had been doing that a lot recently. Hugging him. Touching him. Going out of the way to make sure he was doing alright. Keeping him safe.

It made Will nervous. Liking it as much as he did. He shouldn't.

"...and out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations: and he shall rule them with a rod of iron. And he..."

Will stopped in his tracks. What -

The lights.

(continued under cut)

Will stepped closer to inspect the electric candles, one built into each side of the pews. He leaned in to listen to the preacher's words, softly echoing from the other side in the scattered, floating particles of light. In the right side up, church was in session.

He stepped away and walked slowly along the rows of wooden benches towards the front of the church, catching snippets of the passage being recited to the gathered congregation with fire and brimstone fury as he walked along the trails of light, which flickered as he went and distorted the voice like an in between radio station.

"...and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had..."

Will stopped in front of the altar after ascending the set of stairs. Back in reality, where vines did not cover the church and perpetual night time covered the land, golden sun would wash down through the stained glass and bathe the sanctuary in a kaleidoscope of light and color. Blue, gray and the danger of red comprised Will's current palette - this world he'd help to shape.

He braced his hands on the altar and took a deep breath. Almost thought touching the wood - the mimic, the doppelganger of that thought to be sacred table - would burst him into flames.

"Will?"

He spun at the sound his name and turned to Mike. The glittering specs from the lighted pews lined the aisle, suspended in the damp, dark, stale air. Unmoving like a starry night, unlike the few specs that had clung to Will as he'd walked by. A magnet for the tiny dots of energy.

"Are you ok?"

"...which is the Devil, and bound him a thousand years and cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, that he should deceive..."

Will brushed off the specs of lpreaching, pixie dust preachings, warnings for the eternal soul. Look where he stood. A mockery. Back in Hell again. Willingly, this time.

"This is where they held my memorial service. When I, you know..."

He said it nonchalant, a pained smile on his face as he leaned back against the altar. Casual. Whether he belonged there or not.

"When they found that fake body."

"When I died. Before you all buried me."

"But you didn't."

"Most of you didn't know that."

He'd heard it, some of it. The preacher's voice just like today as his younger self took solace in the safety of the church. A voice that praised his poor young soul. Prayed for his salvation. All for a dummy stuffed with fluff. A rubber boy in a facade of a casket with needless tears dropped on the lid.

He remembered his grandmother, his father's mother, had tried with him and Jonathan. Forced them certain Sundays, forced his father to sit uncomfortably in the pews beside his boys, not so dutiful but trying. Joyce never went. Always worked Sundays.

The attempts were abandoned even before Lonnie ditched them all.

"But I knew. I never gave up on you."

"...and I saw an angel come down from heaven..."

His pale face shone in the blue darkness and dim light. Determined. True.

"I know."

Will waved a hand over one of the wax candles on thin iron stands that dotted the raised platform of sanctuary. It lit without spark or match or touch. He did it again to the others in his vicinity.

The things he'd discovered he could do terrified him.

Mike watched his best friend in awe.

"Kind of hard to believe a boy like me is hiding in a place like this. If I tried this on the right side..."

"What do you mean?"

"Mike..." Will took a steadying breath. Fearful. Terrified. Suddenly brimming with truth. When better than following a moment of life-or-death, in a place that glorified confessions. "Don't make me say it. Please. Don't make me. You know what I am."

"I don't-"

"Mike."

And Mike fell to his knees.

Hands covered his face. Shuddering breath. Crumpled before the altar, before Will.

Will descended from his place on high and rushed to Mike. Kneeled in front of the love of his life. Begged to understand.

"I've lied to you. I've lied to everyone."

"What-"

"I'm sorry. Will, I'm so sorry."

"...and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain..."

Mike took Will's hand in his own, and raised it, in worship, in love, in benediction to the boy he'd been devoted to since life had begun to fill memory. He kissed the knuckles, smelled the scent of smoke on skin from otherworldly fire. And let go. And made a decision.

And kissed Will.

And kissed him and kissed him. And was kissed back.

He didn't have to say it.

Gasps of breath. Hands grasping at shoulders, arms, faces, frantic. Mouths seeking their counterpart. Over and over.

The faintest sound of yelling. Candles burning bright. The lights that lined the aisles flashed and flickered, in tune with the sealing and slide of new lover's lips.

"Mike."

Foreheads pressed together. Mike's hands cradled Will's face, more force than intended but secure, a lifeline. A promise.

"Mike, is this real? It's... it's not-"

"It's real. I'm real. He's not here. You don't- you don’t feel him, right?"

Will felt Mike's pulse. His heartbeat.

Visions lacked either, they'd all found. On rare occasion when they were able to get close enough to check.

"Are you... are you like..." Are you like me? Abominations together. Unholy beings. No. Not a mistske. How could something that felt so right and good and beautiful be evil. "I thought I was so alone. Are you-"

"I don't know what I am. I'm working on it. But not... not how I feel about you. I think it's always been you, Will. Always you."

Will's smile could split the sky, could light up the entire dismal dimension. It belonged to Mike. All for him.

"It's always been you too, for me. I'm in love with you."

Another crashing kiss.

The lights flickered and surged.

"...stay calm, everyone! Join me in prayer. Together we will stand against this evil. This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer! Join..."

And the lights burned brighter yet, flickering in a circling rotation, then random, surging with power. All while two boys seeking refuge in a tainted and tarnished place of worship expressed pure love and devotion to one another.

Darkness, after the lights all burst on the other side. A final echo of yells rang out from the lingering specs of light until they also faded away until all that remained was the conjured burning candlelight surrounding the altar.

Mike stood, and took Will with him, never parting as they kissed and stumbled to the nearest pew...

(to be continued...)

🖤🖤🖤

[fujokafka]

mateo What now

[angelsdean]

don't know how people multi-fandom. dipped my toe into another one and immediately backed out bc everyone there was insufferable.

[adamanteine]

man........ origins (i'm on the floor screaming)

[romance-rambles]

modern alkaid | the duality of pining

Alkaid's first night at in The Intermission goes badly. The next day, however, turns out for the better—as it so happens, the girl he loves might love him back.

6.3k, set during TE3, alkaid-typical anxiety + pining + happy ending, reader is mc, series: none

IF ALKAID LEAVES HIS ROOM and walks in a straight line, remembering to take a right turn before he crashes into the wall, he will come across an ordinary door.

It is blue in color, with a pop of silver provided by the cool-toned hardware. Many like it can be found installed in every door frame housed by Mrs. Santos' hotel; within Alkaid's suite alone, there are three examples to choose from—the front door, his door, and...

The door that belongs to you.

An ordinary door, made extraordinary by the girl staying in the room behind it—by you, the girl of his dreams. The one who'd fished him out of the snow and watched the aurora alongside him. The reason he'd chosen to go to St. Shelter Academia in the first place.

It's like something out of a dream, really.

To think you're sharing a suite with him—that he's separated from you by only a short trek to your door. There's a common area in between, and it would be so easy to waste the night away, chattering about something—or nothing—whilst sitting on the sofa.

How wonderful it would be to walk outside his room and be able to check up on you. To ensure that when you need someone by your side the most, you're not alone, even if you keep your secrets close to your chest.

He has some too, after all.

It only matters that you're okay.

And even taking into account their relationship status, the situation has all the markings of something that could be so terribly domestic that he can't help but want.

In the morning, you'll both walk into the lounge after, hopefully, a good night's sleep on your part. You might forget to brush your hair, and when he playfully points out your bedhead, you'll grouse about how perfectly awake he seems to be.

Alkaid will only laugh, painfully aware of how much he adores you. As you fix your hair in the bathroom mirror, oblivious to his longing glances, you'll strike up a random conversation with him—probably related to food. After freshening up, the two of you will head down together, and he will do his best to ignore Mrs. Santos' knowing looks.

And tonight, once you've relaxed a little, you'll probably go take a—

He pauses his thoughts there, before they can spiral to places he knows would make you uncomfortable, if you ever learned of them. After all, his keen gaze had not missed the flash of uncertainty that crept into your otherwise relieved expression that morning. Nor had he missed the way you'd locked yourself in your room the moment you entered the suite.

The daydreams he holds dear are likely the last thing crossing your mind right now. No matter how comfortable you may be with his presence, there are some concerns that aren't easy to shake off.

It is a fact Alkaid knows painfully well.

With a sigh, he sits up on his bed, legs still hanging over the edge. Considering the speed with which you agreed to spend the night with him—in the suite—he suspects you didn't want to trouble him with the task of finding a place for you to stay.

You must be regretting your choice right about now.

At that thought, his lips pull into a frown. Will you...will you be able to sleep well tonight?

You made it no secret that you enjoyed exploring this quaint little town. So much so that before they had returned to the homestead, the two of you briefly discussed your plans for tomorrow, vague and unfinished as they were.

A rough night is the last thing you need.

He could never forgive himself if you walked out your door, bleary-eyed and exhausted—with only enough energy to eat breakfast before you went back to your room to nap.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, as a plan forms in his head, Alkaid stares at his door.

It does not have the privilege of being made extraordinary simply because of the person residing in the room behind it—it is an ordinary door, as it had been this morning, and every other time he'd stayed in this particular suite. But it is through this door that he can make amends.

In that regard, he supposes it deserves some kind of credit.

THOUGH THE HOTEL DOES OFFER room service, he's always preferred to go down to the kitchen and grab the simpler orders by himself.

These days, Mrs. Santos only tends to sigh as she waves him back to his room. Sometimes, she'll let him make his order himself if she's busy. But when he'd first started this habit, after she'd offhandedly mentioned how exhausted she'd become after a day's work, he'd been met with some amount of resistance.

It had taken almost a year to wear her down.

"Here you go: a warm glass of milk," she says, handing him the glass. There's a knowing glint in her eyes, but it does not sufficiently prepare him for her teasing. "Are you having trouble sleeping? She's such a nice girl—I can see why you like her."

Alkaid flushes, instinctively spluttering out an unintelligible defense of his crush on you. Mrs. Santos only laughs wistfully and pats his shoulder. Her husband had died a few years ago—she's likely remembering him.

The thought helps him regain some of his lost composure. Unfortunately, by the time he clears his throat, she's already ushering him back to his room. He has no time to explain that the glass of milk is actually for you, or that he'd appreciate it if she'd tone down the teasing.

After all, he suspects her good-natured teasing likely contributed to your extreme discomfort at being alone with him.

He can still feel the lingering warmth of your hand from when you subconsciously held his hand, in order to escape Mrs. Santos' words. It is overshadowed by the heartache that comes with the memory of the distance you'd maintained early on in their day out, before you seemed to grow tired of your hypervigilance.

Alkaid makes a mental note to discuss it with her tomorrow as he climbs up the stairs, back to the second floor. It wouldn't do for you to be uncomfortable in your own suite.

But for now, all he can offer you is this glass of warm milk he's put on the table.

"Are you awake?" he asks softly, though the light seeping out from your room gives him a good idea of the answer.

When you first respond, your voice is startled and a bit shaky.

You repeat your words again. It still doesn't sound like the voice of someone comfortable with his presence outside her door. Instead, there's a hint of urgency in your words, one that screams at him to leave you alone.

The sound breaks his heart into such tiny pieces that it would take centuries to piece them together. Somehow, Alkaid manages to pull himself together quickly, carefully collecting the shattered fragments for his future self to deal with.

"I've ordered you a glass of warm milk. It's on the table," he tells you, keeping his tone upbeat and cheerful—just slightly above a whisper. "Drink up and rest well."

His hand is splayed out against the door's surface. Alkaid can't help but wonder: are you on the other side, holding out your hand like he is?

It seems almost disrespectful to ponder the thought.

After all, he knows it isn't true. That would imply that the respective situations they've both found themselves have any sort of equivalence, beyond the discomfort they both feel. And even that is different, in its source—you do not want to be here, and he wants what will make you the happiest.

Reluctantly, remembering he can't stay here forever, he pulls his hand away. You'll need to come out in order for his plan to be successful, after all. And the fact that you didn't open the door right away means you won't feel comfortable if you know he's there.

"See you tomorrow," he says, before returning to his room to grab a change of clothes.

All things considered, Alkaid's uncertain whether you'll take a shower. But just in case, he'd like to finish up quickly. The sun has long set, and though you aren't a stranger to staying up late, he doesn't want to impose on you more than he already has.

Quietly, he slips inside the bathroom—stares at the worried young man watching him from the mirror. He can't help but remember when he'd spotted you from the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Not for the first time, he'd thought his senses had betrayed him.

Alkaid was in the middle of wondering if you'd like his quaint little escape back then. Then, you were there, observing the courtyard and telling him about how your accommodation woes. The spare room in his suite, he'd thought, was only going to rot.

After all, what good would the privileges at his disposal be if he could not aid the girl he loves in her time of need?

"What should I do?" he wonders out loud as he runs his fingers through his hair. How can I make things better?

The man in the mirror does not offer him a response.

THE LIGHT IN YOUR ROOM is still on when Alkaid walks out of the bathroom and into the living room.

His hands pause their gentle drying of his damp hair. The towel they'd been using—a light blue one, in keeping with the theme of the suite—droops, the bulk of its weight coming to rest atop his shoulders. Alkaid pulls at the fabric and, from the back, wraps it snuggly around his neck.

As he is, he must look like quite the sight. Lips parted in surprise, and bright green eyes transfixed on the siren song that is the warm light seeping out from under your door—

And oh, what a beautiful song it is, drawing him to its domain so skillfully that the memory of his short trek escapes him.

All Alkaid knows when he comes to is that he is standing at your door once again, loosely curled hand poised to knock. Uncertainty leaves it lingering in the air, a few painful centimeters away, right before it resumes twisting his heart into another painful arrangement.

That the warm glass of milk he'd brought up for you seems to have vanished from its place on the table provides little relief. How can it, when his mind seems insistent on playing round after round of its latest obsession?

(Are you awake?

Are you asleep?

Are you in the midst of a beautiful dream?)

And the only one who can free him for the never-ending cycle does not wish to see him.

THE NUMBER OF SPARKLES FROLICKING in the grass turns out to be nine. Twelve, five, nineteen, forty-nine—after a few rounds of the game, he turns to his side. A stray thought about his cat's friendship with Beanie distracts him from his counting, and he is forced to discard the results of the sixth game.

He soon turns to his other side.

Sleep does not come to him that night. When he moves on from counting ragdolls, Alkaid distracts himself by softly singing a lullaby. It does not work. He switches, instead, to wishing on some distant star, hidden by the half-darkened ceiling.

That does not work either.

Eventually, he gives up and opens his eyes.

The town outside is quiet. Only his breathing disturbs the silence. Somewhere beyond the foot of his bed, a blue nightlight glows softly. His phone, once he retrieves it from the nightstand, reads 2:00 AM on the lockscreen, above a photo of Sparkles.

A pair of arms—clothed in a familiar, baggy beige sweater—hold his beloved ragdoll in place, atop your lap. The peace sign your hand had been making is just barely visible, most of it having been cut off when he'd cropped the photo. Your braid happens to fall in front of Sparkles, who eyes it with ill-intent.

Alkaid's never asked whether you'd be okay with him putting you as his lockscreen, because you'd been the one to offer this one up. He remembers you smiling oddly once he showed you the finished product. You would go on to show him that same smile again—when, after mulling over your expression, he concluded it was some sort of test, where the correct answer was no, and made amends accordingly.

It goes without saying that he's never tried changing it after that. He can't, not when you have your own version of it with Beanie on your phone.

Glee had sharpened your smile into something teasing when he took notice of his inclusion. Just his arms, the same as in his own lockscreen. You made no effort to hide how much of it was motivated by some kind of spite, but the same went for how much you adored it.

Because whenever you'd look at it, your gaze would grow soft. It was as if you were watching something so incredibly precious—a treasure you would not trade for the world.

And like clockwork, a traitorous part of him would wonder if some of that affection was aimed at him.

"I'm sure—" Exhaling deeply, he traces the curved path your arms take with his thumb. Once, you'd mentioned the shape's resemblance to a heart; he hasn't been able to unsee it since then. "—whoever that ends up being instead will be the luckiest man in the world."

And perhaps Alkaid will get to reintroduce himself to him, if their friendship survives the night.

It has to.

After all, he hasn't gotten the chance to show you the pictures he took today, some of which, as usual, feature you among the sceneries of Mrs. Santos' hometown. His favorite is the one he took of you watching the sunset.

The warm colors of the sun had imparted a golden hue on your hair. Your back was to him; your hands were tied behind your back. A gentle breeze disturbed the serene moment at the same time you turned around.

With a press of a button, your welcoming smile became forever memorialized—and it will remain so, for as long as you want to keep it.

And he will remain by your side, for as long as you want to keep him.

MRS. SANTOS IS ALREADY TENDING to her garden when he comes down to the courtyard.

The moon is faintly visible in the sky, even as the lightened skies beckon the sun to climb out from under the horizon. As usual, Alkaid passed by only a few stragglers in the common area downstairs. You were not one of them.

Because before he left the room, your snoring could be heard from the living room.

Even on an ordinary day, when you don't have classes, there'd still be some time before you wake up. Today, he expects you'll need at least an hour more and—

Alkaid blinks as a yawn cuts through his thoughts. Unwilling to grant him the possibility of dodging the same accusations, his concealed eyebags remind him of their presence. They sit heavy on his undereyes; it is enough to have him contemplating a nap.

"Good morning, Alkaid."

That doesn't mean he'll go through with one.

When he pulls his hand away from his mouth, a polite smile awaits Mrs. Santos. He nods, returning her greeting as he would on any other day. Yesterday's vow remains fresh in his mind, quietly but insistently urging him to speak up.

"There's something I wanted to discuss with you," he says, his tone both firm and polite.

The older woman looks concerned. With some difficulty, she stands up, a hand on her knee offering her some support. Mrs. Santos puts away her gardening tools and observes him carefully.

"That's not something I hear everyday," she says, her tone humorous. He feels his shoulders relax slightly. "Why don't I brew some tea first?"

Without skipping a beat, he agrees. "Alright, I'll come with—"

She disappears inside before he can finish. Alkaid follows her. When they both return, sometime later, he is dutifully carrying a tray with three cups and a tea kettle, and Mrs. Santos is quietly grumbling about it.

They go through the familiar motions in silence—arranging the cups and pouring the tea. The third cup is left empty, though neither of them discuss why. It is their understanding, implicit, that if you come down stairs, you certainly won't say no to some tea.

When all is said and done, he begins to speak. It's a rather long-winded speech, something he's come to expect when it comes to you. You did not go out of your way to ask this of him—it would not be fair if you were judged for it.

"So, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tease us about our—" His mouth seems to have some difficulty sounding the word relationship out. Alkaid swallows with great difficulty. "She isn't interested in me, in that way."

Surprise registers on her face, eyebrows knitting together. She purses her lips, then opens her mouth. It closes before she can say anything at all. Her lips purse into a thin line.

"I see," she murmurs. A realization dawns upon her. "Has she—"

Cutting herself off, without prompting, Mrs. Santos shakes her head. Even so, he knows what the question on her lips was. Because Alkaid has wondered the same thing before.

Has she said that?

He brings the teacup to his lips. In doing so, he manages to cover up the downturned edges that speak of his thoughts on the matter—the hopes he once clung to, the ones he still can't shake off.

Have you said that?

You haven't.

You've never commented on how often he happens to be passing by your house, a box of cake in hand. Or how your friend Stella seems to be of the (correct) opinion that he's in love with you, a fact she makes sure to bring up every time she sees him. Or how you end up so often on his camera reel that it's much easier to count how often you don't.

What you have said is that you like spending time with him. That when you end up in a slump, he's the person you think of. And when you finish a painting, he's the first person you think of. And when you're doing nothing at all—

But they say actions speak louder than words.

Your actions last night can't speak any louder. The only way for him to reconcile your distant behavior with your general eagerness to spend time with him is simple.

You do love him, just not in the way he loves you.

"Alright, I suppose I got ahead of myself," she agrees. "It's such a shame. She's the first—you would've made such a good couple."

Alkaid puts down his cup, narrowly avoiding a catastrophe as he swallows down the rest of his tea, just in time. Zaph had told him something similar when he'd returned from his trip. That everything about him screamed he was in love.

He supposes time has only made it more noticeable.

"Thank you." Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, he smiles weakly at her. The moment he retracts his fingers, it slips back out. "I hope she'll be able to enjoy her trip fully."

Mrs. Santos only smiles sadly at him.

YOU COME DOWNSTAIRS EARLIER THAN expected.

The tea is still warm, and Mrs. Santos has yet to finish her usual rounds of the courtyard. When he asks about how you slept, whether your early rise is related to him in any way, you stumble over the only word that slips out.

"N—no," you say, discomfort flitting across your startled expression.

Alkaid doesn't get the opportunity to clarify your wording. Before long, you're sitting beside him on one of the white chairs, hands wrapping around your cup. He pours you some tea, carefully eyeing the steady stream of steaming liquid to ensure you don't get splashed.

You do not have the face of someone who would rather be anywhere but here. After taking a sip, you sigh happily. Eyes narrowing fondly, he smiles and pours you another cup when you finish.

It is with that same gaze that he watches you accept Mrs. Santos' flowers. You cradle them in your arms gently, their light purple color a lovely contrast to your cream cardigan. Then, you turn around and Alkaid forgets how to breathe.

Whatever it is the older woman says register in his mind as a jumbled mess of sounds, like a series of words he ought to be familiar with. The longer you watch him, the easier it becomes for his true thoughts to slip out.

You are, and always will be, the most lovely person in the room. You're—

"Beautiful," he says earnestly, his gaze lingering on your nervous smile.

By the time his mind catches up to his mouth, it is, in some ways, too late to worry about how you'll react.

A flush creeps up your neck, to your cheeks and the tips of your ears. On one side, the latter is made more prominent when you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear awkwardly.

You almost seem pleased with the compliment.

He does not think about it. Not now, not when Mrs. Santos ushers you back to the table and you set your flowers to the side, in a vase at the edge of the table. Dark purple meets green as you sit down, your lips curving into a gentle smile.

Last night's worries keep him from enjoying the sight properly.

In the background, Mrs. Santos is asking about something. Alkaid hears his name and yours—and the word together. The look the older woman sends his way leads him to believe she doesn't see the problem with her question.

It says, See? I didn't tease either of you.

Seemingly unaffected by the question, you take a big bite of a chocolate-filled croissant. Your blissful expression is perhaps the biggest compliment you could pay the older woman—second to only the way you reach out for seconds.

As you lick off the leftover chocolate on your lips, your hand hovers over the assortment of breakfast items before gleefully plucking another two croissants from its plate. Meanwhile, his plate remains untouched.

Alkaid chews on his lip, worried that perhaps you're doing too good of a job at being polite.

"Well, Alkaid here—" You reach over and nudge his elbow. "—promised he'd show me around town again. I hope that's still in effect?"

You say that as if he'd ever say no to you. He chews thoughtfully on a pastry and wonders if that might be a good thing. In that case, perhaps you'd feel less pressured to do things with him—

But your expectant gaze returns his thoughts to their normal direction.

"Of course," he answers, condensing all his longing into only two words.

The third one borders on a near-confession—an implicit acknowledgement of his affection—so he leaves the Anytime out of it. It does not stop Mrs. Santos from giving him a knowing look.

"Is that right?" She smiles pleasantly. "You two enjoy yourselves, then. I'll make sure to whip up something nice for your last night here."

Your face lights up in delight.

"That's—ahem." Coughing into your fist, you pretend to be unaffected by the allure of the older woman's words. You haven't known her long enough to find out she's already prepped the ingredients the night before. "You don't have to do that, Mrs. Santos. Last night's dinner alone was more than enough."

"Don't be silly," she says, waving your concern off. "I'd do the same for Alkaid—oh! That's right. Do you have any requests, Alkaid?"

He does not—but you do.

So, Alkaid smiles and pretends his motivations for putting the spotlight on you aren't selfish in nature. That he does not to do this to be able to see that same blissful expression on your face again, this time with the knowledge that he played a part in your happiness.

"I enjoy anything you cook, Mrs. Santos," he says smoothly, before nodding his head at you. "Since it's her first time here, I think it's only fair that she gets to pick."

The older woman laughs, not unkindly. You shove another croissant into your mouth. A silent understanding seems to form between the two women at the table, one that, Alkaid feels, has everything to do with him.

But they do not enlighten him on what that understanding is.

Instead, the conversation continues where it left off, so seamlessly that he can trick himself into thinking the interruption never happened.

You talk about food, then flowers, then your time at St. Shelter Academia. Mrs. Santos tells you stories about him, of when he was younger and would come with his family—most of them being decidedly embarrassing, particularly since you're the one listening to them. And you drink them up with the same eagerness that seems to consume Alkaid when it concerns you.

The matching lockscreens come up once, as well.

He finds himself being stared at—almost disapprovingly—by the older woman. It reminds him of your odd expression, on that day. But before he can ponder what it is she knows that he doesn't, you rescue him with an apologetic smile—one that'd have him forgiving you immediately, if there was anything to forgive.

(There isn't.)

And even when he backs away from the conversation with warm cheeks and the word beautiful rattling around in his brain—even though it is entirely your fault, there is nothing to forgive.

Even though he wonders, again, when you glance at him after your devastating blow—that is his own fault.

Because last night, he'd sworn he wouldn't do this again. Last night, you seemed like you didn't even want to see his face. Last night, it seemed so easy to think he wouldn't fall back into old habits again.

Is it about him? Is it about Beanie instead?

Alkaid swipes an assortment of fruits from the center of the table. Pretends those questions won't be eating into the time he could be using to sleep. He is nothing less than his normal, polite self, even as the hurricane called you tears up his sanity.

When you look at him and smile contentedly, he adds another cause to the list.

THE PAYMENT ALKAID REQUESTS OF you, when paid in full, takes the form of a flower tucked behind his ear.

It is your idea, something spur-of-the-moment that pops into your head when you rest your hand on the bike's rear seat. You close the distance between them, and only when he replays the memory at night can he pinpoint the exact moment his fate is sealed.

There, as he's laying in bed—kept up by a situation that is in every way the opposite of last night—the sight of your eyes, glimmering with mischief, engraved into his memory forever.

In the present, however, as your hand reaches out for him, Alkaid closes his eyes.

On the front seat rests one of his hands; the other fiddles with the back of his shirt. They curl loosely into a fist as your cold fingers carefully brush his hair out of the way. His heart, as it beats only for you, tries to jump out of his chest. The trail you leave behind on his skin feels unbearably warm.

You laugh softly, to a joke only you know of.

It loops around in his mind like his new old favorite song, silencing any thoughts about how close you are. Yesterday's worries seem to flee his mind, your easy-going behavior a balm for his soul.

"Alright," you say, the sound of your voice returning to an appropriate distance. He opens his eyes to find you admiring his appearance. "I've paid your price."

The smile on your face would've stolen his breath away—if only he hadn't already forgotten how to breathe.

IN THE HOURS THAT FOLLOW, Alkaid falls in love with you, over and over again.

And the truth is, nothing in this world is easier—that if soulmates exist, then his heart knows, whether he is yours or not, that you are his. Even the heartache that visits him every time he leaves the present to court the future cannot deter him.

The most logical part of him points out that few women would act as you did this morning. The rest of him chides it for being so presumptuous, wielding last night like a dagger—so resolute in their conviction to keep him in his place.

Their job is made harder by the fact that you've once more taken to acting as you normally do.

Right now, the two of you are at a souvenir shop in hopes finding a present for Mrs. Santos. The idea came to you when they were at a convenience store earlier. You wanted to find a way to thank her for the lovely experience—and the love and care she put into every interaction with you.

"Do you think she'd like something like this?" you ask, holding up a mug with a stylized design of a grumpy cat.

Though she is a lover of cats, Mrs. Santos is, rather unfortunately, allergic to cats. For that reason, ever since he was old enough to go by himself, he's always been a solo traveler. Sparkles is there with him only in spirit—and in the many photos he has of his beloved ragdoll on his phone.

Alkaid thinks the mug is a lovely idea. Both practical and aesthetic. It is only the words written above the cat that give him a pause, in fun, bubbly letters that hardly suit the design's star.

Rather than the always cheerful Mrs. Santos, he thinks it would suit you much better.

Seemingly reading his mind, you sigh despondently. "I'll keep looking. Come on."

This is only the second shop they've visited. This is only fifth thing you've discarded from your list. Alkaid stares at the long fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist and obeys.

The urge to grasp onto them doesn't entirely die when next you release his hand.

At that time, his watch reads 11:15. Thirty minutes later, you remain unsatisfied with the selections offered by this particular store. You drag him along to the next store, brows knitted in concentration as you mull over your possible choices. He mulls them over too, in hopes of speeding the process along.

Because there are still a few more places he thinks you'd like. But the sun steadily creeps up higher in the sky, constantly reminding him constantly of their limited time together.

Tomorrow, you'll return to Harp Island—and there's no word on when you'll come back here.

"I'll go take a look too," Alkaid says, after you make a beeline for the first thing that catches your eye.

"Would you?" As you put away a hairpin you can't seem to agree with, a relieved smile crosses your lips. "Thanks, Alkaid."

He returns your smile with one of his own—something he hopes will assure you that the end is in sight. Then, he leaves first, disappearing among the shelves with only a fleeting glance at your now distant figure.

ALKAID IS NOT A STRANGER when it comes to having eyes on him. Whether it's strangers on the street or the ghosts of his childhood, he's grown adept at hiding both his discomfort and his knowledge of them.

Still, when the topic of their discussion partially revolves around you, he feels compelled to step in and clear the misunderstanding.

"She's just a friend, I'm afraid," he says, smiling apologetically. "It's payment for a tour I'm giving her."

The culprits seems to be a pair of siblings, close in age. Over the course of their fervent but light-hearted discussion on whether men look good with flowers in their hair or not, he learned their names are May and Max—that May is the older one, and that Max is not infrequently teased for every possible reason under the sun.

They both startle easily at his interjection and glance at each other. A flush creeps up the girl's cheeks, half of which she manages to hide by giving herself a sidepart. Max only coughs politely.

The satisfied gleam in his eyes, despite his embarrassment, speaks volumes.

"Oh," she utters, clearing his throat. Max tugs at her sleeve, and May lets him drag her away—though not before she decides to offer him one last bit of advice. "I'd ask for more than one flower, then."

Alkaid merely smiles politely.

To charge anything beyond that would imply that spending time with you is not its own reward. To charge anything at all would, ordinarily—but he's found, more often that not, people tend to feel more comfortable when there's some form of reciprocity, when it comes to jokes.

If he insisted on going without pay, there was a distinct possibility of the mood souring faster than he can recite your birthday.

"What was that about?" a familiar voice rings in his ear, your warm breath fanning against his ear. He tamps down the urge to flinch, though he can do nothing for his warm cheeks. "I heard something about flowers?"

Carefully, so as to ensure you don't think he's running away from you, he takes a step back—puts his hands in his pocket. And when he looks back at you, you're doing a terrible job at hiding your smile.

The upturned corners peek out from behind your two fingers—but even if they didn't, he thinks your eyes would betray you.

"She seemed to think I should've asked for a higher price," he confesses truthfully.

There are three ways this can go. You can ignore his words entirely to show him the latest item you've pinned your hopes on. You can argue against it, with whatever argument you have on hand, and Alkaid will easily return the flower. And the third one, both the one most likely and the one he wishes for, is—

"She's not wrong." You nod, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. A plushie's leg peeks out from behind you as you walk up to him. "A flower isn't enough."

"What would you give me then?" he inquires calmly, as if his rapid heartbeat doesn't drown out all but the sound of your voice.

At first, it seems as though you have the answer already. Confidence drips from your tone for the first half of your sentence, but a distressed expression soon breaks out on your face. You purse your lips and cup your chin thoughtfully.

"Well, for something obtainable..." You mutter, sounding exasperated. He expects some of your next words to be a quip about how difficult it is to put a number on him. "Maybe a 100...maybe 200...300...? Your birthday is...so that many...?"

Alkaid hums, taking note of your wording. "And if it isn't obtainable?"

"It'd be hard to wrap," you caution him, having forgotten whatever plans you had for the plushie. As it swings behind you, he realizes it's a teddy bear. "But if I could, I think I'd give you the world."

The last of your words comes out softly, like a confession meant only for him. Your gaze softens, and though you seem like you're somewhere else, he can't help but think you're still thinking about him. And for the first time in a while, the contrarian in him remains quiet.

When Alkaid smiles softly, his heart feels lighter than it has in ages.

The girl he loves wants to give him the world—and though you keep your secrets close to your chest, you are not a liar. He will not make you out to be a liar, by wondering if you really mean it at all.

And it is easy enough. All it requires is framing last night's interactions with you a bit differently—that you were not afraid of him but of what he'd figure out. It's a thought he'd entertained on and off, but never with as much conviction.

In a way, the two of you are nothing less than birds of a feather.

"Just spending time with you is enough," Alkaid assures.

With a dramatic sigh, you hold the teddy bear against your chest and huff. His smile takes on a helpless tinge as he watches you shake your head. When you take note of it, your eyes narrow into what would be a ferocious glare if not for the faint pout on your lips.

"And we return to the crux of the problem again," you complain, shoving the teddy bear at him. "We'll come back to this. What do you think of this bear for Mrs. Santos? Doesn't it look like her?"

He takes a step closer. "Hmm, I think she'll appreciate it. Do you like it?"

Your nose scrunches up at his words. A sigh escapes your lips as you look longingly at the teddy bear, then at him. This time, you don't shake your head quite as vigorously as before.

"Alright, let's keep looking," you say, your hand wrapping around his wrist again. "You come with me this time, alright?"

The answer to that comes easily, even before you confide in him how boring it was without him. Alkaid chuckles warmly and quietly takes your hand, the way he'd wanted to earlier, with an explanation on the tip of his tongue—

"It's more comfortable this way."

Once the flash of surprise fades from your eyes, you grin at him. "You read my mind."

It takes some time before either of you are willing to let go.

[missmorwen]

Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Captain America (Chris Evans Movies), Marvel 616 Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov Characters: Natasha Romanov (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Liho (Marvel), Alpine (Marvel) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Shameless Smut, Bucky's favorite meal is Nat, Face-Sitting, Shower Sex, Clothed Sex, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst Summary:

It was one thing to have a supposedly eight-day mission turn into a month-plus-change mission, it was quite another thing for the trip home to take three full days. First getting delayed by a scheduling conflict with her and Clint’s extraction, then by Clint insisting that they picked something up for Laura and the kids as an apology for the delay. Natasha couldn’t argue with that last bit, not when Clint thought all she had to go back to was an apartment, empty except for the cat that the neighbor was feeding while she was away.

He didn’t know any better, and that was on her. Natasha wasn’t ready for the conversation that would follow if she admitted she was living with James and their cats. Had been living with them for a while and seeing him for even longer. That she wasn’t going back to one of her safehouses or the quarters at the Avengers Tower that Tony insisted was her second home. That she was going home to the apartment she and James had bought together and filled with furniture for them and their cats. The only home she had ever known.

*************

Bucky and Natasha try to decide if keeping their relationship a secret from their friends is fair nor not. While having a lot of sex. As you do.

[robiinurheart33]

Haha wouldn’t it be so weird if when soap was taken and brainwashed he was constantly being compared to this soldier named “ghost” haha

Anyways explicit descriptions of psychological torture and violent intrusive thoughts under the cut

He would be beaten and berated constantly. why wasn’t he stronger than ghost, why wasn’t he faster, more skilled, better, stealthier, healthier.

Ghost could’ve done better in worse conditions.

Ghost has done better in worse conditions.

Why was soap not better even after all this?

It drove him up the wall, the way he would wonder who he was, seething and bleeding by the lip. After all that he’s gone though, all that he’s endured, everything.

Why wasn’t be better? Why can he never, ever be better?

They drove his sanity to the ground, spat and kicked at it until there was nothing but a shell of who he once was, and rebuilt it to fit their ideals. Soap couldn’t remember who he was before this, before the experiments. He couldn’t think, do, say anything without being ordered to do so by someone else.

Some days, soap would pull on the thin stripe down his scalp, eager to find some semblance of control over himself, even if it were pain. He would always get punished.

“It was the only thing he can and will recognise him by.”

“Ghost likes that on you.”

It made him hate the Mohawk even more.

He hates Ghost. He was sick of it. He was done waiting. He was done being compared to. He was done with being second to him. He wanted to pull him apart limb from limb, feel the hot blood spill over his teeth and he rips his throat apart, hear the sickening crunch of his neck being twisted, feel the smooth muscle of his skin ripple and tremble in fear of the one that he was supposedly supposed to be stronger than. Soap will never, ever get anything else in his life but the pure, white-hot rage of revenge. He maybe thinks this had lingered on since he was younger, before everything. It felt like an old friend, more so than his other emotions.

His first mission.

He will be better. He will be better. He will be the best. He will be good. This might be his only shot. This is. He will be the best. He will succeed. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail.

He runs into ghost.

At first, he didn’t know who he was. Soap was in a room with a few others, guns up and masks drawn, ready to shoot anyone who tries to come into the room. They had been infiltrated, and soap wasn’t told more than that. He didn’t really need to know more. Shoot the hostiles, keep people safe. Suddenly, bullets start to rain from outside the door, and soon enough, more and more bodies start hitting the floor. Soap does not panic. He hides behind a bookshelf, waiting.

A big ass motherfucker in a skull mask walks into the room and it looks like the shadows are warping to his presence. Soap does not panic. He reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh, flicking it up and holding it ready. He waits patiently until he stalks near the bookshelf, tightening his grip on the knife. They make eye contact, and through the skull mask stained with blood, he can see jet black eyes staring at him in shock. Death incarnate. Soap does not panic.

“Joh-”

Soap quickly slips out of his hiding spot, wrapping a forearm over his neck and attempting to jab the knife right into his socket. He feels a hand grip tightly onto his forearm, and he goes weightless. All the air escapes his lungs as his back slams against the floor, his head spinning. He screams at himself to get up, fight, be better, before he hears the familiar crackle of a radio.

“Ghost, how copy?”

Ghost.

This is Ghost.

Ghost just fucking flipped him.

Soap does not panic. He does not panic but he feels a chill go down his spine as he sees red, scrambling back up onto his feet. The adrenaline starts to kick in now, and he lunges at him, ripping the radio off his vest and slamming it on the floor. He’s not completely sure why he did that, but in all fairness soap feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind, if his captors haven’t done so already. He punches Ghost, wincing slightly as his knuckle hit the cheekbone corner of his stupid skull mask. Soap starts to reach for his gun before Ghost punches back, hitting the mask clean off his face, pushing his back to the floor, one hand on his wrists. Soap starts to get really agitated now. After everything that he’s gone through, he’s still not good enough to beat ghost. He still hasn’t improved. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He makes eye contact with Ghost and is slightly taken aback when he is reflected with an equally crazed stare.

“Johnny.”

What the fuck?

Soap doesn’t say anything. Ghost’s eyes are brown, not black. Why hasn’t be killed him yet? Why isn’t Soap struggling? Ghost has blonde eyelashes.

“Where have you been?” To soap’s absolute horror, those brown eyes start to become glossy. He flinches back as if he’s been hit, and grits his teeth. No shit, he’s been here the whole time, where else is he supposed to be?

Soap surges forward and headbutts him in hopes of him letting go. He doesn’t, and it makes soap all the more dizzier, more frustrated. Why isn’t he fucking dead already? He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his mind right.

“Johnny. Johnny.” Can he just shut the fuck up? It’s getting increasingly hard to concentrate for some reason. Shit. He feels overly exposed without the mask, feeling his body temperature rising steadily.

“Stop calling me that!” he growls out, twisting out of his grip and punching his across the face. The twisted skull mask looks almost comical out of place, but he can still see those eyes. Ghost’s hand comes to cup his cheek, and soap flinches back. His eyes look like Soap just mauled his puppy right in front of him. It makes him freeze in place, head awkwardly hovering between the floor and Ghost.

Images of blood spilling and needles, dirt and coffins fill his head, the sound of a neck snapping, gagging, screams and whimpers. Hands on him, eyes on him, never letting go. Stay. Soap snaps back into place, grabbing the mask and twisting it up, covering Ghost’s eyes. He quickly gets his other hand free and pushes ghost off him, sprinting out of the room.

“Wait-!” Is all he hears before flying down the corridor, back to safety, back to where it’s familiar, where he always is, where he always will be.

Loyalty has always been Soap’s best trait.