#grey cat. any thin g

[foxtriestobiteandmaimandkilland]

Didj you know .... .. cats is like bny but meow mowww eh eh mrowwww knives knives knives knives

[choas232]

Canine Vastaya! G/N! reader x Steb ⊹ ˖ 𓃡⊹ ˖

Summary: Progress day has you and your fellow enforcers relaxing. Slacking, even. Posted deep in the bowels of the festivities, you decide (against your will) that you might join them along with your coworker, Steb.

Reader is a canine Vastaya, and an enforcer. NO MORE SILLY READER. We are serious people now. No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them are used to refer to reader.

CWs: Emetophobia, just one line and not described in depth. Suggestive themes. Most of all, SLACKING ON THE JOB.

Word count: 3.3k

⊹ ˖ 𓃡⊹ ˖

Gold. So much gold. Glimmering and crowding, the city fighting itself so violently that even you, you with your dulled Vastaya vision, can see the gory speculate of the festivities laid bare for all to see. The squawks of children, vendors, golden ticking butterflies, machinery, force your ears flush to your head. The scent of cheap carnival treats masquerading as delicacies assaults your sensitive nose, and try as you might you can’t push down the fur dusting your neck, standing on end.

Overstimulating. Cruel. Beautiful. You lean back on the chair, pressing your coiled tail against the hard surface to hide how it curls close to you.

“Can I leave now?” The man sat in the medical tent behind you slurs out. You do not give him the courtesy of replying, but you turn, catching Steb tucking the equipment back into its rightful places. The man’s not on any of the horrid drugs you see slipping out of Zaun these days, and although his remaining brain cells might be worse for wear, he just needs to sleep it off.

Maddie finishes chewing out his drunkard friends for leaving him passed out, and hastily trots back to the tent, wiping the thin gleam of sweat off of her forehead and quickly adjusting her hat. It’s only a brief lapse before she’s back to Junior officer Nolan, sternly helping him to his feet and carting him out to his waiting, hooting friends.

“Having fun?” She teases, returning back to the tent and slumping down on the chair beside you. You scoff, and turn back to watching the crowds, still spotting out of the corner of your eye how Steb moves to join you.

You try not to look at him, instead focusing on the ginger beside you. This turns out the be almost as much as a mistake as allowing yourself to dwell on your affections for him, because she’s already looking at you.

You see her grey-blue eyes flick to your tail, pressed tightly down between your legs now that your audience is gone, and then back to your ears. “Or maybe, disappointed to be missing out on the fun?” she gestures to the drunkards, stumbling away and your lips pull back in a semi-amused scoff.

“I’m working. This is important.”

“I think our law-mandated breaks are pretty important too.” You give her a scrutinizing look, and she shrugs, still smiling. “You two take a break. I’ll man the station.”

Two. Alone with him? No. You can’t.

“Your hypocrisy is almost as amusing as the fact you’d think I’d even consider taking a break.” You hastily push out, grasping like a drowning cat for a footing.

“Ahhhh. There’s where you’re wrong. I don’t think. I know.” She tilts her head, pointing a freckled finger towards your face.

Dammit. Your ears, perking up of their own accord, press against the hard surface of your enforcer helmet and traitorously peeking out. You move to tuck them away, scowling as you do, and you swear you watch her swallow a snicker.

Telling her was a mistake. Why did you think telling his closest friend you held… affection for him was a good idea? That your helmet is so tight it makes your skull ache in an attempt to hide your perking ears? That you stayed up teaching yourself sign language for him, even though you knew you could never let him know? That you think of him, constantly, each 24 hours, 1440 minutes and 86400 seconds of your days?

Possibly the alcohol in your system and the choking feeling of having pressed the fondness low in your gut, hoping it would rot. It didn’t

Steb watches the exchange without interjectural, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. Calmy, he reaches a hand to brush at his scaled cheek before beginning work on unrolling the sleeves still tucked up from his medical misadventure.

You feel like a teenager, rabid and nervy as you try not to look, but also try not to look like you’re trying not to look.

 “Steb? Thoughts?” Maddie, noticing your gaze, crosses her legs, looking up at him from her place on the chair and folding her arms.

His eyes widen slightly at addressal, and he shallowly nods, tilting his head towards you followed with a questioning look. Do you want to?

Misinterpreting his communication on purpose, she gleefully spins back around to meet your glare. “A yes than. Don’t worry friends. I’ll be just fine all on my lonesome.” She turns to meet the sea of wide brimmed hats, parasols (all the rage, lately,) and bold, bright colours, and you know the conversation is done. She can be frighteningly persistent when she puts her mind to a task, and you know better than to argue and further her teasing.

With a sigh and a quick prayer to the heavens, you turn to make the maker of your troubles, who politely offers you a hand. You take it, and he hauls you off of the chair.

You curse the makers of the leather gloves that adorn his hands.

Great heavens. Where did that come from? Certainly not you.

Trying to accept defeat with grace, you say, “I could use a walk, anyways,” stretching as you do, popping your back and pushing out your arms until your claws scrape the roof of the tent. Steb’s eyes follow, and then snap away as you peer at him. “Any sightseeing you want to get done?” You try to evenly ask him.

He pauses, and then, with a tilt of his head, splays a hand out to instead gesture to you. He’s doting. You’re not to used to it. You didn’t get to where you are with hands holding on to yours, anyways.

“Well. I… I could do with some food.” There’s this stall, far from the main, noisy festivities and food-poisoning littered stalls that sells the sweet fried fruits of your childhood. Crunchy, thick and rolled in flour on the outside, and slick with blue, sweet juices that burst on your tongue when you take a bite. Nice to gnaw on for your teething child’s self, blue staining your lips and splattering across the pressed shirts your parents draped you in for Progress Day.

He nods, and then concernedly taps his helmet with a flicker of his ears. For a moment you don’t understand.

Then you do.

Of course he remembers how you complained about how the enforcers uniform’s headpiece hurts your ears, not built to suit Vastaya. A throw away comment. Of course, he looks at you with those big, gleaming blue eyes, stupidly kind-hearted, and of course your traitorous tail kicks up behind you.

You clamp it between your legs, meeting his eyes defensively and ignoring how they glance down to observe it. From her place, Maddie is grinning. You don’t need to look at her to tell.

You unclasp your helmet, dropping it onto a nearby table, flickering out your strained ears out not unlike your limbs minutes prior.

“Ready to go?” You inquire, and his ears affirmative flicker, nodding goodbye to Maddie as you leave. You do too, but with a different picture painted in your features. She laughs, and then the crowd swallows you whole.

The adults parts around you, one bonus to being in uniform. The children, however, do not follow this courtesy, instead slamming past you after miniature flying ships and bright, pink bubbles that chime when they pop. You have half a mind to reach out and feel the oil and soap slick surface yourself, your glimmering reflections blinking back at you.

Steb observes each passerby, each float and display with keen interest, every now and then glancing back at you. You try to pre-emptively look away when he does. He’s perceptive, you’ve noticed. Alert. Always the first to act, always to first to spot the danger.

You just hope he doesn’t notice how without meaning to you drift closer to him, how now your ears press against your skull with a different emotion than overstimulation.

You have half a mind to mimic his attention, anyways. The arcane, and technology, has been kind to you this year. The exploits of the people of Piltover has been many. You pass a humanoid golden robot, speaking animatedly and advertising the goods of a nearby vendor, and then a functioning, beating silver heart, water pumping through its long metal cords. A man yells over at you, trying to sell you golden jewellery fit for adorning your fangs, stopping when he sees the uniforms.

All the metal, the fabrics, and the ridiculous uniform, the heat cages you in. You push down the urge to stick out your tongue, pant, instead reaching up to massage sweat out of your nape and furred ears.

With a tap on your shoulder that makes you startle, he cuts through the crowd towards a nearby vendor, gesturing for you to wait. You do, and moments later he returns with water.

He makes it so hard not to love him.

Gratefully, you take it, unbottling the cap and taking a great gulp, water dribbling down the sides of your mouth. His sip of his own bottle, cool and elegant, makes you feel slightly ashamed, but he doesn’t seem to care. After refusing to let you pay him back, you continue on your way.

Finally, after what feels like simultaneously too long and too short of a trip, you duck under a banner-stricken archway, and step into the courtyard. Less adorned than the other sections of the festival, but in your humble opinion, kinder on the eyes. Copper, oxidized and gleaming blue, is crafted into flowers. They paste themselves over every inch of the courtyard, forming archways up to a great canopy, light filtering through to softly  illuminate your path, along with a cool breeze.

Small tents, strung with buzzing lights dot the area. Families sit beneath them, enjoying modified ice-cream that never melts, young couples tenderly brush their hands together on benches, and vendors chat.

You approach the stall, the store vendor barely looking up. The little embroidered rhinestones on their face flash as they lazily push a hand towards a sign, reading out the golden font. “30% discount for couples,” before turning back to the puzzle, some kind of contraption with a prize inside, no doubt.

You’re halfway through an awkward, no, that’s not, we’re not— when the scent of the fruits plasters to your nostrils. Delicious, dripping in memories of childhood, of stained fabric and high-pitched giggles.

Dammit.

Steb glances at your wagging tail, crushing any hope of retaining your dignity. He doesn’t look away quickly this time, trailing up slowly to meet your eyes, lips slightly parted. Your body betrays you, as it always does. You just hope he assumes the fruits are the cause.

“We’ll have six, please.” You defeatedly ask, abruptly looking away. Three for you, three for him.

Do you look like a couple? With your matching posture, neat uniforms, completely and utterly in step… you need to be, to do the work you do, and you talk without talking, but it’s largely because he’s mute. So why did they…

He reaches down into his pockets to tug out his wallet. You beat him to it, slamming yours down with a dull thump against the counter. He would scoff, you think, had he been more animation in his features, but the narrow of his eyes makes you well aware of his displeasure. You smile back at him, enjoying the childish feud. Your fangs flash.

Your damned tail is still wagging.

The vendor passes you the long, wooden sticks, three of the delicious treats impaled on them. You take yours and repress the urge to devour it immediately.

“Where to sit…” You mumble, only to spot the tents, shaded from the light and cooled by the breeze. Steb follows you as you fall with a thump into the tangle of blankets. He carefully sits as not to drop the treat, removing his hat and carefully placing it in the mouth of the tent.

You dig in. It’s exactly as what was remembered, filling, the thick fried flour coating contrasting with the blue juices inside. At first, you try to eat neatly, like you see your fellow Enforcer doing, but that falls to pieces the moments you get your fangs on the fruits. You wolf it down, (a pun, from you? More likely than one would think.) with a gusto that scares you, and place the wooden stick down on the mat below you.

You watch as he tilts his head, holding one hand under his mouth to catch stray crumbs and the other holding the stick at an angle so he can sink his pearly whites into the treats. It’s a careful process, one that doesn’t leave any of the mess splattered across his face, nor his shirt.

Conversation isn’t your strong suit. You aren’t literate in waxing poetic, nor charming the teeth off your fellows. The silence you keep with him is comfortable. It houses you in it’s embrace not unlike the breeze gently nipping at your skin.

You hate to say it, but Maddie was right. You’re enjoying this. Perhaps too much. You can hear your disobedient tail gently thumping against the fabric.

God, you’re parched after devouring the treat. Already having finished your own bottle, you eye Steb’s. Would it be weird to ask him to take a sip? Would you wrap your lips around the rim? No, no, but pouring it into your mouth without contact might look childish and ridiculous… perhaps you shouldn’t…

He notices you looking and slides you the bottle. Without thinking, your mind still screaming, you unclasp the top and take a swig. Saliva— his saliva is on the lips of the bottle… lips?

God, are you fifteen? You need to get a hold on yourself.

“You’ve been quiet.” You mutter, without really thinking. His eyes narrow, his head cocking coyly to the left. “I— you know what I mean… you haven’t been saying as much… showing as much?” He humours your attempts at communication with his full attention, turning to meet you as he places the blue-stained wooden stick away.

“…are you nervous?”

He shakes his head.

“Tired?”

Again. A quick shake.

“I’m out of guesses.”

He leans back, a quiet hum coming deep from his throat as he does. “Calm?” you don’t know why you sound as disbelieving as you do. A shallow nod, with a wave of his hand this time, towards your loose posture, relaxed, perked up ears and gently wagging tail. You’re calm too, you suppose.

Then, with a pause, he reaches up to brush his fingers to his cheek. “Hmm?” You mirror him, pressing yours to your own face. Your fingers come off blue.

He dips his fingers into his breast pocket, pulling out that neat, unstained handkerchief. Does he buy them in bulk? Does he clean them? A mystery you don’t want to uncover. He hands it to you, and you thank him quietly. He watches you as you dab the corners of your face, for a moment, before he repoints, gesturing for you to move to the left. You miss it again, before he reaches out, not bothering to take the handkerchief from you.

With the rest of his hand braced across your jaw, he stretches out a thumb to push, hard, down, wiping the fleck off juice off.

When he pulls away, you see blue on his finger.

Nonchalantly, he pops his thumb in his mouth, gently tugging the juice off with more teeth than tongue, before his hand moves to rest beside him once again.

You gape. You gape some more. Does he know what he does to you? Reduces you, you, studious and hardworking, you, into a mess. A stuttering, tail-wagging, blushing mess. You want to strangle him. You want to kiss him. He glances back at you, and you try to casually resume what you were doing before— what was that again?— your senses kicking into overdrive.

“Did you enjoy the uhm, snack?”

He nods, relaxedly. You feel, and retain, the horrible feeling you are being teased.

“…Yeah. Me too.” You swallow, and than talk, maybe to fill the once comfortable silence, wrangle it into submission. “I used to come here with my parents. When I was younger. They used to dress me up— in shirts they knew would be ruined by the grime I would acquire playing carnival games. I…” You don’t know where you’re going with this. Ceasing your rambling, you knead fabric in your hands. “Any happy memories of Progress Day?”

He nods. For a lapse too long to be natural, he pauses, almost in thought, and then with his thumb and pinkie fingers extended and his three middle fingers curled into his hands, he hurriedly brings his arms down. ‘Now.’ ‘Today.’

Sign language.

“I’m glad.” You quickly mutter, before your running mind can outpace your voice. Your face is treacherously flushing.

You realize too late he doesn’t know you’ve been teaching yourself sign language.

That him using it makes little sense— and frozen in the headlights, you watch as his face changes. He peers at you. He peers at you some more, and then his hands are moving, quickly. You catch pieces, something— M-A— something—I-E —Tell — something—

Oh. Oh no.

“Maddie? Maddie told you what, exactly?”

This is the situation of your nightmares. Telling her was a mistake. A drunk mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your life, your pitiful life. Scared to watch his face but fearful looking away will make you look guilty— can you deny this? Laugh it off?— you hover somewhere between letting your racing thoughts overwhelm you and trying to breathe, dammit.

Slowly now, he pats his fingers to his outspread palm, before tapping his forehead.

‘Learn.’

He points to his moving hands

Learn… sign language….

Oh. Thank the lords.

She told him you learnt sign language for him.

Like that’s any less of a confession of love.

He’s still looking at you. Waiting for an explanation, maybe. God, you hate feeling like this— completely at his mercy.

“I. Ah.” Is it just you, or is he moving closer? It’s messing with your head, anyways, how close he suddenly feels to be. Your heart rattles around your ribcage. “I wanted to. For you.”

For you? You’re an idiot—

He kisses you.

You taste sweetness, sugary and blue on his lips. They’re softer than you thought they would be. He kisses as earnestly as expected, though. Just once, very chaste, pulling back to gingerly watch your expression.

That doesn’t last long before you go in for seconds. Or maybe he kisses you again. The details are lost in the hand you thread into his hair— his hair gel slick hair.

His hands blindly clutch for the curtains of the tent, yanking them shut with force. Your tail thumps so loudly against the ground you barely hear the little noises you make, barely feel his hands, steadying themselves on your sides. You kiss him again. And again. You gorge yourself on it— like the hungry wolf you are. He is so soft, and you are starving.

Piltover’s finest. Piltover’s finest. You’re Piltover’s finest. Handpicked, educated and dressed in taxpayer funded uniforms. You’re golden, machine-made butterflies, you’re store vendors, you can’t think, you’re ripe and plump for the picking, and you’re hating these stupid uniforms, these wretched uniforms, so tough to unbutton as they are.

It’s just when he threads his tongue over your pointed teeth, only when you move your fingers to his shoulders, and then down, when somebody staggers over drunkenly, throwing up loudly in a nearby bush.

With a sigh, he detaches (you do not miss the string of blue-stained saliva that connects you for a brief moment), rising to his feet and feeling for his helmet.

No rest for the wicked, you suppose.

He gives you a long look as he tugs the tent door open, tapping his finger against his palm and then twisting his hand down.

‘Later?’

Your tail thumps louder than you thought it could.

⊹ ˖ 𓃡⊹ ˖

Notes: Thank you to @spac3-shark for suggesting this sihiwnsowd. If i ever revisit this idea, I might try feline reader. Cat x fish? You get what I’m putting down? We’ve done yapping, silly reader, and stoic reader…. What next. If you have any ideas, please message me, drop an ask, anything!!! :)

As a side note, You curse the makers of the leather gloves that adorn his hands.

Great heavens. Where did that come from? Certainly not you.

Reader: he should take off his gloves…

Reader: WHO SAID THAT.

SIDE SIDE NOTE: I swear there will be more kissing and less yearning next time!! you have my word.

[xxxcany0us33m3xxx]

Warrior Cats OC Maker :3

Get a dice ready! You can use any old D6 dice or one online! I'll say the category, and then whichever number on the dice you roll, look at the number that corresponds! Rank: 1. Warrior 2. Medicine Cat 3. Leader 4. Deputy 5. Elder 6. Mediator If your name starts with A-G, your OC is more lean and thin. If your name starts with H-N, your OC is more short and stocky. If your name starts with O-T, your OC is more big and buff. If your name starts with U-Z, your OC is more toned and average. Base Pelt Color: 1. Pale Ginger 2. Black 3. Pale Grey 4. Dark Grey 5. White 6. Yellowish Brown Markings: 1. Spots 2. Striped Spots / Tabby Spots 3. Stripes 4. One Single Stripe 5. Different colored paws or tail tip 6. Heart on their chest Gender: Make your OC the same gender as you. Mate: 1. No mate! 2. Tom from within the clan. 3. She-Cat from within the clan. 4. A kittypet! 5. A tom from across the borders... 6. A she-cat from across the borders... Kits: 1. No kits! 2. 1 tom-kit. 3. 2 she-kits. 4. 2 tom-kits and 1 she-kit. 5. 4 tom-kits 6. 6 she-kits Personality: 1. Ambitious 2. Fierce 3. Insecure 4. Playful 5. Responsible 6. Thoughtful Reblog this with your silly designs! :3

[edupunkn00b]

Ours, Ch. 3: Your New Seasons

Prev - Your New Seasons - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Roman meets Ire and learns more about the Hunters. WC: 2279 - Rated: G - CW: discussions of thrall and vampires, injection - A day late but here! Day 3 of @royalityweek, Flowers and Seasons -

The inky grey sky shifted to a thin, pale pink as they made their way downtown. Roman still held the Hunter’s hand, fingers comfortably locked together as Pathos matched his pace. He moved with a confident grace, not delicate and light on his feet like some a dancer or a cat. More like a big draft horse or a…

“Is it true?” Roman whispered, thumb still absently stroking the soft fur on the back of Pathos’ hand. It had receded somewhat, but was still thicker than most men’s. And impossible for Roman to ignore any longer, no matter how soothing it was to touch.

Pathos smiled gently as they walked, waiting for his question. The tiny twitches in his gaze as they crossed streets and passed alleyways, told Roman that, despite the attention he gave him, the Hunter was still vigilant for dangers.

Roman broke eye contact. “Are some Hunters really werewolves?”

“Hmmm…” Pathos hummed, low and gravelly, almost a growl. No—a rumble. When his old dog had pups she used to do that, a quiet sound at the back of her throat when her pups drank. Roman should be terrified but he found himself moving closer. “Werewolves are impervious to a vampire’s thrall,” he said instead of answering directly. “The first Hunters in the Carpethian Guild were all fully human…” He shook his head, sunny features drawn tight. “Dracula turned them into his pets and used them for his pleasure.” He met Roman’s eyes. “Dracula and his spawn.”

Ice crackled in his veins. “The one who turned my brother?”

Pathos nodded and squeezed his hand as they walked. “It’s safer this way, both for the Hunters and for the people we’re protecting from those monsters.”

“But aren’t—I—” Roman looked away, clamping his mouth shut. Are you about to call him a monster to his face?

Instead of showing anger, Pathos smiled and stopped. Clasping Roman’s hand between both of his own, he hummed thoughtfully. “The earliest Wolves in the Hunter’s Guild couldn’t control their transitions. It’s true. They required… handlers.” 

His smile grew and he turned his hand, backside up. When Roman looked, the hair there grew thicker, right before his eyes. “We’ve developed new hybrids with infinitely more control. It takes a little practice, but…” 

Pathos’ voice had changed, deeper, with a wet rasp to it. Roman forced his eyes up and shuddered. The Hunter’s face had changed, his blond curls spreading down his forehead and along his cheekbones and over his neck. Soft fur tufted up at his collar and Roman swore he was taller, his overcoat tighter at the shoulders.

Sharp teeth glistened in his mouth, grown in both size and number. In fact his entire jaw had elongated. Not entirely wolfish. But not entirely human, either.

But his eyes… his eyes had kept their soft blue shimmer. And he smiled down at Roman. “I am a better Hunter this way. A better protector,” he murmured. The Hunter’s low, rumbly voice melted away the fear growing in Roman’s chest. “Can you trust me like this?”

“Yes,” Roman said immediately, surprising himself. “I—I don’t know how, but…” He took a deep breath, watching Pathos’ eyes soften even further. It was then he realized the Hunter had been afraid. Afraid he’d lost his trust? Roman smiled. “Yes, I trust you.” Pathos nodded and, still smiling, shifted back. Not all the way, but enough that his teeth were left looking mostly human, and his claws retracted, leaving blunt, plain nails. Roman played at the edges of his fuzzy hand.

“You have good instincts. I pledged to protect you, Roman, and I meant it. Wolves are fierce fighters. We are also fiercely loyal.” He turned and they resumed their walk. “Just as you were loyal to your brother.”

Pathos’ use of the past tense sat heavy in his stomach, but Roman nodded. “I can’t let that bloodsucker hurt anyone else. I won't.”

“Neither will I.”

~

They walked in near silence for several more blocks. Roman’s feet grew heavier with each step, his brother’s steel-toed Docs dragging against the dirty concrete sidewalk. Re would kill him for borrowing them without asking. Each night Roman had laced them up it was a silent plea to the universe that he’d find him so his brother could chew him out for scuffing the edges of his favorite boots.

He shivered, his own mental mental image of his brother chewing him was suddenly way too… real.

“We’re nearly there, Roman,” Pathos said as he drew closer. He squeezed his hand, not-so subtly checking his nail beds and flashing a pointed look at his eyes. “Do you see the brownstone up there by the dogwood trees?”

The corners of Pathos' lips quirked and Roman tilted his head as he looked back at the Hunter. “Dogwood?”

Pathos grinned, his entire face blooming with joy. “Mm-hm,” he hummed, laughter buzzing just beneath his words. “Fitting for our headquarters, don’t you think?”

It was probably little more than delirium, but a laugh bubbled up from Roman’s chest and he shook his head. “I figured puns like that would make you barking mad.”

Armed to the teeth—and with the inch-long canines to prove it—Pathos grinned impossibly wide, a delighted giggle bursting out from his dangerous looking mouth. “Oh, I’m never one to raise my hackles at a good pun!”

“I am,” a low voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. Roman’s head jerked up. A tall man with long, bright carrot-colored hair plaited down the center of his back glared at him.

Pathos stepped closer, one hand sliding up to Roman’s shoulder. “Ire, I’d like you to meet my new friend.” He raised both eyebrows at him and Roman suddenly recalled Pathos’ promise to protect his name.

Nodding to Ire, he smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Roman.”

Ire looked unimpressed. “You said you were hunting the spawn, not picking up some random human.”

“Now, Kiddo, be nice.” Pathos led him up the stairs as though the 6 foot… 6? 7 inch tall man was a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “The new spawn was Roman’s brother.”

Embers smoldered in Roman’s gut and he forced his jaw to unclench, hoping to hide the rage simmering just within his control. Ire still caught it.

“This is not a social call, then?”

Pathos shook his head and Ire looked between them for a long moment before suddenly smiling at Roman, canines poking into his bottom lip. He offered his hand and hummed in approval when Roman gripped it with equal fervor. “Welcome, then.”

~

While Ire had been gruff, even angry out on the porch, he softened once the door closed, drawing Pathos close and rubbing the side of his head against him. “I’m relieved you’re home safe, Pat,” he murmured, nearly too quiet for Roman to hear. 

Pathos made that same little rumble, touching Ire back. Afraid of intruding in their intimate moment, Roman looked away, eyes tracing the little vestibule where they stood. A small wooden shoe rack sat in the corner and Roman crouched to unlace his—Remus’—boots and set them side by side on the rack.

“Thank you, Roman,” Ire said, dark brown, almost black eyes trained on him. He frowned then, and Roman stiffened, the disappointment in Ire’s eyes sending an almost physical ache through his bones.

Pathos inhaled deeply next to him and, like he had outside the bloodsuckers’ den, Roman had the sense the Hunter was… smelling him. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he murmured after a moment and reached for his hand. “Well, not to us.”

Roman felt foolish but he was too tired to keep up a confident front. He simply looked to each of them and waited for these new… friends? Teachers? The sparks zinging across his skin each time Pathos touched him fit neither of those roles.

The two Hunters exchanged a look, elastic expressions holding an entire conversation without words. In the end, Pathos smiled and nodded, then turned to Roman. “Would you join us for some tea and something light to eat?” He glanced again at Ire, then added. “You have some decisions to make and…”

“What…” Roman shrank back, regretting his now bare feet. And the way Ire and Pathos stood between him and the front door. “What kind of decisions?”

Ire smiled and bowed his head. “If you’ll excuse me. This might be an easier conversation one-on-one.” Pathos nodded and moved to Roman’s side as Ire stepped down the hall. As though they'd heard his thoughts, both Hunters had spread out, leaving him a clear path to the exit. Ire waved. “I’ll be back with the tea.”

“Let’s go sit down in the den.” Pathos took his hand, the barest hint of his wolfish fur sprinkled over his knuckles and spilling up the back of his hand to his arm. Stroking his thumb over Pathos’ fuzzy skin, Roman realized he missed it.

Since when was he comfortable with werewolves?

Apparently, ever since he found out a bloodsucker murdered his brother.

Pathos led him to a dim, comfortably warm room at other end of the hall. An old grandfather clock, the real old fashioned kind with weights and a pendulum, ticked steadily in the corner, and an electric fountain bubbled at the opposite wall. The sun had risen during their walk and golden light filtered through the gossamer curtains adorning the big, floor-to-ceiling picture window.

The centerpiece of the room, though, was a giant circle of brightly colored pillows and cushions and blankets. A few small tables were scattered around, some with roses and wildflowers, others with coasters, ready to hold a drink. Pathos sat down near the middle of the cushions and tugged gently on his hand, helping him settle on a soft pile of pillows next to him.

Roman sank down into the fluff, a low sigh escaping his lips. The fatigue he’d been pushing away since he’d gotten Re’s message pulled him down to the floor and it took a moment for him to notice the blanket Pathos draped over his shoulders. And that lovely quiet rumble from the back of his throat.

But he couldn’t relax completely. He squeezed Pathos’ hand and met his eyes. “You said I hadn’t done anything wrong to you or to Ire…” The Hunter nodded, still smiling. “Who did I wrong? Re?”

“Oh, Roman, no…” His face fell and he scooted closer, arms wrapped around him. “No, you’ve wronged yourself. You look exhausted… and…” A hint of a smile tugged up one corner of his mouth as he tapped his ear. “Even without the fur, I’ve got the wolves’ senses. I’ve been listening to your stomach growl for the past hour or so.”

“Oh,” Roman said, looking down at his hands. He’d assumed his decision would be about what amends he would make to whomever he’d wronged. “So what do I need to decide?”

“If you really want to join us,” Pathos said immediately. “Now that you know…”

Roman traced lines over the back of Pathos’ hand. “Ire is a werewolf, too, isn’t he?”

“All Hunters are now.”

“So… H—how does it work?” Roman squirmed in his seat, fear dueling with the insistence that Pathos would protect him even from himself. “Do you… bite… me?”

“Roman, of course not!” Pathos almost laughed. He reached for Roman’s face, shaking his head gently. “No, no we are not the animals the bloodsuckers are. No… a long time ago, that was the only way. We’ve made advances since then. You get an injection. It…” He swallowed but kept his gaze. “It is painful for the first couple of days,” he admitted. “But that’s why you have your pack to care for you.”

“My pack?” Re had been the closest thing he had to a pack. And now he was gone. “I…" Roman's throat closed and he pushed out the rest of his words. "I don’t have one.”

“Of course you do,” Pathos smiled and rubbed the side of his head against his temple. “Ire and I are your pack now. If you want us.”

“You don’t have to decide immediately,” Ire said from the doorway. “We’ll have some time before…” He drew closer and handed each of them a tea. It was hot and sweet and eased the buzzing in Roman’s head.

Pathos nodded. “It's still a few days the new spawn will need to feed.”

Ire sipped his own cup. “Unless V finally puts his pet out of its misery and lets his spawn drain it.”

“Pet?” Roman asked. He was now leaning against Pathos�� shoulder, but the Hunter didn’t seem to mind. And frankly, he was too tired to sit up on his own. “You said that before about the… the humans at the bar.”

Pathos opened his mouth, but then closed it, sharp teeth digging into his lip. Ire answered instead. “The bloodsuckers need it to survive. But… when they leave enough in their victims that they’re still alive a feeding, well… a lot of people get addicted. Not just from the thrall, but the feeding itself.”

“And… V… the one who killed Re, he… he keeps one of these humans around?”

“For years,” Pathos’ lips curled in disgust. “And if… when we finally stake V, his pet will be released from his hold. V will be vulnerable after spawning.”

Ire nodded. “And his attention will be split. That’s when we’ll strike.”

“I want to help,” Roman sat up straighter. “Please?” He met each of their eyes, shoving down his fatigue, his grief, his weakness. He could be strong, he could help them. Pathos smiled, excited. Proud, even. Ire… Ire was harder to read, but he slid closer and rubbed their heads together with a tiny rumble.

“I’ll get the serum.”

~

Minutes later, Roman’s sleeve was pushed up and he lay curled in Pathos’ lap in the center of the den. “Are you ready?” he whispered in Roman’s ear.

“I’m ready,” he said aloud. He hardly noticed the prick of the needle, but the serum burned as it spread through his veins. He shuddered, fingers tangling in Pathos' sleeves.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Pathos murmured. Roman realized he'd begun to whine. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Cold followed the burn and Roman’s eyelids grew heavy. “It’s not so bad now,” he mumbled.

Pathos tightened the blankets around him and settled him close to his chest. Eyes closed, Roman felt Pathos reach for Ire’s hand. “We’ll be right here with you through it all, little pup,” Ire murmured.

Then the room went black.

[felswritingfire]

April Brain Rot #12

Prompts:

53. Marble

Riddle Rosehearts x Reader

Summery: You met a cursed Riddle Rosehearts when you were 6- you've been sneaking out to meet him ever since. Now you're an adult and determined to break his curse and find his friends despite the stress of home.

TW: Implied Abusive relationship (Mother/child)

Word Count: 1,589

A note from Fel: If y'all do not ask me for a continuation of this- my girlfriend will- that is not a threat that is a promise.

“What have I told you about following rules?” You wince at the tone of his voice. Riddle had always been a stickler for rules- ever since you first met him.

You were a child then, running away from your shrieking mother- raging about some sort of vase that you accidently bumped into and broke- and hiding in the forest just beyond your backyard. You had tripped, your palms colliding with the twigs and stones and your chin following afterwards. You lay there for a few moments, your small body heaving with each shaky breath you suck in. You whimpered at the stones digging into the open scrapes on your palms as you pushed yourself up. You hiccuped, sitting up and looked around. The sun was setting, bathing everything in an orange glow. The shadows of the trees were an inky black and the cries and creaks of the forest seemed to be amplified and you sniffled, standing up and looking behind you. You didn’t know where you were, but you didn’t want to go home. You didn’t want to hear your mother scream again.

You hiccuped again, waddling further into the forest on your shaky legs.

By the time that the sun had dipped below the mountains and the night sky was coming to eat the rest of the day away, you had stumbled onto an old mansion’s garden. You had been awed by the vines that were creeping over the crumbling walls and the black gates that barely hung to their hinges. You squeezed through the gates to see a statue standing in the middle of the overgrown garden of flowers.

It was a boy: short in stature despite the heels he wore, his eyes looking down forlornly at the rose in his hand and his lips were pulled into a thin line. You stared up at him, eyes sparkling as you pressed your hands against the smooth marble of the statue.

You gasped when the surface bagan to crack, bits falling off as the statue began to move and breath. A gasp escapes him as a sheet of marble falls from his face and steel grey eyes and red strands fall from their previous position. He stumbled forward and you held out your hands like you were going to catch him-

“(Y/N)!”

You wince again, being pulled out of your musings of the past by a pink faced Riddle. “Yes, yes- I know. I’m sorry.” You pick at the grass despite that being the rule you broke not too long ago.

He folds his arms, squinting at you. His frown twitches into something more concerned the longer he looks at you. He finally sighs and moves to sit next to you on the dried up fountain. “Are you alright? You-” he brushes his fingers under your puffy eyes- “have bags. They’re very dark, you know?”

“Really?” You rub at your face, feeling sheepish suddenly. “I thought I covered them up enough. Guess not, huh?”

He pouts.

“I’m fine, really, Riddle.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone stern and unwavering.

“Ah…” a breathless giggle leaves you, “you know me too well, don’t you.”

“Of course! I’ve known you since you were 6 after all.” He’s smug as he crosses his arms.

“Yeah. I’m old compared to back then, eh?”

“And you’ve become a wonderful adult.”

You hum and look down at your hands, your fingers intertwined with each other, suddenly feeling exhausted.

Riddle’s eyebrows crease and his frown grows bigger. He places a hand on your back, gently rubbing circles against your shoulder blade. “What’s wrong?”

You look up at him, your eyelids feeling heavy. “My mom… She… Ah, Riddle- I don’t know what to do anymore.” You whisper. “Everything I do isn’t good enough and she always pulls the ‘I’m sick so I can be completely awful about everything.’” Your sight began to turn glassy. “And there’s-” you suck in a deep breath trying not to cry- “there’s no one else I can rely on to help take care of her. And she’s started getting more and more angry about me leaving at night-”

“Does that mean you’ll stop seeing me?” Riddle’s voice is quiet as he asks you that.

You look up at him, shaking your head. “No! No- never. I still have to break your curse and find your friend.”

He smiles almost bitterly. “I’m not sure how we’re going to do that, Rose Bud. I’m sure that Trey and Che’nya are long gone… and my curse…” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know where to start.”

He had told you about Trey and Che’nya multiple times- each time he looked more and more wistful and lonely. They had been his best friends, from what he told you. “We’ll figure it out! You mentioned that they were both there when you were cursed right? So maybe they were cursed too.”

He grimaces. “I hope not. It’s simply awful.” Suddenly his eyes droop. “Why would they leave me though?”

You wrap your arms around him, feeling his face heat up against your skin as you press your cheek against his. “I’m sure they didn’t know. I wouldn’t expect my friends to be a living statue.”

“I wasn’t.”

You blink, pulling away from him yet you still kept your arms around him. “Hm?”

“I wasn’t a living statue until you touched me.”

You hummed, pressing your face against his again. You felt your head swim with thoughts. From your mother to how you were going to help Riddle. Even the strange looking cat that hung around the bakery you loved so much. A thought began to bloom in your mind: maybe… maybe-

“Hey, Riddle.”

“Hm?”

You look at him out the corner of your eye. He was leaning against you, holding your hand. You feel your heart beat faster as you lick your lips before you begin: “you know all those fairytales? The ones where… where true love's kiss breaks the curse?”

Riddle’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes?”

“Do…” You gulp. “Do you want to try it?”

A strangled noise leaves him as he jerks himself away from you. “What?”

“I mean-” you wave your hands around, a blush climbing up your neck and cheeks- “it’s the one thing we haven’t tried!”

He clears his throat, smoothing down the front of his vest, glancing at everything that wasn’t you. “I- I well yes- but-” he looks at you, his face the picture of flustered. “How do you know I love you?”

“You do, don’t you?” Your voice was high pitched and panicked.

“I- I- of course I do! Do you?”

“Yes! Of course!”

“G-good!”

“Let’s- I- um-” you snapped your mouth shut, staring hard at him with a determined expression and a red face. Your hands shoot out grabbing his cheeks and dragging him to you, pressing your lips against his. You two stay like that, not moving, barely breathing.

You’re both red faced by the time you finally pull away from each other. You feel yourself practically vibrating. And you assume Riddle is too by the way his hand trembles in yours. “I- I-” you try to steady your shaking voice, “Do you feel any different?”

His bottom lip trembles as he closes his eyes. His brows furrow and he frowns. “No. No, I don’t.”

You frown too. “Oh.”

“B-but maybe we- we have to do it again?”

Your eyes widen and you gawk at him before nodding feeling ecstatic. “Ok.”

By the time you two had stopped pressing soft kisses against each other- both of your lips were tender and your cheeks felt like they were stained a permanent red. Your breaths intermingle as you press your foreheads against each other. You stare into Riddle’s eyes, feeling yourself drown in the depths of his grey eyes and the way that the morning light put gold flecks in his-

You gasped. “Riddle!”

He lets out a dazed noise, a wobbly smile on his red lips.

“Riddle! Riddle! It’s- it’s morning!”

You almost burst out at Riddle’s face: he looked like he just got hit over the head with a metal bat. He looks at the sun and immediately recoils with a hiss. “It- the- the sun!” He tries to look at it again and squeezes his eyes shut with another hiss. “It burns!”

“Don’t look at the sun, silly!”

His pained hisses bleeds into a giddy laughter. “It’s the sun, Rose Bud! The sun!” He pulls you up and traps you into a hug, spinning you around with him.

You shriek with laughter. “It is! It is!”

“We- I- we have to have a talk with your mother!” Riddle suddenly turned serious. “I need to have a word with her. I need to make clear to her how she should be treating you! There are rules that my mother beat into me at a young age and obviously she isn’t understanding them-”

“Before that!” You start to tug him out of the woods. “I need to go and take you to that bakery! The one with the weird cat- I think his name is Alchemy, or something- and Mr. Clover! I always get you your tarts from there-”

“Wait- Alchemy? Clover?”

You nod, looking confused. “Have I never told you their names?”

He lets out another laugh. “Let’s go, Rose Bud!”

You feel the giddy emotions spread through you, never having seen him this excited in your life. You’ll deal with your mother later, right now you and Riddle were going to drink in the sun.

<The Next Chosen Character>

Thank you for reading!

[lostinfic]

prompt 20, any rating, tenrose!

Ten x Rose; rated G; autumn fluff and mutual pining, not an AU!

previous prompts!

//

The Doctor opened the TARDIS doors with a grin and a flourish.

“New Amsterdam! Established by the Dutch West India Company in 1624.”

Rose tried not to laugh. “Are you sure this isn’t New new new new new new new Amsterdam?”

The Doctor peered outside. The narrow brown houses with decorative gables lining the river looked old, but the boats passing by were decidedly modern.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah. Just Amsterdam, then.”

“It’s new to me,” she said, both to make the Doctor feel better about landing in the wrong place and because she had always wanted to visit the Netherlands. She wondered sometimes if the TARDIS had access to her mental bucket list.

Rose traded her rough woolen dress and white cap for denim dungarees and a striped, long-sleeve, t-shirt.

It was a beautiful autumn day, just on the right side of cool. A breeze stirred the branches of leafy elms and poplars, dotting the water with golden leaves.

The Doctor and Rose rented bikes and decided to follow the Amstel River. It was a nice change of pace, to pedal rather than run.

There, amongst tourists and commuters, amongst ringing bells and chatter, Rose imagined herself and the Doctor going about their daily lives in Amsterdam. Riding their bikes to work, stopping for Stroopwafel and produce in Albert Cuyp market, perhaps that café with the second-hand English bookstore would be their favourite. She imagined a tiny flat looking over the canals, notebooks piled on the windowsill, a grey cat lounging on them, the scent of geranium drifting in from the flower boxes.

She’d been having these kind of thoughts more and more since the Doctor had regenerated. At first, she thought they were daydreams, but they had an odd déjà vu quality. She disliked thinking of them as visions, but that’s the best word she could come up with. Was it a coincidence they started after she’d absorbed the heart of the TARDIS?

“Rose?”

The Doctor’s forehead was wrinkled with worry. She’d lost track of where they were— they’d stopped on a bridge. A glass-roofed cruise boat glided underneath.

She had yet to tell the Doctor about her visions. She feared his reaction if he thought she longed for a banal, domestic life with him.

“I thought I saw something in the water,” she lied.

“Oh, not again,” the Doctor said.

“What?”

He leaned over the railing, sonic screwdriver pointed toward the canal.

“Last time I was here, there were spaceships in Rembrandt’s paintings, and we had to pop back to the 17th century. Let me tell you, Rembrandt may be a master painter, but he’s not a master warrior. He was useless. We fought off the Nix all on our own.”

“We? You and Sarah Jane?” she asked.

“Tegan and Nyssa,” he said offhandedly, still observing the canal. Then, remembering his resolution to be more forthcoming about his past, “I’ll tell you about them later. I will. What did it look like, the thing you saw in the water?”

“You know, I think it was just a duck. My brain is too used to seeing weird stuff when I’m with you.”

He chuckled.

“Well, if you see any goblin-like creatures coming out of the water, let me know, the Nix might be at it again.”

“Will do.” She smiled.

The Doctor took Rose’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. For a moment he looked like he was going to say something important, and an image of him in a blue suit flashed through her mind.

“I think Amstelpark is that way,” was all he said.

In the park, the cycling pace was slower. They followed the path parallel to the river. Families enjoyed the playground and mini-golf and groups of students relaxed in the café near the pond. But as they traveled southward, the crowd thinned and the landscape turned bucolic. Tall grass shimmered with slanted autumn light, insects buzzed in wildflowers, and an old-fashioned windmill turned lazily.

The Doctor and Rose stopped and sat on the riverbank. From his trans-dimensional pockets, he pulled a bottle of water for her. A light mist skated above the water, lending the landscape a hazy quality reminiscent of Rembrandt’s art.

The last time they’d lain in the grass was on New Earth, bubbling with nervousness and getting reacquainted. And just like then, they were babbling and joking, reminiscing, but with a level of comfort they didn’t have on New Earth. And yet, they were still holding back with half-finished sentences, furtive glances and hesitant touches. When he reclined fully, arms behind his head, the desire to cuddle up to him and lay her head on his chest was so strong, she had to pinch herself to a bruise. And Rose was relieved when a goblin-like creature emerged from the river.

—

The grey cat isn’t theirs, but their neighbour’s. His name is Felix, and he has quite the talent for walking the ledge between open windows and making himself at home in everybody’s flat.

Those notebooks are filled with information about a mysterious corporation they are chasing around the globe. For now, the Doctor works at the science museum while Rose investigates underground tunnels with her team.

Life with her one-hearted Doctor is far from banal, but there are days when Rose plants geranium in flower boxes, mornings when they sit for hours in their friend Joan’s café. And there are sunny fall afternoons when they lounge in Amstelpark, eating freshly-baked Stroopwafel, crispy and oozing caramel.

A drop lands on the Doctor’s chin, and Rose wipes it off with her thumb, and he kisses her, caramel-sweet. It’s so easy, so natural.

“Do you remember when we fought the Nix here,” he says.

“I remember the look on the emperor’s face when he realized you were the same man who’d once defeated him.”

They mimic the emperor’s expression of surprise and frustration-- though it’s hard to replicate with only two eyes-- and burst out laughing.

Rose thinks she’ll plant tulip bulbs in the flower boxes. In the spring, they’ll bloom. She’ll open the windows and their fragrance will waft in, melting snow will drip from the roof, and Felix will visit, and they will cuddle up in bed, again and again. Such is life when time always flows forward, linear, but ever changing through the seasons, like the canals of Amsterdam.

[lunaticus-platina]

Word count: 734

Tw: Blood, Eye Trauma, Gunshot, Murder, Major character death

Pairing: Travis Hackett x Oc (BK)

One of many troubling nights of Travis Hackett.

Blood poured from the now destroyed eye. The gun slipped out of Travis' unsteady hands, it's weight suddenly unbearable, the clattering sound against the hard wooden floor as loud as the clap of thunder.

Slowly, a hand rose to cover the bloodied socket which, only a few days ago, held such a bright gaze that was filled with so much mirth. The other unblinking grey bored into Travis' own shaking orbs, the dull color of it paralyzing him on the spot.

"You really are your parents' son."

The sheriff took a few stumbling steps back at the sentence, each word like bullets, piercing between his ribs unlike any pain he'd gone through. The remaining eye never lost its mark, trained on him like the scope of a rifle, sizing up its prey as the big cats do in the wild.

"Well? Finish the job. Pick up the gun."

Only shaky breaths filled the vacuum of silence. It took Travis a few seconds to realize the panting was his own, the other man static as death. Thin rivers of blood continued to run down the side of BK's face, between the fingers, over the back of his hand, all the way down to the elbow. The hand didn't seem to do much to stop the bleeding, it was more that he was shielding the wound in pain.

In betrayal.

"Either you take me out now, or I'll take your entire family down with me." There was no emotion in the way he uttered it. "That, I guarantee you."

The intensity of the wounded man's gaze didn't subside, even at the quickly forming wetness in the older man's eyes. If anything, the vacant look only grew harder, the icy glare looking more inanimate every second.

"Pick up the goddamn gun, sheriff. Shot's fired, what's one more blow? Kill me or die."

The next few moments passed by in slow motion. When BK lunged at him, his instinct swiped the gun, and his training took aim, muscle memory pulling the trigger. He didn't even realize how he discarded his weapon once more when the other collapsed into his arms.

"I- I-" blood coated his hand when he pressed it over the abdomen. No, it was bleeding too fast, too much, he already lost too much blood, this is-

"56 and quicker than a hare with its tail on fire. Goddamn sir, that's humbling."

Travis stared at the feeble grin. The hand not covering the ruined eye came up to stroke his cheek, the wetness suddenly noticeable, and Travis realized he was crying.

"They'll be fine. At least you have that. Family's everything to you, I know."

The first sob escaped through the clenched teeth.

"I know, Travis." He breathed out, rising and falling of the chest getting shorter with each puff. "I know you can't help it......"

The bloodied hand was lifted from the ruined side of the face, and instead curled itself around the desperate hand that pressed over the hole which just refused to stop leaking red all over.

"I love you."

"I....Bren, I'm so-"

"I love you."

He only leaned his head against Travis' chest. Eyelids too heavy to keep them open.

"Don't miss me too much, yeah?"

Then, silence.

The body stilled once again. Travis held on.

And continued to hold on.

......

He woke up with a strangled cry.

The same banal ceiling of his bedroom was barely visible with all the tears in his eyes.

He didn't even think to check the time, he had to know, he had to know, and so, with a phone creaking under the weight of his grip, he called the number.

The tone went on for a few seconds. For Travis it felt like hours.

"Are you seriously still awake this late at night, sheriff?"

A shuddering sigh was all he could manage.

"Sir?"

He bit down on his lip, trying to muffle the agonized cry that threatened to burst out at any second.

"...........Travis?"

Another beat of silence.

"...Where are you."

He couldn't answer. His throat closed up. He only squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get his breathing under control.

"Your place?"

This time he let out a grunt. It was deep and gravely, his muscles constricting painfully from a simple act of forcing the air out of the lungs.

"I'm coming. Answer the door when I get there."

The line went dead.

[kythed]

synopsis: it’s a tragic case of boy meets girl, boy likes girl, girl has a boyfriend. [un]luckily for you, semi doesn’t play by the rules... and you don’t really want him to.

tagged: semi eita x reader, fluff, mediocre writing.

commitment level: 2,583 words.

table of contents | next chapter >>

They say young love is a rite of passage. They say it’s fresh and light, it’s wading in the shallows of a swiftly flowing river and letting the deliciously frigid water take you wherever it flows. They say young love comes easily. 

But they don’t tell you youth is not a remedy for pain. They don’t tell you the cold of that water burns your skin, too — it leaves your fingertips numb and kisses your palms an angry red. They say “it’s just puppy love,” but they don’t tell you puppies grow into wolves. 

+

You’re eighteen when you first meet Semi Eita, and he’s twenty-two. It’s not a highly significant age gap, but it’s noticeable enough. 

“She’s a baby,” he says, eyes grey as the southern sea and just as unforgiving. Though he’s young, the weight of an iron giant rests on his slender shoulders. 

“She’s talented, Semi,” says Akamine, tone wheedling. He fiddles with the lapels of his coat — it’s Italian, all cream silk and bronze buttons. “She’s capable.” 

Twenty year old Akamine Keo is a trust-fund kid, born into the arms of an oil empire he’ll someday fall heir to. He’s charming, clever, and sweet, with distinctly expensive good looks, fine features and black hair like raven’s feathers. He also happens to be your boyfriend. 

“That means nothing,” Semi says, peering into your face. An uncomfortable chill tickles the back of your neck as you fight the urge to look away. “There are toddlers who can shred Led Zeppelin, but they’re not musicians. They’re puppets controlled by overzealous tiger moms. They can’t take the heat of the real industry.”

“I can take the heat.” Your words bleed out heavy and sharp, a rough gash through the palpably thick tension. Fingernails leaving painful half-moons on your palms, you clench and unclench your fists down at your sides. “And I can sure as hell shred better than any toddler.”

For a split second, surprise flashes across Semi’s face, only to be quickly replaced by a wry smile. “Brave.” 

You stare at him, lips sucked in and eyes narrowed as Akamine slings an arm over your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temples. 

“See?” he says with a laugh. “She’s talented, capable, and brave.”

“Well,” says Semi, drawing the word out. He cocks his head, giving you one last hard once-over, before extending a hand for a firm shake. “We’ll see. I’ll give you two months. A trial.” 

You accept this compromise, returning the shake. Semi’s still skeptical, you can tell, but you make a vow to yourself — you’re about to blow this sonuvabitch out of the water. As Akamine crows in delight, Semi’s eyes don’t leave yours. 

Good luck, they seem to be saying. You’ll need it. 

You smile, and he smiles back. 

I won’t. 

+

Semi’s a phenomenal bassist. When you’d first started dating Akamine and he’d just joined Semi’s band, he could scarcely shut up about it — “His name’s Semi Eita, and I swear he’s got magic in those fingers, babe.” 

Well, Semi Eita’s about to be dethroned, because your fingers are magic, too. 

For those two months, you’re the band’s lead guitarist, and you pass Semi’s test with flying colors. It takes a couple weeks to fall into step with the other guys — Semi on bass, Akamine on drums, and a quiet college kid called Yasuda on keys — but you’re a quick study, and soon you’re a cornerstone, expertly weaving searing arpeggios of dashed dreams and fiery hopes up and down the band’s underlying tunes. 

(You should’ve seen it coming.)

You and Semi somehow become co-songwriters. He has a knack for melodies, and you have a knack for lyrics. Akamine doesn’t seem to mind the long hours you spend in Semi’s company, working in a whirlwind of messy notes and empty energy drink cans — he trusts you. 

(Sometimes you feel like maybe he shouldn’t.)

“What do you think of this?” Semi says, idly twirling a pencil between his fingers. It’s 10pm on a Friday night, and you’re stretched out on his couch, inhaling chow mein from a greasy paper box. “For the second verse, I mean.” 

“Lemme see,” you say around a mouthful of noodles, snatching the paper from his hand. You furrow your brow. “‘Tear me open like a scarlet letter, cruelly addressed ‘return to sender…’’ Jeez, Semi. Who hurt you?” 

Semi scowls. “It’s a breakup song, isn’t it? It’s supposed to hurt.” 

“You might consider being a little more… subtle,” you suggest, offering him a fortune cookie. He takes it and sets it aside.

“Heartbreak isn’t subtle,” he says, shooting you a look that speaks of throbbing phantom wounds. “It cuts deep. All the way down to the heart. Hence the name heartbreak.” 

“Wow. I had no idea,” you say drily. You swing your legs over the couch and sit upright, snatching his pencil. “I just think we should tackle this with nuance, not just write another ‘eff you’ ballad.” 

“This world can always use another ‘eff you’ ballad,” Semi says humorlessly, resting his chin in his hand. 

You regard his suddenly silent demeanor as he stares, unseeing, out the window. It’s dark outside, and it’s a darkness that speaks less of peaceful sleep and more of emptiness. 

You sigh, nudging him with your foot. “What was her name?” 

“What?”

“Her name. This demon of a girl that hurt you so badly.” 

For a moment, it seems he’s going to argue, to deny ever being afflicted with something so childish as lovesickness. Then he runs a defeated hand through his hair and shakes his head, laughing. “You’re too curious for your own good.”

You wait. There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence as Semi chews his lip.

“...Her name was Aiko,” he says finally, inspecting his nails with a faux nonchalance. “Smokin’ hot. Met her in music school three or so years ago, I think — she was a TA, a few years older than I was.”

“Older women, huh?” you tease. This is new territory — you’re dipping a toe into the forbidden arena of flirtation. A shadow of guilt creeps into the back of your mind as you think of Akamine, but the bright light of Semi’s crooked grin swiftly flushes it away.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning over to flick your leg. “I don’t date babies like you.” 

“Maybe you should consider it,” you say, unthinking. Semi stares at you, eyebrow raised, and you flush, frantically backtracking. “Not me specifically. I’m just saying — well, I mean, ‘cause this Aiko chick was such a bad time and everything.” 

“If you have a crush on me, just admit it,” Semi says. You’re sure it’s meant to come across jokingly, but the way he’s eyeing you twists your stomach into a pleasurable knot. Then he sighs, leaning back on his arms. “She was a great time, actually. It’s the ending that sucked ass.” 

The question lingers at the tip of your tongue, hesitant like an ill-trained acrobat, but before it even attempts the leap, Semi answers.

“It burned.” He looks straight at you, and you can taste the bitterness in his words. “It burned, and not a day goes by that I can’t remember how awful it felt.” 

+

That’s the first of the many secrets you trade with him. 

Later that night, you tell Semi about your first kiss, about how the recipient smelled like Old Spice and tasted like chapstick, how he walked you to your front door and introduced himself to your mom. About how he took your virginity six months later, and how you soon realized there are some things in life you don’t get an exchange receipt for. 

Semi tells you his favorite color is green, and that outer space scares him more than anything. (He doesn’t like thinking about life in other galaxies because he can hardly handle thinking about life right here.)

You tell him you like milk tea with 75% sweetness, and he promises he’ll take you to his favorite cafe sometime. (“Not a date,” he assures you, and you internally scold yourself for wishing it was one.)

He says he once accidentally kicked a stray cat while trying to find a volleyball he lost in the bushes near his house, and that’s why he considers himself a cat person now: as repentance. (He has a pet cat called Haru, and he shows you a picture — Haru is small and black with bright yellow eyes. You say he’s cute, but Semi corrects you: “Not cute. Fierce.”) 

You say you used to wish life had a restart button, so you could turn back time and dance through each year without making a single mistake.

Semi says he still wishes that. 

(Another thing they don’t tell you is how secrets are really currency. Secrets can’t help but pay for familiarity, and familiarity often leads to something more.)

+

It’s a couple weeks later when you have your first gig. It’s at a bar downtown, and Yasuda nabs fakes for you and Akamine, though you don’t plan on drinking. Not much, anyways. 

(Speaking of Akamine, your relationship with him has grown strained over the past month. He’s stretched himself thin between the band and his business degree, and you — well, whenever your phone pings, you can’t stop hoping it’s from Semi.)

Five minutes before show time, Semi turns to you, eyes wide. “We don’t have a band name.” 

“What?”

“We don’t have a band name.” He looks around, frantically trying to draw inspiration from something in the dimly lit bar. “Quick, think of something.” 

So you think for a moment, chewing your inner cheek, before reaching out and tugging on Semi’s sleeve. “Paper.”

“Paper?”

“Paper.”

Paper is fragile, it’s thin, it’s easy to come by. But it’s also a world of potential on one sheet, a story waiting to be written. 

When the bar owner walks onto the stage and introduces the band, you know you’ve made the right decision. And from the glittering smile Semi flashes you before nodding at Akamine to count you in, you know he thinks so too. 

The show goes on without a hitch, and even though the bar is far from packed, you’re just as proud as you’d be playing in a stadium of screaming fans. The air smells of stale whiskey and fresh beginnings, and as your fingers dance up and down your Gibson’s fretboard, you hear colors — rich teal, smooth mahogany, creamy gold and silver brighter than the stars. Akamine keeps the rhythm like a war drum, and Semi, as always, is perfect. Yasuda, doubling as the main vocalist, sings until his voice gets wonderfully low and raspy, keyboard taking some of the heat as he grins back at you, mouthing how badly his throat hurts.

You’re sweaty when the set’s done, and Akamine buys you a drink, giving you a quick, half-hearted kiss and a tired smile.

Akamine’s always been kind to you.

“I gotta go,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Essay due tomorrow at ten.” 

He looks so genuinely sorry to leave, you almost feel guilty. 

+

You’re packing up your amps into the back of Semi’s van, alone in the parking lot save for the moon many miles above, hanging bright and full in a clear sky. The moon has seen all your most indulgent sins, and she’s going to see one more tonight.

“You did well.” Semi heaves the last of the equipment into his truck before turning to you, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Consider me impressed.”

“Why, thank you,” you say, giving him a mock bow. “So glad I’ve finally managed to impress the Semi Eita.” 

He regards you for a moment, arms crossed. A small sigh escapes his lips. It’s both a sigh of resignation and one of anticipation. 

Then, in one smooth motion, he steps close, reaches out, and pulls you close by the waist. 

You stare up at him, all too aware of the heat radiating from his body. His skin is burning, and his cologne is different from Akamine’s — it’s not expensive, it’s not a multilayered, deep, woody scent. It’s cheap, the sort of cologne a struggling musician can afford, but it smells of home.

“Forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he whispers, sliding a hand up your jaw to cup your face. His hair glows silver and ghostly under the streetlamps. 

“And what are you about to do?” Your voice is deadly quiet, and your chest feels a deathly cold despite Semi’s proximity, refusing to thaw as you await his answer. 

“Kiss you absolutely senseless.” 

Semi’s never been one to make empty promises, and right now is no exception. He presses his lips to yours and you immediately melt into his arms, suddenly craving him and only him. You’re not entirely sure how you’ve managed to avoid devouring him whole up until this point, because he kisses like Eros, full of pomegranate seeds and crimson blossoms, of days spent in clandestine bliss. He kisses like a man on death row, desperate and longing, hands squeezing your waist like your body is his only anchor to life itself. 

Semi Eita wants to be a rockstar, but right now he’s just a boy kissing a girl he’s bound to fall deeply, inexplicably in love with. 

When he finally breaks away, you’re breathless, staring up at him like you’ve just seen an angel. Your hands are still curled in the front of his shirt, you’re still standing on tiptoe, lips just inches from his. 

“Semi…” You swallow hard. “Akamine’s a good guy… I can’t.”

Semi tenses his jaw, taking a finger to lift your chin. “Then why are you looking at me like that?” 

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Like what?”

“Like you’re hungry.” 

He’s got you there. 

You’re standing on a balance beam splitting two vastly different worlds. On one side there’s the known: Akamine and his bright, blue-eyed optimism, his willingness to shoulder burdens he shouldn’t have to. There’s his sweet touch and soft kisses, his firm words of reassurance and his sunny laughter shedding light on your hidden depths. 

The known is comforting. It’s familiar. 

But on the other side… there’s the unknown. There’s Semi Eita in all his scalded glory, his sharp tongue and headstrong determination. There’s his burning touch, his fingers leaving scorch marks on your cheek and his lips depositing glowing embers in your mouth, ready to ignite at a single inflammatory word. There’s his moonstone enigma, the shadow underlying his every sentence like smudged eyeliner. 

The unknown is frightening, almost overwhelmingly so… but there’s something in you, something willful and terribly thirsty, that draws you to this unknown and the possibility of knowing it. 

“Because I am.” 

And you grab his face and pull it down to yours, impatient, frustrated by months of dancing around that painfully tangible attraction, that magnetism — finally, you allow yourself to fall, hurtling through a chasm of fallen stars and ancient suns, hanging on to nothing but Semi and his carefully guarded secrets. 

You kiss him hard, pouring your soul into his mouth, all your youthful doubt and hope. You knot your fingers in his hair, and he pulls you into his chest, pressing your body so close it’s as if he wants to make it a part of himself. 

And when you part for the second time, chest heaving, you know you’ve fallen completely, entirely, without a doubt. 

[my-one-true-l]

An Eye for an Eye, My Friend

Characters: L Lawliet & Beyond Birthday

Rated G, cw: mild blood

Written for @wammyweek 2021 Day 2: An Eye for an Eye

The small boy crouched behind the swing set, wide steel-blue eyes fixed on a caterpillar inching its way along the stem of a daisy, sticky feet holding it in place as it hung upside down from the base of the flower head. Pressing his thumb to his bottom lip, the boy tipped his head toward the critter to get a better look, spikey black hair sticking up the only real give away to his location on the playground.

“Look out!” A voice unnaturally raspy for a child called out seconds before a kickball landed just beside him, busy observing the soon-to-be cocoon. He dragged his eyes to the ball, red and scuffed from use by countless children over the years, scooping it up and setting it between his bare feet. Heavy footfall of someone charging across the concrete lot stopped just short beside him. “Can I have my ball ba-… Oh, it’s you.” The boy, no more than eight years old, glared down at the other, face scrunching like he had sunk his teeth into something bitter.

“Hello, Benjamin.” The older boy kept his eyes on the object of his interest.

“L.” B spoke indignantly, glare burning with a flame that went unseen at the numbers undulating above the other boy's inky locks. “So can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Have my ball back?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure I’m willing to give it back. You see, your careless actions almost cost Myrtle her life, and at such a crucial moment of her development.”

“What is a Myrtle?” B searched for what held L’s attention and realized what it was when 4 tiny red numbers caught his eye. “That caterpillar?”

“Yes, the caterpillar I’ve been observing. You see, she is in the process of metamorphosis. She will start out a mere larvae, but inside her is something much more, and soon she will emerge as something all together different.” L’s expression held a mix of curiosity and sympathy. “Can you imagine being forced to become something else, even if it is in one’s nature to do so?”

Ignoring the question, B squatted beside L, looking at the creature who was now wrapping itself in layers of green. He wondered if he would ever not see lifespans over everything’s heads. “I wasn’t going to hurt her. She’s going to live for another 4 months.”

L momentarily turned his attention to his unwelcome companion, intrigue lurking behind his stare. “And how can you be sure of that, B?”

“I just am.”

“I see. Regardless, I think I will keep the ball until Myrtle is out of danger from your reckless behavior.”

“You can’t just keep it for yourself. The toys are for everyone.” B protested, hand clenching into a fist.

“I think otherwise. I'm protecting her from forces out to harm her. I am justice.”

“Then I will change your mind for you.” Standing from his hunched position, B yanked on the back of L’s collar, white cotton clutched in his grasp until L was standing on bare feet facing him. Though B was two years younger than L, he was bigger than him, his dark hair falling in swoops over his cinnamon eyes.

“and now what ? Are you going to-”

L never finished the sentence, Beyond’s fist connecting to his jaw silenced the future detective mid-question. The impact brought L swiftly to the ground, Stumbling but not quite falling all the way. He wiped the back of pale hand against his lip, a thin smear of crimson staining his milky white flesh. L remained crouched on the ground, grey-blue eyes glaring up through frames of exhaustion.

“I don’t care that you think you’re too good to play with the rest of us, you can’t just do whatever you want and get away with it. I’ll make sure of it.”

“It is not that I think I am better than any of you. I simply prefer my own company to that of others. As for hording the ball, one only gets what they want by striking first, but what ever my reason is…” Quickly, swiftly, with the reflexes of a cat, L sprung from the ground, his foot landing at the underside of B’s chin, knocking him into the frame of the swing set. “An eye for an eye, my friend.”

Wiggling his jaw back and forth, B rubbed his tongue along his teeth and grinned, a huff of ironic amusement resonating from inside the orphan. “An eye for an eye you say? You have no idea just how right you are…” Beyond dropped his voice, mumbling quietly to himself in congratulatory satisfaction. “…L Lawliet.”

[gureishi]

prompt 2 with v tysm take care of you ^^

Thank you for this wonderful request, and apologies for taking my time writing it!

I thought a whole lot about this prompt and Jihyun and my mind said PINING and I wrote this long, sprawling thing. It’s a slightly different format from my other requests—I hope you don’t mind! Writing this made me feel all kinds of things. ♡♡

two: fall into yours arms again

JihyunxReader, G, words: 3620

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

97 days

It’s windy today.

You wake up late and throw open the window that you can reach from your bed. The sun’s already high in the sky and beating down through the thin, gauzy curtains. You need to buy new curtains.

The window sticks; you push; it opens. The cool breeze whips through your hair, in stark contrast to the sun—nauseatingly hot and dry. The wind cools your neck, wipes away the last remnants of what you suspect was a nightmare.

Though it’s June, the air still smells of spring. The azaleas in the community garden down the street have wilted, but some of their fragrance is in the air today, and it startles you, spins your head around.

He left in March and the chaos of April and May have been locked away in your memory, behind a wall that says think about this later. Now it’s undeniably summer, the days lengthening, your tendency to sleep through the morning worsening. Time has slowed: the afternoons feel languid and the nights unbearably long. You stretch, letting your shirt—his shirt—fall off your shoulder. It’s long lost its scent by now, grown softer as you’ve slept in it, worn it while cleaning up the little loft you once lived in by yourself. You lived here what feels like forever ago, before you made the misguided decision that led to your life turning upside down and now, somehow, righting itself in ways you still don’t understand.

“I miss you,” you mouth into the wind.

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191 days

When you get home you’re shivering, underdressed and underprepared for the turn in the weather. You turn the key in the lock, shoulders hunched against the cruel chill that has abruptly permeated your quiet little neighborhood.

You slip inside and shut the door, the wind chimes jangling harshly. You toss your things haphazardly to the side—keys, bag, sunglasses, coffee cup. Everything you needed for the day except a stupid jacket.

The house is cool, too—the wood floors retain some of the warmth of summer but you haven’t turned the heat on yet out of some convoluted mixture of stubbornness and frugality. You shrug on your thickest, floppiest sweater and move through the house, closing the windows one at a time. You shouldn’t have left them open to begin with.

You survey the mess you’ve made: bag spilling out onto your multicolored shag rug, sunglasses hanging over the hand-painted lamp on the side table. You decide to leave them there.

As you so often do lately, you slip into the well-worn chair at your small desk in the corner, under the little window that faces north. You rub your hands together, gaze at the growing pile of paper, stacked precariously high. You know there’s work to be done, emails to be answered—instead, you pull a new sheet of paper toward you, begin a letter than can never be sent.

“How are you?” you write. “It’s getting cold here. I hope it’s warm where you are.” You pause, well-chewed pen cap in your mouth. Scrawl the words you know he won’t read on the paper you have no way to send to him. “I think about you,” you write. “Every single day.”

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277 days

You laugh and wave and laugh again as you see the grey cloud your warm breath makes in the air.

You call out a last goodbye toward your friends’ receding backs and then wrap your scarf more tightly around your neck, feeling the cold more strongly now that you’re alone. You make your way back through your neighborhood, stopping only to pet the head of the tabby cat that your down-the-street neighbor lets roam free. The sun is setting—the midday chill is turning to a biting evening cold.

You approach your little loft: open the gate, half-run down the path. When, you think, will this feel like a home again? How long, you wonder, till this feels more real that those two weeks that are still illuminated in your memory, brighter even than the events of yesterday or last month or last summer?

Automatically, you check your mailbox. Automatically, you riffle through the bills you can just barely pay and the magazines subscribed to by the apartment’s former occupants. At the very bottom, there’s an envelope, one side covered completely in stamps. You climb the steps, peering at it curiously. You recognize the writing.

You trip.

You should get back up and go in the house and turn on the lights—open the letter where it’s warm and bright. But instead you stay right where you are, on the bottom step, jacket twisted up under you. You tear off one mitten, your hands shaking a little, and open the envelope.

“Dearest,” he’s written. “I don’t know if I’ve sent this the right way or how long it will take to reach you.”

There are already frozen tears on your eyelashes, blurring your vision. You wipe them away frantically with your other hand, still engulfed in your warm, chunky mitten.

“There’s no regular post office where I am so I had to improvise,” he goes on. His thin, messy scrawl is the same as you remember it. You can feet your heartbeat in your fingertips. “Still, that’s no excuse. I’ve written so many letters to you and thrown so many away. I never knew where to begin. I hope you can forgive me.”

The tears are falling hard and fast now, and you give up on wiping them, squinting to read the minuscule letters he’s crammed onto one single sheet of paper.

He describes where he’s staying in detail. It’s beautiful and evocative and you can tell that he’s stalling.

He asks after you—how your work has been going, how you’ve settled back into your own home, if you’ve been eating well. He asks after the RFA too, one at a time, by name. This answers a question that’s been lingering in the back of your mind—so it’s true, you think. He’s written to no one else.

The final paragraph is neater that the rest, as if he’s written and re-written it, practiced and copied it over.

“I am trying to live in the present moment and not worry over the future,” he says. “But every night I can’t help but imagine the life we could have together, when we are both ready. Do you imagine it too?” Your eyes are blurry with tears. “I miss you,” he writes, and you mouth the words as you read them, almost able to hear them in his sweet, gentle voice.

“If you don’t feel like writing me, I’ll understand,” he says. “But I’ll be at this address for some time, so please do write, if you like.” You think of all the letters, the ever-growing pile on and under your desk. You giggle through your tears, imagining how much it would cost to send them all. 

He signs the letter “Yours.” At the bottom he’s added cramped letters, so small you have to bend over, nose almost touching the paper, to read them. “By the way,” he writes. “Please call me Jihyun.” 

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352 days

To you, March will always be him: the sudden rain showers in the midst of sunny days are his eyes and the scent of plum blossoms in the air is the indescribable warmth of his arms.

There’s a string of pictures now above your bed—you’ve hung each one that he’s sent, strung them up on a piece of bright green yarn. When you told him you’d started doing this, he began sending them with a hole already punched in the top—delicate, perfectly round, just the right size.

You sit on the floor, bare legs extended in front of you, a book propped on your lap.

“All the snow has melted except for the one, long icicle outside my window,” you write. “I think I’ve grown attached to it, and I’ll be sad when it’s gone.”

Your letters have grown longer over the months—his last was five whole pages, front and back. He sends photographs he’s taken of the beautiful landscape where he’s living and sketches he’s made, mostly of nature—and a few of you.

He includes vague references to his companion, and though he’s never mentioned him by name, it’s become clear to you who he’s with. It’s brought you immense comfort to know—if not in much detail—that he is alive and well.

“Tomorrow I’ll be seeing everyone,” you write. “I know you both still need more time, but not being able to give them any news is killing me. Not everyone is doing so well, you know.” You bite your lip, consider crossing off the last few lines. You don’t. He’s healing—and you’d give anything in the world to ensure that he has the space and time he needs. That they both do. But the time you spend with the other members has been dwindling and the evidence of their suffering—some of them more than others—is becoming abundantly clear.

“I think I want to have a party,” you write. “Not for months, maybe longer, but I want to start thinking about it. I think it might help.”

You sip from the glass of water you’ve set on the floor next to you, swirl it around a little to listen to the sound of the ice clinking.

“I miss you desperately,” you write. “And I love you, Jihyun.”

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478 days

The song that plays through your headphones is soft and pretty, not nearly loud enough to drown out the shouting of the street vendors and the overall atmosphere of chaos. It’s Sunday, and you’ve ventured into the city to shop. You don’t love the crowds or the fast pace, but you do relish the savory scents drifting from food stalls and the feeling of your thin pants swooshing against your legs.

You hoist the two large fabric grocery bags up; they’re nearly slipping out of your sweat-slick hands again. The mid-afternoon July sun beats down on you. You slow your pace.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve gotten a letter. This isn’t shocking—he’s staying somewhere new now, and it’s even more remote than before. He has to travel into town to mail his letters, so the gaps between them have grown longer. You’re used to it, but you still can’t help feeling like a cold hand is clenching around your heart whenever you check the mailbox and find it empty.

You reach the train station, grip both bags with one hand so you can tap your card. You go through the motions: standing in the station, boarding the train. As you have so many times, you repeat the words of his last letter in your mind. You know it by heart.

“I bought plane tickets last week,” he wrote. “He hasn’t been feeling well the last few days and we decided together to cancel them.”

This isn’t a first either—the tickets bought, the tickets cancelled. And you know that it isn’t just Jihyun’s “companion” who needs more time. They are both still healing—physically, mentally, emotionally.

“Please tell me when you decide on a date for the party,” he wrote. “I’m sorry to hear the plans aren’t going smoothly. And I’m sorrier that I can’t offer the other members some solace—particularly where it concerns him. I must respect his wish for privacy.”

The train is packed; you set your bags at your feet so you can hold on. The gentle rocking motion is familiar; the air conditioning is a relief.

“I saw a flower yesterday that I couldn’t identify. It was raining here, but the flower’s petals were open. I was afraid it would wilt from the force of the rain, but it didn’t. I watched it for a long time, and saw the raindrops collect inside it. I thought of you.”

The train rumbles to a stop. More people get on. You adjust. A new song plays in your headphones—it’s slow and a little melancholy.

“Every morning I imagine the things I will do with you in our bright and beautiful future,” he wrote.

The train picks up speed again. Sweaty people read newspapers and speak quietly to one another, underscored by the gentle music in your ears. You close your eyes.

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555 days

You run to catch the bus, the leaves crunching delightfully under your feet. It’s pulling into your stop as you’re crossing the street and—why does this always happen?—you bow your head and sprint, waving frantically at the driver.

The driver sees you. Smiles. Waits.

“Thank you,” you pant, jumping the steps two at a time. 

“It’s okay. I remember you.”

Ouch.

You stumble to a seat and collapse into it. If you’re late for the bus often enough that the driver remembers you, you’ve really got to try and pull yourself together.

You comb a hand through your sweaty hair. It’s hard, as it turns out, planning an RFA party while keeping up with your old life—you’ve got one foot in the world of working and cleaning and paying bills and the other in the world of CEOs and mysterious guests and anonymous donors.

As you’re catching your breath, you pull the newest letter from your bag. It arrived just this morning—perhaps that was why you almost missed the bus again—and you’ve only read it once so far. You scan the page with eager eyes, searching as you so often do for clues and hints and promises hidden between the lopsided words.

“I made a painting today,” he tells you. “I won’t describe it to you, because I want to show it to you in person.”

But when? you want to ask. You can’t help the frustration that’s creeping under your skin. The bus rocks; you lean your head against the window.

“I’ve realized something,” he writes. “I wonder what you think about it. I feel closer to you than I’ve felt to anyone before. And yet every day I find things I still don’t know about you, because of our circumstances. What are your favorite things to eat? What smells make you reminisce about the past? What music makes you sleepy?”

You sigh, fold up the letter. It’s true, you think. You love him with a warmth that encompasses your whole being—a feeling you’d never even dared to imagine. But how does his face look in the morning when he sleeps through his alarm? Which groceries does he always forget to buy?

You don’t write these questions down. Instead you turn over the letter, scribble on the back. 

“The party will be March 24th.”

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641 days

It hardly snows this winter, but it rains. The sound of the rain fills your dreams: it pounds on the roof of your little apartment, and you wake up and run to the kitchen to check that the window is closed. It fills your waking hours, thrumming on your giant umbrella as you navigate the narrow streets of the city. When it lets up, you still hear it, humming in your eardrums, reverberating inside your chest.

You sit at your desk again. No longer is it covered in stacks of paper, records of yearning—those letters have been long sent or put away in pretty boxes with colored lids. Your laptop buzzes, hopelessly trying to cool itself down. You press send and cut the frightening number of messages in your inbox down by just one more.

You lean back in your chair. The rain goes tap tap tap on the roof and you rub your sore neck. It’s a Friday night and even in this weather, you can hear the distant sounds of people gathering at the bar on the corner. You open another email.

“I’m working hard,” you wrote in your last letter to him. “Sometimes I feel that I can barely keep up with it all. Other times I’m sure I’m burying myself in all of this work on purpose, making myself busy so I don’t have to feel lonely.”

You scan the email with expert eyes, dash off a quick reply. Both are true, you suppose—planning a proper party, not one hastily thrown together in a few weeks under extreme circumstances, is a full-time job all on its own. But you are lonely, you think, taking a break to stretch your arms over your head. There are people around you all the time, but your chest feels hollow. “I’m taking good care of myself,” you wrote to him last week. “I do feel fulfilled. But…”

But you can no longer re-create in your mind the exact way that he smells, the sweet freshness of nuzzling your face into his shoulder. You can’t always hear his voice clearly in your mind when you read the sweet, beautiful words he writes to you. “I love you like the way the ocean crashes into the rocks and then spills peacefully over the sand,” he writes. “Does that make sense?”

It does.

You shake your head to clear it, type a few brief, carefully-worded lines.

“I’m ready,” you say out loud, and the words echo in your apartment: warm and cluttered and bright and full to the brim with thoughts of him. “I’m ready when you are.”

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702 days

For the first time, you wait to read his letter.

You find it in the mailbox as you’re leaving in the morning and you whisper “patience” to yourself as you walk to the bus. You wait at the light, you cross the street. You sit at the bus stop for two whole minutes before the bus arrives and the driver raises his eyebrows at you in surprise.

“Patience,” you whisper to yourself again as you exit the bus, breathing in the fresh, early-spring air. And “patience,” you think, as you greet the venue manager and listen to her running through the event checklist for what feels like the eight hundredth time.

“Almost,” you tell yourself as you leave, taking a picture on your phone of the orange and purple sky. You board the bus again, watch the sunset fade into star-speckled navy through the smudged window.

“Now,” you say out loud as you unlock the door to your flat, hanging your light jacket and keys on the hooks you’ve recently mounted by the door. “Now.”

You tear into the letter as you make your way to the bedroom, turning on lamps as you go, bathing the room in amber light.

You pull out the paper and your hands, steady all day, start to shake. You hold it up to the light. It’s shorter than usual. He’s written your name at the top and he’s answered your questions, described a walk he took on the waterfront yesterday, offered updates on the plants growing beside the house where he’s staying.

And at the bottom, he’s sketched a picture in light blue ink. His lines are soft and wavy, but the details are clear: it’s two plane tickets. They’re dated.

You inhale sharply.

Thirty-two more days.

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734 days

It’s warm, but not too warm. The lights are dim, but not too dim. The air is lightly scented like spring flowers and rain, but it’s not overwhelming, and the chatter of the crowd is enthusiastic and warm.

In other words, you’ve done a very good job.

You step onto the balcony for a moment, patting your red cheeks with both hands. You’ve been receiving compliments all night and it’s made you feel like you’re floating several centimeters off the ground. You’re proud of yourself—you worked hard for this.

But as the night’s worn on, your anticipation has built to a fever pitch, and you have to keep reminding yourself to breathe. If he were arriving on any other day, you’d be meeting him in private— and would you feel more or less nervous, then? You can’t decide.

But of course it’s today, because the most important events of your life always seem to coalesce around each other. There’s a beautiful garden surrounding the party venue and you take comfort in the ivy wrapped around the wrought-iron trellis; it reaches almost as high as your eye level and its balance of sturdiness and delicacy gives you strength.

You slip back inside, take in the groups of expensively-dressed people clustered around tall, elegant tables. There’s a string quartet in one corner and a mouth-watering array of hors d’oeuvres arranged toward the back wall.You straighten out your clothes surreptitiously, sneak a peak at the clock, flash a bright smile at the nearest group of guests .

And then, for a reason you’ll never be able to explain, you know what’s about to happen. Your eyes fly to the door. You gravitate toward it like a moth to a lamp and you know no one else has noticed but somehow you feel that the room has quieted for you.

The door opens. Your hands fly to your mouth.

“Hi,” he says.

He’s always been spring to you but it’s as if he’s brought summer with him. He’s taller than you remember and his collared shirt is open and he’s got the warmest smile you’ve seen in your whole life. Your thrill and worry and hope are reflected in his bright eyes. 

He holds out a hand—cautiously, as if afraid you’ll float away. You take it and his fingers are soft and cool, like the petals of a flower.

“Welcome home,” you say. “Jihyun.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in my future mysme writings <3

@currentlyprocrastinating @thesirenwashere  @ultrasupernini​ @cro0kedme​ @otomefoxystar​ @dawn-skies06 @nad-zeta

[honeyfallen]

⟡ ˚ 𓏸 ⁺ ◌ ⁺ 𓏸 ACCURATE.   somewhat  accurate.  inaccurate.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡   ⁺     B O D Y             long legs. short legs. average legs. slender thighs. thick thighs.  muscular thighs.  skinny arms. soft arms. toned arms. muscular arms. toned stomach. flat stomach. flabby stomach. soft stomach. six pack. beer belly. lean frame. slender frame. muscular frame. voluptuous frame. petite frame. lanky frame. short nails. average-length nails. long nails manicured nails. painted nails. dirty nails. small waist. thick waist. average waist. narrow hips. average hips. wide hips. big feet. average feet. small feet. soft feet. slender feet. calloused feet. calloused hands. soft hands. big hands. average hands. small hands. long fingers. short fingers. average fingers. broad shoulders. underweight. average weight. overweight.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   H E I G H T                shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm to 150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2 m.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   S K I N             pale. fair. rosy. olive. dark. tanned. brown. blotchy. smooth. acne. dry. greasy. freckled. scarred ( in places )

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   E Y E S               small. large. average. grey. brown. black. blue. red. green. gold amber. hazel. violet. doe-eyed. almond. close-set. wide-set. squinty. monolid. heavy eyelids. upturned. down turned.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   H A I R                 thin. thick. fine. normal. greasy. dry. soft. shiny. scruffy. frizzy. curly. wild. unruly. straight. smooth. wavy. floppy. cropped. pixie-cut. short. shoulder length  waist length. floor length. buzz cut. bald. jaw length. vermilion. mohawk. white. platinum blonde. golden blonde. dirty blonde. ombre. light brown. mouse brown. chestnut brown. golden brown. chocolate brown. dark brown. jet black. ginger. auburn. dyed red. dyed any “ unnatural color ”. streaked. thin eyebrows. average eyebrows. thick eyebrows.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   M O D I F I C A T I O N S              full sleeve. quarter sleeve. thigh tattoo. shin tattoo. wrist tattoo. lower back tattoo. hand / finger tattoo. foot tattoo. neck tattoo. face tattoo. chest tattoo. one tattoo. a few here and there. multiple. no tattoo. monroe piercing. nose piercing. septum. nipple piercing(s). genital piercing(s). industrial piercings. earlobe piercings. helix piercing(s). prince albert piercing. eyebrow piercing(s). tongue piercing. lip piercing(s). tragus piercing. angel bites. labret. stretches out ears. navel piercing. inverse navel piercing. cheek piercing(s). smiley. nape piercing(s). no piercings.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   C O S M E T I C S             light eyeliner. heavy eyeliner. cat eyes. mascara. fake eyelashes. matte lipstick. regular lipstick. lip gloss. lip balm. red lips. pink lips. dark lips. bronzer. highlighter. eye shadow. neutral eye shadow. smoky eyes. colorful eye shadow. blush. lip liner. light contouring. heavy contouring. powder. matte foundation. shiny foundation. concealer. wears make up regularly. wears makeup from time to time. rarely wears make-up. never wears makeup.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   S C E N T               floral. fruity. perfumes. aftershave. cocoa. moisturizer. natural soap. shampoo. cigarettes. leather. sweat. food. incense. marijuana. cologne. whiskey. wine. fried food. blood. sulfur. fire. metal. rain. grass. ocean. autumn leaves. baked bread. freshly baked cookies. smoke. campfire. lavender. trees. pumpkin pie. musk. rose. gingerbread. peppermint. oak. honey. lemon. vanilla. coffee cake. mint. rawhide. chemicals.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   C L O T H I N G               jeans. tight pants. over knee socks. tights. yoga pants. pencil skirt. tight skirt. loose skirt. tight / formfitting dress. cardigans. blouse. button up shirt. band t-shirt.  sweatpants. tank top. cut off t-shirt. designer. high street. online stores. thrift. lingerie. long skirt. miniskirt. maxi dress. sun dress. tie. tuxedo. slacks. cocktail dress. high slit dress / skirt. loose clothing. tight clothing. jean shorts. sweater. sweater vest. khaki pants. suit. hoodie. harem pants. basketball shorts. boxers. briefs. boxer-briefs. hot pants. hipster panties. bra. sports bra. crop top. corset. ballerina skirt. leotard. polka dot. stripes. glitter. silk. lace. leather. velvet. cotton. chemise. patterns. florals. neon colors. pastels. plaid. black. dark colors. fur. faux fur.

﹒˚ ₊ ♡  ⁺   S H O E S             sneakers. slip-ons. flats. slippers. sandals. high heels. kitten heels. ankle boots. combat boots. boots. cowboy boots. knee-high. platforms. stripper heels. bare feet. loafers.

—  —  —

tagged by :  @honeyfired ♡♡♡♡ tagging:  u!!!! pls steal and fill out i wanna see ♡

[corvidshipping]

Because I Couldn’t Stand to Lose You

Summary: Red has something important to tell Milo after work. Pairing: Bryelle “Red” Harness/Milo Th/atch Warnings: coming out, a very brief moment of misgendering Rating: G/T Word count: 1.5k A/N: once again this was written with 0 outline and very little editing. i wrote this in one sitting between like 2/3 am and 5am. yee haw pardners

Is it possible for a person to pinpoint the exact moment they fall in love? To take the record on which all of life is written, to unscroll the papyrus and point to a sentence, a word, a moment, a breath, where it all started? Is it possible to know the exact words which made you realize that you never wanted to be apart from a person?

A lone figure stands outside the Smithsonian offices, a crowd pushing and heaving against it. Enshrouded in a black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, its eyes are cast in shadow, but it stands watching, waiting at the doors for a man who is always prompt. Somewhere, a church bell chimes for evening mass, and the doors open.

The man who steps out is simultaneously immediately recognizeable and forgettable, a concerningly thin body wrapped in a tan overcoat and topped with a sandy mop of hair. He hurries in the chill of the October evening, tucking a sheaf of papers and books under his arm protectively. Only on the steps does he look up from his rushing feet to see the figure waiting, and at that moment on the rain-wet stone his balance fails him, leaving him to tumble down four more stairs and come sliding to a halt at the figure's feet. Silently, the figure reaches down for his upper arm.

"I didn't think you were coming today," the man says as he allows them to help him to his feet. He checks his papers, counting once and then twice, ensuring they are all present. Once he is on his feet, it's clear the difference between the two; despite an unimpressive stature, the man in the tan coat towers over the one in black.

The figure reaches over to brush off the back of the man's coat, and finally speaks. "I wanted to walk you home. Fluffy missed you." Their voice is soft, higher than the man's yet lower than most women's, and their sentences stay clipped short.

"You checked in on him?" A grin, crooked and bright, grows on his face, glowing in the grey mugginess.

"You asked me to, Milo." A wry smile grows on the lips under the black hat, small and dollike set in the pale white face of the speaker. "I couldn't let him stay lonely all day. I think I like him more than I like you."

"What would I do without you, Red?" The man named Milo says, ignoring the former's comments to placing a guiding hand on his petite companion's shoulder. The two of them set off down the street, lit yellow under the street lamps.

The duo reaches a row of apartments, and Milo separates from his friend. "This is me," he says, looking back at the silent silhouette as he approaches a door. "Or, eh- would you like to come inside? I can brew some coffee, and..." his sentence trailed as his companion remained silent for some time.

"I would, thank you." The figure steps forward, over the threshold behind Milo.

A mewl greets the two of them in a darkened room, and as Milo fumbles with a box of matches, his friend steps forward to the coatrack and relieves themself of their outerwear. The gas light takes to flame as their coat falls from their shoulders, and he turns to glance at them.

From under the black hat, red hair comes untucked. Milo's brow furrows as he notices that there's not enough - in fact, it's about a foot shorter than it should be, clipped short at the base of their head and revealing a pale, swanlike neck. Rather than turning around, they stay with their back to him, holding their hat and fidgeting with the brim.

"You... cut your hair?" For some reason, Milo finds himself swallowing hard with a dry throat. Fluffy winds around his companion's legs as they take a sharp breath.

"Milo, I have to tell you something."

The man steps forward to place a hand on their shoulder, and they release a breath. "Can you tell me on the couch?" As soon as the sentence has left his mouth, he's rethinking it. That was too harsh, he thinks to himself. She's clearly upset. But rather than arguing, they simply allow themself to be guided to the living room. When Milo takes a seat on the couch, they stay standing, head bowed and eyes focused on a stray thread on their sleeve.

"I don't want you..." they hesitate, and chew on their lip for a moment. "I don't want you to see me the way you see me, anymore."

This revelation only serves to confuse Milo further. "The way I see you?" He's fumbling, floundering. Does she not like me anymore? Did I do something?

"As a woman." As soon as the words leave their throat, they breathe in sharply again, as if they wished they could gasp the words back from the air. Milo blinks twice, and the room is silent except for the cat's incessant purring.

Finally, they continue, breathlessly. "I know it's strange, but I'm not the only one. There are others like me. I can show you- I have books, newspaper clippings. There was a surgeon, he identified himself as a man, and there's more, but I forgot their names. I'll show you. I mean, I'm not a man, I don't think, but I'm not a woman either. I think I'm something else. It's all very strange, I know, and you don't have to understand. Just don't be mad, please, Milo."

Milo stared at his friend, glasses slipped to the very tip of his nose, breath from his open mouth fogging his glasses. He swallowed once more, trying to find words, and stood. "Why... why would I be mad?"

His compatriot finally lifted their gaze to meet his. "I don't know. Because it's different. Because maybe if I stop going by my name, if I were to stop being a 'she', you might not think of me as myself anymore." Their next words were quiet, spoken barely on a sigh, not meant to be heard. "I couldn't stand to lose you."

Their eyes bored into Milo's now, searching desperately for words that he had not yet spoken. Milo gazed back into them, tracing a line between two points in his mind. He took a step forward, not breaking his line of sight, inhaling as if he were about to speak, but his voice died in his throat. Strands of copper strayed over his friend's - Bry's, Red's - forehead, appearance forgotten in their confession. Their eyes darted back and forth still, and as the two points connected in Milo's mind, he began to see them, and understand them. Two black pools returning his gaze, reflecting the lamp very much like pools of water reflecting a starlit sky. In the yellow flicker, they became nearly the color of honey, set like citrines in a pale face, porcelain marked only by the occasional sunkissed freckle sprinkled over flushed cheeks and a pointed nose. Their lips began to tremble slightly, barely hinting at tears.

Is it possible for a person to pinpoint the exact moment they fall in love? During a conversation, a walk down a foggy road in October, a silent moment after a confession? Is it possible to know the exact words which made you realize that you never wanted to be apart from a person?

It was Red. It had always been Red. And they hadn't changed. By any name, by any face, they were always the same Red, the same unfaltering friend. The Red who, on their first meeting, Fluffy had jumped into the lap of right away, purring. The Red who had spent hours helping him copy ruined papers after they had been knocked into a rain puddle. The Red who mended his vests, visited his cat, brought him lunch, and all at the simplest mention by Milo without being asked. Even if they changed how they looked, how they wanted to be seen, they would stay the same Red, and Milo knew he must support this. They were too valuable to lose for this, in a way that couldn't be measured or described.

It was one of two things Milo was sure about without hesitation.

He smiled. "You want to dress like this now?"

"I do." Red's eyes kept searching his face, trying to find the hint of disapproval.

"You don't want me to call you 'she' anymore?"

"It's interesting that you mention that," they began on another tangent. "You see, the singular 'they' has been in use since Shakespeare's poetry, I can give examples, and if you-" As they looked at Milo, their sentence cut off. "Yes." They concluded.

Milo's smile simply grew. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. I can give you some of my old clothes, if you'll need them. I mean... They won't fit you, but you can hem them, right?" Milo finally stepped back, his awkwardness returning as he considered the implications of exactly what he had just realized.

"I... Thank you." Red's eyes become glassy with tears that threaten to spill over as they speak.

"Yeah. I mean, don't worry about it. I l- I care about you." He began to fumble with his words. "Why don't I make that coffee like I promised?"

Red smiled. "That would be nice."

[iolitemoth]

Moth’s FanClan Rehaul Part 2

This part is quite a bit longer than the first, so I’m putting it under a read more again. Enjoy!

Part Three: Belief System

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep StarClan as the belief system/afterlife so I thought up a few different things. There are four major parts to the belief system to match the four clans, but so far I’ve only got concrete ideas for three.

I. Ancestors are cats who have passed away. It’s believed that it takes a few years/generations to actually join the ancestors, as your soul presumably wasn’t very old when you died. Elders are thought to join a little sooner than most (because, you know, they’re already old).

The Founders are the very first clan cats and the most revered. Usually it’s the Leaders/Deputies/Medicine Cats who are spoken of the most, but there are a few notable others. The rest are normally referred to as a collective whole. These cats are especially revered and looked up to, and considered to be very powerful.

II. Spirits are the general spirits of the land as well as more specific ones. General/’normal’ spirits don’t do much, just whatever happens to be their usual thing. These can represent a certain element or section of land or an animal(s).

Some spirits are referred to more specifically. These usually bring warnings, lead lost travelers to safety or trap the unwary, or some other purpose other spirits don’t (or won’t) do.

Example: Spirit of Warning- said to be extremely alarming in appearance with a thin body, dark, ragged coat, too-long ears, and strangely coloured eyes with permanently slit pupils. This spirit doesn’t... talk, really, and instead stares or makes noises of alarm. Most often appears before catastrophe or great danger. It’s unknown if there’s just one.

III. Patrons are specific spirits/cats who, at some point, became renowned either by some great deed/action, legend, or rumours. These highly revered souls reside over certain parts of the natural world. Many of their names have been lost to time, and most only know them by their title. They aren’t full manifestations of their element or concept, more a general depiction.

Notable or Most Known Patrons

A. Patron of Family: Loving, caring, accepting of all who claim the bond of family. Wears a flower to symbolize love, dedication, compassion (the flower and meanings vary but they tend to be more or less the same). A fierce protector against those who seek to threaten or break the bonds of family. Bright, warm, mismatched eyes symbolize you don’t need to share blood to share a bond.

B. Icestep, Patron of Ice: Often regarded as the herald of deep winter, freezing temperatures, more ice than usual. Their white paws symbolize the building of snow and ice- mittens on their front paws are the first steps of winter, barely higher than one’s paws. Socks on their back paws herald the increase of the season. Many consider them as cold as their element, but no one knows for sure. Perhaps they’re just quiet or reclusive. Drooping, spiked fur resembles icicles and ice-blue eyes are sharp and cold.

C. Patron of Fog: A small, very fluffy patron who heralds the coming of fog. Their thick fur represents the thickness of their namesake. Things tend to sound muffled when they’re near, especially their pawsteps. Very playful and fairly sociable.

D. Patron of Storms: Contrary to what you might expect, this patron is no stormcloud! Social, intruiged by anything that catches their interest, they almost make storms seem at least tolerable. Dark markings on a grey coat symbolize storm clouds in a dark sky. Big and fluffy to represent building clouds.

E. Patron of Change: Recognizable by the two different patterns on their coat, this patron heralds any and all change. Some say their coat changes every time you see them, but, well, that just fits, doesn’t it? It’s unknown if their odd eyes symbolize the past + future, different kinds of change, or that’s just how they are. You’d have to ask them yourself, but who says you’d get a straight answer?

F. Patron of Wind: Wild-furred and grey eyed, this is a true incarnation of the wind. Gently curled whiskers symbolize the gentle breeze, while permanently torn ears are a testament to how terrible and strong it can become. Messy, blurred markings resemble speed. Often seen with leaves or other debris stuck in their fur. Sleek build for swiftness.

G. Patron of Fire: Another opposite to expectations, this patron often rushes to save those caught or threatened by flames. Ash and burnt plants are stuck in their fur, and their body is littered with scars, particularly their face and paws, as a result of forcing their way through to reach those in danger. Big build and eyes like living embers. Surprisingly soft-furred.

H. Patron of Sand: Lithe and sleek with yellow eyes and dark markings make this patron perfect for their element. Quiet but quick, willing to hide or burst outward in a blinding explosion. Scars show the abrasive, cutting nature of loose particles caught in the wind.

I. Patron of Water: This patron has a calm, kind nature with a penchant for watching things play out. Their coat mimics the ripples and play of light in waves, with darker stripes on a silvery coat overlaid with white. Several scars can be seen on their body, most notably on their face and head.

[auspicious-lilana]

Two Cats, One Heart (Chat Noir x Reader)

Summary: Y/n Ross and Adrian Agreste are childhood best friends, they've been through thick and thin, including losing their mom, and dad. Since then Y/n's mom made her live with Adrian at his mansion and forever leaving her life. Watch as their lives Change as they become the new heroes of Paris alongside Ladybug and see how Romance sprouts between the two models.

Part 1  

{Y/n' POV}

Adrian and I were running down the street of our house trying to get to school on time. Why are we running to school in a rush when we could just take our personal driver? You may ask? Well, we aren't really allowed to attend school, so we snuck out of the mansion together with all our supplies and bags. We saw the School entrance and smiled at each other before starting to slow down and walk-in. "Adrien, Y/n, please reconsider! You know what your father and godfather want!" "This is what we wanna do!" Adrian said as I nodded and continued walking before we saw an old man lying on the road reaching for his crane. Adrian and I looked at each other and nodded before we took both sides of the old man and helped him up as I picked up his crane and gave it to him. "Thank you, young man and women" we smiled back at the old man before turning back to Natalie. "We just wanna go to school like everybody else. What's so wrong with that? " I said sadly. "Please don't tell my father about this" Adrian said as we sadly walked into the car and drove back to the Mansion we were imprisoned in. Unknown to us the old man we helped before stood in front of the mansion as we went in for our homeschool class, with two boxes that would change our entire lives. Adrian and I were in the middle of Natalie's history lesson as we listened to while we were still bummed out about the whole not going to school thing. "Who was the first president of the 5th French Republic?" "Everyone thinks it was de Gaulle, " Adrian started bored. "but it was actually René Coty before the first elections" I finished off for him. "excellent Adrian, Y/n"  I sighed as I saw my godfather aka Adrian's dad Mr.Agreste come in. "Give me a minute, would you, Nathalie?" Natalie nodded at Mr.Agreste. "yes, sir" Natalie left leaving Adrian and me with Mr.Agreste. "You are both NOT going to school. I already told you two"  Adrian and I stood up in protest. "but father/Sir!" "Everything you both need is right here where I can keep an eye on you two. I will not have you both outside in that dangerous world." "It's not dangerous, father. We're always stuck in here with nothing but each other and sometimes we can't even see each other. Why can't we go on and live life just like everybody else?" " Adrian said. "Because you are not like everyone else! You are my son and goddaughter! Continue."  Mr.Agreste left as Natalie came back. "We can leave it there if you have-" before she could finish Adrian and I ran back to our rooms, as tears rolled down my cheeks" "It isn't fair!" I yelled at myself as soon as I shut my door and threw myself on the couch. "why can't we live our lives as teens?" I wiped my tears before I turned on the TV not noticing the box right in front of me on the desk. "As incredible as it seems, it's been confirmed that Paris is indeed being attacked by a supervillain. The police have been struggling to keep the situation under control" I gasped at the news. "Super Villain?" After a second I noticed a strange black box on the desk in front of me. "huh? What's this doing here?" I opened the box as a grey light came out of it making me look away and drop the box to shield my eyes. "hey!" I looked at where the greeting came from to see...a grey floating fox?!?

I was about to scream before it flew quickly at me and covered my mouth. " Don't freak out! Please! I have had enough of new holders screaming whenever seeing me for the first time!" I nodded and grabbed the little grey fox and moved it away from my face. "so, are you like a genie? Do you grant wishes? Or are you just some small animal trapped in a-" I looked at the box to see a silver bracelet with a silver paw print in the middle. "really pretty bracelet." "I met him once, so what if he grants wishes, big bore. I'm way better than that guy" I looked at the little fox shook. "a genie... Exists?!" "so your surprised that exists but not questioning mines? Wow, I'm totally not offended" I chuckled nervously while I scratched the back of my neck sheepishly. "Sorry, it's just I read a lot of fairy tales of Genies, I never knew it really did it existed" "yeah yeah, whatever. Anyways the names Alpha" "I'm-" "Y/n, I know" "How did you know-" "I'm your kwami, of course, I would know your name" "What's a kwami?" I sat back down as Alpha stood floating in front of me. "A kwami is an ancient creature that grants the holder a special power, yours is the power of balance, you balance the power of destruction and creation, making sure there aren't too much of either of them." "what can I do, specifically?" "well, you wield a staff that can split into two like the ring miraculous and can take form into any weapon you like, except you have a different special ability called moon wolf when you say the word you can go invisible for 30 seconds only." "cool!" "but! There's a downside." "bad downside or is it not that bad?" I nervously said scared I might get severely ill or maybe I might get super tired every transformation. " it's not that bad, it's just you got five minutes until you detransform after using your special ability" "oh...thats not that bad I guess" I picked up the box and took out the silver bracelet and placed it on.

"So how does this work?"

"This is your miraculous, the grey fox miraculous. Using this would change you in to your superhero outfit complete with a mask and all that pizazz"

"Cool, how do I do that?"

"Just say, "Alpha, Tails out" then bam superhero"

"Okay, Alpha!-" Alpha covered my mouth again.

"Wait! before you do that, you need a hero name"

"right, but what should I name for myself"

"how about Lady Fox, like the last holder?"

"Lady Fox? I like the sound of that"

"Okay, now you can transform"

"Great! Alpha! Tails Out!" After I transformed I looked at my body mirror in awe.

"Now to test it out" I opened my window and looked around to see if anyone's watching before I hopped off and started jump building to building. I then saw a girl in a ladybug patterned suit as well as a boy in a black leather suit, both of them in masks. tied up in a yoyo string. I smirked as I stealthy walked over to them. "I'm guessing you two are my new teammates? they looked at me surprised. the red suit girl seemed nervous while the boy looked at me excited.  

"can you help us, g-get untied?" the girl asked. I nodded and pulled the tip of the string letting them free as they fell down. The cat boy came up to me and kissed my hand to which I blushed before I hid it and took back my hand.

"Thanks, umm"

"Lady Fox, you?"

"Chat Noir, at your service M'lady"  he bowed. So he's a flirty gentleman, I'll have to watch my back with him.

"I'm Ma... err... Mar... uhh..." The red suit girl pulled on her yoyo before it landed on Chat's head making me giggle as she looked at him apologetically.  " Madly Clumsy. I'm so clumsy."

"No sweat, clumsy girl. We're learning the ropes too." I nodded to Chat's reply.

"We can't be perfect at anything first try, right?" The ground began to tremble as we saw a building fall from afar. Chat and I nodded as we used out staffs to get up the building nearby from the ground.

" Hey! Where are you two going?"

"To save Paris, right?" I yelled back before Chat and I continued running. When we got to the source of the noise we saw the stone monster chasing a guy before the guy tripped. Chat extended his staff stopping the stone monster from reaching the guy. I used my staff to land next to the guy.

"Come on" I grabbed his arm and helped him up as I swung him to safety.

"Who are you?" He asked before I winked at him with a grin.

"Lady Fox" Before any more could be said I swung away to join to battle to see stone heart throw a net at a brown-haired girl who seemed to be recording. I gasped as I threw my staff to stop it from hurting her. "Are you okay, miss?" She nodded as she gaped at me in awe. but I soon got grabbed by the stone monster as did Chat as we got squished together. I looked at him with a blush creeping up as he grinned at me awkwardly before we looked away trying to move less so as not to get closer together. Ladybug soon came and used her yoyo to throw Stone monster down getting us freed.

"Animal cruelty? How shameful!"  I grinned at Ladybug's reply as I stood next to her next to a net. "Sorry it took so long, Cat Noir, Lady Fox" I nodded and smiled.

" It's cool, Wonderbug. Now, let's kick his rocky behind!" I sighed and grabbed Chat's tail.

"Hold on, kitty. Didn't you just see? he gets bigger and stronger with every attack."

"Lady Fox is right Chat Noir. We have to do something different"  

"Different how?" Chat asked as he rubbed his tail.

" Uhhh... I don't know." I thought about a plan while Chat noir decided to get cocky.

"Okay then. Let's use our powers. Cataclysm! Apparently I destroy whatever I touch."

"Chat wait-" I tried to stop him before he touched the net. great, that was his last shot. didn't he listen to his kawami? You only get one shot or time to use special powers.

"Cool. It's just you and me now! Time to rumble, soon-to-be rubble!" I face palmed as I sighed.

"Cat Noir! Wait!" Chat Noir either didn't hear or ignored Ladybug as he leaped and touched the stone monster, thinking he could still use his powers. Seems he finally realized that as he kept touching the stone monster.

"Uh-oh. I guess I only get one shot to use my power." Chat Noir smiled sheepishly before Stone Monster threw him back at us as I quickly got out of the way as he landed on the net.

"And you only have five minutes before you transform back. Didn't your kwami explain anything to you?"

"I guess I was a little excited about my new life."  

"Well, up to me. Lucky Charm!" A suit appeared in Ladybug's hands.

"Superpower?"

" My kwami told me I have to break the object where the whatchama-call-it... er, the Akuma is hiding."  

"Well, he's made entirely out of stone." Chat's right, he is entirely out of stone, I looked closely before noticing something. but his right hand is always shut. earlier when he took me, he avoided holding me and chat in the same hand, and held us both in his left hand. in fact he's been keeping his left hand to himself the entire time, like a Russian doll.

"His right hand, it's still closed. He never opens it. It's like the Russian dolls. The object isn't on him, it's hidden in his fist!" I exclaimed Ladybug caught on and nodded.

"Lady Fox is right"

"So what's your plan?" Chat asked. I smiled and stepped back for Ladybug to do her thing.

"This." Ladybug grabbed the hose under hoe and tied it to the suit. I looked at her as I soon realized what she was going to do and I nodded as she smiled. I turned my staff into a rope as I used to grab around Chat's legs.

"Don't resist. Trust me." I spun and around and threw chat into the stone monster.

"THIS GIRL'S CRAZY!"  Ladybug then ran.

"Catch me if you can!" Ladybug jumped making stone monster drop the item to grab ladybug. "Lady Fox! Now!" I nodded as I used my power.

"Moon Wolf!" I turned invisible so that the stone monster won't be able to try to touch me as I grabbed the item, making it look for it confused as I turned on the tap filling up the suit Ladybug had. letting Ladybug go. Once I was sure she was free, I threw the stone on the groundbreaking it. As we both watched it fly away as the stone monster changed back into a boy, making Chat fall.

"This girl is awesome, Crazy awesome" The broken stone pieces I had in my hand changed back into a paper as I smiled and walked the boy. Chat walked up to me and Ladybug.

"You two were in incredible, Lady Fox, and Miss uh bug lady, you did it!" I shook my head.

"No, We did it"

"Pound it!" We all said with a smile as Chat's ring and my bracelet began to beep.

"You two should get going. Our identities must remain secret."

"Farewell, m'lady. Let's do this again soon, okay?" Chat and I began to run, in the same direction home?

"Um, you live near here?"  I said as we made it to my home.

"Uh yeah" Why isn't he moving, doesn't he have to get home.

"um, shouldn't you get home?"

"What about you? I want to make sure you get home alright"

"No need, I-" My bracelet began to beep making me get nervous. I looked around before I thought out an idea. "Bye!" I ran all the way behind the mansion as I heard his footsteps leave. Strange how we ended up in the same place. I looked to make sure if he was gone before I ran back to my window as I heard my door knock as I changed back. I quickly hid Alpha who seemed tired as I sat on the couch casually.

"Come in!" I saw Adrian as I looked at him surprised. he never really came in my room before, after we became models we rarely have time for each other as we did when we were kids, it was like we were purposely being split apart. "Adrian?"

"Hey, Y/n. Long time since I came in here huh?" Adrian smiled as he laughed a bit making me grin.

"Yeah, I missed seeing you a lot. It's like we've grown apart"

"And now I want us to be together"

"What do you mean?"

"I missed you, and I need my best friend again" I smiled as I patted a spot on the couch for him to sit which he did.

"I missed you too, blondie" Adrian chuckled.

"It feels nice to see you call me that again" I smiled teasingly.

"oh you do? pancake?"

"Okay, now I think you're getting a bit carried away with the nicknames"  

"How so? Goldie locks?"

"Y/n...." We looked at each other before we both ended up laughing. "This time, nobody is ever going to separte us, not even my father"

"Pinky promise?" I stook out my pinky as he chuckled as he locked his pinky with mine.

"Pinky promise"

"Well, we can start with a sleepover later?" Adrian nodded.

"I'll go get my things" I smiled as he walked out. Alpha came out and tired walked over to me.

"Yyyyy/nnnnn!" He whined as I rolled my eyes.

"Yes?"

"I want brownies"

"I'll get my chef to bring some" I called in a chef with the com installed in my room as he brought the brownies quickly. I thanked him as I closed the door and gave him the brownies as requested. "Happy?"

"Very" I rolled my eyes as I turned on the TV.

"These victims transformed into stone beings are still like statues. The police are perplexed to what will happen to them. Will they come back to life or be frozen in time forever?

I looked at the TV confused. More stone beings? I thought we defeated it.

"Hey Alpha, I thought we were finished with that guy, why is it still going?"

"Did you capture the Akuma?" He said as he munched on a brownie.

" What's capturing the Akuma got to do with the other stone beings?"

"An Akuma can multiply, that's why it must be captured. If the boy's emotions become negative again, then the Akuma will turn him back into Stoneheart! He'll control all the stone beings and bring them to life to serve as his army!"

"Is there anything I can do about it"

"Well usually Ladybug has to do it, but you can too. You can use your staff as a net and catch all of them. but sadly you can't this time. It's all up to Ladybug."

"I can only come in when it's out of hand huh, well i hope Ladybug is up for it too"

"Me too Y/n, Me too"

(A/n: End of part one of Origins! I hope all my miraculous fans like this chapter!)

[chadsinclair]

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[anditsxsorrows-archive]

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES !

Body.

long legs. short legs. average legs. slender thighs. toned thighs. thick thighs. muscular thighs. skinny arms. soft arms. toned arms. muscular arms. toned stomach. flat stomach. flabby stomach. soft stomach. six pack. beer belly. lean frame. slender frame. muscular frame. voluptuous frame. petite frame. lanky frame. short nails. long nails. manicured nails. dirty nails. flat butt. toned ass. bubble butt. thick butt. small waist. thick waist. narrow hips. average hips. wide hips. big feet. average feet. small feet. soft feet. slender feet. calloused feet. calloused hands. soft hands. big hands. average hands. small hands. long fingers. short fingers. average fingers. broad shoulders. underweight. average weight. overweight.

Height.

shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm to 150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. taller than 2 m.

Skin.

pale. fair. rosy. olive. dark. tanned. blotchy. smooth. acne. dry. greasy. freckled. scarred.

Eyes.

small. large. average. grey. silver. brown. black. blue. red. green. gold amber. hazel. violet. doe-eyed. almond. close - set. wide - set. squinty. monolid. heavy eyelids. upturned. downturned.

Hair.

thin. thick. fine. normal. greasy. dry. soft. shiny. scruffy. frizzy. curly. wild. unruly. straight. smooth. wavy. floppy. cropped. pixie-cut. short. shoulder length. back length. waist length. floor length. buzz cut. bald. jaw length. vermilion. mohawk. white. platinum blonde. golden blonde. dirty blonde. ombre. light brown. mouse brown. chestnut brown. golden brown. chocolate brown. dark brown. jet black. ginger. auburn. dyed red. dyed any unnatural color. streaked. thin bleached eyebrows. average eyebrows. thick eyebrows.

Tattoos / Piercings.

full sleeve. arm tattoo. thigh tattoo. shin tattoo. wrist tattoo. lower back tattoo. hand / finger tattoo. foot tattoo. neck tattoo. face tattoo. chest tattoo. shoulder tattoo. two tattoos. a few here and there. multiple. no tattoos. monroe piercing. nose piercing (bridge). septum piercing. nipple piercing( s ). genital piercing( s ). industrial piercing( s ). earlobe piercing( s ). prince albert piercing. eyebrow piercing( s ). tongue piercing. lip piercing( s ). tragus piercing. angel bites. labret. stretches out ears. navel piercing. inverse navel piercing. cheek piercing( s ). smiley. nape piercing( s ). no piercings.

Cosmetics.

light eyeliner. heavy eyeliner. cat eyes. mascara. fake eyelashes. matte lipstick. regular lipstick. lip gloss. red lips. pink lips. dark lips. bronzer. highlighter. eyeshadow. neutral eyeshadow. smoky eyes. colorful eyeshadow. blush. lipliner. light contouring. heavy contouring. powder. matte foundation. shiny foundation. concealer. wears make up regularly. wears makeup from time to time / now and then. rarely wears make-up. never wears makeup.

Scent.

floral. fruity. perfumes. colognes. aftershave. cocoa. moisturizer. natural soap. shampoo. cigarettes. leather. sweat. food. incense. marijuana. whiskey. wine. fried food. blood. fire. metal. rain. grass. ocean. autumn leaves. baked bread. freshly baked cookies. smoke. campfire. lavender. trees. pumpkin pie. rose. gingerbread. peppermint. oak. honey. lemon. vanilla. coffee cake. mint. rawhide. chemicals. essential oils.

Clothes.

jeans. tight pants. dress pants. overknee socks. tights. leggings. yoga pants. pencil skirt. tight skirt. loose skirt. tight / form - fitting dress. cardigans. blouse. button up shirt. band t-shirt. sports t-shirt. sweatpants. tanktop. cut off t-shirt. designer. high street. online stores. thrift. lingerie. long skirt. miniskirt. maxidress. sun dress. tie. tuxedo. cocktail dress. highslit dress /  skirt. t-shirt. loose clothing. tight / fitted clothing. jean shorts. sweater. sweater vest. overcoat. khaki pants. suit. hoodie. harem pants. basketball shorts. boxers. briefs. boxer - briefs. thong. hot pants. hipster panties. bra. sports bra. crop top. corset. ballerina skirt. leotard. polka dot. stripes. glitter. silk. lace. leather. velvet. chemise. patterns. florals. neon colors. pastels. plaid. black. dark colors. fur. faux fur.

Shoes.

sneakers. slip-ons. flats. slippers. dress shoes. sandals. high heels. kitten heels. ankle boots. combat boots. cowboy boots. knee - high boots. platforms. stripper heels. bare feet. loafers.

Tagged by: @wildpawed​ Tagging: @amongthcwreck​ @badasshybridqueen​ @seesgood​ @astormofagirl​ @amurderbutnotacrime​ @helreginn​ @wiickedmagic​ @dissolvedshadows​ @fcmilysacrificed​ @inexhaustiblywild​