#here's a proper drabble for it

[blackjackkent]

It doesn't feel real, truly.

Hector never considered himself a lonely man. The concept didn't really have meaning at the monastery; nobody was alone and yet everybody was, all of them existing primarily inside their own heads in worship or philosophy or study. If no one held him or spoke softly to him, caressed him or asked after him or loved him, what did that matter? He had the life of the mind and the history of the whole world to occupy him; he had the warmth of Selune's gaze in the moonlight outside the window of his bedroom cell.

That was before. Now... everything is different.

There was no one like Karlach at the monastery. Karlach is immediate and real, all flesh and blood and bone and fire. He loves her as he has never loved anyone before, but sometimes it feels as if he does not know how, as if he is learning, over and over again, what it means to live in his body, to feel things so deeply with his flesh and his heart as well as his mind.

It doesn't feel real - to have someone who will touch him, who wants to feel the soft give of his skin or the rough stubble of his beard. She is always touching him, desperate for it after ten years of denial. When they stop for a break on the road, her hand always finds its way to his arm, his back, over his shoulders, her fingertips ruffling the hair at the base of his neck. Where her touch moves, it leaves trails of heat on his skin and makes his heart race. She explores him with her hands as if she wants to map out every part of him, as if she thinks he is a gift and she can't believe her luck.

It doesn't feel real - to kiss and to be kissed, to need and be needed. He can roll over at night and press his lips to hers and even in her sleep she will smile against his mouth. After a life of isolation it feels decadent - no, illicit - to be able to simply ask for a kiss from someone he loves and know that it is there for the taking.

It doesn't feel real - to be held. Karlach's arms are warm and all-encompassing. In her embrace he is safe and the rest of the world, with all its trials and threats, does not exist. He smells the scent of her - heated metal and sweat and something sweeter like wine - and it seems impossible that all of her should be his, and more importantly, that all of him should be hers.

And it hurts. He does not know how to explain it. He loves her and she touches him and it is good and wonderful and it hurts, as if she is reaching deep into his chest and adjusting his heart until it fits into place properly under his ribs. It aches like frozen flesh brought into warmth for the first time, the straining and stretching feeling of a cramped limb uncurling itself. It is so good and it hurts...

And it hurts all the more because he knows that it cannot last. That same heat that warms him in her embrace will consume her at last and take her from him, as surely as the moon rises and sets.

------

"You 'wake, Hec?" she mumbles to him one night.

He is curled into her arms, his eyes open in the darkness, fixed on the curving point where her neck meets her collarbone as if fixing every line of muscle into his memory. That soft ache rolls and rolls in his chest and twists sharply upward at the sound of her voice.

"Yes," he murmurs back.

"Wha's'a matter?" She presses her face into his hair.

He smiles. He does not know how to tell her that sometimes he cannot sleep for how much he loves her. He has no idea how to explain that the feelings she wakes in him are beyond anything he was ever equipped to bear.

"Nothing," he says softly. "Nothing... you're perfect... that's all..."

[magnusbae]

Hi! What about "Can you stay with me?" (and if you'd like it my bonus prompt is "drunk") 💗

The initial draft was written while I was quite literally fainting late at night & the second one fully rewritten while I am dazed and out of it. I would say that I was method writing Obi-Wan who is indeed very much drunk in this one, dearest anon. Thank you for the prompt~ 😊💖

+++

Obikin || 4,004w || Drunk Obi-Wan is agonized by the prospect of his freshly knighted Padawan leaving him behind— and more. 😌 Some flavors of gentle lime in this drink, very light, very sweet. 🍋💖

▾▾▾

"Can you stay with me?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi sounds properly pathetic and he knows it. Grasping at Anakin’s Tabards as he is, mind swirling in hazy circles around the notion he was doing his very best to avoid thinking about for the past few months. It is not long now that Anakin would look at his Master and see him for what he really was. Perhaps even today. Inebriated as he is, he makes for a good serving of disillusionment. All Anakin needs to do is look, and see, and then…

It seems inevitable—his Padawan will leave.

Former Padawan. Anakin is no longer his Padawan, and that is the heart of it, isn’t it? The severed braid was the firs step. Them having each a battalion of their own, stationed light years away from each other with only the occasional joint mission, a second. The third and final step would be for Anakin to finally open his eyes and look, and see.

It won’t be hard to unveil the carefully crafted Jedi Master facade Obi-Wan had cultivated for the past decade. No, it won’t be hard at all. If Anakin were to stop glorifying him, stop shaping him to be what ever form of idol he had needed for while growing up, if only he were to take an unbiased look at him…

There will no longer be, Kenobi and Skywalker.

For the naked truth was, Anakin had outgrown him, had become more powerful and capable than his Master. There’s little left that Obi-Wan could still offer, still teach. He should be proud. The only one still refusing to see it, is Anakin himself. Once that revelation comes to pass however, it will be complete. A true break, as befitting the Jedi way. Obi-Wan finds no peace in the thought, no completion nor satisfaction in the successful completion of his Padawan’s training—a symbol of his own Mastery.

Not when it means losing him. Not then.

Given his state of drunkenness, words slurred and feet unsteady, he thinks that it’s worth putting to question whatever or not he was a good Jedi at all, least of all a Master. Try as he might, he finds it hard to ponder further. His choice to look inward is as always an avoidance, an escape. An easy detour from looking outward, from looking at Anakin. Anakin who’s eyes he can feel like a physical touch, boring into his very soul.

Obi-Wan’s avoidance is nearly as strong as Anakin’s natural magnetism. One is counseling him to avoid looking, save himself the pain of witnessing the exact moment in which the realization dawns upon the boy. The second, stronger still, demands his undivided attention on him, demands him to look. Demands him. 

Obi-Wan looks up, he meets those eyes, his demise.

Anakin’s eyes widen and he blinks, endless blue clearing as if coming out of some sort of shock.

“Can I—” Anakin splutters “—Obi-Wan, even if the council explicitly ordered me to go save the entire karkin universe just now, I wouldn’t be leaving your side— stars you’ve any idea what you look like right now?

Obi-Wan’s tongue is heavy but he parts his lips to answer, something clever to be sure, he always finds something to say.

“No, never mind.” Anakin cuts in before he could speak. There’s such decisiveness in his tone, such confidence. His former Padawan stands tall, his arms are strong and sure as he handles Obi-Wan closer, making him lean more of his weight against his chest. It’s broad and firm. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things, should not be aware of those things. It is a further evidence that his Padawan is well and truly grown. Further evidence of his own failing as a Jedi, as a Master, as a…man. Obi-Wan should not be inhaling and smelling home. Should not be leaning closer, itching all over for more, more.

“You’re so wasted that I am surprised you’ve even recognized me at all.” Anakin continues talking, as if the universe is not shifting beneath Obi-Wan’s feet as it is him who finally looks with his gaze unbiased. “The drunken messages though, those you will be seeing tomorrow” there’s dark mirth in that dear voice. “I bet you wanted to send them to— someone else.” Anakin glances at him, eyes narrowed.

Obi-Wan’s offenses at Anakin’s assumption he could ever not recognize him dies over under his gaze, dark and rich, his eyes are captivating. Before Anakin, he did not know that a blue can hold such multitudes. Both the clear morning sky, and the moon lit sky. Beautiful. They loosens his tongue as well as any truth serum would. That or the bottle he had finished on his own finally soaked through.

“I will always—”  His voice comes out so thick that he coughs, starting Anakin from his dark contemplations, whichever those might be. His eyebrows furrow and he quickly snatches a cup of something clear off of a passing robo-waitress’s tray. Irritated with the distraction, Obi-Wan accepts it and drinks if only to make way for the words to follow. He will not let it go. Not now that he’d started. “I will always recognize you, Padawan Mine, drugged, beaten, or otherwise preoccupied— I will always—” “Drugged?!” Anakin cuts in again, arms tightening around Obi-Wan and strangling the annoyed huff at being cut again “You did not mention anything about being drugged, what the kark’ Obi-Wan?!”

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry, similar to how being drugged would feel. His mind swims and all he sees is Anakin. There’s warmth in his chest, there’s a burn in his gut, there’s a tug in his— 

“It’s hard to tell” he says sheepishly, embarrassed, eyes straying away from Anakin’s strong jaw and up, up to the lights on the ceiling. He should not be thinking of how Anakin’s proximity is enough to replicate a strong drug. How out of orbit he feels around him as of late. “They all start the same, so…” 

Anakin is hardly listening. Instead he is surveying the club with a look of fury that is bordering on homicidal, freeing one hand to rest it on his lightsaber. There’s the distinct feeling of Anakin stretching his force signature out, covering the room, no doubt attempting to locate anyone within their proximity who might have dared drug his former Master. Oh if only he knew that he was the culprit all along. 

Obi-Wan snorts, finding an odd sense of humor in it.

Anakin’s gaze darts back to him, sharp and accusing. He looks so handsome under the colorful, dim lights. He looks so… 

“Ah-nakin.” Obi-Wan sighs out and shuts his eyes lest his spinning head forces him to sober up in the most un-jedi manner.  

“Stay with me,” the request comes so easy, what was it that he was so afraid of? It’s so easy, too easy. Frighteningly so, to reach and touch Anakin’s forearm. There’s skin beneath his touch, warm and human, tense muscles beneath. “Ah” Obi-Wan sighs out in realization. Anakin had rolled the sleeves, so very unofficial for a Jedi and yet so very Anakin of him.

Master Windu would have hated it. It wouldn’t surprise Obi-Wan if this was exact reason why Anakin did it to begin with, after all, he was most adept to handling heat and was not bothered by it even while all else were. Obi-Wan really should have reprimanded the boy more often, should have stopped Anakin from executing all those harmless little vendettas of his while growing up.

If only he did not find them to be so endearing, so amusing. If only he was a better Master, a proper Master. He would have. 

His brain is foggy and he had already forgotten what was it it that he had hoped to achieve by touching Anakin, only that his fingers are circling his wrist and touching the spot at which he can feel his life pulsing. What a terrible habit it is, being intoxicated while negotiating. You should only ever drink enough to appear drunk, never more. How is he to get what he wants, when he has no ideas what it was? 

Obi-Wan’s eyelids are heavy when he tries to blink them open and focus on Anakin. There’s the signature frown, so familiar Obi-Wan can’t help but smile. Anakin is chewing his lips, a compulsion he had never managed to rid himself of. He looks torn between the need to locate and deal with the ‘enemy’, and…. Obi-Wan. 

The way Anakin looks, that should not be reminiscent of the targets Obi-Wan opts for charm as the main form of negotiation with. Should not stir the excitement of a hunt, of a game to be won. Obi-Wan should not use his looks to achieve his goals, he should not use them to get what he wants, he should be a better man than that.

Obi-wan is not a better man. 

Licking his own dry lips, he let’s go off of Anakin’s wrist and reaches for Anakin’s cheeks. There’s a tremble in the touch, his, Anakin’s? He is not certain. 

“Dear One, you can chase your enemies tomorrow.” He speaks in a hushed murmur, he hopes he sounds soft and alluring “Tonight, will you guard this drunk Master of yours?” he looks up, through his lashes, breathing shallowly, feeling hot, hot, hot all over. 

Anakin let’s go off of the lightsaber. It’s an answer enough to what he had picked. It still is deeply gratifying to feel the boy’s hand cover his own, guide it until he wraps his arm around Anakin’s shoulders. It’s an awkward angle, with Anakin being taller than he— he cares very little for it when Anakin wraps an arm around his waist. 

“Let’s go.” He is tight lipped and determined, guiding Obi-Wan out and into a speeder that is parked not far off. If Obi-Wan was even slightly more aware, he’d realize just how much attention the pair of them had draw, how all of the eyes had followed them out. Sometimes he forgets, how famous they had become during this accursed war. Sometimes, he is glad to not remember. 

Anakin is terribly efficient at getting them to the Temple. One blink of an eye they’re flying through the busy highways of Coruscant, the next he is tossed unceremoniously onto a bed that feels and smells familiar. His bed.

They’re in his quarters. Their quarters until very recently. He is breathing harder and he does not dare to think of why. If he does not think, it does not exist. He is self aware enough only to feel how disheveled his robes feel on his body, how messy his hair is, how hot his skin feels all over. He is a mess. 

“Dear one?” he questions. He refuses to acknowledge how his own tone drops, refuses to admit he is rolling his vowels in a way he knows thickens his accent in the most attractive of ways. He doesn’t know why he is flirting with Anakin Skywalker when the boy is barely out of his knighthood and is Anakin. His Anakin, his Anakin on whom he just looked in a way he really should not be looking at, through his eyelashes, with a heavy, wanting gaze. 

The redness of Anakin’s cheeks is evidence enough that he hears and understands the situation well enough. That he is very much aware of what his Master is doing. That he is… perhaps affected. 

Obi-Wan swallows, trying to push himself up to his elbows. He needs to sober up, he must tell him that he is merely jesting, that it is all a little tease, a little laugh, nothing more, just….

Anakin cuts him to it. Before he can excuse, or joke, or explain.

“Not while you’re drunk.” Anakin bites, sounding frustrated, lips swollen red from biting. Obi-Wan startles, surprised. 

What did Anakin just say? Imply?

Blatantly threw straight into his face, more like. 

Yes, but not while he is drunk.

Absurdly, a swell of pride fills his chest to the brim. Anakin’s manners and chivalry surprises him, pleases him. He had raised him well after all, he did not fail him, at least not in this.

His pleasure must bleed into the Force as Anakin regards him with a dark, baffled look. It’s so dark, most would find it intimidating, but for Obi-Wan it’s… dear. He can see the gentleness in that look, the care. There’s warmth in the force when Anakin insist on tucking him in, fingers methodical in the short, careful gestures. Tucking him in as if he was a child. Him, his Master. Former. 

Obi-Wan was tucked in only once in his lifetime, at least as far as he can remember. His first night in the Jedi Temple. So tense he was, so out of his depth, that the he was taken pity of, tucked in with a quiet promise of everything making sense soon. It helped.

It had never happen again. 

“Ahnakin.” he tries to protest, tries to pull a face of offended indigence. It’s hard to do when he is practically shining within the force. A single look from his apprentice is enough to quiet him down. 

“Master.” Anakin replies, and there’s a little eyeroll there. His cheeks are still flushed but he seems as determined as Obi-Wan to not address the Bantha in the room. “You really should be more careful” he lectures him in a way Obi-Wan can distinctly remember doing a few years back, when Anakin had gotten drunk for the first time. 

He leaves then, without a word. Obi-Wan’s throat closes and there’s a pang of pain in his heart. No this. He remembers now. Him. Leaving. That was the whole reason, that was why—

“Master?” Anakin sounds concerned, a glass of water and a container of what looks to be painkillers in his hands. “Are you sick?” a few strides and he is by Obi-Wan’s bed again, placing he glass and container at the bedside table. He looks well and truly worried. 

Unthinking, Obi-Wan sits up. So sudden that he does feel sick from the motion. He ignores it. He reaches for Anakin’s face with both hands, cupping his cheeks with a grip that is too strong, too desperate. A Jedi should not hold onto things with such fervor. 

All it takes for him to lean is to Anakin, is to stop resisting if only for a moment. Anakin’s pull was always there, stronger and stronger until it had become a daily challenge to ignore it, to pretend he does not feel it. All it takes is to stop resisting and his lips find Anakin’s, pressing against that plush softness, inhaling his exhale and finally, finally feeling anchored, inside the orbit he was always meant to circle.

He tilts his chin, leans in, knowing his beard will scratch pleasantly against the smooth jaw, kisses in deeper—

“Mahster—!” Anakin gasps into the kiss, a pang of shock and uncertainty clouding the force around them, sipping through the open nerves of their broken bond.  He does not want to take advantage of his Master, does not want him to end up hating him, does not want him to wake up and be disgusted, appalled— but he wants, he wants so badly. 

“Oh, Anakin.” Obi-Wan breathes out, unsure if it’s endearment of relief that fills him up with warmth, with lightness. One thing he is certain of, no one had ever been, or will be, as sweet, as kind, as dear as Anakin is to him. “I could never hate him.” There’s a drunken lisp to his voice, he needs a moment to correct himself. “You.” He manages, meeting Anakin’s eyes and not blinking, not wanting to miss a single moment. Wanting to see the exact moment in which Anakin realizes he is serious, that he is the most honest he’s been in years. 

Anakin seems to be realizing it too, his eyes widening and cheeks coloring a deeper red than before, he bites his lip.

“I might be…” Obi-Wan’s gaze drops to Anakin’s lips and he thinks about… “intoxicated…” he forces himself to look up, away from temptation, away from sin. “Drugged, possibly.” He is still not fully certain if he is, or it truly is just Anakin with a touch of alcohol. “But I am very much aware that…” he smiles before completing the sentence, it widens so much further with the words to come “…my Padawan simply cannot take advantage of his Master…” there’s really no need to be using this many terms of belonging, especially when they are outdated and irrelevant, but he just cannot… “On the contrary, I am the one who should be deeply ashamed for…mnnn-” 

Anakin’s lips quiet him up, he was never a patient listener, never could hear his Master finish a thought. This is the most effective he had ever been at cutting Obi-Wan’s line of thought, by far. He kisses him in a way Obi-Wan would have never guessed him capable of— it’s soft, sweet, patient. A tender thing, careful, loving. Obi-Wan gasps. Thinking, dazedly of how Anakin will grow to be an amazing lover, so attentive, a beast holding back his fangs in favor of gentle lips… 

The thought sets a burning coil of arousal deep in Obi-Wan’s gut.

Not good. Beyond not good. He should…. 

The thought is present and yet he licks at Anakin’s lips, asking for permission. He is granted one without resistance, without hesitance. Anakin’s lips part and he can taste him and oh, oh. Obi-Wan groans, muscles tensing as he shifts to sit straighter, moving a hand to Anakin’s nape and pulling him closer.

He nearly chokes when the boy sucks on his tongue, arousal shocking him into near soberness. 

“Anakin…” he knows, there’s not enough alcohol in the universe to convince him that this is not going too far, he knows and yet… 

He kisses Anakin again, a little hungrier, a little more wanting.

He must stop this madness. To think that he had started it, to think that he had taken advantage of his trusting, sweet—

“No, Master.” Anakin answers, and Obi-Wan wonders just how much of his shields is truly left if his thoughts can be read so easily, so plainly. “You’ve asked me to stay, and I will stay.” That assuredness is back, firm and leaving no space for argument. This is the same man who leads men on a battlefield, who commands, who leads. Obi-Wan finds it impossibly, undeniably, devastatingly attractive.

“You will sleep.” Anakin decides then, tearing his eyes away from Obi-Wan long enough to gesture at the lights, turning them off with the force. “And I will stay with you.” His eyes land back to Obi-Wan, dark mirth dancing in what Obi-Wan can still see of him. “To keep you safe, Master.” He is teasing him, the little devil.

“How will it even…” Obi-Wan doesn’t want to mention how narrow the bed really is, Anakin would know, with his constant complaints about how leg room and… 

“Don’t worry about that.” Anakin answers, confidence so cocky, so boyish that Obi-Wan huffs a surprised laughter, breaking into giggling when Anakin practically falls on top of him. They struggle like that, laughter mixing, limbs tangling, hair in a mouth and fingers against sides— Anakin captures him then, they’re on their sides, Anakin’s back is firm as he pulls Obi-Wan all the way to himself, forming….

“Absolutely not!” Obi-Wan’s voice raises and breaks a little, attempting to wriggle out of the trap he inadvertently fell into. There’s still some pride life in him. He will not permit this Jedi Knight, his former Padawan no less, big spoon him, 16 years his senior and former Master. Force be his witness, he will not allow it.

Anakin makes a suffering, exasperated exhale when Obi-Wan manages to slip out of his grip— only to be yanked back by the force. All he manages is a choked gasp of protest before the air is knocked out of him, his back hitting a firm chest a little too hard. There’s a vindictive sort of satisfaction in hearing Anakin chokes out a surprised exhale too, clearly, he did not account for the impact being this strong.

“Karkin’ hell…” he hears the boy muttering and snorts out, laughing even while Anakin wraps his mechno-arm around him, pulling him back into the not-as-offensive as before little spoon position. Fine, he thinks. He’ll allow it, just for this one night…. 

His eyes close and he shudders when Anakin’s nose press against his nape, he can feel the slow, deep inhale— can feel the content exhale that follows. 

“Finally.” Anakin breathes out, as if he was waiting for this moment longer than the few minutes  just now. Like he needed it, himself. Like it was not Obi-Wan, pathetic and alone, messaging his former Padawan while drunk beyond reason that led him here, but his own needs, own wants. Like he needed this too, him. Like he needs him. Obi-Wan. 

“Oh Force…” Obi-Wan calls upon it without realizing, without meaning it. Only the force can stand witness to this moment, judge it, measure it. Guide him, tell him right from wrong. “Force.” His voice trembles with it, realizing for the first time that Anakin does see him, in truth, does and still…

“It’s fine with it.” Anakin remarks, nonchalant, amusement coloring the timbre of his voice. “You don’t have to shout at her, I don’t think she like it very much” Anakin refers to the Force differently every time, Obi-Wan suspects he does it simply for the joy of throwing off the younglings.

It unsettles Obi-Wan as well, he will not admit that much, though. Anakin’s connection with the force was always stronger, always different than anyone else’s. If he’s saying that the Force is not finding this offensive…. Obi-Wan will trust him. Anakin enjoys messing around at times, stretching the truth about how the Force works, but he’d never lie about this, not to him. 

Obi-Wan’s body relaxes so completely that he practically sags into Anakin, relief, so much relief. It feels…. Good. There’s rightness to it that even without the Force humming pleasantly in his ears, he’d recognize. Like sharing a sleeping cot in the war zones, minus the blood and gore and pain… it feels secure, it feels…good…. 

He feels himself being lulled to what he suspects will be a long and restful sleep. Such a luxury as of late. “Mnh..” He jolts a little when a hand moves across his side, resting at his hip bone and then back up to his side. He should not permit Anakin this much leeway with him and yet…. He likes it… oh he likes it.

So he doesn’t comment it, allowing him to continue, to stroke him and care for him, and hold him. He is not leaving. 

Sleep comes ease, as easy as an inhale. One moment he is aware of all that surrounds him, the scent and warmth, the weight and touch. The next he is sinking into the open embrace of rest. Distantly, he feels the touch of a Force Signature he knows as well as his own. It is the only half of it, after all. Accepting it, is as easy as breathing too. 

There’s a distant shift, even in sleep he can feel the bond snapping back into place, like moons falling into a familiar route, circling a singular sun. Maybe it was not Anakin who was the sun around which Obi-wan was revolving all along, but their shared….

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.

[rodolfoparras]

Thinking about how Alejandro is the type to tease you for your weapon of choice.

You’re at a table assembling your weapon when you feel the colonel peering over your shoulder “is that what you’re going with today eh?” You state your reasons for picking it and he says things like “hey I’m not judging yeah?”, “aha I’m sure it’s a good choice” but he says it in a tone that sounds a bit too playful and you don’t have to turn around to know he’s got a shit eating grin on his face.

But the second you leave your weapon unattended he’s making sure the weapon is operational for the mission, counting and recounting the bullets, checking for anything that could potentially go wrong and put you in harms way. When you come back to the table you have a suspicious look on your face, wondering what the colonel could have been doing with your weapon while you weren’t there. By then he’s back to acting all playful and innocent, hands in the air with a mischievous smile on his face.

[giftplane]

On conversations with The Universe

Or, receiving advice you'd rather not follow. Not if you don't have to.

[ A small thing, a conversation I envisioned this morning. Minor, minor spoilers, but nothing major. You know what Siffrin's getting up to. I don't know what I'm doing. ]

The Favor Tree.

Siffrin had been here a couple of times, since he’d gotten to Dormont. Not every time he looped, but whenever he needed to to back to the village, he would come over. It was, in part, because he had to - because they knew Isabeau was always there, and he had to find him to sent him off (and to wonder, why does he do that hand thing…) - but…

It was also a reprieve, to Siffrin.

Because here, things didn’t feel… Stagnant. Because there was at least one person who-

“Hello, Stardust~!” There was a call as he drew close enough to the tree to sit down. “Your Fighter, he went on his merry way, correct?”

“Mhm.” Siffrin nodded. “But you wouldn’t have called to me like that if you didn’t know. He would’ve heard you.”

Loop’s expression was unchanging as they seemed to pause. “...I suppose that’s true. Anyways, dear Stardust, how can I help you this loop~?”

Jumping into it, are they? Siffrin had to admit they were always a little unprepared, when the conversation began. Maybe, with time, he’d be used to it. He mulled over what to talk about, before he shifted on the root he’d taken a seat on. “...Let’s just talk about something, I guess.”

“Of course! Let me see, let me see…” Loop seemed to smile at this, pausing to think over what to discuss. In these pauses, Siffrin caught himself thinking about Loop. The inflection of their voice was familiar, but they couldn’t exactly place why… All they could grab at was that it was familiar to them.. Before they could try to figure out anything else, they were cut off.

“So! Stardust, let’s see…” Loop gave a hum. “So, I’ve noticed you’ve been asking your party for less and less help when you get into battles. Why is that?”

Oh great, it’s a conversation about you! Siffrin startled, just a little. “Y-You… You noticed?”

“Of course, Stardust!” Loop replied. “I like to keep my eye on you, you know. But you’ve been doing most of the heavy lifting in your battles.”

“Isn’t it obvious why, Loop?” Siffrin mumbled as he hid a bit of his face in his cloak. “You’ve probably noticed, haven’t you? I loop, but I remember everything, so all of the experience and battling I’ve done doesn’t disappear. But for everyone else…”

“So you feel like you’re overpowered, compared to the rest of your party?” Loop asked, and Siffrin nodded.

“If we want to get through the House again, to try to kill the King again, shouldn’t--”

“Stardust, why don’t you tell your party?” Loop asked, almost puzzled. “Or at least, ask them for more help in your fights.”

“Loop, I don’t..” He seemed to find it a bit difficult to place his words. “They can’t find out, Loop. I was given this power for something, so wouldn’t it be best if they just didn’t know? They can’t know, especially not..”

Especially not Odile. She seems to know everything, so she could probably figure me out, and then..

He felt a twinge in his stomach as he thought it over, but he was startled back to the present by Loop seeming to clear their throat.

“And you think doing all of the work is ‘less obvious’ than just asking them for help?” Loop asked. “Stardust..”

Oh, Stars. He took a sharp breath. He supposed they were right, but he knew, he knew they needed to get through the House as fast as they could manage. He needed to convince them, at the same time, though; anything more obvious than being more skilled in the situation they were all in would get him found out, and that was the thing he wanted the least.

“I.. suppose, I could slow it down a bit.” He mumbled into the hem of his cloak. It was almost a surprise that Loop even heard him.

“Delightful, Stardust! After all, you wouldn’t want to overwork yourself, either.” They cupped their hands together. “You need to be the best you can be to fight the King!”

“Of course.” Siffrin replied. The best that they could be, huh..? Perhaps they could play the part, at least for now. They didn’t want to worry their friends by being more weird, than they already seemed to be.

Of course, that was if they decided they wanted to follow Loop’s advice at all; while they were a genuine help in finding out what to do, the matter of the House felt much, much more pressing than slowing himself down. He supposed he would make the decision on following it when he got to the House, tomorrow, to go through it again to try and get at the King. He’d just have to wait and see.

Oh, Stars. You know how this one goes. 

[universestreasures]

The Lockets (Drabble)

Expansion/Spin Off From This Thread With @shacchou (Hope you like this Ani <3)

The young boy didn't expect her to come, if he's being honest. Since Gozaboru Kaiba passed away, Mokuba had cut off all contact with Lady Suzuha. It wasn't because he was grieving over the abusive man. No, it was because his focus had...shifted. He didn't want her to see him like this, to see him do what he thought he had to in order to regain what he lost...

His big brother's love...

Now that the puzzle of his big brother's heart had been broken due to the Penalty Game he suffered at Yugi Muto's hands, and his brother left in a coma for weeks now, everything had shifted. Mokuba was starting to act like himself again, as if he too had been consumed by the demon of games just like his older brother for the last half of a year. That was why he reached out to, really, his closest friend, to one of the only good things that being adopted by his stepfather had given him. And thankfully, she responded and hurried over quickly, overwhelmed with concern and worry herself after having heard the news about his brother's condition.

The two were in one of the many living spaces inside the mansion, arts and craft supplies spread all over the massive table in the middle. The two children often did this activity when they met up, this time being no different. He had something specific in mind that he wanted to do, something that had his immediate focus as he worked diligently on his project.

"M-Mokuba, dear?" The voice of the young lady pulled the youngest Kaiba out of his focus, purple hues staring at hers that could be seen above her signature pink fan. "Are you sure...this is what you called me over for? I-I mean, making arts and crafts with you is certainly a delight and one I rather missed. However, considering...recent events, I...I thought...I thought you called me over so that you could...have a trusted ear to talk about what happened..."

Her inquiry causes him to freeze in place, almost dropping the rope he had been working with. He should have figured this would happen. His friend was rather perceptive, not that Mokuba was any good at hiding his emotions to begin with. Unlike his older brother, he wore his heart on his sleeve for all to see, and she had seen right through him.

"I...I..."

"It's alright if you'd rather not discuss it. I...I know things are hard for you as it is right now. I simply wanted to express my own thoughts. If you simply want my company as we make artistic creations together like we always do, then that is alright. I am here for you today. No one else."

"...Thanks, Suzuha." Mokuba gives her a weak smile. He appreciates her understanding. It was true he did want to talk about it, but...not right now. Not when he had something he needed to finish first and his own thoughts and feelings together.

The room is filled again with silence as the two return to their work. While he worked on his project, she seemed to be painting a tea set of some sort. Perhaps it was a gift for Lord Amanosuzu. If that was the case, then they both had a similar idea in terms of what the purpose of making their crafts was.

As soon as he is about to put the finishing touches on his twin creations, he looks up as he notices Suzuha had gotten out of her chair and was above his shoulder, examining his work closely. "My, my! These are quite lovely, Mokuba dear! Are these for...you and your brother?"

"That's the idea...but I'm not sure if he will-" His words are cut short by the gentle gloved hand of the older young lady being placed on his shoulder, Suzuha's reassuring smile providing a comfort he had been lacking in his life for so long now; the smile of someone who cared about him deeply.

"Of course, he will like it! No, he'll love it! It's a handmade gift from you, his dear little brother! What sibling wouldn't adore such a thing filled with one's true feelings of brotherly love?"

"L-Love...?"

The word sounded so foreign escaping his lips, as if it was the first time he'd ever heard such a concept. His brother had told him brotherly love was a waste, something that only held one back. Those words stuck with him, even as he desperately tried anything and everything to get it from the older Kaiba since his spiral. That's why he had doubted even doing this in the first place, but yet he persisted anyway, creating something with his whole heart that was broken into many pieces by the events that had transpired.

Seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same, huh?

Before he can continue his response, he and she are both directed to the door. It then opens, revealing both one of the mansion staff and someone that caused both Suzuha and Mokuba's eyes to widen in surprise.

"Master Mokuba, Sorry to interrupt, but Officer Ryuenji is here to see you."

"Hey. Sorry for dropping in like this. I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright, Mokuba."

Before Mokuba can attempt to comment on the other's words, the ruby hues of the other focus on the other individual in the room. A hand goes over Tasuku chest as Mokuba watches him do a slight bow, like a prince would greeting a princess. "Lady Suzuha? Is that you? What a surprise! I did not expect to see you here today. I was not aware you and Mokuba knew each other."

"O-Oh! Y-Yes!" Mokuba's eyes widen just a bit at the sudden stammering in her voice, something he has never seen before from his friend. Suzuha whips out her fan, quickly covering the light blush forming in her cheeks with it. "We've been friends for years, T-Tasuku! Our fathers...were acquainted, and that's how we got introduced. My being here today is just one of many I've had with Mokuba dear over the years. I was not aware you were acquainted with him as well, but considering the celebrity that you are, I guess it's no surprise."

Mokuba and Tasuku both take a sigh of relief at her conclusion,both seemingly deciding to go along with it. Considering all the work Tasuku and the Buddy Police had done to keep the Death-T incident from going public, Suzuha becoming privy to it would put that in jeopardy. Not only that, Mokuba didn't want his friend to know his part of it, a part he felt like he had to do as a last-ditch effort to get the older Kaiba's attention at the time.

"Thanks for coming to check on me, Officer Ryuenji. I appreciate it."

"Please, just call me Tasuku. I think you and I are well acquainted enough to not speak so formally to one another."

Tasuku then took a seat, watching the two go back to their crafts as he did not want to intrude it seemed. It was a new thing for Mokuba to have 'friends over' like this, people who actively wanted to see him and were not trying to get anything out of him. It was...nice.

Was this...the feeling that comes from true friendship and unity with others? The very thing that Yugi seemed to have harnessed to beat his brother?

Mokuba then picks up the last part, the last piece, to his creation, the one item from the past he's treasured and preserved throughout the years. It was something he had clung to, a spark of hope he always held onto despite the darkness that came into his life. It was important to him, more than anyone including his brother, knew..until today that is.

"Mokuba? Is that...?" Tasuku questions, looking over along with Suzuha at the item the youngest in the room now held in his hands.

"Mhmm...It's an old picture of me and Seto before we were adopted by Gozaboru. We looked pretty different back then, huh?"

"You look the same to me, dear Mokuba. It is your brother who is the different one here. I..I have never seen Seto Kaiba...smile with such heart before. Not even during events we've both attended or any promotions I've seen. It's... polarizing, to put it mildly."

"Yeah...It was...a different time, a time before...all of this. That's why this picture is very dear to me, probably the most important thing I own now. And..."

Mokuba begins to do the unthinkable next, slowly starting to rip the photograph in two. His actions shock the other two in the room, both almost going to say something before he continues on and starts to place half of the picture into one of the lockets, precisely the half of the photograph he is featured in.

"I'm going to share it with him, share with Seto my most treasured memory, so that he will...come back to me someday."

Once he finishes the process with the other locket, the boy moves to leave the room, telling his guests he needs to do something. With that, he runs down the long corridors of the Kaiba Mansion, not stopping until he reaches the most guarded part of the house: his brother's chambers.

The maid moves aside to let him in, bringing Mokuba face-to-face with his brother for the first time in weeks. Just looking at him like this, in a coma and stuck in a wheelchair like a lifeless husk, pained him like nothing else. However, he pressed forward anyway, for he had something important to do.

"Big Brother...I...I don't know if you can hear me, but...I...I want to give you something, something to help guide you back to me...A piece of my heart..."

Mokuba then places one of the lockets he created, the one containing his own picture, around his brother's neck. He then puts the remaining one, the one containing Seto's picture, around his own neck, the boy then clenching it protectively like he was a dragon protecting a treasured gem. He can feel his heart start to ache and his body start to quake along with it, his emotions that he had been trying so hard to manage in order to stay strong finally taking over him.

Before he can realize it, his knees buckle, sending him down to the floor and his face into Seto's lap. Water flows from his eyes and land on the white fabric of his brother's clothing, his cries starting to echo throughout the mansion. His friends, immediately upon hearing it spring into action, both stopping in their tracks upon meeting the maid when having reached the entrance. The woman told them to leave the young master on his own for now, to allow him his feelings he's been holding in to come out freely without judgment.

"Mokuba..."

"Mokuba..."

And so the two listened and waited outside the door as Mokuba's cries continued for what seemed like forever, the cries being some of the most painful they'd ever heard. Little did they knew that this was not even close to displaying the amount of anguish the young boy felt, an anguish that had been building up for years upon years that all just spilled over the second his brother went into that coma. For he had been through so much, seen so much, all since that fateful day that changed everything for him and his older brother...

"Seto...Come back...Come back to me...Big brother...I...I miss you...I...I need you...I need you here with me...I don't know who I am without you...So, please...Please I'm begging you...Come home soon..."

[thefourdiamonds-fantrolls]

<> Beginning of the end. <>

Chapter 1, The last peaceful heartbeat.

In the furthest reaches of the Incipisphere, a planet simmered with a tension so palpable it seemed to warp the very fabric of reality. A species ruled by the brutal hierarchy of blood color, where one's place in society was dictated by the hue coursing through their veins. From the violet-blooded seadwellers who lorded over all to the rustbloods who struggled for survival, the planet's rigid caste system had bred millenia of resentment and unrest. The signs of rebellion were everywhere, scrawled in the defiant graffiti that marred the walls of the capital, whispered in the shadows of the bustling slums, and encoded in the secret missives passed between lowblood leaders. The highbloods, entrenched in their opulent palaces, seeming arrogantly oblivious to the storm brewing beneath their feet. In the heart of the lowblood quarter, a clandestine meeting took place. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the sharp tang of desperation. Huddled in a dimly lit basement, a diverse group of trolls— from rusts to olives, and even a few daring jadebloods—gathered around a makeshift table. Many voices spoke out on the matter, not able to wait any longer. The decision was final. Tonight's the night that will decide whether they will succeed and take control of this colony planet or die trying. Every single troll attending the rebellion meetings were assigned their tasks and positions they had to take in order to guarantee the best results possible.  Ambushes were set up, now awaiting for a perfect opportunity to strike the incoming transport of mutants. After what seemed like an eternity of tension they could hear the drones footsteps. The nearly mindless robots guarding a truck full of trolls set off the landmines set up by the rebellion. Just like that the great machine was blown into bits. As the explosion echoed in the dead silence of the moment, a chain reaction was set off. The attack has begun. All of the rebellions started their offense the moment they heard the signal go off. Setting fires to mansions, breaking into hives and even attacking schools. There would be no such thing as mercy for the highbloods. For the first time in history the balance has been thrown off. The hunter had become the hunted.

[soullessjack]

another very random post buuuuutttttt

[willowser]

NO NO WILL DO NOT SHUT UP! PLEASE DO TELL MORE ABOUT PIRATE KIRISHIMA I'M INVESTED!

okay i just have to link to this art by nooepkt on twitter because it. is. everything to meeee ✨️

he's so handsome !! 🥺 and i have this vision that you meet by chance and it's not that you're wealthy or high-class by any means, but you know who you are and you hold yourself to a certain standard. a little proper, maybe, because there are so many in your little town that are drunks and thieves and you just try to make do as best you can. and i think you have dreams !! 🥺 of being a painter and seeing the world 🥺 lands and horizons you couldn't afford to ever look upon as a single young woman 🥺

and then here comes this man, right, some guardsman to the governor 😒 and you know these types !! all slimy and sleazy and more wicked than they appear — but this one, strangely, has a lot to say about your paintings. knows a lot about pastels and rococo, even mentions a french artist or two that you happen to admire. and you're floored !! because there aren't many you can talk about art with, that are cultured !!

oh, oh, and you're sketching out the fluffy waves of a calm shore and he moves to correct you, kindly informing you that,

"she ain't quiet like that, the sea," voice low and rough and right over your shoulder, drawing goosebumps up your spine. "a wild thing, alive with the spirits of dead men and the sirens that drug 'em down."

and it's because he's so close that, when you turn to look at him, you can see clearly the scar over his eye and the tattoos that trail down his neck and into his coat. and his hair is tied neatly back, but it's so — red, and the gold hoops in his ears gleam as the sun sets behind you both.

and then bells are being rung !! shots fired !! because a body has been found, stripped of his uniform, and one of the govenors ships is sailing out !! you're so caught up in the panic in town that you lose him for a second, but then you find him standing at the edge of the sea wall, freeing his wild hair before covering it with a tri-corn hat, winking at you once before diving over the edge.

[quiveringdeer]

Bertholdt seems like he'd love to spend his birthday outside in the fresh air with a nice cup of tea, some books, and a bunch of pretty flowers to look at with you. Or curled up by the fire under a big blanket. Something very cozy.

Ooooh I can totally see this Nonnie. Bertie doesn't like to make a big spectacle of his birthday. He's used to it just being quality time spent with his parents and maybe a few close friends like Reiner.

And that's a tradition you'd naturally get folded into.

Imagine being nestled all snug against Bertie in one of those large hammocks for two. You've both brought books you wanted to read and that happens for a good bit before you notice Bertl's book laying on his chest while his eyes are staring up at the sky beyond the shade of the large oak tree shielding you from the afternoon sun.

And I know it's cliche as hell, but it's my imagine I'll thin what I want. But it remains a comfortable silence as you close your book and tilt your head against his shoulder so you can better angle your gaze in the same direction. After some long, peaceful moments of quiet contemplation Bertholdt's deep voice softly parts the silence. "That cloud looks like a hippopotamus face."

It's such a wild thought that you don't even manage to look for the apparent hippopotamus face in the sky before snorting out a laugh, "What?"

Casually he repeats his assertion, "That cloud looks like a hippopotamus face." The words haven't changed but there's an unmistakable layer of amusement enriching his tone.

Unhelpfully, Bertholdt doesn't even raise his arm to point out this clump of fluffy cumulus supposedly impersonating a plumpfaced pachyderm. Instead, when you lift your eyes back to the sky, your peripheral vision catches Bertl pointing his chin to where you should be looking. Again. Not helpful. But you suppose you can't blame him for not wanting to disturb the cozy posture you're both situated in.

Your gaze flits across the sky, searching for the right lump of clouds. But nowhere in the cerulean expanse do you find a hippo face. "Honey. I see something that looks like someone tossing pizza dough in the air but no hippo."

"You see, what?" Now it's his turn for an incredulous chuckle.

"You know. Those people that throw the dough in the air and spin it around with their hands to make it flat."

"I understand that. How are you making that out?"

"Because it's right there." You reach an arm up to point his gaze toward the pizza person. Like a helpful individual. "See?"

"Hn." You know that "hn." That's the "hn" he uses to make you think he knows what you're talking about.

"You don't see it?"

"Sorry, Ahuvatì. I don't."

You huff and Bertl turns his head to place a kiss to your forehead. You guess it's a decent consolation for his awful eyesight and imagination. "Okay. Well where's your hippo face then?"

The petulance laced in your exasperated question sparks another deep chuckle from Bertholdt. He lifts his arm to point toward a mass of clouds with two whispy tendrils on top and bottom. "It was there. Those little whips at the top were the ears and then there were some small gaps bellow that looked like nostrils on its snout."

"Hmph. A likely story."

Bertholdt links his fingers with yours of the arms squished between you both. He gives three quick squeezes and keeps your hand in his.

"Why would I make it up? And what about your pizza person cloud, hmm?" The hammock is rocking a bit now with the way his shoulders shake from his laughter.

Your head tilts back to meet his gaze, returning the three quick squeezes. Small thin lines crinkle the outer corners of his eyes as he grins at you. It's hard not to be drawn into the deep verdant pools of his eyes when he's smiling like this. It's not an uncommon expression to see, but it still makes your heart race when he focuses that joy and adoration directly on you.

"Uh, what?"

Your dazed response makes Bertl's cheeks flush. The thought that he can somehow distract your thoughts and make your mind, all foggy, as you like to say, will never make sense to him. He leans in and presses a sweet peck to the tip of your nose.

"Nothing, Ahuvatì." His free hand reaches over to cup your face, thumb brushing over the crest of your cheek. "How about we make pizza for dinner tonight?"

"Hmm..okay. Sounds good to me." Your eyes close and your head tilts into his palm.

Bertholdt leans in to give you a proper sweet kiss on the lips, returning an affirmative hum. "Great."

Pulling his hand from your cheek Bertl picks up his book from his chest to begin reading again. You move to do the same with your discarded book, both of you keeping the hands between your bodies linked together.

A few minutes pass in comfortable silence as you both dive back into your books. Then, a sentence on your page triggers your memory. "Hey wait a second! Just cause you couldn't see it doesn't mean it wasn't there."

You've turned your head too look at Bertholdt but he keep his eye on his book though a big smile spreads his lips. "Mmhm you're completely right about that, Ahuvatì."

His hand squeezes yours in a set of three and you return the gesture as you turn attention back your book. "Love you too, Bertie."

[lostlegendaerie]

Y’all gotta drop the Goncharov meme and fast or they’re gonna actually make a movie about it and it’s gonna suck so hard

[blackjackkent]

"Vlaakith. VLAAKITH! I have wielded your fury as a blade, roared your wrath as a dragon! You promised ascension, yet I crawl among my own people, low as an asp's belly! Shka'keth! I followed your path! What good this heart of stone, for it to be shattered?"

Rakha listens silently as Lae'zel paces the edge of their makeshift camp deep in the creche. Lae'zel's voice trembles with pain and rage, broken syllables tumbling over each other as she struggles to comprehend the depth to which her world has been upended.

Then she halts abruptly. Her eyes narrow and her shoulders square. "She tests me," she mutters hoarsely. "A trial of faith. K'liir prepared me - 'Only the heaviest souls soar to the Astral.' Yes-- yes! I might gain Vlaakith's favor yet!"

There's a sort of hysteria in her tone. Her eyes fix on Rakha, pleading, desperate for reassurance.

But Rakha has none to give her. They both know the truth. "You're an enemy of your people now," she says, blunt and curt and quiet. "You need to accept that."

Lae'zel recoils as if slapped and her eyes narrow - and Rakha can see the faintest hint of trembling at her lips and along her jaw. "Silence," she snarls. Her voice cracks and she squeezes her eyes shut, looking away. "I must think..."

[misericorsalvator]

Henry's already shivering by the time the cold really registers in his brain, but the cheap, dark, alcoholic…something goes down easy, and a merciful bit of warmth spreads in his chest. He should get changed or at least take off the damp leather coat, but he can't decide if losing that extra bit of weight on his back and shoulders would make the cold more bearable or even worse. Instead, he leans further back against the chipped stone beck behind him til he's nearly laying down. Gives himself a few more minutes.

Must be a curse, he thinks, dragging him into every new body of water he finds himself near. Doesn't change much that this time it was voluntary.

Or, as voluntary as it could've been when he dived in after the kid he'd heard shouting and crying, dragged her near unconscious form out of the frigid waters and onto the shore. He'd thought he'd been too late, dread beginning to set in along a grim acceptance—until he realized, nearly too late, that there was a different reason he couldn't find a pulse.

It had been a struggle, especially weighed down by his soaking clothes. But in the end, however successful that ruse may've been so far, the "kid" had probably not been expecting a hunter to fall for it. He glances over at her from the corner of his eyes, her cold corpse truly lifeless this time, with a stake lodged in her heart and a bullet hole right over her left eye at an angle. They rarely bleed much, he's noticed over the years, especially if they haven't fed in a while. Still, the sight's damn unnerving.

He takes another swig of the 5-pound whatever, the shiny new sticker tag on it covering two more glued onto the original. He doubts he'd manage to peel them off without tearing the original beyond recognition.

Maybe more unnerving is that they don't make for half-bad fire starters once the Rigor Mortis sets in after fuck knows how long. And out here, it'd be smart to take what he can get, dry off so the common cold won't be the death of him.

But he can't get himself to do it.

Maybe he's selfish, holding onto the last tattered bits of a crumbling morality, or what parental sentimentality Bran's awoken in him over the years, but even with her bloodied hands that'd been wrapped around his throat minutes ago, the sharp nails -no, claws- tearing through the skin there, all he can see is a kid who'd had her life stripped from her far too fucking early.

Night's set in proper by now, just past midnight, with plenty of hours left until dawn. He hasn't checked if his phone's survived the swim yet, but even if it hasn't, he'll probably run into some town or outpost with an hour or two's drive in any direction. Hopefully, somewhere cheap to get some food, a bed for the night, change into some warm clothes and lay out his coat to cry off til he wakes up at noon the next day to keep going. A decent plan, and after another swig of expired swill, even his taste buds can't take more of it, so it's as good a time to set off as any.

He's still barely 30, but he gets up with a groan as he feels every bone in his back cracking in protest. Reminds him of a crumbling Jenga tower; that sound when all the pieces clutter on the floor and one gets lost somewhere under a carpet or a couch. But he's still far from retirement age, and hunters don't really retire. Not even freelancers. No, this trip, he reckons, is the closest he's likely to get to that.

There's an array of marked trashcans there -thank God people are considerate about recycling in the ass-end of nowhere- and he goes to toss what's left of the bottle in the one marked for glass—but, he pauses. There's still drink in there, even if it's shite. With careful steps -really damn careful- he walks to the edge of the surprisingly deep pond and pours one out for the little girl that's laying barely two meters away. Then he figures it'd be a shite move to toss a half-full bottle in a recycling bin and pours the rest in the water before aiming and throwing the bottle right into the bin with well-trained accuracy.

As a final mercy -either for his soul or for whatever poor sods come by here for a morning stroll later- he grabs the cold body by the arms and drags it right to the shore. He stuffs the pockets of her frilly pink dress with heavy rocks and pushes it the rest of the way into the pond; watches as it slowly begins to sink. She's already starting to look her real age with her thin, wrinkly skin stretching over her bones until it's near see-through, her eyes darkening and sinking into her skull, and her teeth falling out to float around her decaying face. By the time she hits the bottom, she's barely more than bones, and a dislodged femur floats to the surface.

Eventually, someone will find her, but they'll assume some tragic accident from a long time ago.

Maybe now she's finally at peace.

A comforting thought, and the last one Henry lets himself have before he forces the whole thing down to focus on the road ahead. He'll think about it later. Even after years of this, some things still stick, but at least he'll be in warm clothes by then, with a hot meal he'll manage to stomach thanks to those very years of experience.

For now, staying in one place for too long is never safe at night, and he's wasting moonlight. And the sooner he finds some proper place to stop, the sooner he'll get some much-needed goddamn rest.

[doomxdriven]

🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️

[toshyagii]

.tag dump.

ooc; out of heroics

ic; i've decided to go on living

hc; secrets of the former no. 1

mus; my body may whither and decay but i am still all might

saved; the few things i can afford to cherish

crack; i had nothing better to do today... so i am here!!

drabble; less of a man and more a myth of legend

dash com; it's so lively here

self; o self-inflicted atlas with the weight of the world on your shoulders

gen; a world of comic books turned reality

pros; the people i once stood beside

izuku; you're next

students; i cannot fall behind them

nana; master and mother

naomasa; my dearest friend

gran torino; a tough teacher

bakugou; you must become a proper rival

afo; murder me like you murdered my master

;;answered

;;meta

;;meme weekend

[ben-drabbles]

Meat Magic

The magic of life is well understood. Walking, independent creatures that feel, think, breathe, and live - these are impossibilities in a world devoid of the unexplainable. That is not to say, however, that people have not tried.

The lowest magic is that of bones. That is not to say it is the weakest - it is simply concerned with first principles, the baselines of reality. By bending, snapping, and changing the bones of the world around us, bone magicians are capable of terrifying feats of power. But, they must always be careful, lest they break something beyond repair, or cause a fracture deeper than they realize. Some call this the element of metal, but it goes deeper than that - it is better to say it is the element of rules, of structure, of physics and the very nature of the world we inhabit.

Meat magic is much more commonly used. It is the magic of support, protection, arrangement, and the earth. If a bone magician might slam puzzle pieces together, a meat mage would arrange them tastefully - well, depending on the mage, of course. While they never bend bones, they may rearrange them, find new ways for them to be structured, and coax the world into a new, more pleasing shape. While some meat mages clamor for a distinction between skin and meat magic, we simply must draw the line somewhere, else this explanation turn into a ramble.

Blood magic is the magic of connection, binding, sensing, and water. It is by blood that energy reaches our bodies, and it is by blood that we are family all. Without blood, we are forms without power, or power without forms. It is by the blood that we are granted the total union of life - that we live at all. Blood mages may bind great breaths to great works of meat; they might see into the bones and soul of the world around them, flow like water through it all. As with so-called skin mages, some purists think of blood not as a distinct school, but a synthesis of other disciplines. Either way, we have blood, and our blood is wonderous.

Breath magic is the magic of energy, purpose, direction, power, and air. It is the intake and outtake, it is the ebb and flow. Through breath we move - through breath the world moves. Breath mages might give life to inanimate objects, impart power to machinery, direct their energy in a calm focus. They are often light and ethereal, but driven - they move and change like the wind itself.

Soul magic is, like Bone magic, poorly understood - it is at the fringes of our current understanding. Those who study it claim it as the magic of fire, to the chagrin of feisty breath mages who see it as part of their purview. To bend the Soul is to bend the immortal essence of life itself - to bend identity, to bend the very nature of a person, to reach past the boundaries of the physical and tap into something grander than any may know. Suffice to say, those who steer into this field are thought to be quite mad at best, and quite dangerous at worst. Still, what is to say what they will find, at the fringes of our reality?