#i am very anaemic right now

[yunoftheclouds]

23:00 motivation for me is not knowing if I want to draw stupid spiderverse stuff in mspain or continue writing my stories

[luveline]

jade i am begging on my knees ….. any time you are up for it …… it would make me very greatly happy to see something with a bombshell!reader x hotch <33333

The office is hot today in the midst of a ninety degree summer, and your coworkers have been forced to strip down to their lightest layers, the women in linen blouses, men with their shirt sleeves rolled up high. Spencer has ditched his sweater vest reluctantly, cooling himself with a makeshift fan fashioned from printer paper, and Emily huffs next to you at her desk, overwhelmed. 

“How aren't you hot?” she demands to know. 

You lean back in your chair with a demure smile. “Mind over matter.”  

She rolls her eyes. “I shouldn't have asked.” 

Hotch's office door opens. You turn in your chair to watch him appear —even Unit Chief's get hot, apparently. He looks flustered in the heat, pink-cheeked and hair skewed ever so slightly, the most unmade you've ever seen him at work. 

You could get used to it. 

He feels you looking, narrowing his eyes. You'd like to think it was playful. For Hotch, it is. 

“Hot, handsome,” you say. 

“I'm fine.” 

“I wasn't asking.” You beam at him. 

“Enough. You know the rules.” 

He doesn't seem too mad, but he's right; you know the office rules. Don't flirt, don't start, and don't text him inside of work hours unless that text pertains to work itself. You'd started calling him instead —what are you wearing right now?— and he'd decided that text now meant any communication lest you find another loophole. You're pushing it. 

“Ah, the rules,” you say, throwing your arm across your eyes in mock distress, before peeking under it to see if he's watching. He always is. “You know rules aren't made for people like me, handsome.” 

“Stop it, final warning. Or I'll have you moved.” 

He makes being his girlfriend very difficult. You roll your shoulders and drop the act. “Hey, I need to talk to you about something.” 

“Afterwards.” 

“No, right now. Please? It's important, I swear.” 

He gestures for you to come up. You take the stairs and cross the landing to his office, where he's already stepped back inside to open the window even further on its hinge. There isn't much wind to breeze, but there is a palpable difference between his office and the bullpen. You join him at the window and let the barely cooler air fan your face. 

“What's wrong?” he asks. 

“Can you give me a quick kiss? It would really lift my spirits.” 

He laughs somewhere deep in his chest. “No, honey. Now tell me what you wanted to tell me.” 

“I have a doctor's appointment next week, on the 13th. It's a Wednesday. I was hoping for PTO, but I can take a sick day if that's not agreeable.” 

Hotch gives you the side eye, brows gently furrowed. “Everything okay?” 

“Wouldn't you like to know.” 

“I would, actually.” 

“Yeah, well, you'll have to beg for it. Not everything in life is free, Hotchner–” You break into laughter as he grabs your waist, not expecting it, your hips tender as he squeezes. “Ouch, you're kinda handsy, you know that?” 

You sound beautiful like this, laughing as you talk, so happy it lines every word. Hotch pulls your front to his, arms crossing casually behind your back, his eyes expectant. “Tell me,” he commands smoothly. 

“Because you asked so nicely, I'm just fine, but I've been feeling a little under the weather. I think I'm anaemic.” 

“And this is the first time I'm hearing about this because…” 

“Because I'm not allowed to talk to you at work!” 

He rolls his eyes as you drop a considerable amount of your weight against his arms. Usually, Hotch would meet your eyes and say, You're punishing me for a rule created out of necessity, or something to that effect, but, despite everything that might say otherwise, he really likes you. Loves you.

“I know, honey, I'm sorry. Maybe we can… allot you a few texts a day.” He analyses your expression. “One a day.” 

You squeeze his naked forearm and lift up to kiss his cheek. He stays completely still while you do it, beside the small stroke of his thumb where it rests on your back. “Thank you. I'll leave you alone now, or we might get caught fraternising with one another and lose our jobs. Oh, wait, that's not actually going to happen–” 

You burst out laughing as Hotch once again squeezes your waist in warning, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

[elementroar]

Am I thinking too far into this, but is this the actual design idea behind Paracelsus and A.B.A ? Not only that but was their dynamic flipped and subverted across the games as time went on?

A.B.A was visually designed as distinctly pale, anaemic even, her blood described as tinged with mercury. Her original theme song was called “Quicksilver” which is another name for mercury. She was very passive originally, easily influenced by Paracelsus. This fits the motif of the ‘White Queen’.

Originally, Paracelsus was the ‘active, volatile’ one. Described as a demon (motif linked to sulfur), actually having a form called the ‘Sanguine Gale’ (hence red) and obsession with blood that also brings in the concept of red and volatility. His fits those aspects as the ‘Red King’.

Paracelsus for better or worse, was the first living thing A.B.A ever encountered and his relationship and manipulation of her has shaped her.

Then by STRIVE, their dynamic has flipped.

Paracelsus is now passive, literally sludge. Officially described as a weapon that has new true form and takes the form defined by the emotions and desires of its wielder. As I was informed, in Jealous Rage, the words on his half of the form nearest his head is Azoth, the alchemical name for mercury or the ultimate solvent. He has become the White Queen of the two (omg the yuri Paracelsus fans were right…)

Meanwhile A.B.A is all volatility and rage. Being the definitive active force that disrupts and defines Paracelsus’ very form. She has become the dominating Red King now.

What does this mean, what is Daisuke’s vision? If we follow the goal of the alchemical concepts at play, then the goal is the marriage/union of the Red King and the White Queen to form the rebis, the magnum opus.

Oh wait looks like that might actually be a goal in Guilty Gear too

[smilingangel582]

The chase

Hi guys, I am madly in love with this character. And guess what, this is Naruto and Sasuke'a VA! In Japanese. I seriously wrote this tk fic as they speak in Japanese. Omg! I love them even more. Ps. We need more lee!kinich... I summon it!

Summary: Paimon is convinced Kinich is scary, but Aether thinks otherwise. It was a quiet day in Natalan until Aether started a bet with Paimon to prove her wrong. New discoveries were made, and unsurprisingly, a certain dragon lord commits betrayal.

Warning: Spoilers for the nataln archon quest and Kinich's quest, tickling, cuteness overload, Aether and Kinich are very close, but mind you, it's a platonic relationship (can't ship them yet)

"So you Paimon is supposed to believe that Kinich is actually... uh... a sweetheart?" Paimon crossed her arms in confusion. Floating around as Aether walked through the city of mountains, the scion of the canopy.

Aether shrugs, giving her a confident smirk "Well... he may appear blank but he's very nice and he doesn't hide it... not like a certain wanderer ..."

Paimon guessed Hat guy from Sumeru might have sneezed by that mention.

"But he's so cold and Paimon can't really see the guy smile..." Paimon huffs now, as if its the biggest worries for her, "its frightening how blank Kinich is..."

"What's frightening about me Paimon?"

A soft voice made Paimon shrill in surprise making her gasp and wheeze. Aether mildly turns back with a less-reactive surprised expression at seeing the saurian hunter.

"Hi Kinich,"

Kinich greets them politely, "Traveler, Paimon how do u do?"

Paimon recovering from her shock, groans, "Jeez Paimon almost got a heart attack! Stop sneaking up on us like that... your quiet anyway unlike your pixel-poop-mouth!"

Ajaw snarls, "Who are you calling poop-mouth, tiny ant?"

"Oh and Paimon's bigger than you!"

They continue bickering making Aether sheepishly give Kinich an apologetic look, "Sorry about that..."

"I should be the one to apologise..." kinich replies solemnly, making Aether like this guy more for his awkward informal side.

"Ajaw, do you want another time out?"

Ajaw turns to kinich, his mouth dropping in anguish. "Grrr! Fine, fine! I won't torment the anaemic ant!"

"Hehe" Paimon smirks. "Know your place little dragon lord!"

Aether rolls his eyes, "Paimon... behave"

Paimon pouts, looking sideways, "awww alright im sorry Kinich... and maybe Ajaw"

"Maybe??"

Ignoring Ajaw's short snap, Kinich shakes his head, a hand to his chest. "Don't be Paimon. You're actually a kind companion to the traveller..." he adds deliberately after casting a look at Ajaw, "It makes me jealous"

"Huh? I'm more powerful ya know! Oi! Kinich!"

Aether hears Paimon floating towards Kinich, "Kinich, you don't smile much, do you?"

Kinich slightly astonished responds, "I beg your pardon? I do..."

"When?" Partly challenging and partly curious.

"Like... right now?"

They all stared. Even Kinich seemed uncertain about what he just said. Paimon huffs, mildly irritated, "OK so... laughing? Ever dont that before..."

Ajaw floats around Kinich, his pixel hands patting his shoulder, "Haa hahaa would love to see that embarassing sight."

Kinich shrugs him off, the bandana making him seem like he's angry but he's just frustrated with Ajaw.

"All the more reason why I should not"

Ajaw being slightly pushed away but regains balance in air comes swirling back to him with a cunning sneer, "Uh oh someone's a little defensive... afraid I'll exploit a weakness?"

Aether sense tension, usually he would've stepped in to stop Kinich's discomfort with Ajaw but knowing the topic he was curious where this was going.

Paimon is no better now - contrast to Ajaw's scheming malice - she steps in to prompt Ajaw's hint, "Oooh does this mean he does laugh?"

Kinich folds his arms, somewhat wary where this was going. Yet he failed to notice where Ajaw just disappeared.

"I do, but not all the time -"

"Yeah, just poke him like this, and he'll go gyaaahaahaa!" Ajaw swiftly pokes Kinich around the waist close to the small of his back, making him spasm in shock, gasping, "Oi!"

Silence. Paimon's eyes widened, and so did Aether's. They all exchanged glances. Now Ajaw proudly danced and shook his tail, as if he got the best victory after 500 years.

"Kinich?" Aether smirks, now barely hiding his excitement, "Are you ticklish?"

The saurian hunter now stared, knowing there's no other way to dodge the question. He swiftly seized Ajaw's tail, now activating his grappling hook. He swings off till he disappeared through the clouds.

His flight instincts kicked in. Paimon stared in bewilderment, but she was the only one until Aether began to take the one-sided challenge.

Somewhere by the top of the mountains in Scion of the canopy, Kinich cautiously looked by the trees, hoping he had escaped. He knew now or never... and his experience in running away has been helpful.

"Baa! You coward..." Ajaw scoffed, now teasing, "Were you that scared?"

"It was not fright... I just don't like the thought of showing the traveller such an absurd state" he sternly added "and you're officially in time out"

Ajaw grumbled now, waving his small pixel arms "Grr... whatever, but you know Kinich"

"What?"

"Running away doesn't always help ya... when there's a good seeker"

He frowns, looking somewhat confused by this indirect analogy. "What do you-?"

"Gotcha!" Aether swings by instantly now tackling (not on purpose) Kinich as they both tumbled to the ground.

"J-jeez traveller be careful" Kinich groan, now sounding concerned. "Don't use that hook, so lightly"

Aether chuckles straddling him. "Thanks your a nice guy... now ever heard of the saying "you can run but you can't hide" Kinich?"

Before he could struggle he already felt nimble fingers attacking his sides.

"O-ohokay w-wahait tihihihime ohohout!"

His giggles are soft and yet very childish. Aether stares in wonder... he had heard many sweet voices but hearing Kinich like this is like a dream in Nahida's world.

"Wow.. you're sensitive, Ajaw wasn't lying"

Ajaw smirks "Hehe that was one of the weaknesses that I'm proud of exploiting in him"

"You mean the only one?" Paimon scoffs.

"Ah! Took you long enough useless ant"

"You! You pixel weirdo!" Paimon stomps her foot on the air angrily and begins bickering with Ajaw.

Kinich and Aether... well they have other better matters to attend to.

"So tell me, is this spot worse than this?" His fingers creeping towards his hips making him buck in surprise, grabbing Aether's wrists which didn't help, "Ah! Aether!"

"You said my name! Nice!" He gets his hips and then back to his waist... slipping the jacket down a little bit to access the skin.

"Ahaharchons juhuhuhust stohohohop a mihihinute plehehehehease!" Kinich curls to the side, suddenly his laughter getting louder when Aether targets his ribs with swift unpredictable speed.

"Uh oh ribs? That's not good... especially since your swinging around..." Aether smirks, now tapping and prodding his ribs as Kinich jerks to his back to protect his sides. His long lashes damp with tears.

"And you won't be able to swing comfortable knowing how vulnerable here..." he pinches the highest set ribs with indication "Oh and perhaps under here?" Slipping his fingers right under his arms making Kinich let an (honest to archon) a squeak.

"You're a sweetheart"

"Ihihihi ahahahahappreciahahahate the cohohohompliment buhuhuhut y-yohohohour kihihilling mehehe!" He giggles now. Trying to cover his worst spots as much as he could.

Aether laughed, now pausing a little, instead keeping his wrists pinned on either side of Kinich's head to keep him in anticipation.

"OK ok! Sorry, I always had to break the serious guys in this world."

Kinich groans, slightly huffs of laughter now calming down at the small break.

"Ajaw said Kinich has a weak neck!"

Paimon's sudden outburst on that fact made Kinich shiver. Aether turns to her first then back at him, a very mischievous smile that made Kinich shake his head a little, somewhat pitiful.

"Tch! The mighty dragon lord knows what a whimp he is but he still refuses to die.. bahahawahaha" Ajaw cackles in a sinister tone "Oh laugh to death Kinich!"

Aether rolls his eyes, "we are not killing him, just playing around... like friends"

Kinich's eyes that used to be blank slightly glistened with brightness, "Friends?"

"Yup and friends... make friends happy!" Aether wiggles his fingers right over his collarbone and throat lightly. Kinich knees kicked up in reflex, but they didn't stop Aether's fiery determination to tickle him.

"Ahaha Aetheheheher hehehee cuhuhuhut ihihit out! Hahaha ok ok y-yohohohou won! You won! Ok! Just mehehehercy! Mercy!

After that implore, Aether stopped tearfully laughing as well, falling next to Kinich, eyes bright golden and with bliss, "ohoho man that was so funny... im glad I saw this side of you..."

Kinich's breath was somewhat heavier as he managed to grab his composure swiftly as an amazing athlete "I-I uh... thank you traveler... I guess it wasn't that bad"

Ajaw growls, "Awwww, come on! I bet if you got his armpits more seriously next, he might not say that! Come on, traveler, I'm begging ya! Tickle this guy to death -g-gaaaaaaah curseeeee youuuu!"

Once more he just got confined into a space suddenly gone. Kinich sighs as he puts Ajaw away easily, resting an arm over his hip as he gets up now tired but somewhat... relaxed?

"Hey Kinich..."

He jolts when Aether poked his armpit that was exposed, making him stare in surprise "That's round two the next time we meet? And don't listen to Ajaw... tickling isn't something bad... its what friends do to have fun"

Kinich silently debated this answer... smiling genuinely. Perhaps Mualani was right... friends are amazing.

"Well come by traveler... its much livelier here with you around" Kinich offers, now giving an awkward smile.

"Aww miss me already?" Aether grins, then nudged him, "or the tickles"

"Just... you" he grunts, but looking sideways, with a timid look that seemed to have never appeared until today.

Aether will cherish that moment forever and also his laugh.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for yelling at my uncle for wanting to emmigrate?

cw; brief mention of animal death.

For context: I am from Brazil. São Paulo city, more specifically. Brazil is considered dangerous due to high crime rates, and my city, with over 11 MILLION habitants, is no exception. But socioeconomic segregation is pretty intense here, and if you're in a "good" class neighborhood and have a little bit of streetsmarts, you will be mostly safe. I for one have been lucky enough to be born into a middle class family and have never been so much as pickpocketed, but I know of lower income friends who have been robbed. It's still rare in our circle.

Now, I have this uncle. Him and his wife have even more money than my family – they lead a very, very comfortable life with yearly trips to Disney parks, something that's very common among Brazilian upper class. And they recently have decided they want to migrate to Florida, US, seemingly out of nowhere. Their main excuse is that they don't want to raise their 7 year old son in a "dangerous place", when they live in a safe appartment complex and they've never even been robbed.

I voiced my concerns to my uncle. I was afraid that they wouldn't be well received by a country that has such extreme anti-immigration policies, especially when none of them can speak more than a few words of english and, while his wife is white, my uncle is visibly latino. Even if they get the papers right and migrate legally, they will still face a whole lot of prejudice. Plus, they would have to quit their jobs for that, and while they both have degrees, I still think it would be quite hard for two immigrants who barely speak the language to get jobs to keep their lifestyle, and I'm not sure if that's the best way to raise a young child. It really seems to me like they're persuing a fairytale idealized dream.

But the worst part is the entire thing with my grandmother. She's in her late 70s, very emotionally frail and has had a fair share of health issues. Ever since her dog passed months ago she's been severely depressed, and because she couldn't leave the house due to the dog's separation anxiety, she doesn't have any friends and has almost no hobbies. Her favorite thing is having us over – especially my uncle's son, her youngest granchild. So of course when my uncle tried to gloss over all my points I had to bring up how terrible it would be for my grandma (he knows it will be bad, he's keeping it a secret from her because he thinks she could possibly fall ill again). But he still didn't listen.

I was so angry I started yelling at him. I brought up how he didn't even visit his mother the last time she was hospitalized (she was anaemic and could have died) but he had all the time in the world to go to Disneyland whenever he pleased and said he doesn't really care about his mom or his child, that's why he's leaving. He's just falling for his wife's Disney obsession.

Looking back on it, I think I might have taken it too far, but I meant everything I said. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Lance, if those are my socks, you’re going to meet God tonight.”

Lance pauses just outside the common room door, glancing down at his feet (that are most definitely clad in Pidge’s gigantic knitted socks), then back to Pidge.

“I’m freezing!” he defends. “This castle is always subzero, and I’m anaemic! I needed them!”

Pidge scowls. “I know they’re warm! That’s why I wanted to wear them this morning, but couldn’t, because somebody stole them!”

Lance pouts, big brown eyes getting even bigger and bottom lip stuck out. “Aw, but Pidge —”

“No buts! You made those socks for me! Make your own! Give ‘em!”

Lance huffs as he peels them off — revealing another pair of socks, only they’re normal and not fuzzy and soft — and throws them at her.

“Meanie.”

“Thief!”

Pidge is correct — Lance is the worst clothes thief in the whole castle. In the universe, probably. Hell, he’s not even wearing a stitch of his own clothing right now — he’s wearing a long, thick skirt of Allura’s over a pair of Keith’s leggings, one of Hunk’s hoodies thrown over his shoulder. Keith can’t see due to the aforementioned giant hoodie, but he would bet his knife that under the hoodie is layered at least four various sweaters and shirts from other members of the team.

“You could just wear your own clothes, you know,” Shiro says, exasperatedly fond. “Lord knows you have more hoodies than the rest of the universe combined.”

“It’s not the same,” Lance insists. He looks mournfully at Pidge, who rolls her eyes at him. “And now I’m going to freeze to death.”

“Good,” she mutters, aggressively jamming the keys on her laptop. “Karma.”

Hunk flicks her on the ear.

“Hey!”

“Be nice,” he admonishes.

“Thank you,” Lance says primly.

“If Lance dies, who is going to get so stressed about the state of your room that they’ll clean if for you?” Hunk continues, teasing grin on his face.

Lance mouth drops in indignation. “How dare — insolence! Defamation! False accusations! I am being mocked in my own home!” He turns to Coran, dramatically incensed and enraged. “Dad!” he says, which is something he only calls Coran when he wants to get his way. “Pidge and Hunk are bullying me!”

“I heard, dear,” Coran says, amused. “How rude of them.”

“Yeah!” Lance says. He gestures wildly towards the duo in question. “They should be — punished!”

“I see. Pidge? Hunk? Do you deserve to be punished?”

Pidge and Hunk look up from their projects to bat their eyelashes, expressions as innocent as possible.

Keith quickly hides a laugh as a cough. Luckily, Lance is too caught up in dramatics to notice.

“Why, of course not, dearest father,” Hunk says. “No bullying remarks ever crossed my lips.”

“Nor have they crossed mine, Papa,” Pidge agrees, putting on a silly Victorian accent. “Why, I am appalled at the very accusation!”

“I certainly heard no count of defamation,” Allura comments, looking up for the first time in what has to have been an hour. She’s been carefully painting Shiro’s prosthetic, covering it in a myriad of flowers and vines. Shiro keeps looking down at it and smiling. “Shiro? Did you hear anything?”

“Not a thing,” Shiro says. He looks over at Lance, barely suppressing a smirk. “Sorry, kiddo!”

“Betrayed!” Lance whines. “Unloved! By my very family, my comrades in arms! I have been shot, abandoned, left to rot. Unto no minds doth my very self cross, nor the hearts or sentiments of my closest loves. Instead I am left to freeze, to perish, as frost grows from my fingertips —”

“C’mere, Mercutio,” Keith teases, interrupting Lance’s soliloquy. He pats the cushion next to him, lifting up his arm so Lance knows what Keith is implying. “You can tuck your feet under my thighs, if you want.”

“Finally!” Lance cries, stumbling over to Keith. “Someone loves me, in this cold and weary hellscape of treason!”

Lance settles in with a relish, gleefully shoving his toes under Keith’s thigh — how do they feel like ice bricks, he’s wearing at least two normal pairs of socks and Keith’s sweatpants aren’t that thin — and plastering himself to Keith’s side. He rests his head on Keith’s shoulder, squiggling around until he’s comfortable and can see everyone else.

“Keith, you are the only valid person in this room,” he says, very seriously. (Well, as seriously as he can with amusement making his eyes sparkle.)

“Oh, how the turntables,” Hunk mutters.

Keith smiles. It is kind of strange, he supposes.

“Imagine trying to explain this to us three years ago,” he whispers to Lance. Lance laughs.

“I don’t think past me would even begin to take you seriously,” he agrees.

Privately, Keith thinks that past him probably wouldn’t have all that much trouble. He’d be a little shocked, sure, but Keith’s always been soft for the kind ones, and always had a thing for the cocky loudmouths. Lance is a lucky mix of exactly Keith’s type.

“Hey, Lance,” Hunk says after a while. “Genuinely asking — why do you always steal all our clothes? You never did at the Garrison. Or, well, you did, but not this much.”

Lance hums, reaching over to grab Keith’s free hand and fidgeting with his fingers. It takes him a long moment to answer — long enough that everyone else stops what their doing, looking over at him curiously.

“Hundreds of years ago,” he says finally, voice husky and quiet, “in the time of bad spirits and changelings, there lived a woman with her small child and husband. The woman loved her husband deeply, and he her, and it saddened her every time he left, but times were tight — he was a fisherman in a time of great recession, and had to leave often and for long periods of time to get enough for them to eat and sell.

“The woman was hardy, though, and fended well for herself and her baby even without her husband. She worked any job she could with the babe strapped to her back, keeping her mind busy so the loneliness wouldn’t plague her too deeply. Every morning she held for several moments her husband’s waistcoat, that he’d left behind for fear of ruining it out at sea. It did not hold the warmth of her husband, nor even the smell of him after so long, but he’d had the coat so long that she felt it carried a part of him in it, and that part was enough to carry her through the day.

“One day, while she was gathering the dried laundry from the lines, she heard a rustling inside the house. She called out, hopeful that her husband had returned early, but there was no response. Hesitantly, careful of the babe on her back, she crept in through the bedroom window, shrouding herself in shadows so as to remain hidden.

“She was smart to be so cautious, for a fairy had snuck in — and was standing gleefully in the kitchen! The wretched thing crouched by the hearth, rubbing its hands together, waiting for her and her babe to come in through the door.

“Now the woman knew she could not stay hidden forever. Eventually her back would tire, or the babe would wake, or even the fairy would grow bored of waiting and search for her — regardless, she would be found. And the woman was no witch, so she knew no spells for herself, no charms to protect herself and the child. She had only herself, her wits, and the laundry she had gathered. The woman was not ignorant to magic, either. She knew of the power that lay dusted over every single thing; the spirit that resided in living and non-living things alike.

“But the woman was young, and unpracticed. What say she of the powers that be? She did not know how to summon them. She did not know how she could outwit or out-charm a fairy. She did not know even if it was possible. In truth she was afraid, and longed for comfort as deeply as safety. She tightened her hands on her husband’s waistcoat, the softness of the wool soothing her mind, and wrapped it carefully around her and the babe. The memory of her husband and his love bolstered her spirit and cleared her mind. She could not fight the fairy, but perhaps she could reason with it. Fairies were wicked, but they were weak to games and bets.

“With her husband’s coat wrapped around her, she stepped out of the shadows, striding forward with confidence she did not feel to the kitchen, where the fairy was crouched.

“But the fairy did not stir.

“She looked at it strangely, having expected it to react immediately to the sounds of her footsteps, but it did not move. It only scowled deeply at the door, thin lips curled and porcelain-white skin purple in rage.

“‘Horrible humans!’ it screeched, banging its gnarled fists on the floor. ‘Anticipated my tricks, and fled from the house! Bah! I have waited for hours; I shall wait no longer. I will return tomorrow at the set of the sun, and descend upon them then.’ And then the fairy ran from the house, disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

“The woman was shocked. She had made no effort to conceal herself, after the shadows, and yet the fairy had not noticed her. She realized clearly that her husband’s spirit, caught in the threads of his coat, had protected her and her babe, and the fairy could not see through it. She resolved to stay wrapped up in the coat until the fairy grew bored of her home and left her in peace.

“For weeks, the woman kept her and her infant wrapped in the coat. It was with her when she slept, and when she worked, and when she ate. She kept herself secure in the heaviness of the worn wool, and over time the fairy did grow bored of waiting, coming to the house less and less until it did not come at all. Still she wore the coat, as wearing it brought her strength, brought her comfort.

“When her husband finally returned from sea, she ran to him, embracing him tightly and settling in his warmth, his scent. He carried the security of the waistcoat tenfold, and she had touched him only for minutes.

“When she told him of the fairy and the waistcoat, he was glowing in his pride of her. ‘You are as bright as any of the stars,’ he told her, cupping her face gently. ‘Fairies are evil, wretched creatures, who have been blinded to love. By wearing my waistcoat you shrouded yourself in a spirit the fairy could not see, and so it could not harm you. Your faith and love outwitted the bitter heart of the fairy.’”

No one speaks for several minutes after Lance finishes, struck silent by the captivating stillness in the room, the magic present from the story.

“That’s the story my Nana would tell me when she was teaching me how to sew, how to knit,” Lance says, breaking the silence. “She told me not to make the stitches too tight or there wouldn’t be room for love to settle in the clothing. And it just — it makes me feel safer, I guess. To be wearing other people’s clothes.”

“That’s beautiful,” Shiro says, smiling softly. Lance smiles back.

“Your Nana?” Pidge questions. “I would’ve thought you’d call her Abuela.”

“Well,” Lance says, in a startlingly good Scottish accent. “The McClain half ‘a me family had to come from somewhere, eh, lass?”

“I didn’t know you were Scottish,” Keith says quietly. It does make sense — McClain is a very Scottish name, now that he thinks of it — but somehow he’d never considered it.

“His mom’s side is,” Hunk chimes in. “That’s why he’s so freckly.”

Lance chuckles. “Yep. Only my Nana was born there, though. She fled to Cuba to escape my shithead grandfather when she was pregnant with my mom. She grabbed her passport and her purse and hauled ass to the airport in the middle of the night, and chose the first and cheapest flight available, which on that particular day was to Cuba. Lucky for her it ended up working, and now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“She sounds awesome,” Pidge says.

“She is. She taught me how to shoot, too.”

“I’d like to meet her, when we get to Earth,” Allura declares.

“Oh, she’ll love you, ‘Llura. Badass leader of an intergalactic revolution? You’re the coolest thing she can conceptualise.”

Allura looks pleased at the compliment.

“She’ll love all of you, in fact,” Lance continues. “Almost as much as she loves me. I’m her favourite.”

“You’re everyone’s favourite,” Coran says, and no one can really disagree.

———

based on this post

[xiaoluclair]

“I wouldn’t be here entertaining you if I was avoiding you.”

And/or

“You’re the one avoiding me”

Once again I beg you for lestappen🧎‍♀️

mmm lestappen u say?? but we (max verstappen voice) boat know how averse my body is to writing scenes of lestappen 😔😔....

pairing: max verstappen x charles leclerc // [ rating: T ]

could be interpreted as a prequel to this: [ x ] . also i Did get carried away, Oops. (apologies in advance for spelling meestakes)

Max opens the only channel that has proven to work. "So." He folds his feet under himself. The air has long since turned dry, and dusk is green legged along the floor. "Why are you avoiding me?"

Charles looks, very suddenly, at him, fingers on his arm. There is still the stain of ground where he gripped the cliff face and Max's stomach did a trapeze artist's twist. "You are the one avoiding me."

The eyes on the ceiling — he has noticed, now, that they are beady and blinking — grow a little wide, then a little small. Narrow yellow. It hands him plenty of conviction, and even a snort, to say, "I would not be here, entertaining you, if I was avoiding you."

I would be on the other side of this cave, somewhere by the pinkie of the palm that scooped it out. Instead, I am sat beside you in this stupid thumb that is starting to glow, just a little. Like some sadist.

One thick eyebrow climbs Charles's forehead. "So you would still be here, talking to me, if we were not stuck?"

Max shrugs. "Of course. Would you?"

An affronted face. Like Max's doubt is the most atrocious insult. "Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Then they are waiting again. Silent. Still. Hands off the channel so his ears have his lungs for company, not much else. The light has turned firm. Coming from above, staring down at them. Max is still watching when it starts to drop. Shit.

Option #1: Leave the cave. Get eaten.

Option #2: Do not leave cave. Do not get eaten.

His fingers twitch again. Red button. LECLERC. Before he can get a word out: "Uh, Max?"

Whispering is pretty useless. Still, "Come to me," he whispers.

It takes a second. Then, Charles moves carefully, near silent. What Max means: come next to me, to my right or left. What Max gets: half a body on top of his own.

He blinks. "Are you. Body shielding me right now?"

"Hypothetically," replies Charles. Only then it turns out to be much less of a reply, "if I was avoiding you — hypothetically — would you. Would you still.

Max huffs. "No," he says, and the light is now long and much less green. Instead, turned yellow by the dripping things, all along the ceiling. "I would obviously be too insulted to go on a very important professional mission with you."

"Insulted?" repeats Charles.

"Yeah," says Max. "Like, was my dick really that bad, that kind of insulted. I feel like that is a fair thing to be insulted about." Between the two sentences, Charles has made a groaning sound, kept his touch on Max's name as he did. It makes Max grin, maybe even giggle. Just a little.

"You promised you would not speak about that," scolds Charles. When Max glances at his face, helmets knocking slightly, it is yellow and dark. Like a little ball of piss or an anaemic main sequence. Still, there is just enough in his imagination to color it in, crude chubby hands holding a pink pencil.

He bites his lip. "Was it actually. Was it. We didn't really speak after so."

It sounds almost grudging. "No, it was not. I." Then, just as reluctant maybe, "Thank you, Max."

See: Charles's mother tongue is not English. Neither is Max's but Max still grew up with it, on the same crust of dirt where it was born and lived and sung. Charles did not. So it does not mean so much when he says, a second later, staring at Max like he needs to see him when he does, "You were everything I needed."

Max stretches his fingers, swallows. Puts them back onto his arm. "No problem." His eyes flick away. To the threads, just as one comes loose.

Instinct, might be the best word for it. Max lurches and rolls. That is not the instinctual part though — not quite, anyway. What is: his arms bend at the elbows. His legs flatten out, as long as they can. Grit goes spewing, rough below his suit and probably too loud. His head comes to an unsteady, clunking rest against Charles's, two curves of pressure proof transparency between their wide eyes.

Then the world tips over once more. Max knows what has happened, Charles's body a bracket over his own, eyes screwed shut. They are a mirror of the moment before, only Charles has planted himself so much more firmly, holds more mass too, is denser by stupid alien design. Max has a second to try and shove him off, before he realizes—

He has a second. Then: another. He has many seconds.

One arm is trapped, hand a sandwich filling. Thighs for bread: his, Charles's. So he taps instead, the dip of Charles's spine. First, he flinches. Then his eyes flick open. Max jerks his head to the side with a huff, the motion rattling Charles too. He scowls. But his neck turns to the side, regardless.

What the fuck. That is Charles's mouth, the movement of it. So Max looks away and lets his head roll too.

And nearly gapes. The cave is filled with tiny baubles.

Floating through the space. As Charles starts to sit up, one bounces lightly off his helmet like a jelly ball. They've turned slightly darker too, like a flame set off in their stomachs. It makes some of them almost gold, others red. A few burn bright, poignant white, so small they could slip under Max's nails.

Arms free, he says, "What is."

Charles, neck spinning on slow, says, "I have no." Pauses. "Hey, is that." His finger pointing to a particular cluster of them, and he shifts that way too, a sheet of heat all across Max's heat proof suit. Absurd.

Max ignores it. Says, instead, "Libra Major," because yeah, it looks a little bit like it. Has the tails like tentacles, the triangle at the top. But then.

"Holy shit." Sat up, Charles's eyes round and green — not the same dusk green of this predator planet, but deeper. Held in the shine of stars— actual. Actual stars. Or— replicas anyway. Some small stitch of the Universe woven around them, and isn’t that magnificent and beautiful and astounding. Bright, thinks Max, when what could be the Lindsay—Shapley Ring goes knocking into the middle of Charles's helmet and he goes nearly cross—eyed with tracking it. Mouth opens, dimples cratering.

He glances down at Max, and Max’s fingers find the blue VERSTAPPEN on his arm. Just fast enough for it to come through, the last living lines of Charles’s joy. Charles breathes out with it: “Wow.”

And Max thinks: I could be on the other side of Space, somewhere by the kneecap of the body that has folded itself into five dimensions. I could be in a house on a farm, safe among maize and potatoes with a wife and kids. I could be anywhere but here, anywhere beyond this ache in my leg escaping from a six-legged set of carnivorous teeth. But instead, I am lying under you in a stupid, stinking, glowing armpit of that body. And I am looking at your grin and grinning back. Like I would not want to be anywhere. Anywhere but here.

Max thinks, too: Fucking sadist indeed.

[lauvra]

I'm feeling so unproductive, really blocked creatively; but part of that seems bred of self-induced additional pressure somewhat unreasonable. It's partly this awful sleep routine I'm still reining in. Just get up earlier, Laura. Go to bed earlier, Laura. Be real, just do the right thing. Waking up after midday is inexcusable. Thinking ahead has never been my strong suit; so the temptation is to course-correct by staying up late caffeinated, which I hate to say sometimes produces great results but feeds into this game of catchup. I've started taking iron supplements again, knowing my body feels drained in the familiar near-anaemic way (and I worry it's something worse, but no doctor so far has listened to my concerns or so much as donned a stethoscope--eventually as a woman you get tired of pushing, it becomes humiliating). The guilt too comes from knowing this season of my life is the most privileged of all and I may never be blessed again with this much available to me. To not honour it completely is some kind of creative sacrilege. I'd been living in survival mode for so long doing the bare minimum easily tired by any minor effort exerted that since coming to believe, finally, that my life is worth something, a real sense of obligation strikes me that at a larger scale I simply am not doing enough in various areas. Not as much as I should and could be doing. There's a truth to busyness being a kind of faux-productivity, in a way, but there's also an element of pride to the minor tasks like, sure, today I've watched a shitload of YouTube reaction videos, but I've also got a vegan dinner stewing in the slow cooker and have stayed on top of household chores. I've faced some uncomfortable obligations this week and at least considered interesting things today; mentalism, the topic of precognition, the study of Oneirology and in-dream experiences that span years cognitively, the social perils of censorship, I've discovered the art of Celia Paul thanks to someone on here; and in so, reconnected with an element of this site I love so much; the sharing of genuine creative works and mishmash of what's real and available when sought. Even though I'm behind in my learning and merely showing up lately as that chatty girl in class--I am at the very least attempting and in some ways succeeding to connect with others in my group and engage new ideas. Friendship has been on my mind a lot, my need for it, my very real sense of distance from platonic friends and knowing how much they're needed. Something about letting this out of my system comes as such a relief, all day I didn't feel capable of even forming a stream of consciousness and in having done so, sense maybe now I can get on with some stuff.

[lorensonebraincell]

VERY NEARLY BROKE MY TABLE SLAMMING MY FIST DOWN BC THIS ONLY JUST POPPED UP ON MY TIMELINE ? ??? SOFT SOFT I AM SO SOFT RN NO ONE TOUCH ME 😫✋

pls the only disease you can catch from touching catboy!hwa is the love disease. but YES POP OFF he is neat and handsome INDEED. handsome boy my universe marvellous mars kjasdhfhsg he is such a soft lil cat omg he sees human? claws go poof !! (OMG NOT MY CLOWN BRAIN WRITING PAWS INSTEAD OF CLAWS AT FIRST can you imagine cat hwa walking and then he spots you and poof his paws disappear and he just plops to the ground like a bread loaf LOL)

omg mars being J E A L O U S and sulking until you bribe him with a mars day HAHAHA oop looks like im gonna become unemployed bc everyday has gotta be a mars day now sorry i don't make the rules

pspspspspspsspspsps

i it's me your u h ca t

NOOO HIS EARS FLATTENING LIFT THEM RIGHT BACK UP NO SAD. SAD BACKWARDS IS DAS AND DAS NOT GOOD

AHAHHA not you fainting and waking up to hwa fanning you with a magazine HAHAHA BC right as i'm reading this and typing out my reblog, yumi and i are talking about ✨just anaemic tingz✨ and sharing our most memorable fainting stories which ofc are nowhere near as cute as fainting bc of hwa :'))

omg the catboy history is so cute hwa being too soft for hell and being cursed to live as a cat HAHAHA @/hell are you taking notes?

HIS PROFESSIONAL APPROACH TO THE LEGO DATES but mhm yes definitely nothing wrong with that equation hwa + building lego = kithes

honestly though i think that if we were to replace 'building lego' with 'y' (no 'x' bc i tried subbing it into the equation and it looked confusing) and use the equation hwa + y = kisses, 'y' is an irrelevant value bc no matter what 'y' is, the equation should ALWAYS equal to kisses for hwa. so basically hwa = kisses

hwa nesting is so cute but also im imagining if he decides to rearrange the furniture one day when you're not home and so when you open the door after a long day of work all the couches and tables in the living room have all been pushed to one side and your mattress and his futon have been dragged into the middle of the room and he's upturned the closets and found every single thing in the house that has a soft texture / material and he's just made a giant nest out of it all LOL. guess that's just what my living room is gonna look like from now on bc again, i don't make the rules here

SWEATER PAWS INSTEAD OF ACTUAL PAWS PLEASE im gonna COMBUST I LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS POST DKFJSDJHG

Cat named Mars (catboy!hwa hcs)

(masterlist) (perma-taglist)

😻 pairing: catboy!seonghwa x gn!reader 😻 genre: headcanons, fluff, crack, demon? to cat? to roommate? to lover? 😻 summary: the longest bulletpoints about what it would be like to have catboy!hwa as your bf - the whole story 😻 wordcount: 4.5k 😻 warnings/tags: editing? who is she, unhinged crack part nyah, catboy!hwa, cute catboy!hwa, soft and polite catboy!hwa- okay i will stop |, language, food/eating, mention of others not treating animals well, sweater paws, mention of adorable nerdy hobbies, domestic, cuddle, a surprise about how hwa ended up being a cat in the first place, both past and present tense used, mainly lowercase 😻 taglist: at the bottom of the fic~ 😻 a/n: let me drift in the soft and fluffy catboy!hwa lands until waterbomb strikes, for my own healing; my braincells are out of service but i hope you enjoy <3 all reblogs, thoughts and notes appreciated! big hugs!

once upon a time he was a cat

there was never a moment to think about anything except work, and maybe about groceries and bills (but even those things normally hit you at two o'clock in the morning, leading you to check your phone and make make amendments to your schedule in a panicked state). there was never any room for a cat. until there was.

of course there just had to be an adorable kitty, at most maybe a couple of years old, lean and with jet black fur that was surprisingly shiny for an abandoned cat, sitting square in the middle of a cardboard box on the side of the street that formed a part of your regular path and commute to and from work. in the morning, you had locked eyes with the cat, heart bleeding and hurting for the poor creature but secretly hoping that someone else would take it - you couldn't take care of it, could you? in the evening, you were huffing and puffing with the cardboard box in your hands and the cat happily meowing, its tail stretched out upwards into a chimney pipe, slightly tilted to the side at the very end. you read somewhere that it meant the cat was happy, so you were going to take that as a good sign.

sat on the floor at the entrance to your apartment, you eyed the beautiful creature as it kept on purring and trying to hop out of the box and towards you, while you were insistent on keeping it in, lifting a cardboard flap repeatedly in an effort to prevent it from jumping. so. now you had a cat. there was nothing in the box, and on the outside, in horrific scrawl was a message suggesting whoever took the kitty either "kept him, or throw him away, whatever". non-humans. "that's who your previous owners were, right kitty?" you mumbled to no one in particular, but it seemed that the cat picked up on your speech and inched closer to you, ears moving like disks to pick up signals. "so you are a he, yeah?" a meow. so you were right. at least the beasts from this cat's past got one thing right. "do you have a name? actually… you know what do you want a… new name?" you were fast on the attachment scale, you realised. it had been barely a few minutes and you were already trying to name the cat who you had not even checked for diseases, nor had any basic facilities to take care of him. but he was more than excited by the prospect, and mewled in what sounded like gratitude. you began to list off names, eventually boring the kitty, and he started to falter in his enthusiasm. all until one name rang a bell.

"Mars?"

and that was how you ended up with a black cat named Mars.

by the power of actually having to shake paws with a cat, and you promising to get him quality snacks, you managed to get Mars checked at the vet who confirmed everything was fine, and was equally as amazed as you that he was so well groomed and neat. while you knew you did not have much of a right to do this, your inner pride still swelled and, to yourself, you said that 'yes, my Mars is really neat and handsome'.

you took to addressing Mars as 'your handsome boy' and that seemed to wake him up and get him speeding towards you faster than anything else could. also 'the prettiest star' and 'my universe' and 'marvellous Mars' all worked wonders.

at the same time, he was shy, as if he did not want to disturb you with his antics. always tip-toeing around you as silently as a cat could (which was very silent, to the point where he jumpscared you a couple of times but that is okay because excuse me did you see his precious face????) and never taking up much space, even though… hello? Mars? you are a cat?? he would rarely ever hop on any surfaces unless you explicitly told him to do so - this had left you convinced that your cat was well-versed in human-speak. he never meowed for food until you had told him to vocalise and tell you if he was very hungry, and gave him a rundown of his eating schedule and how it was important that he drank water. he was the politest cat you had ever met, while at the same time his timidness made you wonder if you were in any way intimidating. not once did Mars ever enter your bedroom, even though you left the door wide open for him, preferring to crash on the couch or on the floor of some other room. the first couple of times you joked about it saying "are you scared you'll see something, Marsy?" but when your cat actually looked away and hunched over, you were convinced that you hit the nail on the head, and that you were probably either hallucinating or were slowly turning into Doctor Dolittle.

but you were persistent. and insistent. and you took the little blanket with kuromi decor on it from him (yes this was that extreme of a situation) and put it at the edge of your bed. climbing in and covering yourself in the many layers, you looked at the terrified figure hovering at the entrance to the room, boba eyes as wide as saucers. he kept on looking at the blanket, then at you, then again at the blanket, then again at you, probably wondering if he could snatch the thing and make a run for it. you were on the verge of giving up at this point. sleepy, with work tomorrow, you were not about to engage in a whole war with your cat.

"you know what, if you want to stay, you can stay. i promise i will not hurt you, nor will i push you out. if you want to come closer, do. if you just want to take the blanket and leave, you can do that. your choice. i won't be hurt. i promise. you are already super brave and i love you either way. okay, Mars?" he did not respond, frozen in place. "my handsome boy?" his head twisted towards you. "precious?" a blink. another blink. one paw in front of the other. "are you actua- wow! I am so proud of you my baby! my brave boy!" you were cooing praises at him like there was nothing else in the world that existed as soon as he hopped onto the bed, foregoing the blanket and making a beeline towards your face, as though that was his read source of comfort. he was afraid to look away, focusing on your every expression as you patted his head and let him nuzzle into you. "you are so so brave, you know that? i know this is hard, so if at any point you want to leave, you can, okay?" purring louder than a powerdrill was the response you received. along with kitty cuddles through the whole night. because apparently, your cat was a koala all along.

and even in his cuddles he was gentle. you did not think you had ever seen him use his claws… ever. except maybe on a few toys but as soon as you were in sight poof gone, soft Mars activated. he was like your personal heater, careful to wrap himself closer to you not to push you out, but to instead complete whatever curled up position you were lying in. if you were stretched out to the side, he would find a place. if you were in a ball? he would find a place again. if you were lying down straight for whatever reason? give him a couple of nights to get comfortable, and now you had the ultimate cat comforter either on you, or around your head. and yes, you were blessed with a cat who barely shed, somehow. some of your friends who had cats almost cursed you when they found out, but you only smiled, looking at your lockscreen. nowadays, even during the workday you were thinking of Mars at least a little bit.

maybe you were spoiling him a little bit, but it was too adorable to see him watching you play legend of zelda or animal crossing on your nintendo switch. and when he saw that you got a gift from a friend in the form of a lego set? well. you were literally afraid to open the box because of how hyper your cat got - perhaps not today…

you fell into the most pleasant routines with Mars, from waking up and going to bed together, to eating breakfast and then 'parting ways' for you to attend to human business and him to his 'cat business'. it was cute. it made your head sing. you were happier than you had ever been. all thanks to that one random day. one random box. and one black haired kitty who radiated sunshine.

it was the eve of the one year anniversary of you being the proud owner of, or how you preferred to say it, the best friend of 'L/n Mars', and you were as sure as his ears were pointy in wanting to go all out with your celebration - minus the guests (because the last time you had invited a male friend of yours over your cat turned into a whole other creature and then sulked for at least three days until you took a day off work and called it 'Mars day', but you just assumed it was some territorial thing). you had set up little themed decorations, found a cute little headband with the number '1' that is suitable and safe for a cat and would not hurt his head, got a matching, human-sized one for yourself, made a whole dinner for your favourite kitty from scratch - the ingredients all checked with the vet who you now casually called by first name because you did not dare ever give Mars anything that might harm him and would rather panic call the doctor.

you were sat at the coffee table, so that it would be easier for Mars to reach the food (you set pillows on the floor for extra comfort, for which he thanked you with a loud meow), and had your respective mini-cakes set out in front of either of you. you had given up on making him ever eat kitty food - another peculiar quirk of your cat, so the 'cake', which was more a protein gift than anything, was fully home made. but Mars was happy. more than happy. if cats could smile, that was exactly what he was doing, right at you, squinting his eyes, threatening to hop over the table. you told him to wait, and quietly whispered your gratitude to him. much to your delight, he waited and listened, clinging onto every word.

"you know, i really think you are an angel. before you i was quite… how do i say this… life was just passing by. and now i look forward to it. and to be able to see you every day, to have fun days with you, to talk with you… all of that brings me so much joy and i hope that i can make you at least a little bit happy too. i wish you could tell me what you want, of course, but i really do think you know what i am thinking, what i am saying. and i hope that i am right in saying that i can understand you a bit too. you really are the smartest, most precious Mars. light of my life. i love you so much, my gorgeous, and here is to many years more, cheers~" you clinked your glass with orange juice with his water bowl, and giggled when he took a couple of neat laps to match with your gulps, only to lick his lips and hop off the pillows and go under the table.

in a matter of seconds, he reappeared at your side of the table, and poked at your lap with his paw, looking up at you with his bead-like eyes that seemed to contain the whole universe in them. you pat him between his ears, scratched under his chin, delighting him, and then stretched out your legs, gesturing towards your legs to signify that lap-napping season was open. Mars did not need to be told twice, and soon enough you had a black cat curled up on your lap, purring away, mewling a couple of times when you started eating to remind you that he was hungry too.

"so you want me to feed you now, too? aren't you cheeky-"

as if you could refuse him. you would be lying if you said you could. so there you were, on the floor and feeding Mars, quiet music playing from your phone, not quite sure if you could be any happier.

"i love you."

quite the contrast to what happened the next morning.

suddenly he is a catboy

when you wake up, Mars is nowhere in sight, and even when you call him, to which he would reply with at least a meow, you are only met with silence. you are alarmed, but wait in bed for just a little longer to see if Mars would come to you. nothing. you call again, 'pspspsps' him, all to no avail. only the breeze and the birds outside, along with inexplicable rustling from another room in your apartment. you raise an eyebrow and prop yourself up on your elbows. more rustling. a door opening, which sounds like the closet where you kept your warmer clothes. what is going on? another door closing. footsteps? you are on high alert. grabbing your phone and the light saber model which you had made a while back and kept safe by your bed, as it turned out exactly for this kind of moment, you head out to face whatever, or whoever is the source of the sound.

you are stealth itself, rounding the corner with weapon in hand, ready to face the attacker - or so you thought. until you come face to face with the tall, young man dressed head to toe in your clothing, namely a tracksuit that you had accidentally gotten in the wrong size and then somehow ended up being refunded for without returning the item, and a beanie that he had pulled over his head. spikes of jet black hair are poking from under the hat in all directions, and his deep brown eyes are widened in shock as he freezes on the spot and stares back at you.

"so, what the hell are you doing in my clothes?"

"y/n- i-"

"HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?"

"i can explain-"

"nope do NOT get closer what-"

"Mars…. i…. it's me… your uh… cat."

"what?"

he looks embarrassed beyond belief, and crumbles to the floor, sliding until his back is against the wardrobe. wrapping his arms around his knees, he is scared to look up at you, worried that you would never recognise him, never accept him. this is exactly what he has been dreading all this time, and was heartbroken when the curse was finally broken, despite him technically being free now. he does not want to be away from you. this is his home. you are his home. you are the one who showed him true love.

"if it is okay… may i take this beanie off for a second?"

"i didn't even let you put it on in the first place," he winces. you feel a little bad, but hold your ground. his eyes sparkle in a way that is a little too familiar, reminding you of a certain someone. the cat who he mentioned. your precious cat. Mars.

"okay… here goes…" he slides the material off, making you gasp. hidden under the beanie is a pair of cat ears, fluffy, the same colour as his hair, and twitching as he adjusts after having flattened them to minimise their visibility.

"yo what."

"i have… a tail too."

"WHAT?"

he is not joking. a black tail to go with the black ears, sliding out from under the oversized hoodie. you are not sure what happened next, but you wake up on the sofa with the man, who you are now guessing is some human cat hybrid version of Mars fanning you with a magazine.

"I AM SORRY, Y/N PLEASE WAKE UP I AM SO- oh you are awake thank goodness i missed you i am really so sorry…" he drops the magazine almost instantly, leaning towards you and wrapping you in a warm embrace, much to your surprise. you yelp, but the softness, as well as his ears moving in the cutest way while he hugs you make you accept the gesture, and return it.

you never thought you would hear a grown man purr exactly like a cat, but here you are. well, you never thought you would have a catboy in your apartment either, but this is already happening so...

"so, Mars?"

"yeah?"

"you have some explaining to do."

after what turned out to be at least two hours of you and him going back and forth about what had unfolded and what was the history of the young catboy's state, you find out that, in reality, his name is Park Seonghwa, and that he is a demon, of all things. that is right, a demon. set out to curse and haunt and spread sin. but no, he is cast out of hell because he is too kind and soft. and so he had been cursed to be a cat, until for a full year, someone could give him their whole heart, their full love. while he explains this to you with a fondness unlike anything you had ever seen before in your life (except in what you perceived from cat Mars's eyes), you begin to blush, realising that all this time, you were talking to and confessing to him. Seonghwa. this handsome man who was always by your side and-

oh. and he was sleeping in the same bed as you. just great. you flush an even deeper shade and cover your face. and he had been jealous, not territorial, when your friend had come over.

"are you okay?"

"so okay."

"hug?"

"i, uh-"

"you give really good hugs."

"Park Seonghwa do you really want to make me suffer?"

"I AM SO SORRY ARE YOU HURT? DID I SAY SOMETHING WRONG I AM SO SORRY?!"

"no you are too cute. come here"

catboy!hwa headcanons

is initially cautious because well… you got used to him being a cat and now suddenly you have a whole man with cat ears and a tail walking around your house. he catches on to the fact that you are kind of shy around him too, but he does not push it, at least not straight away.

because that would mean that he has to get over his own shyness towards you extra quickly, and that proves to be difficult when it hits him that, well, he is now a person too, and you are a person, and he fell in love with you, and you told him you loved him before - on occasion he just walks around blushing with his ears pressed flat to his head but don't point it out he is already struggling ;~;

you might have to be the one to initiate the contact again because he is literally too scared to overstep anything and everything - even when you bought him his own first few sets of clothes as a 'human edition anniversary gift'. you approach him to give him a hug and he groups up as if he is about to dive into a pool, hands to his chest, eyes wide. but is he moving anywhere? no. does his purring give him away? yes. after that the two of you gently reintroduce physical touch and it makes you realise just how much you miss Mars, particularly because Seonghwa is still a little distant for understandable reasons. But you both are trying your best.

if you massage his head and scratch behind his hears he will melt - his favourite thing in the world is having his head rest on your lap with his eyes closed while you ruffle his hair really slowly and run your fingers through it.

desperately misses the times when you would call him handsome and pretty and smart, and every single affectionate word in the universe so he tries his damn hardest to get you to do that again, first by trying to be nice and helping you around the house, and when the results are not to his satisfaction and when cuddle sessions are pretty much the norm, but words of affection aren't… he pouts and openly asks you why you don't call him that anymore. you squeak the words out but the reaction makes every next attempt easier than anything.

he is scared to approach your room again, though, and this time you say nothing because well, this is a whole other territory. a couple of months pass before you consider and that is because you find him sleeping on the floor a couple of times, curled up with is tail covering his face a little, and he said it was because "he is scared otherwise and here is safe". so you take out a futon for now, but he is more than happy with this progress.

he learns how to cook both from you and from tutorials online, and then starts remembering what he used to cook a long time before - you basically stop cooking altogether because now he is insistent on waking you up with breakfast, packing you lunch and greeting you with dinner. he sometimes gets a bit too experimental, but you do not mind it too much because at least he cleans everything up.

you think you can ignore the lego in the corner of your living room? no :) it is a date now. a lego building date. for four hours straight. on the floor. him running this ship like you run your team at work. and his focus, his professional approach to the matter is a little too attractive, you admit to yourself. and somewhere along the way that translates into you planting a kiss on Hwa's cheek. this is the only time over the whole four hours that he drops the pieces he is holding in his hands, gazing at you, not quite sure if what he felt just now was real or not.

but nope, judging by your attempts to avoid his gaze this was very real. so he gets real bold real quick and guess who finds themselves trapped by two tones arms on either side of you, back on the floor, a curious and mischievous face a mere inch away? that's right, you. wants to build a starship, accidentally builds a relationship along with it - a major win.

there isn't ever a platonic stage really. an extensive awkward stage? sure. a roommates-maybe stage? sure. two people who like each other? sure. and now, after many months of you settling into a new routine, two people who love each other and keep telling each other that.

he finds a job that he can do remotely, and in this way remains mainly at home and around the neighbourhood with his beloved hobbies and balancing you out. in this way he now starts to sneak support to pay bills and to buy you little gifts (as a little apology for taking your clothes sometimes - read often)

it is not Hwa's fault that he misses you very quickly. it just happens. then one thing leads to another and he is lying on your shared bed hugging a hoodie of yours. eventually that leads to him dragging a couple more items out of your wardrobe and making a little nest out of them - only then does his worry go down and he goes for a nap while curled up in a ball.

when he knows that you should be arriving soon he starts walking up to the window, then away then back to the window, and away again. cycle repeats itself until he can spot you from a distance, and then he just stays by the window.

he helps you redecorate and rearrange your apartment, considering that you now have a 5'10'' human cat instead of one you can hold with two hands, and shocks you with just how many details he remembers about you, down to allergies, what colours irritate you when it comes to interiors, what plants you had to give away to keep him 'in cat form' safe - even though yes, he would not eat them, but how were you to know that?

he remembers all your special days, and hopes you remember his, too. thankfully, he knows his own birthday and using cat mathematics, converted from demon to cat to human. and so, now you can celebrate him wholeheartedly, only this time that also involves you taking him to go have a picnic under the cherry blossoms.

you and Seonghwa go to pick out and buy him a phone together, and you spend a whole day teaching him how to use it. soon enough your own phone goes off with notifications from him. he sends you fun things throughout the day and if he is busy, he sends you a selfie or a heartfelt message.

likes to curl up and read poetry with you. doesn't matter if out loud of in silence. what matters to him is that you are close. and good luck trying to get away - he has a tail and it is wrapped around your leg like an alert system so that he can tackle you right back to the couch or the bed. because it is you and Seonghwa time.

occasionally sings you lullabies that he either overheard somewhere or remembers, breaking into a smile when you wriggle closer to him and fall asleep, stress melting away from your every feature.

overall you are now living with a catboy Hwa cast out of hell for being too nice, who also turned out to be a big nerd, with heart eyes for you, sweater paws instead of actual paws, the occasional feline habits still coming through (like him rubbing his face against your shoulder, or your own face, or him hissing when frustrated or threatened, or him having the widest stretch in the morning, or… actually he is still part cat so, you have to deal with it), and all the love to give. thankfully not in the form of something he hunted. he buys birds at a store now. meant to be cooked. human-friendly.

he brings you a limited edition starship instead. if you display it he will look at you like he is falling in love with you all over again - if that is even possible because that would mean stopping loving you now, and that is the one thing he cannot do <3

😻 taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @pocketjoong-reads @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @burnmepls @pyeonghongrie-main @archivesummer @little-angel-k @marsstarxhwa

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please leave a kind reblog, much love!

[froggy-hat-lover]

he’s younger than me, although mature for his age. surprisingly i’m fine with that. i don’t mind knowing that i’ll have to teach him a few things about relationships and love.

i don’t mind it at all. i’ve always thought loving and learning coexisted together. You learn to love someone and by discovering new things about them, you decide along the way if they’re the right fit.

he's nice to me. he loves me. i feel it so deeply that he does. thats so rare. i don't think i've felt that before, even with my past experiences. I've felt admired, i've felt liked but i've never felt loved this way. i love him too. although it is unfair that he gets this beat up version of my heart, i'm willing to mend it for him.

he's seen me at my worst, he's felt how its like when i build up my walls and push people away, push him away. he's seen me angry, distant, yet he's still here.

although i'm writing about how he treats me, words can't describe how much i love his soul. i would get lost in my thoughts if i ever found the freedom to think about how much i love him.

there’s so much to learn about each other, if i could love him this much, in this short period of time, i’m scared of the amount of affection and desire that could grow the more i learn about him.

he’s the fire that keeps my secretly cold heart warm. whenever i feel his touch, his warmth, i could feel my walls melting away and i seem to let it all go.

i have never experienced that with anyone ever. (A romantic lover) i suppose. there was always a front with them. but with him, its so so odd how much of a safe place he is for me.

i’ve always been a very loving person. so loving maybe too loving, i’ve been told. but the incidents in the past that have led me to become a lot colder. i feel upset with myself sometimes that i cannot give him that. the normal state of my heart. he deserves it.

writing about him right now, i could feel remnants of myself falling all over the place. that is how it feels to be with him. my knees go weak and my hearts beats faster and my eyes, i kid you not, sometimes black out. (i am anaemic and i have low blood pressure)

i think i could love him forever. i think. i hope. i pray.

i’ve dreamt to love like this and to be loved like this. i hope he stays this way and grows to be better and grows to have flaws that we’ll understand and fix together. as do i.

it feels like he’s taken the key to my heart and i don’t think i can get it back.

[henswilsons]

happy birthday mia! i hope today is fabulous and you have an amazing cup of tea and enjoy the episode 🥰

thank u thank u miss jess my fellow march baby!!!!! i am actually drinking a cup of biscuit tea right now but i think i over-milked it because it's looking a little anaemic LMAO but it tastes very yum regardless so thank u tenfold for bringing this excellence into my life <3333

[bookstantrash]

A/N: Just saw that I hit 200 followers! I didn’t expect that even in my wildest dreams, so thank you so much for those of you who follow me, like/retweet my posts!! 🥰

Thanks aside, enjoy this chapter! I ended up not making it as angst as I intended it to be, so lucky you!

In which she makes a friend, Part Eight

Cassian’s headache was going to kill him.

The past week had been exhausting. Azriel had left only a day ago, leaving Cassian with more work and more troubled thoughts regarding the advance of the rebels.

At least now he had something to occupy his time during his sleepless nights, preferring to work instead of simply staring at his bedroom’s wall until the first rays of sunrise appeared.

Cassian was also worried about Kaelin. The young Illyrian had dismissed Nesta’s worried look, simply stating that his hair had been bothering him and that a few bruises were common. He had only been unfortunate enough to receive most of the blows on his face.

Both Cassian and Azriel had confirmed Kaelin’s words, but he had caught Nesta whispering with the young Illyrian when they thought nobody was looking, and Cassian was starting to get worried that Kaelin was hiding something.

Nesta also occupied his thoughts. Now more than ever.

Although she had actually sided with Azriel, both messing with him non stop — Azriel’s dark humour having surprisingly matched perfectly with Nesta’s ironic one — Cassian would see how she sometimes appeared to be lost in thought, becoming a little quieter once in a while, no doubt with her mind busy with Kaelin.

Cassian had to discover what was happening. He had to make sure that Nesta’s rare and easy smiles — even the way her stormy blue eyes softened more than less nowadays — would not disappear. She deserved all the happiness in the world. As did Kaelin.

But first, he had to rid himself of the nasty headache that had been bothering him all day.

“Now I know why Azriel rubs his temple so often” Cassian thought as he made his way for the healers tents, rubbing his own temple in a vain attempt to ease the pounding inside his head.

As he walked further into the tent, the smell of different herbs assaulted him, and Cassian took a deep breath, an expecting scent he could not name laying a blanket of calmness over him, easing his pain.

“Somebody give me some salt! An evil spirit has arrived!” Cassian heard a familiar grumpy voice shout.

“I missed you too Esmée” he said, stopping near the table where the matron of the healers appeared to be making a complicate looking potion.

“Bah, missed me! You missed coming here and charming my healers to give you extra bandages to wrap your fists, that’s what happened” Esmée replied, snorting.

“You usually need to wrap your hands or else they’ll get hurt even more. Am I wrong ladies?” Cassian playfully said, winking at one of the healers, who blushed.

“Hurt hands!! As if!” Esmée indignantly exclaimed “You are one vain warrior who does it for the aesthetics in four out of five cases!”

“And stop flirting with my healers! You’re distracting them!” she added, hitting him on the head with the small wooden stick she used to grind the herbs.

Cassian gave a surprised yelp, earning giggles from the healers.

“Great, now I’ll have a pump in the morning along with a headache” he thought, massaging his head.

“Esmée” Cassian charmingly tried, giving the old female his best puppy eyes “Uyara of the healers”

“Flattery will not get you anywhere kunumim” she huffed, but Cassian could see her eyes shining with secret delight.

Uyara meant Lady, owner and even dominant in the Illyrian tong. And Cassian may use flattery, but he was no liar while doing it. Esmée was the best healer the Illyrians had. She knew secrets long lost, passed only from matron to matron of camp. And her abilities were just as legendary. She truly was the Lady of the Healers.

“This time I did not come here to ask for bandages” Cassian said “I was wondering if you had any herbs for headaches. Mine is killing me”

Esmée surprised Cassian by raising her hands and cupping his cheeks, bringing his face down so she could inspect it.

“You have dark shadows under your eyes. Your eyes are tired, and you are a little anaemic” the old healer’s voice got unusually soft, maternal concern lacing it “You work too much. Have you been having trouble sleeping kunumim?”

Cassian felt his chest tighten a bit at Esmée’s words.

It had been a long time since someone had noticed how tired he felt beneath his happy facade. Since someone had cared to stop and really look at him.

Cassian loved his family. But even around them he felt the need to keep up the appearances.

He had to be the funny one. The one always there to make sure everyone was happy and comfortable.

Cassian sometimes wanted to scream. Wanted to cry and complain.

Wanted someone to hug him and let him slip his mask off.

Wanted someone who loved him enough to hear his troubles.

But Cassian could not afford to be selfish right now.

He had a camp to take care of.

“I’m fine Uyara” smiling weakly, Cassian gently took her hands off his face, squeezing them in reassurance.

Esmée clicked her tong in annoyance, her mean and grumpy attitude back in an instant, as if she was not worried at all about him.

“Lucky for you,” Esmée said, motioning for him to follow her to the back of the tent “we have recently made some painkiller tonics”

Her next words, however, got lost when Cassian smelled that calming scent again.

Closer now, he could clearly smell lavender and vanilla, a familiar scent.

And that’s when he saw her.

Nesta, an apron tied over her dark green dress, her sleeves pushed back — Cassian caught himself staring at her bare forearms and resisting the urge to run his fingertips softly against her milky skin — and brows knotted in concentration while she filled some vials.

“Nesta, grab two of those vials and pack them for this headstrong Commander”

At Esmée’s words, Nesta raised her head and looked in their direction, stormy blue eyes widening slightly when she spotted Cassian beside the healer.

“So this is where she disappears to everyday after lunch”

Nesta quickly recomposed herself, effortlessly filling the small glass flasks and placing them in a little pouch, Cassian not taking his eyes off of her for a single moment.

Esmée huffed in approval, but when Nesta tried to hand it to her, the healer refused it.

“You also need to rest. You think I did not see you dozing off? Or the way you were blinking heavily while mixing the herbs?”

Cassian’s attention peaked at that, and he noticed the shadows underneath Nesta’s eyes. They were faint, fainter than his, but they were still there.

“I’m fine Esmée” Nesta strongly argued, not backing off.

“You’re off duties until you’ve had some sleep and that’s final” the matron replied “What’s the problem with you two and not sleeping? It’s not as if you don’t have a bed”

And before they even knew what had happened, Esmée had ripped the apron from around Nesta’s waist, threw her coat and banned them from the tent.

“If that overexcited pitanga appears I’ll let him know that you already left with the Commander” with this last warning, Esmée left them outside, both a little lost.

Nesta was the first one to recompose herself. She wore her coat and started walking back to the cabin, not waiting to see if Cassian was following her.

Which he obviously was, effortlessly catching up to her given his long strides.

“You seem to be very fond of walking” he tried, casting her a side glance.

“I have no wings” she snorted “How else am I supposed to get anywhere then?

“Is that an invitation to fly with me Ness?” Cassian said, half joking and half expectant of her answer.

He would not lie and say the opportunity to hold her close to him did not tempt him. And he would not lie further by saying he had not been dying to show her how beautiful Illyria could be from above.

“No” she swiftly cut his offer down, staring straight ahead.

“It’ll be fun” he tried again.

“What’s so fun about making someone sick?” Nesta snapped, and Cassian remembered the last time she had flown.

How Rhysand had purposely flew faster than she could possibly stomach, no doubt a petty move from his side.

“I would fly very slowly” he tentatively said “And not even that high”

Cassian only received silence in answer, but he could tell from the way Nesta was pursing her lips that she was tempted to say yes.

“It is faster this way” Cassian added.

“Fine,” Nesta finally answered, a hint of annoyance in her voice “but one smart trick from you and you’ll wake up with burnt eyebrows tomorrow”

“I wouldn’t dare and try to make Your Highness uncomfortable”

They stopped walking, Cassian hesitating to take the first step and embrace Nesta.

The same could not be said about her, however, who boldly got close to him.

“So? Are we going or not?”

“Eager aren’t we sweetheart” Cassian gathered her on his arms, Nesta lacing her own around his shoulders “If I knew you were so desperate to hold me I would have brought this ideia up sooner”

Before she could throw a barbed reply his way, Cassian opened his wings and shot to the sky, feeling Nesta tighten her hold and bury her head on his shoulder.

Siphons flashing, Cassian pulled a shield over them, the air that high up being colder, specially when autumn was nearing its end.

He may or may not have taken the opportunity to discreetly take a better look at Nesta.

At the way the few strands of her hair had escaped her braid, tickling his cheek as they were blew by the wind.

At the way she got braver and raised her head a little, her blue eyes the colour of the cloud free sky and sparkling with wonder.

“It’s beautiful” and Nesta’s voice was so soft, so full of wonder, that Cassian imagined if that was how she had been before the war. When she was human and all she wanted was to keep Elain happy and travel the world.

“It is”

But he was not looking at the view.

Was not looking at how the sun sparkled against the shiny peeks of the mountains, how the vast green forest beneath them looked like a gigantic carpet laid over Illyria.

Cassian was looking at the female on his arms, savouring every precious second of the moment and thanking the gods he had promised to fly slowly, just so he could hold Nesta longer.

Letting her go once they were back on the ground was one of the hardest things he had ever done, missing her warmth and her jasmine and vanilla scent as if he was missing one of his own limbs.

He hoped he affected her the same way she affected him.

Hoped she felt even a minuscule fragment of what he felt for her.

Hoped he had not misunderstood the way she too seemed to regret letting him go.

~•~

Cassian didn’t even have to take the medicine for his headache, that annoying pounding having disappeared mid flight.

Nesta Archeron, he decided, was the best medicine he could have.

And it seemed that luck was finally on his side, for when they had arrived and Cassian asked her if she’d like to eat something, Nesta surprisingly said yes, going as far as to put the kettle on the stove to boil some water for tea.

Feeling bashful and enjoying his luck, Cassian attempted to make some small talk with Nesta, asking her about her day, what she liked about learning to be a healer, what she thought about Esmée.

He had been scared she’d shut him out, but she answered his questions with no problem, asking him some in return.

Cassian’s day had started awful but seemed to be walking towards being the best he’d ever had, specially when he appeared in living room after a warm bath and spotted Nesta, once again sitting comfortably on the couch — one of her new books laid on her lap — hair in a simple braid and wearing that mouth watering leggings, combined with a white tunic that drew attention to her eyes.

The fireplace was, as usual, empty.

Cassian could not understand how Nesta managed to make do with only fur blankets, specially now that winter was fast approaching.

“The fireplace.... why don’t you like to light it?”

That caught Nesta’s attention, and he saw how she flinched.

Dangerous. It was a dangerous ground that he was walking on.

They had only talked about futilities so far. But to ask her something so personal, something he suspected was related to the war and her traumas...

He didn’t want to see her back to the dark and empty place she used to go when she had first arrived, eyes faraway and empty.

“You don’t have to answer that if you’re not comfortable, but I’m... worried” Cassian flapped his wings a little, an evident sign of his anxiousness “Winter in Illyria is ruthless”

“It was no different from when I was human” Nesta snapped, but her voice had a slight tremble to it.

“It is. And you...we won’t be able to go through it if we don’t have a fire burning” he walked towards the sofa, daring to sit down beside Nesta, but holding himself back from touching her hand, which clutched the hardcover of the book “Even the wards and walls here are not enough to keep the cold away. Winter at Illyria won’t be like winter in the human land. Or in Velaris”

Nesta only stared and stared at the fireplace, as if it would light up any minute. After some time, she spoke, her voice almost a whisper.

“The sound that the fire makes...when it burns...it reminds me of bones” she shuddered “Of bones breaking”

Her father’s neck.

Maybe even his wings.

He hadn’t known.

Hadn’t known and last solstice she had stayed all night, without complaining about the noise. Without asking to diminish the fire or even make it soundless — Cassian knew that Rhysand, Amren or even Mor would be able to do it. But she had not asked to. Had not wanted to appear weak. To most probably not worry Feyre.

Nesta had been suffering all this time.

Alone.

“I... I have no magic. At least not any apart from the killing power every Illyrian has. So I’m not able to make the fire soundless”

“But you could do it” he added softly “If you lit the fire with your powers... I think you’d be able to turn the sound of the wood snapping off. The fire would be yours to tame. To control”

“You think it would work?” she asked, and Cassian felt a sliver of hope in her tone.

Control. It was all about control. And if Nesta felt like she was in control of the situation, she would be able to support a burning fireplace, sound or not.

“I think you are able to do whatever you wish to, but the first step is to try”

“Grab the wood then” Nesta said.

And Cassian did. He piled the wood neatly, and Nesta moved to stand in front of the fireplace, standing her hands in front of her.

“Just like we practiced” Cassian softly said, moving behind her, his front only a couple of inches from her back “Reach deep within you for it, and then redirect it to the wood”

He could picture Nesta knotting her eyebrows in concentration, and her silver flames soon appeared on her hands.

“Good, now project them towards the fire” Cassian’s voice took the tone he usually used during training, a way to ground her.

Nesta’s flames got brighter and with a little push of arms they flew towards the wood, burning it.

It started small, but soon the fire was roaring, the crack crack of wood filling the air.

“Now turn it off Nesta”

“I-I can’t” she said, her whole body starting to tremble “I don’t know how”

“You can. And you will” he placed a hand on her lower back, like he had once done a lifetime ago in a war tent “You’re the one in control. The flames obey you and no else”

Nesta’s breath was coming in pants now, but the cracking of the fire gradually began to get quieter.

“Just like that Ness” he encouraged, daring to get a little closer, until his front almost touched her back “You’re doing amazing xe nhia”

With a grunt, the sound of the burning wood died out completely, and Nesta staggered back into Cassian’s chest, the flames around her fists also disappearing.

He held her against him, filled with awe and proud of her for meeting her fear head on.

Nesta straightened herself, turning to face Cassian, her blue-gray eyes shining with some hidden emotion.

“Thank you” she whispered, and Cassian swore he had never heard more precious words.

“It was all you” he shrugged “You don’t have to thank me sweetheart”

“I wouldn’t have tried it if it weren’t for you” she stubbornly replied “So accept my thanks and stop being so headstrong”

“Me? Headstrong?” Cassian chuckled, his arms tightening around her “Aren’t you talking about yourself Nessie?”

Nesta snorted, placing her hands on his chest and Cassian prayed to the gods that she wouldn’t notice how fast his heart was beating.

Being so close to Nesta did things to his heart.

And to other parts of him.

“Go make dinner you stupid bat” she said, pushing him away “Kaelin should be arriving, and I bet he’ll be starving after training”

As if on cue, the door opened and the Illyrian walked in.

“Hey...” Kaelin greeted weakly, and Cassian noticed fresh bruises on the kid’s face, the older ones barely healed.

“Kaelin!” Nesta exclaimed, practically running towards the young Illyrian “What happened?”

“Oh this is nothing” he shrugged, wincing slightly “Just lost at an one on one spar today”

“Kaelin...” Nesta tried to touch him, but the kid swiftly backed off, avoiding her.

Cassian saw the look of hurt flashing on Nesta’s face before she concealed it beneath a mask of coolness.

“I’ll just wash up and then help with dinner” saying that, Kaelin quickly left the room.

It seemed that Cassian’s luck could only go so far, for his worries about Kaelin seemed to have doubled.

•

Fixed tag list: @sayosdreams @thewayshedreamed @sjm-things @perseusannabeth @arinbelle @caotica-e-quieta @vidalinav @swankii-art-teacher @ireallyshouldsleeprn @duskandstarlight @greerlunna @thegoddessaltenia @dayanna-hatter @verypaleninja @awesomelena555 @courtofjurdan @allilal @sensitiveillyrian @moe8 @illyrianwitchling13 @silvernesta @bri-loves-sunflowers @queenestarcheron @imwritingthesewords @vasudharaghavan @rainbowcheetah512 @darkshadowqueensrule @letstakethedawn @starlightorstarfire @city-of-fae

{Please let me know if you’d like to added to my Fixed Tag list}

[sodamnbored]

Burning Maze Spoilers and everything before that!

Also, I’ve read ToA but not ToN yet so I don’t know what happens so if I get something wrong, you know - oops.

Alright so Burning Maze was terrible and we all know what specifically about it was terrible. Wish it didn’t happen, but it’s published and it did. So what we need now is a quest to get our boy back from the Underworld.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and it would definitely happen in a much more serious way if it happened, but for now I’m just here for chaos and fun times.

So first off, what do they have to do? So many options. Could just be if they do Hades a favour, he’ll do them a favour and give Jason back, so maybe they just have to go find something he lost (like The Helm of Darkness or something), or go track down a rogue hellbound or if Cerberus got loose or something like that. Or maybe it’s like a scavenger hunt for ingredients for some ritual or something so Jason gets a body, mix him up a new one power puff girls style. Maybe Hades is miffed about making a deal with them so he gives them a whole list of things to go do for him before he’ll consider it, like Hercules’ trials.

Now really probably anyone could go on the quest to do any of this stuff. Personally, I’ve thought about this in a more serious version and in that I’ve got logical explanations why the best people to go would be Nico and Leo, so I’m just gonna stick with that for this, but there may be arguments for other people. Plus, who doesn’t want a Valdangelo bromantic roadtrip?

A quest usually has three people, and if someone else goes in a more serious version that’s fine - but I would hugely enjoy if Jason got to go along as a ghost. Has anybody read The Wish List by Eoin Colfer? That kind of thing - a Casper The Friendly Ghost type deal.

Jason, Nico and Leo sound like a very fun trio for a quest. Nico and Leo seemed on better terms when Leo came back to camp in ToA, so building on that, they’ll totally bond on the quest. But they’ll probably still keep that kind of bitchy dynamic. You know, where they act like it’s a hassle to be around each other but secretly they’re besties.

And Jason coming along as a ghost would give way to all the typical ghostly shenanigans. Maybe he’s only solid sometimes, maybe he relies on Nico to funnel some power into him if he wants to pick anything up. If Nico summons any other spirit for help or skeleton warriors in a fight, Jason gets so petty about it afterwards. Like “the other woman” gags, but the other spirit instead. Is Jason not good enough to protect them from monsters? Is he not ghostly enough for Nico’s liking??

They keep forgetting he’s not always solid and tossing him a backpack to carry for a bit. He even forgets and holds out his arms to catch it but it goes right through him, maybe even out a window or something and Leo facepalms, Nico rolls his eyes at Leo and Jason for forgetting, and Jason just throws his arms up done with everything. They definitely call him Casper at some points and Jason either hates it, or pretends to hate it. “Oh nice catch Casper,” and Jason just looks at the camera like he’s on the office.

Maybe when he’s solid enough, mortals can see him too with the mist but they think he’s sick or something because he’s so pale they can almost see right through him. “So are you anaemic or something? My cousin’s anaemic you know.”

But maybe if it’s too bright outside or Nico isn’t putting enough into it, the mist goes the other way and mortals don’t see him at all. Giving Leo and Nico looks like they’re mad when they ask for three passes, for their friend Jason who’s right there beside them. Mortals crossing to the other side of the street to avoid those two weird kids having a conversation with the air.

Plot wise that would be reason for a typically short deadline to complete the quest by, since Hades isn’t going to let Jason just wander the mortal wold indefinitely as a spirit.

Maybe Jason will be able to float a couple inches off the ground instead of having to walk, so while Leo and Nico are complaining about a hike up a mountain on a really hot day, Jason is just floating by like “doesn’t bother me, lovely day for a stroll!” And if he wasn’t dead, they’d kill him. Nico occasionally getting annoyed and pushing power into him to make Jason more corporeal until he can’t float and has to walk like the rest of them - definitely Jason whining that he can’t believe Nico grounded him.

Maybe when they get him back properly, because they have to surely, Jason had gotten too used to being a ghost and just floating through walls and stuff and not having to watch where he’s going, so when he gets his body back it’s really cool and dramatic but then he immediately walks into a wall because he forgot people who are alive need doors. For better or worse, at least he hasn’t changed then. Still their giant blond dumbass.

He probably can’t, but I could see them at least trying to see if Jason can possess people. Jules-Albert can definitely ferry them around the country when Nico’s too tired to shadow travel or Festus is in the shop. Leo can spend the whole drive making Nico is rich jokes, how it’s the most comfortable quest he’s ever been on. “So this is how the rich quest, huh? Pretty cushy Di Angelo.” And if they ever have to camp in the woods or something Leo being snarky “Your dad never gave you a pop up holiday home? Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.”

Had this idea at like four am so I can’t remember everything, but it made me laugh at the time. I think those three would be fun together, especially with a ghost element in the mix. I can’t come up with much but I’m sure there’s something there.

[vivithefolle]

What is your opinion on the parallels between Ron and Neville, especially considering that they both suffer from drastically low self-esteem? People often draw similarities between their arcs, but it seems to me that as the book series went on, Neville gained confidence while Ron lost confidence. Am I missing something?

I think you pretty much summed it up.

You could say that Neville’s self-esteem was inversely proportional to Ron’s.

When Ron comes at Hogwarts, he’s feeling a bit defeated already, but his successes in the first book (where he kinda carries the team) and the second (where he gets a Special Award For Services To The School along with Harry) serve to build up his confidence, culminating with him getting his own wand in the third. Meanwhile poor Neville, while he stands up to Grabbe and Coyle and later to his own friends, is still seen bumbling around and being generally a laughing stock.

After the third book it’s kind of a turning point. Ron doubts Harry openly, makes a fool of himself due to Fleur’s Veela glamour and is pretty much getting slapped in the face by the narration. Neville however doesn’t get humiliated as much, and even gets to go to the Yule Ball without being publically humiliated.

In OOTP the chasm deepens. Ron is bullied horribly... and no one does a thing. Neville, meanwhile, gets McGonagall telling him he’s a great wizard and a promise of her standing up to his grandmother. OOTP ends with Neville having gotten his own wand, and Ron’s triumph over his bullies is eclipsed by his defeat at the DOM.

HBP pretty much spits on every character, even uses Luna Lovegood to convince us to feel sorry for Hermione who has assaulted her friend, and Neville is pretty much the only one to come out unscathed, because he was relegated to the background. He makes a comic relief appearance at Slughorn’s party and that’s all; he’s then here and present when it comes to fighting the Death Eaters during the battle of the Astronomy Tower. Ron is also there, but people seem to forget that Hermione and Luna did not participate much in that fight...

And DH... well, no possibility to see Neville bumbling at Hogwarts in DH now that we aren’t at Hogwarts, is there? But we are given first-seats to see Ron be moody and angry and a general ass... which anyone would be in the situation he’s in (as in, having your family/little sister liable to be executed at any moment by a corrupt government, being anaemic, and being led on a wild goose chase by an asshole who doesn’t seem to care at all about the fact that YOUR FAMILY MAY DIE THE LONGER THIS DRAGS ON), but somehow JKR insists that it’s Ron and only Ron being an asshole, case in point:

This was their first encounter with the fact that a full stomach meant good spirits; an empty one, bickering and gloom. Harry was least surprised by this, because he had suffered periods of near starvation at the Dursleys’. Hermione bore up reasonably well on those nights when they managed to scavenge nothing but berries or stale biscuits, her temper perhaps a little shorter than usual and her silences rather dour. Ron, however, had always been used to three delicious meals a day, courtesy of his mother or of the Hogwarts house-elves, and hunger made him both unreasonable and irascible. Whenever lack of food coincided with Ron’s turn to wear the Horcrux, he became downright unpleasant. - Deathly Hallows

So we have

Ron, however, had always been used to three delicious meals a day, courtesy of his mother or of the Hogwarts house-elves 

... but, um, Hermione too is used to three delicious meals a day, courtesy of her parents and the Hogwarts house-elves -

Hermione bore up reasonably well [...], her temper perhaps a little shorter than usual and her silences rather dour

Nevermind, Perfect Goddess Sue is perfect.

At the end of DH, we still remember that Ron behaved badly in the Horcrux Hunt because blah blah symbolism blah blah poor wee Harry blah blah catholicism parallels with St Peter denying knowing Jesus blah blah blah.

While Neville’s appearance as the fearless, epic Hogwarts leader is still a shock, but also a satisfying moment, especially when he gets his epic speech to tell Voldemort to go fuck himself.

... which leads many to forget that Ron did it before Neville (not that Neville’s speech wasn’t an epic, well-deserved moment of pure badassery).

"You see?" said Voldemort, and Harry felt him striding backward and forward right beside the place where he lay. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!" "He beat you!" yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more. - Deathly Hallows

But people will mostly recall Neville’s speech. Because it lasts longer than Ron’s simple “he beat you” and Voldemort actually reacts to it, actually holds a conversation with Neville, while Ron’s scream is... mostly ignored. Even his breaking of Voldemort’s Silencing Charm doesn’t impact much, because another, stronger Charm is immediately put in place moments after.

The way Neville and Ron kill their respective Horcruxes is very different, too... Neville does it in an epic moment of badassery, set on fire and everything, and takes the sword from the Hat itself, mimicking Harry’s actions in Chamber of Secrets. It’s a pure, unadulterated moment of epicness, and nothing can taint its sheer badassery (especially if, like the rest of us intellectuals, you ignore everything JKR has tried to establish as canon after DH). Ron, however, kills his affiliated Horcrux as an act of... eugh... redemption over leaving Harry’s side (even though it was clearly the smartest thing to do since the dumbass didn’t even manage to destroy the Horcrux while Ron was gone, so here’s your proof that Harry and Hermione absolutely do need Ron because they’re incompetent nincompoops). Ron killing the Horcrux can’t be called triumphant or a victory, no matter what idiots blabbering about symbolically destroying his inferiority complex try to say - because yeah, symbolism is nice and all, but it’s not because Ron gets a symbolic victory that he’s miraculously cured of it, but hey who cares Ron can’t possibly have a mental illness cuz he’s not Harry haha!!

... Excuse me. I’m still bitter over... things.

Ron’s defeat of the Horcrux isn’t a triumph like Neville decapitating Nagini is. He’s humiliated in front of his best friend, whose opinion he bases most of his self-esteem upon. His dirty laundry is aired for Harry to see. And finally, when he destroys the Horcrux, he is left crying in the snow with Mr Emotionally Stunted for company.

How. The fuck. Do you call that. A victory.

Ron’s killing of the Horcrux is bittersweet. It’s only Harry and Ron, isolated in a small clearing, in the snow. Ron doesn’t get the sword from the Sorting Hat itself, which may make some people think it hasn’t been won properly, even though Ron displayed bravery (jumping into a frozen pond in the middle of winter) and chivalry (rescuing Harry) to obtain it, and Ron pretty much spends the whole time being terrified (of the thing that psychologically tortured him but hey, since when do we care about Ron’s feelings) then apologizing to Harry for leaving (and Harry accepting those apologies when HE TOO OWED RON SOME FUCKING APOLOGIES BUT NAH HARRY POTTER IS TOO SPECIAL FOR THAT).

While Neville’s killing of Nagini is nothing but badass, badass, and re-badass, with loads of people to witness it. It’s epic. Neville obtains Gryffindor’s sword “”“properly”““, by taking it from the Sorting Hat. And naturally, there’s nothing about Neville “redeeming himself for his betrayal of Our Lord And Saviour Harry Potter” to taint that success.

Yeah... at the end of it all, Ron is... not fine. Him “symbolically destroying his inferiority complex” is just fucking that, a symbol. But it doesn’t mean he’s miraculously cured his insecurities and all. It doesn’t mean he’s stopped being horribly fucking depressed. It doesn’t mean he’s not traumatized. But I forgot only Harry’s traumas matter (and Hermione’s, to a lesser extent... what am I saying, Hermione doesn’t get trauma, trauma is for losers, like Harry).

Neville is slowly but steadily built up in the background through the series (huh, kinda like Ginny... wonder why more people won’t point that out). His failures are so commonplace, and usually more in the realms of “accidental fuck-up” than “feeling offended and fucking up because of it”, that it’s hard to be angry at him. Meanwhile Ron’s failures feel more personal, because he’s so important to Harry and Harry takes Ron’s disagreements with him as personal attacks like the idiot fuck he is.

So, while Neville gradually gets stronger in the background, Rowling brings Ron down a little more in every book, because as the books go on she can’t bear to have Harry and Hermione fuck up, so Ron has to do all the fucking up so she can pretend the other two are perfect instead.

[runningwithhellhounds]

Three years later it becomes clear: squid-boys never stood much of a chance breathing on land.

''Is he awake? The tranquilizer is loosening. Oh, he moved. Did you see? Left fingers.''

Your shoulder – right, you hit a rock. A set-up of metal walls glistens in the corner of your vision. You can't move. Some wetness in your throat makes you despair, makes you cough, involuntary and chokey and wet. Your muscles just don't move the way you want them to.

''Hey. Are you awake? Back away, I think he's scared.''

''Binary gender is a construct,'' a voice says, light, somewhat serious, somewhat self-aware.

''Oh, I'm sorry. Are they awake.''

Fuck you, you think. This happened just fifteen minutes after waking up. If this were to happen later, maybe you would be less out of it and more situation-wise, more windbreaking skin. More teethful. Wetness should be at your side and not pool where it shouldn't. Wetness should drown things when you willed it to.

They carry your limp body into the metal box, as you knew that you would, carried to the truck door and packed away neatly. Your body feels particularly insensitive, even when gloved hands touch it, maybe in the enlightenment of death, or something death-like.

In the box, the only way to look is upwards at the glass cover plate. It doesn't move when you push against it, and none of the other walls do. When the light in the space of the truck is cut off, you stop pushing at the upper plate, because it makes you feel flattened, or something that can be flattened with force, in the way of soft-tissues invertebrates. It makes the air in your chest twist into impossible illusion shapes, looped into themselves.

And then the truck screeches to a stop. When it does, abrupt in the way of accidents, you think of the gods you've been learning to despise in the practise of eighteen years. You would think your spite is more polished by now, better refined, with how raw and disgusting it has felt. But now your ears are ringing with divine working in one's life shall become apparent as an ineffable experience; divine working—

Your ears are ringing with Andrew and eyes burning with the image of the hell-made saviour of him. You hear shouting. The truck sways with the force of something, and you go with it, like unrooted watergrass. If this is Andrew, he must be sating the hunger of his hyper-grin. A new image blazes into you: out of water, in the air of land, bloodied hands remain bloodied. You are used to water washing blood from your skin, the skin remaining stainless, shedding impurity and grime and violence right off. If this is Andrew, he must look like a terror.

But there is a godly part in this. If this is Andrew, he has brought what you have always wanted: difference without novelty and novelty's stomach-digesting discomfort. The truck sways again and you are still holding your breath.

*

It has been over a week since Andrew removed his arm from around your shoulders, and you both fell in the water of a flooded basement, comrade-like, collapsed and breathing fast in the aftermath of things. He dragged himself to the staircase and spread over the length of a step, legs up on the railing, the weight of his cement-bag body sagging. The thump of his head falling back against the wall made you want to urge forward. But you didn't. His clothes were soaked past his waist, black jeans abyss-black. His head lolled to look at you and you felt all too transparent, like he could see right through your skin and muscle, liver and intestines and all your soft organs. You were still spiked-up, body still ready to rush. Too tender when he was looking like this.

It has been over a week of you dragging your body through the ecosystem of the basement. The water is shallow enough to make the basement a crawl-space. You crawl around the pillars, wondering if you can do it in an utterly random pattern. Don't think too hard. You think you're going crazy. From aloneness. All the other beings in the flooded basement are small and timid. Don't think too hard.

Andrew comes every day, every second day, every few days. Irregularly. He brings stacks of food.

''It's not this dark outside,'' you tell him the next time his boots settle with your eye level, ''The windows are tinted. It's darker in here.''

He brings you a flashlight. You don't use it. To what, target yourself? A predator with nothing to prey on. A predator with nowhere to go.

He sticks his feet in the water and reads with your flashlight. He brings you games of multiplication and these little metal wire shapes to disentangle. You get better than him at chess quickly. It surprises him. It doesn't surprise you.  You have been thinking about mathematical perfection and formal proofs your whole life. You have spent your whole life over-chewing your people's stories; it makes you a good social learner; a learner from mistakes, yours, others'.

''I am going to promote my pawn,'' you observe. He brings his hands up, all fingers meeting in a point aligned with the centre of his chest and then he pulls his hands apart and spreads his fingers into something open and empty-handed.

''I don't care,'' he says, then huffs and laughs meanly until he swallows it down, and then bolts upstairs. You can hear him rage there, the thumping of what you imagine is hands hitting the frame of a doorway as he enters a room, pushing empty drawers shut, throwing himself on a bed. You don't understand his theatrics, or his rage.

Most of the time he is gone, though. It would be okay, that nothing ever happens, if nothing happened inside of you, too. You just feel disused, as a person. Your skin is pale without bruises and your head is empty. Andrew has brought you a waterproof phone, a metal little thing. He's been gone for days, and you've been existing amongst clutter, a being in the ecosystem, an object in stasis. This water tastes different. It leaves a dirty taste in your mouth that you try to get rid of by licking your lips. It doesn't work, but you keep catching yourself doing it anyway.

You call him.

''I feel sick,'' you say.

He brings you aspirins, more food, a radio.

He hasn't been saying much. This isn't what satisfaction looks like, you think as he expressionlessly tears a second packet of salt into his food box. His quiet leaves you feeling alone in un-novel ways, even though most of your aloneness is new. To be fair, you have only found dissatisfaction to be unkind; not intrinsically, not out of necessity, but out of something more spiteful – maybe stubbornness. Anyway. Anyway, maybe you shouldn't think of quiet as unkind. What else can you expect. Being low-maintenance feels kind of right.

*

Somebody is in the house.

When the steps come, they come slow, and with foreign wilfulness. You still. You watch your breath skate over the surface. You know that you wear suspicion the way Andrew wears the relaxed slope of his shoulders, but you're right, you're right.

You are right. After minutes of soft thudding, a corrosion-of-a-boy appears at the top of the basement staircase and deflates in front of your eyes. He peeks downwards quickly, then half-turns, his eyes again jumping around in the way of sweeping: thorough and clearing. The semi-dry sepia shrubs outside the window, the unopening front door of abandon, the end of the hallway you only saw once. He stops. He deflates. He exhales, exposing the wear of him, then covers his eyes with his wrist. He stops like that.

You are watchful. You make yourself unseeable and now that he doesn't see you by how he continues walking downwards. You watch as he crouches his anaemic-looking body on the last step above the water, looking around in a glazed way, with clumsy attention. His eyes are shadowed by the downwards tilt of his head, so you set your gaze to the tight pull of his shoelaces and the triple knots of them. Slow enough to be soundless, you lift some more of your body out of the water.

''Psh,'' you say, and the boy stills. Stops breathing, until he leans his head forward, a little, squinting, and you think about a fish hook.

''Merman?'' he asks, stupid.

He looks a thought away from bolting, a distraction away. Haunted? you wonder. Fast as someone would be if they had something sharp snipping right by their neck. For a moment, you worry that Andrew has installed cameras, but he wouldn't.

''Are you with Andrew?'' you ask, and have him scrambling up – and it rolls a terrible terrible sense over you. A sense of Andrew's hyper-grin. A sense of his red-dripping hands. An unpunctuated question of things Andrew could do.

You don't want him to go. ''Wait, wait. Do you have an aspirin?''

He stops in something surprise-like. Continues looking undecided. He looks like a person who only trusts himself. Who wonders whether he himself is trustworthy.

''Black hair,'' you address him. It seems to stagger him further.

''I don't,'' he says, then clears his throat. ''I have needles. Some alcohol?''

''Alcohol is a very ineffective drug.'' Drugs know you, you know drugs. You say this to skirt the edge of things, because some basicity is growing inside of you. Psychotropics have always meant skirting things, for you. People have always only responded to the wrong ugly aspects of you using them, and they have responded in an ugly way, when they did.

''Is he the one keeping you here?'' the boy asks lowly, with horror. Andrew wouldn't. The boy probably doesn't know Andrew specifically. He is probably just wary. Trustless. He absently wipes a hand under his nose and looks at his hand as it comes away clean.

''No, no. He helps,'' you say, throat wound up in a familiar way.

The boy's gaze doesn't linger on the un-land-suited parts of you. What must you look like? Hiding in a vacated house, now un-vacated, now a whole new ecosystem. You dragging your body around it purposelessly in the manner of dethroned kings. In religious stories, evil is described along the image of decadent, scorching beauty, or ugliness, never ordinary. What are you? Stale, now; touch this – this; ah, pfh, in the hold of gloved hands. Are you ordinary. Can you be unordinary in a good way. Please. Suddenly, you feel the crash of some alien plea, fully, mouthfully in a way extraneous things can't be.

The boy stands up, scanning the basement around you, the misplaced wooden boards and pillars and the handles of some exercise equipment above the water level. The place you scavenge. The place where electronic devices make your eyes hurt. The boy shakes his head.

''Does Andrew—'' he starts, then reconsiders, ''did Andrew—'' stares at you wordlessly, before he glances over his shoulder and grips the strap of his bag with both hands.

''Are you in a hurry?'' you ask.

His eyes are a little wild when he turns back to you, and his nodding is shaky. ''He will be back, right. Andrew.''

The air isn't right. You twist your arms under the hunch of your shoulders. ''Are you really?'' you ask after a moment.

''I don't know how to tell the truth differently,'' he evades the question; you notice things like that. You stare. You stare. He sharpens under your gaze. His grip on the strap tightens. His eyes narrow when yours do, and his face is tightening up with something wild and exposed and almost breathless.

''Look, I'm just asking, okay?'' you roll the words out carefully. ''You don't have to, I won't— It's just me here, okay? But are you— are you—do you know Wes—''

''No. No. I'm. I'm Neil and I don't know anyone here,'' he says, then runs back up the stairs, and you think: fuck.

*

''What have you done,'' you accuse Andrew right as the door at the top of the staircase gapes wider, more late-afternoon orange light seeping in. You don’t know if you should tell him about Neil. Andrew halts and untenses with a controlled exhale before he even fully tenses. He turns his head before he turns his body, the slit-eyed mechanism of it.

You watch him pull down his large brown-knitted sweater from where it has creased at his waist. This is the softest you have seen him. In his mechanical way. He walks down.

''What do you mean,'' he asks blankly. You lift your eyebrows. You don't want to prompt his answer. You want to squeeze out his hiding space until he is forced to expose himself. Something tells you he has not been sufficiently challenged, lately, that he has been glaring his way through people's curiosity until they took their questions back.

''I will stay here now. I needed the foster address to get a job. I don't need it anymore.''

''You work?'' you ask, dumbfounded.

''Warehouse stock control. I'm getting machinery training. Forklift truck. Vroom vroom'' his tone mocks himself. He doesn't answer your question. He lifts his mug above his open mouth and nothing pours out, which he must have known before he lifted it and did it anyway.

''So what did you do,'' you ask. You imagine he squints his eyes, but he doesn't do anything, really, you just see the questioning of it.

''I left and now I'm moving here. What do you think I did? Oh thee who inquires with an accusatory tone.'' He sits down, then stands up enough to pull a pen from the pocket of his black jeans. ''What will you charge me with, officer?''

''Okay,'' you say carefully, raising your hands. ''Were they bad? Wherever you were staying.''

''Sure.'' He gives a not impressed look at your raised hands, then pulls a sudoku from this jacket pocket, and you think: how can this be the thing that bores you the least. He has this unasking about him: he doesn't wonder about your life, or about its past, or about its pastness. How you sometimes wanted to be one of the little beings that scuttle inelegantly, instead of a self, and how you now drag your body around in patterns. You still don't know to where he disappeared for two years, and he doesn't ask about the gelatinous ways in which life unfolded in that time. He doesn't bite into pasts. It's very uninviting.

''So why were they bad?'' you ask, then watch him build things inside of himself. Stories, lies, napkin-houses that fold the dirty sides inwards.

''They don't read social cues,'' he says, finally. You wonder how carefully crafted this answer is. But who are you to judge? You haven't told him about Neil.

''And I read things fine, for you?'' you ask.

Andrew's eyes trace the line of your shoulders. You turn a little, into something more invisible, and Andrew nods a little.

''You wear your body like it's soft,'' he says.

You feel a strike of something pulpy. You look down at your body, water surface wavering around it. The stricken feeling is illusionary; it reminds you: Andrew's curiosity is just selective. Just one of the on-off things he switches, like his energy and benevolence. It's selective in the way of not knowing things that are easy to know, like knowing to list your body organs, and on the other hand saying, you wear your body like it's soft.

''This doesn't work,'' you say. Twitching your head sideways to indicate the space of the basement.

''I know,'' he says after a moment, taut. I'm sorry, he doesn't say.

''I can't even move.''

''I know,'' he says. I'm sorry, he doesn't say.

*

Andrew should be sleeping upstairs when you hear a crash, some crashing, and then quiet. An accident, you imagine immediately, your mind attuned to likely narratives, bad things, extrasensory things.

''Andrew?'' you ask tentatively. It's something bad. It's always something bad. But then the quiet is broken with more crashing, scrambling, the noise of something desperate. The sound has moved down the hallway, where you can hear more clearly. Andrew is saying something through his teeth, softly, melodically, always teethfully. You hear a gasp.

''Neil?'' you say.

''Neil?'' Andrew pronounces carefully. He pushes the weight of something unwilling to the basement door. A hand in Neil's hair is pushing his hand backwards, harshly, and a knife glistens by his throat artery. Andrew isn’t grinning, but you can’t unsee him grinning.

''Why did you come back,'' you say to Neil, who is forced to look at the ceiling, one hand around each of Andrew's arms.

''Come back,'' Andrew repeats blankly, looking between you and Neil.

Neil uses both hands to push at the arm with the knife and suddenly knife is held by them both, away from their bodies and struggling for a swing, both breathing hard with faces sharp. You imagine red-dripping hands. You don't want the knife to swing. You don't want it fiercely.

You open your vocal cords in the right way and a shrill blooms from the resonating spaces in your cheekbones, outwards, hitting Andrew and Neil with the force of soundwalls breaking. It's piercing to your ears, too, and you know it doesn't even compare. You're the predator, then, and they are prey-like. Neil falls down the stairs. Andrew falls to his knees and elbows, hands closed around his ears.

Neil is staggering, touching his ears, spitting water away from his lips, wild. You offer a hand and he stares at it, then moves further back. He bumps into a pillar and startles, before walking around it to take another step back.

Andrew cracks his neck sideways, both sides, glaring at you, then slowly takes two steps down to pick up the knife.

''Neil came back, Aaron? Is there something you aren't telling me? Try not to lie.''

''What,'' Neil asks, then covers and uncovers his ears again, panicked, looking between Andrew and you. His hearing. It probably hurts. It's probably disorientating.

Andrew snaps his fingers three times. Neil doesn't respond. Andrew keeps snapping rhythmically; the more times he does it, the higher up the clog of eeriness in your throat climbs. Neil pushes his hair out of his face, breathing hard at his reflection. He's cupping his ears, shaking his head, shaking the ringing out, until he looks up at Andrew, and Andrew stops snapping and drops his arm.

''What?'' Neil asks again, quick, twitchy. Andrew tilts his head. Neil takes another step back. ''Who are you on the market? Are you resistance? Is this how you know?'' he looks at you.

''The market. Food?'' Andrew says, just as you ask, ''Criminal?'' Neil is talking about the criminal market. He is talking about prized items like you. You know from stories; you just hear big names, as a lesson for avoidance. There is nothing familiar about the way Neil looks. But his hauntedness; it might look like something familiar.

''Liars, liars,'' he Andrew smiles, syllable by syllable. ''You're staying, then,'' he says to Neil. ''You have overshot your runaway runway, huh? We have something to talk about. I see we'll be dining finely tonight. The plentiful company of the three of us.''

Andrew carries himself like a punchline, when he talks. It's annoying.

''He's patronising to everyone. Don't think you're special,'' you tell Neil.

Neil smoothes his hair back and wipes the water off his face. ''Who are you?'' he asks tautly. ''Resistance? Nobodies don't hide Others in abandoned houses.''

''Your turn to share, squid boy,'' Andrew says, both reappearing and coming down. Neil is in Andrew's clothes, dark and monochromatic. Andrew ceremoniously offers a metal fork to Neil, and then hands out a plastic one to you. You pull it out of his hand.

''We are not. You both. You both say these statements. As if you knew. Nobodies don't do this. Nobody knows anything for sure, okay? Tentativity can be enjoyable sometimes.''

''Pescatarian, anyone?'' Andrew asks, pleasantly. ''Come, Neil. You can't stay in wet clothes. We'll talk.''

They disappear upstairs. In the way of denouements, you feel a resolution unfolding. Or hoping for one, anyway. You press the feels of your palms over your eyes. They will probably talk about you, too. And then Neil will appear in Andrew's clothes, dark and monochromatic, and it will make you think of the cosiness of monochromatism, of how homewise it is. It will make you think of when your cousin was glancing at you with a frown and your aunt told her, leave him, he's just brooding, and the cousin still went to him, calling out Aaron Aaron Aaron.

They keep sneaking glances at each other. Neil's dark hair and Andrew's face so much like your own make you think back in time, back to the few days before the metal box and dismal circumstance. I like your hair, you signed to the girl the name of whom you had been trying not to think, drawn to things that are too dark to shine. She was lingering by the mosaic in front of the growth of your rock opening that you had deliberately let become overgrown, something one pushes through with spicy feeling. Thank you, she signed, I like your face. That sounded like a really bad comeback. I do like it, it's very symmetrical.

Neil and Andrew's eyes meet, and you think: you two assholes are too self-absorbed to not do this staring contest.

*

Andrew's phone rings. He turns to bore into Neil's eyes. He moves the phone away from his ear, and says: ''Nathaniel?''

And Neil panics.

In the way of narrative complications, the three of you end up in Andrew's warehouse car.

You are in the backseat, covered with two blankets, feeling yourself frown as you readjust your grip on the four two-litre water bottles you are hugging to your chest.

''This is clearly idiotic,'' you inform them, again, because apparently neither of them senses the threat of a looming climax. The so many things that will go wrong, because nobody has any sustainable plans.

Andrew is loosely gripping the wheel with faux laziness and Neil glances around full-bodily, alert, before returning to zooming in on google maps on a new phone he just had in his bag. He destroyed Andrew’s.

''This doesn't work,'' Andrew repeats your words so wholly blankly that it is no-doubt mockery.

''Not nearly the stupidest thing I've done,'' Neil mutters. Andrew flicks his eyes at Neil. You squint as you flick your eyes between them. Andrew is tapping his fingers on the wheel. Neil is hunching low in his seat, scowling at the screen. Andrew reaches over to Neil's side to pull sunglasses from the glove compartment, and Neil leans away to make space without looking from the screen.

''So you two are friends now?'' you ask, something strange and foreign tinting your tone. ''Or have you guys started—''

''He's a benefit,'' Andrew interrupts. The sunglasses render his thoughts further invisible. He is a thing of well-fitting black placed within American-spaced property and nothingness. He evades the friend part with his answer. Like so often, he is making himself into invisibility and insinuation.

''You smell like excitement,'' you tell him and watch as his face jumps a little.

''You can smell feelings now?'' He snatches the phone from Neil's hands, maximally zooming into the location that Neil has been inspecting for minutes. Neil keeps looking in the empty space of the phone, hands hanging around phone-shaped air, before he drops them and buckles his seat belt. And you think: theatrics on the road.

You shrug. You can still sense Neil's panic.

''You smell like wet,'' Andrew retorts, looking who knows where. Having learnt from exposure, you know Andrew looks down on things he feels, and you soak in them. Leave him, he's just—

''Just start the engine,'' Neil says.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099911/chapters/35012867

[tessiete]

20 and 21?? <3

Yassssssss! Thank you!!!! And thank you for prompting me to reblog. I really like these questions. <3

20) do you write in long sit-down sessions or in little spurts?

Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii….do both. So last year, during the early days of COVID, my work schedule was more sporadic and had fewer hours, so I tended to follow my old pattern of writing for a couple hours every morning.

But around October, I was put in charge of scheduling! And vaguely promoted. So I have less time. As a result, I find myself cramming in LONG writing sessions on my days off. The days I work, I just...I’m too tired. I mean, I’m also anaemic, and have anxiety which isn’t, you know, GREAT, for exhaustion. But I find I really cannot focus very well after about 1pm on workdays.

So the short answer is, I dunno, I write when I feel like it. And the other short answer is, right now I write in long sit-downs on days off. (I do not advocate for this system).

21) what do you think when you read over your older work?

You know, I think I’ve done some pretty decent work. Sometimes I read old stories and I go: HOW. How did I write that? How did I come up with that? Why can’t I do that now?

I think I tend to look at my work as a devolution of form. Is that bad? Am I wrong? I don’t know! But when I need a REAL good laugh, I read my dead ffn account from when I was 13. Oh, boy. Sweet child, go back, go back to innocence.