#i just wanted the repetition of three in there

[thekoldun]

I actually think the point isn't "there is no reason" but rather "there was one, once, but it was just the first push and the whole thing picked up speed from there and only now, finally, has it slowed down." And we do see reasons! What's so clever about the opening is the way we get a repetition of an opening, a title page, and some white text on a black background acting as the lead-in, and we get it three times, as if the story is trying to gets its engine started and it keeps sputtering out. What we're seeing, over and over, are variations on a tragedy, possible reasons. Bodies brutalized. Bodies under ice. Bodies poisoned, maybe external, maybe self inflicted, surrounded by blueprints. Were they business rivals, maybe haberdashers or weapon-makers? Was it a stupid accident covered up? We don't know! We can't know, because the years have taken their toll, and all that's left is the hatred and the spite. There was a reason! She hated that man so much that she took control over an incredibly powerful resource all with the intent of bringing him back and doing what she already did, over and over again. What Engie supposes to Pauling, who has the potential to take control over a newly discovered surplus, is that she could use all of those resources and actually execute a grand master plan on a grand scale like what she *thought* the Administrator was doing. She could live out the reality of what she imagined the truth had been real, she could deliver on what the Administrator failed to do. But does anyone truly want that? Is that what the point is? Not stupid misadventure, not pulpy fistfights on the edge of a cliff, but rather a perfect folding mechanism of a mystery and a master plan? Better to sink it into the sea.

Given the length of the hiatus between issues 6 and 7, I have to wonder whether "actually, there was never a secret plan, the violence was pointless from start to finish and you never get to find out why" was the plan all along, or whether they literally just couldn't think of anything that would live up to the hype.

[dobadoo]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ BURN FOR ME ꒱ ˎˊ˗ arlecchino

You are a ballerina. In the age of advanced technologies that develop faster and more realistically every day, you are afraid of becoming just a shadow of these technologies..

✧ warnings — NSFW, hurt/Comfort, ballerina ! reader , gentle sex, romance, minors & non nb/wlw do not interact. ✧ a/n — I thought about the backstory of the fic for a long time, because I didn't want to write nsfw just like that lol, this is the first time I'm writing to a girl on my account, I mostly only wrote to boys..😅😅 (Arlecchino step on me)

You are standing on a small stage. You are wearing a white ballet skirt. A little fluffy, covered in detailed patterns, a little sparkling in the dark, gloomy little performance hall.

There are people sitting in the chairs, all dressed in the latest fashion, and somewhere above, a couple of important Fontaine officials are sitting, looking down on you like hawks at their next victim. And you dance, dance and dance like a white swan on the lake, your movements as precise as they are elegant.

And you are scared. Sweat runs down your back, making the fabric of your dress unpleasantly sticky and wet. It is stuffy, your head is spinning from the music, and if you look into the distance, it seems as if the whole space is shimmering.

.. And the music ends.. You hear applause.

You breathe heavily, trying to hide it. You stand up straighter, arching your back almost to the point of crunching, and bow. But when you straighten up, you understand that people are not looking at you. And opposite you, there, on the other side of the stage, is a robot. Without heavy clothes, without makeup that hides almost all the flaws of the face. Without ballet shoes shoes..

..Without a face that needs to be constantly controlled. Without eyes that can look into the abyss of feelings, if only you look into them in response..Without a heart.

The robot opposite you is singing a melody for your own performance. People surround this robot, looking at the miracle of mechanics with delight and childish spontaneous curiosity. They applaud, praise the creator of the robot and Fontaine's new policy regarding technological progress.

And you stand right in front of this crowd on a huge stage, in a belle skirt and ballet shoes. You see these people. Who applaud some robot, they listen to a mechanical repetition of how someone sang in the past. A repetition devoid of feelings and sincerity. A repetition set by some algorithm of numbers of a simple code - "one" - "zero" - "one" And so on - to infinity

And you Dance, stand. Dance, stand. And so on - to infinity.

You remember how a few years ago everything was different. Children loved to watch your performance, and people in the big theater did not take their eyes off you and looked at you with delight. You try not to look in the direction where the robot is standing and there are people who with trepidation and admiration surround this insensitive and heartless robot. When all the people left the hall, leaving you alone in this space..

You shudder.

You hear the only sound of applause very close, you turn your head to the side. A woman is looking at you and applauding, it seems, at you, and not at all at the robot. She is looking you straight in the eyes. Her smile is sincere. The woman's eyes are two strokes of scarlet, which are permanently burned into your retina.

She is tall, slightly taller than you. Slender, her waist is very thin. The woman is completely covered by some strange, but elegant clothes

of an alien style. Black-white-red. Three constants in her clothes.

You are silent. Over the past two years, you have forgotten how to perceive recognition. You bowed again, you smiled at her. You curtsied and the woman let out a chuckle.

The woman suddenly comes closer to you. There is something in her movements that you involuntarily take a small step back, still standing on your toes and in that damn ballet skirt, and it seems that you are still shorter than her.

The woman moves so close to you that you feel the air around you change with her breath. You feel the warmth, not of a machine, not of a monster.

Warmth. A little burning, unfamiliar, but inviting.

The warmth of a human body.

"Good performance. And a good mask on the face," the woman whispers in your ear, sending goosebumps through your body.

The woman barely noticeably runs the fingers of her right hand along your shoulder. You feel how sharp her nails are, but you don't feel pain, only unnatural warmth.

The woman's hand suddenly moves away, and you feel something cold in your hands.

The moment of warmth disappears as quickly as it appeared. The woman moves away from you and with the same smirk on her thin, even lips, goes somewhere, passing by the switched off robot where people were looking a couple of minutes ago. And you stand, looking after her as if amazed. Like the statues of the Archons, who are eternally motionless and which nothing can revive - not even the prayer of a desperate mortal.

You suddenly realize that you have barely breathed all this time and have heard nothing but a low, hoarse female whisper.

You blink, look around, but it is too late - the woman has already managed to leave the hall, haha, and you did not even hear the slamming door.

You automatically look at your palm and find several large mora coins.

You swallow as you gradually return to reality and begin to see and hear everything perfectly. You look at several mora coins in your hand. The mask on the face always needs mora so that it continues to be beautiful and perfect.

But the heart burning in the darkness - no.

Your routine is simple. Put on makeup, put on a ballet skirt, bandage your chest so that it does not stick out, and put on ballet shoes. Lace up the corset. Repeat the dance that you have rehearsed countless times before. Inhale - exhale. Count to ten, put a smile on your face - and go out on stage. Lately, you are rarely invited to participate in solo performances in the theater. You look like a robot among artists, although in fact you are an artist and there are only mechanical iron things around you.

You stand up, long accustomed to the blinding spotlights in the first seconds of the performance. A couple of young magicians performed in front of you, you met them before, nice guys, they helped you once… but you don’t really care about it.

And it’s your turn, you start dancing, spinning, doing pirouettes and complex movements. All this is a continuous performance, and all life is a theater, you all need to play your roles on time. But isn’t there passion and tragedy in the theater at the same time?

You close your eyes and remember that very warmth. So human and inhuman at the same time. You remember the hot breath and inspiration that washed over you the moment you saw that streak of scarlet in that strange woman's eyes. If the heart could burn with a living flame, all your clothes would have burned away long ago, charred, and you would be dancing naked on this stage. But haven't you been naked for a long time? Doesn't inspiration burn away a person's outer self and set fire to his inner self?

You know that this woman is in the audience; sitting among the few spectators who still enjoy a living human performance, despite all the technological progress in Fontaine.

You don't wonder about her reaction, you don't think about the smirk on her perfect marble face. You don't imagine her words that would send a pleasant, euphoric shiver down your body.

You stop your dance with a bow as the music fades. You've already torn your heart out of your chest, it's burning - so why prefaces and afterwords? You open your eyes, the spotlights, as usual, blind you a little. But they seem like shadows compared to what's burning inside you. You look ahead. Someone is applauding you, but you're looking at that woman whose eyes are piercing your entire body like needles.

She's clapping too, and on her face is the same smile-smirk.

The spotlights disappear. The red curtain closes. And you exhale, carrying within you, somewhere deep in your body, that very spark. And the fire that started from that spark and turned that same spark into nothing.

---

You gasp for air and grip the edge of the dressing room vanity table with your hands. Someone else's lips on your neck are like tongues of flame and cold, sharp peaks at the same time. Thin, dark fingers with long nails gently brush your hair back. A bouquet of blood flowers that this woman gave you is lying around somewhere in the dressing room after the show. The dim light from the lamps dances bizarrely across the woman's face, making her look like something unnatural, illusory.

You swallow and exhale again, pressing your back against the tabletop. You reach for the human warmth and put your arms around the woman's back, running your hands over her bare, thin, slender waist.

"What is your name?"

You ask hoarsely between deep, shuddering breaths. The woman grins. She runs her hot, long tongue down your neck, leaving a thin trail of saliva. She looks up at you with her eyes, a thin scarlet streak. Then she straightens up a little and whispers in your ear, "Arlecchino"

Her answers are always like that - short and laconic. Always appropriate, even though you've only heard her answers a few times in your life.

Arlecchino spreads your legs with her knee, then smoothly lifts you by the waist and makes you sit on the countertop, pressing your back against the vanity mirror. The woman's hot hands fall on your hips and stroke them through the layers of your dress. You swallow and reach for another wet kiss, smearing the lipstick on Arlecchino's lips, mixing your lipstick with hers. Her tongue touches yours, and you shiver, feeling how wet you are becoming. Her hot, slender hands slide under your dress and touch your naked skin.

You break the kiss and throw your head back in pleasure, you painfully hit the cold mirror behind you with the top of your head, and Arlecchino removes one of her hands on your hips, and pulls this hand to your head, to the back of your head, to protect you from the unpleasant, cold pain.

You moan softly when someone else's lips touch your neck again. A hot tongue slides along your skin down to your collarbones. Arlecchino removes her hand from your hip and begins to feverishly quickly pull down the top of your dress, exposing your chest. When her hot mouth and hot tongue touch one of your nipples, you arch your back, breathing heavily and moaning with pleasure. If Harlequin hadn't protected the back of your head with her hand, you would have definitely broken the mirror.

The woman looks up at you, although she bends over because of her height. Her eyes burn with desire and anticipation when she sucks your nipple into her mouth again with her lips and makes a loud smack. You shudder again. You gently squeeze the other's breast, and your hand rests on her thigh.

The woman suddenly touches your breast in a certain place and hoarsely says: "What I like, I do not give. And if from this my hands become even more charred, then I will only enjoy it."

You suddenly understand where exactly this woman's hand is on your naked chest. Her hand is near the place where your flaming heart beats greedily. A crooked smile creeps onto your lips as you tremble with desire. You whisper with heat in your voice, looking at the blood-red streaks in the eyes of the woman in front of you:

"Well, then burn. Burn for me. Arlecchino.."

She thin lips opposite stretch into a hungry smile. You are kissed again, the tongue penetrating deep into your mouth. You respond to the kiss, clinging with your hands to the shoulders of Arlecchino.

You never really cared about the politics of other regions of Teyvat, too busy with your own problems. So you had no idea that this strange name "Arlecchino" had its own meaning, but you had a feeling that she was somehow connected with the fatui..

You were just thinking about how interesting this name was.

You will definitely understand everything much later: who this woman in front of you is, what she does, why her hands are so black, as if they were really charred. But maybe it's even for the best. Why prefaces and afterwords when the spark has already become a flame?

@anantaru @hitomisuzuya @lavandulawrites @himasgod @neuvigroove @quimichi @rsventhesecondd @anemoswirlsmyheart @nil4everheartz @kujiba @genshingorlsrevengeance @shyentsfoundherink @lavandulawrites @ashyashylee

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

To Share the Space with Simple Living Things - Hozier x Fem!Florist!Reader

Chapter Three: Chrysanthemums - Joy

Summary: You and Andrew meet outside of your workplace for the first time for a completely platonic coffee on him.

Word count: 2385

Author's note: i am so sorry that this took so long 😭 last week of school combined with finals combined with life i guess hindered me from writing. but i'm back on track!!! hopefully you all enjoy and if i don't update again soon happy holidays <3

tag list: @celery-grace @gayandfairycore @deathmybride @harry-bowie-mercury @hodgepodge-musings @blue-eyed-bug @secretttytttttttttt @dinner-n-dxatribes @padfootblackswh0r3 (if you want to be added just let me know!)

fic below the cut <3

This is not a date.

That was your affirmation all of Friday morning, repeating it to yourself.

You muttered it under your breath as you fixed your hair. It was mumbled as you laid out your outfit, specifically chosen to be fashionable but casual: your favorite sweater and a nice pair of jeans. You whispered it before spraying your perfume, a scent you had to dig through your closet for five minutes to find. Ironically, the scent was nothing close to floral. You said it to each of your houseplants as you watered them. They remained unconvinced.

Slipped on your shoes. Locked up your flat. Walked down the stairs. You repeated your mantra every time, because maybe if you said it enough times, it would become true.

By the time you made it to your car, you had said it so many times it felt like breathing. Your hands gripped the wheel. You locked eyes with your reflection in the rearview mirror and whispered your phrase of the morning one more time for good luck.

This. Is. Not. A. Date.

Stepping down on the gas pedal, you began to drive.

On the drive there, you prepared yourself for all possible scenarios. This kind of thinking came naturally — it always did, especially in situations like these. You ran through what your reaction would be if he showed up, what it would be if he didn't. What you would do if he had an insanely complex coffee order, or if he ordered a drink with six shots of espresso. What if he tried to order for you, or if he made some backhanded comment about another woman at the cafe? You doubted he would do any of these things, but you believed it's better to be safe than sorry. This thinking only paused when you parked in front the coffee shop and caught a glimpse of Andrew waiting inside. All of your previous repetition and fretting had made you ten minutes late, a fact you weren't fond of and hoped Andrew wouldn't chastise you for.

The moment you stepped into the coffee shop, all of your previous affirmations were thrown out the window. It wasn't a date. But after seeing Andrew you wished that it was.

It wasn't any particular factor. It wasn't the black denim jacket he was wearing, or the way he'd tied half his hair up, leaving the other half down. It wasn't even the smile on his face, reserved like he wasn't sure how to react properly when he saw you. It was a combination of everything; his presence alone was enough to make you flustered. So flustered that you were very close to forgetting to say anything when you walked up to him. Thankfully, at the last moment, you actually spoke.

“Hey! Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long,” you greeted him with a small smile.

“Oh, no. I just got here, too. You're alright.”

You walked inside together, and you looked around at your new surroundings. It was a small business, quaint and cozy, with framed photos of artworks by local artists; it was exactly what you would imagine a coffee shop that Andrew picked to be.

Because all of your overthinking (or what you preferred to call planning) on the way there, you ordered your coffee with ease. Andrew recited his order, a black americano, a surprise to you. You watched as he paid and gave his name for the order, the barista already recognizing him. He turned his head towards you and offered an explanation:“I’m a regular. I always come here whenever I need a pick-me-up.”

“I’ll have to come here more often, then,” you replied.

You found a small table in the corner and sat down to claim it for the both of you while Andrew stood by the counter, waiting for your coffee. What a gentleman.

You had yet to notice any flaws in him, only making your self-imposed rule of this not being romantic harder to follow. There had to be something about him that was off. There was no way he was so caring and endearing and funny all at the same time; he had to have an imperfection eventually. You didn't find it in the few minutes you watched him stand around, occasionally fiddling with his hands or putting them in his pockets. Your efforts grew even more futile as he walked over with the coffees in hand, setting them down on the table.

He shedded his jacket and carefully placed it on the back of the chair before sitting down in the chair opposite you. This simple action caused the fact that you barely knew Andrew to pop up in your head. Despite how connected to him you felt already, you had only met him twice before. On both occasions he wore long sleeves, so seeing him without a jacket for the first time gave you a much appreciated surprise.

His right arm had an entire sleeve of tattoos.

He had turned his arm into a mural for myths and legends. A portrait of a falling Icarus, wings disintegrating beneath a red sun. A tortured Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his back. Dante and Virgil arm in arm wandering through a circle of hell. Writing in script filled the empty space, seemingly verses from poems. It was all centered around two words placed across his bicep: Noli Timere. You’d be lying if you said it didn't make you even more attracted to him than you already were.

You could've spent hours just looking, analyzing every line of ink. It felt as though you did, though it's much more likely it was only for a few seconds. You were brought back to Earth by the sound of his voice.

“It's rude to stare, y’know?”

There was no real annoyance in his voice, but it caused you to attention like you had been caught. An explanation mumbled its way out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I just- I like your arm. Tattoos. Your arm tattoos. They're…”

Beautiful? Enticing? Very attractive?

“…cool.”

You took a sip of your coffee, finding it the perfect time to cover up your embarrassment, as well as the flushed face that came along with it. Luckily, Andrew didn't notice (or if he did, he didn't mind) and continued the conversation, accepting your compliment with a crooked smile.

“Thanks. I try to put a lot of thought into them, give them some meaning, so they're all based on these stories that are important to me.”

“Makes sense. I’d hate to get a tattoo just to regret it a few years later. Even worse, a few months later.”

“Too many of my clients have had that exact issue. Come in a year after and ask for a coverup. Makes me question my work sometimes.”

“Clients?” You asked with a tilt of your head.

“Oh, right. I never mentioned it.” He paused to take a drink from his cup before continuing. “I’m a tattoo artist. The parlor I work at’s only a few blocks away from your shop, believe it or not.”

“Wow. Small world, I suppose. Maybe I could stop by someday and say hi.”

The boldness of your statement didn't fully process in your brain, and you quickly backtracked.

“If you’d be okay with that, of course.”

“Yes. Absolutely. You can come by whenever I don't have a client.”

“Call me over if anyone gets a tattoo of a flower and I’ll be there to explain everything it means. There is always the very dangerous possibility of someone getting a flower that means jealousy or a rejection.”

He didn’t reply, just flashed a smile, and the silence between you seemed… awkward. Combined with the way he was fidgeting with his hands, it almost made you think he was nervous.

“I’m actually thinking about buying a bouquet to put on the front desk,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah. A lot of people, they get nervous before their appointment, whether it's their first tattoo or their tenth. Having flowers right when you walk in might ease some of the tension.”

“That's a great idea. I know I’m biased, but flowers do tend to brighten my day."

“Do you have any ideas?”

You bit at your bottom lip as you thought, finally speaking again once you racked your brain for what could work.

“Chrysanthemums are a favorite with customers. Those mean joy and optimism. I could start with those and build from there.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“That's all I’ve got right now, but I’ll see what else I can come up with later. After coffee, I’m much more… insightful.”

As if to prove your point, you took another sip of your coffee, a longer one that left only a quarter of the cup left.

“So… this is official? You're placing an order?”

He nodded.

“If that's how this works, then yes. I’d like to place an order of one chrysanthemum bouquet for the purpose of making my customers happy. Please,” he replied genuinely.

“Your order will be marked down as soon as I get to the shop.”

“Feel free to take your time, by the way. I don't mean to pressure you. It's not like I have a deadline, and I know you probably have a million other things you have to do.”

You considered reaching for him, your fingertips flexing in his direction, but you restrained yourself, choosing words instead.

“You're not pressuring me at all. You made your order. Now you're asking me to do my job. My job that I love, by the way. If anything, I’m thrilled that you're so interested.”

The real question is whether you're more interested in my job or me.

You weren't bold enough to say what you were thinking, but you never had been. You had gotten so used to biting your tongue it was a miracle it was still in your mouth. You spoke again, but selected a much safer option of what to say.

“It's gonna take a few days since there's some orders before yours, but I have your number on file so I’ll call you when I finish it up.”

“I’ll be there. With my wallet, this time around.”

You thought about your proposition before realizing there would be a much more effective, though maybe you just wanted to visit Andrew’s job for a change.

“I mean, you said your place is only a few minutes away, right? I could always deliver it. Gives me an opportunity to get some fresh air during my day. Besides, you're probably much busier than I am, so it might be harder to find the time. Meanwhile, I can deliver it as soon as it's done, and everything works out.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know. I want to, though.”

He sighed and shook his head, a reaction you originally feared was out of annoyance, but you felt a small amount of relief when you noticed the smile that accompanied it.

“You need to stop doing nice things for me. Otherwise I’ll go bankrupt from buying you so much coffee to compensate.”

“I also accept gratitude payment in compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks.”

“What about credit cards?”

“Ooo, sorry. Compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks are your options.”

He chuckled, a deeper and richer laugh than before.

“Fine. You want a compliment? You're incredibly kind for doing all of this for me, and I sincerely appreciate it. Thank you.”

Another sip from your cup to hide the flush of your cheeks, though no amount of caffeine could calm the butterflies in your stomach.

“That covers your gratitude payment for now. I still need real money, of course,” you muttered. “And you're not getting your way out of it this time.”

“I would never. You can't pull the same con on the same person twice.”

“Oh, so it was a con? Did those flowers even go to your mother?”

“Nope. Underground flower smuggling ring.”

“Ah, I should've guessed. Tell your flower-loving crime boss that I’m thankful for all that you've done for me, but I unfortunately need to get going, because it's 9:30 and the shop opens at 10.”

Andrew complied. You two wrapped it up, and he put his jacket back on, covering up his tattoos much to your dismay. Your coffee cup, now empty, was discarded by the door.

“Thank you so much. For the coffee, for the company. Everything. Especially for the coffee, though, considering you barely even drank yours,” you commented, pointing at the half-full cup still in his hand.

“You’re welcome. And trust me, I was going to drink it, but I found myself much more engrossed in the conversation.”

Andrew grabbed the door and held it open for you, and you walked past him and thanked him. Both of you stood on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop, unsure of how (or if you even wanted) to say goodbye.

“This is where we must part ways,” he said with a sigh.

“You say that like we're never going to see each other again.”

“A lot can happen in a few days, Y/N. You have no idea what the universe has up her sleeve.”

“Do you have some kind of knowledge about an apocalypse that I don't? Because when it comes to that kind of stuff, sharing is caring.”

“Just… prepping for the future, I suppose. If there is no apocalypse, I’ll see you when my bouquet’s finished.”

“I’ll see you then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

You walked to your car, only a few footsteps away, the smile slowly fading from your face as he walked in the opposite direction. You sneaked a glance over your shoulder at him before opening the car door.

Sitting down in the driver's seat, you took a deep breath to bring yourself back to reality. Your mantra had been proven right: that was not a date. It just felt like one. A very successful one at that. He was a gentleman, listened to what you had to say, gave you a compliment, and you even set up an incentive to meet again. This not-a-date went better than most of your actual dates, and it was with a guy who, to your knowledge, had no romantic interest in you.

You were totally and utterly screwed.

[rooksunday]

fluffcember day twenty three: confessions

"Tell me again who taught you this game?" Echo asked as he watched Fives fishing for something beneath Jesse's bunk. "If Jesse comes back, I'm pretending we've never met, by the way."

"No one taught me. It's a game, not a— Where the kriff did Jesse hide the— Not a lesson, ahah!" Fives triumphantly waved the small bottle of disarmingly clear alcohol that he'd retrieved. "Found it!"

"I'll stop holding my breath," Echo said drily.

Fives rolled his eyes then rolled just as easily to his feet.

"Don't be boring. You said you'd play."

"I said maybe I'd play."

"You said— It doesn’t matter. We're playing. Move over."

Echo obligingly shifted over on the bunk to make room for Fives. They sat opposite each other, with Echo at the head of the bunk, because only his own ass should be so close to his pillow. Fives splayed his legs out long, one either side of Echo, and leant back on his hands.

"Right. Now first we—“

"Get your stinking feet away from my pillow!" Echo swatted at Fives' shins. "You know the rules!"

Grumbling performatively—he did, after all, know the rules—Fives moved to sit cross-legged instead. After doing so, he stopped and his gaze went toward the floor, his mouth twisting. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and kept not saying anything. The purloined bottle of liquor remaining unopened in the gap between his crossed legs.

Echo rested his hands on Fives' knees and tilted his head.

"Fives? What’s wrong?" he asked.

Because something was definitely wrong. Something had been wrong for days, it seemed like, but Fives had put off the question every time Echo had asked, saying only it could wait until they were alone.

Yet now they were alone and Echo was still waiting. His stomach twisted like he'd already slugged back Hardcase's protato liquor but his mouth remained dry as Tatooine.

Then Fives started to speak, and it didn't help Echo's nerves at all.

"I was gonna— It was gonna be a whole thing. The game, I mean. It's called 'Never Have I Ever', and you say these things you haven't done and if someone has then they take a drink." Fives finally looked up. His familiar grin was strange and lopsided. "I know everything about you."

"No you don't, " Echo protested weakly.

Fives' smile turned softer, for some reason. "Echo."

"Fives."

Instead of continuing the game of repetition that had, on more than one occasion, driven Tup to throwing his boots at them, Fives looked away again, this time to the liquor. He picked up the bottle and sloshed the contents.

"I was going to use my superior Echo knowledge and this bottle to try and find out how you feel about me. Don't talk. Let me finish. It was a coward's idea. An attempt to have some kind of shield of deniability if it all went wrong. But the thing is, Echo, I don't want to love you like a coward. That isn't the love you deserve." Fives swallowed. His face had gone dark with a flush that Echo was sure he also wore. "I love you, Echo. So, uh, so there."

Echo blinked.

He blinked again.

"Fives," he said. It was what he always said when he had no idea what to say.

"Echo," Fives said, impossibly gently.

Moments ago, Echo would have confidently said that he knew everything about Fives, the same way his twin had claimed to know about him. And yet…

Echo traced the familiar shape of Fives' face with his eyes. The ridge of Fives' broken nose. The slope of his brow. That strange, soft quirk of his clever mouth. The face that the clones all had and only Fives wore in that particular way. Echo's twin. The stranger on Echo's bed.

The man Echo loved.

"You're staring at me," Fives said, shifting in place. He swallowed thickly. "Do you want me to go? I can go. Yeah, I should go—"

"Fives."

"Ec—"

"I love you."

"—oh. Oh."

When their first kiss ended—via kisses two, three, and four—Fives managed to paste on a somewhat dazed version of his usual smug grin.

"Okay, so maybe I don't know everything! Like where you learnt to kiss like that."

Echo shoved Fives playfully, then followed him down to the bed, spreading his weight over Fives like a blanket. The abandoned bottle of liquor thudded to the floor.

Echo grinned. "Oh, I think I can show you a few more new things than that…"

All in all, it became a very educational evening for them both.

[pencilofawesomeness]

No one had said anything, because no one had been there but Suguru when Satoru had swayed nearly to his feet and then frozen, straightening back up in a way that didn’t allow for gravity, looking up to the sky like he’d never seen it before. It had almost been a relief to carry his unconscious body to the infirmary, because he hadn’t been conscious to fall to his knees again looking like he’d seen hell itself. 

—Achilles Come Down, Chapter 3, by HotCocoaaa ( @biscaani )

-

...my hand slipped again guys. I love this song and I loved this imagery.

-

“Oh, your love is sunlight”

—Hozier, Sunlight

[science-lings]

Midnight thought of the day: I feel like Wild deserves to be a little annoyed after the whole thing in the doodles where Twilight wouldn’t let him hunt and Legend wouldn’t let him shoot seagulls, like we have to remember that it’s implied that this guy cooks for nine people several times a day. And meat is probably really good for their high exercise kind of lifestyle.

Like he’s perfected cooking while traveling and knows how to maximize meals for days full of cardio without ending up exhausted and it would irritate him that people are trying to limit what few things he can make and make it harder for him to get enough food for them all anyway.

He’s kind of the hunter of the group, he’s the archer, he’s the one Legend worried about getting him when he’s in bunny form. And even when others help him collect ingredients by fishing they do it in the slow way that may not provide enough food for them and get mad when he’s being efficient about it.

[m1d-45]

Literally a lurker on your blog since ur early days but too shy to slide into ur ask box, hiii!!! I keep seeing cryo anon and teddy anon's brainrots and asks,,,, and like, regarding post impostor AU hehe

imagine after the hunt when your fave character/vessel begs you for forgiveness the most, practically turning their voice hoarse from their pleas to share just a bit of your mercy....

(you never showed your face to them, even when they were your most favored. how selfish of them, wanting more than they could ever deserve. but they can't help it. if you wanted them to die a thousand times over to repent, they would. just please, look at them again.)

post imposter au always tickles an itch in my brain I've never known existed. angry creator? boiling hot rage creator for their acolytes killing them when they've shown nothing but love and kindness for this world?? SIGN ME THE FUCK UP LORD

I wanna see guilt. And I mean GUILT. it's probably cause I'm petty asf and if I would be killed over and over and over again only for them to realize I'm not the fake I would literally lock myself up in whatever tower they built for me and never talk again. Creator's trust? Shattered, irreparable. Followers? Wallowing in the despair.

Thank u and goodbye heh. If it's not too much, can I be called Marcotte anon? Hehe fontaine reference hhhh,, anyways have a good day ily and ur fics <3

post-hunt can be incredibly good, entirely agree

the love you felt for the world is so strong already, and it only grows as you finally get to teyvat. being here, feeling the elemental energy, feeling the world greet you as you return after your rest.. what hate is more powerful than a love turned rotten?

you hid behind your veil, uncertain if you’re protecting yourself or them. it hurts to see their eyes tearing up as they plead, but what else are you to do? your hands shake when they draw close, and you can’t erase your own memory.

(you’d know. you asked nahida about it, but she’d only shaken her head. all she could do was clear the memories of teyvat, but not yours. it hurt, but was probably for the best.)

(despite it being a failure, that day was the calmest you’d felt in weeks. she was easy to talk to, and made lovely tea. perhaps you should visit again, if only to take a break from… everything.)

your solitude is comfortable, most of the time. a few of the hunters are a bit too comfortable with their sin, and are the ones tasked with bringing you food and other necessities. it’s not much better, though, since you can still see the guilt sinking in their eyes.

it’s a lose-lose all around. you want to see them, you want to see the world, but every leaf and branch is stained with the memories of the past, what used to be your favorite retreat now something else to hide from.

part of you is angry. furious at how easily they were tricked. it’s hard to stay mad at those you love, though, so you end up sitting in your window and watching the wind blow safely behind glass. your tea is from inazuma, this time, the faint edge of bitterness keeping you from sinking too far into much of anything.

leaves dance in the breeze. you won’t be seen again until they’ve long turned brown.

[naamahdarling]

Raleigh's big baby eyes were not just big because of the dimly lit bathroom (I had a low light setting turned on), he appears to have some reduced pupillary response. He's otherwise totally normal and he CAN see, so I'm not overly worried he needs attention for it right now, but it is concerning, so I will be calling the vet to see if they can work him in sometime in the next few days. I took a look at some recent pictures and it seems to have been going on for maybe a week and I just didn't really notice because there's so little light in this house.

I'm tired. Everything is vet visits and doctor's appointments and managing my symptoms and bothering clinics and the pharmacy and new things going wrong everywhere, and I still need to call my GP to make a telehealth appointment so he can refer me for ANOTHER appointment, after which I can have a THIRD appointment with the GP to discuss test results and see what fresh new hell THAT unleashes.

I really wanted to go to the local orchard's summer festival but there's so much going on that week so close together that I'm not going to feel up to it. And it'll be too hot anyway. I can't tolerate heat or sun anymore, thanks COVID.

Ugh.

[thebookworm0001]

I have some thoughts about why some of veilguard’s writing is the way it is and it comes down to development hell and corporate meddling which is perhaps too generous for some problems but also feels right for a Lot of the things I think

Thoughts in the tags

[sailforvalinor]

Someone please tell me to stop trying to read YA, I go in hoping “maybe, just this once, it will be good” and every time I come out a worse person. I don’t want to be a hater, but have you considered stopping making it so easy

[bereft-of-frogs]

I was totally going to end this chapter on a cliffhanger but then I realized it was already over 5k and I'm not even close done, so the reader has been spared...

....probably....

[good-beanswrites]

My Lyrics for Eve's Demon Dance Tokyo! This song jumped the line of wips, I immediately fell in love with it 😂 I'm really proud of these -- it worked out well and was a blast to sing :D (Lyrics under the cut and my rambly process commentary in the tags lol)

Ah, don't you miss the home from where you came?

So many memories, feel your mind FLY FAR AWAY.

Tread-tread-tread-tread memories in tow,

INSTANT-PARADISE TOKYO.

Humans with such strange STYLE, all confusing me to no end

Jealous of them; wanna join them;

Credentials and such be damned. JUST GIVE ME (a)

SUPERMODEL TO DATE, wouldn't that be lovely?

CAMERAs are my place to be.

STYLE won't you come to me.

Ah, my voice as well has BEAUTIFUL SOUNDS, I’M LOVING IT.

You and me set side by side, I'll face you if you'll risk it.

Now I'm starving! Carefully as possible,

I'll consume you! Thorn-covered and poison-full,

Eating until I feel fed. "I'll have one of each," I said.

Grow wild! The worst follows AFTER BAD.

We'll fall down! Crashing parties that they had.

Conversations charge ahead: the turning point OF THE DEAD.

Endlessly I'm feeling coerced into everything.

Thump, thump, my heart --

Knock, Knock, my heart unlocks, love thump thump thumping like an arrow that's notched.

That dress looks so nice, does it feel too tight?

Now, you lead the way, to each command I will agree.

Do you think he's cool? Do you think he's lame?

It's all the same, let's dance BARRIER FREE.

SHOWTIME starting now, you can't allow yourself to sway.

Shed your worries and their weight, flying fast and far away.

We, the ones the world will never hold in high esteem

Never need to offer flattery, all we do is dream.

Now I’m starving! Even more voraciously

I'll consume you! Opening my arms you'll see

No one can take you from me, you're mine for eternity

Grow wild! Drinking more than I enjoy

We'll fall down! Stumbling I feel destroyed, these city nights show me I'm

A disappearing BOY.

We, the ones the world will never know or write about,

Now, to vast Pacific waters you will hear us shout... (SHAKE'N)

Please, wait a moment, Beautiful. Where is your smile from before?

Are you so sure I can't see that face anymore?

A strong PRIME MINISTER for you is what I became.

I swear to God I'll protect the country called by your name.

If we're close to Hell, never say farewell, please keep your hand holding mine.

I want to dance with you forever, won't you look me in the eye.

Now I'm starving! As ashamed as possible,

I'll consume you! Thorn-covered and poison-full,

Eating until I feel fed. "I'll have one of each," I said.

Grow wild! Gimme an ADVENTURE

We'll fall down! Crashing parties that occur.

This sleepless night, it bores me. SPICE is what it needs.

Now I’m starving! Even more voraciously

I'll consume you! Opening my arms you'll see

No one can take you from me, you're mine for eternity

Grow wild! Drinking more than I enjoy

We'll fall down! Stumbling I feel destroyed, these city nights show me I'm

A disappearing BOY.

And I recorded a little draft! Now listen. I'm really bad at singing. My mic was being annoying. However, I always get frustrated when I can't tell how translyrics are supposed to sound, and wanted to put it all together. It's meant more as rhythm reference than a nice performance 😅

[supercantaloupe]

getting real tired of turning in hw for counterpoint class where i have to compose something that sounds nice and follows proper voice leading, only to be told that what i wrote is wrong and bad because of some arbitrary rule that was never mentioned until now.

[rubys-domain]

??? anyone seeing this?????? she's gorgeous?????????

[faerociousbeast]

dude quite frankly i dont give a damn if everyone thinks its mid im a characters guy. and story guy. and ninjas guy and now ill never Get any of that

[fragglerockopinions]

I'm in so much pain it's embarrassing. I'm going to look back on these memories of me writhing alone too afraid to sleep biting my knuckles crying about nothing and laugh.