#i wish i was more like this cat she doesn’t have a single thought in that head other than ‘mouse fight scorpion bat go woosh’

[waywardvagabonds]

I put on a nature documentary to distract myself from my own awful brain and she is enthralled.

[yuechihua]

one hundred paper stars.

summary: There's an old story from your childhood where if you make a hundred paper stars, then you're granted a single wish. However, it's not you, but your infuriating partner in Section Six whose wish you want to come true instead.

notes: 7.4k words, author's notes, spoilers for harumasa's backstory, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, fluff

It’s during a drowsy, sunshine-drenched afternoon, a brief moment of respite where there isn’t any paperwork to file or field missions to carry out, that Yanagi appears at your desk, giving you no time to hide what you’ve been fiddling with during your break. 

Though there’s no reason to feel guilty, it’s still slightly embarrassing for Yanagi to catch the rainbow strips of paper littering your desk, interspersed with fruit-flavored candy that Soukaku left earlier that morning as a present. In the center of it all, there’s a jar brimming with paper stars, the results of two weeks’ worth of progress made whenever you have a snippet of free time.

However, Yanagi doesn’t pause to acknowledge the way your hands are trapped in the middle of folding a half-finished origami star. Lips pursed in familiar frustration, she asks, “Have you seen Asaba anywhere?”

“Not since this morning, when we were doing reconnaissance in a Hollow,” you reply.

She sighs. “He’s supposed to have finished his break half an hour ago.”

“Do you need him for something?”

“I need you two to follow up on the work you did this morning. The ether readings have changed, and they wanted someone to check it out,” Yanagi says. “If you could find him and get him to come with you…”

“I get the gist. I’ll head out as soon as I find him,” you say, folding the ends of the paper expertly and tossing a newly formed red star into the jar. 

“Thank you. I’ll make it up to you for cutting your break short,” she says apologetically. “Since you’re his partner, Asaba tends to listen to you a little more.”

“He barely listens to me at all,” you grumble. You pat the daggers tucked snuggly near your thighs, and Yanagi’s eyes drift to the mess on your desk.

“I was wondering where Soukaku got all those pieces of paper,” she says thoughtfully. “Did you bring them into the office?”

“Yeah. She thought the stars were candy, so I had to stop her from eating them. I taught her how to fold them, and in exchange, she gave me these.” You gesture at the hard candies littering your desk.

“It’s nice to do some crafts to relax.”

“There’s also something special about these stars. If you fold a hundred of them,” you say, “you get a wish. It was a popular story back in my elementary school. The local convenience store used to sell origami paper, and I would buy them with my allowance. I never did make it to a hundred, though.”

“Then there must be something you really want to fold a hundred now. I hope your wish comes true,” Yanagi says.

“I hope so, too,” you murmur.

A few minutes later, you’re cutting down the halls and up the stairways of your workplace, climbing until you reach the entrance to the roof. Barricade tape and warning signs block the landing, but with practiced precision, you duck under the tape without slowing and nudge open the door with your shoulder, which gives way without a fuss.

Cool wind whips at your face, and you scan the rooftop, nothing but a broad expanse of concrete and whirring, blocky machines, caged in by a metal fence. You jog down the length until you find who you’re looking for, lounging on the floor like a cat soaking up the golden afternoon sun, limbs askew and eyes closed. 

Harumasa looks like he’s asleep as you approach him with silent steps. You crouch over him, your shadow cutting across his face, and he still doesn’t stir. For a few seconds, you watch him quietly. His headband flutters in the wind like a loose sliver of sunlight. His face is pale, splotches of dark ink forming under his eyes. Maybe he isn’t sleeping well.

“Admiring the view, partner?” Harumasa says without opening his eyes.

“Hardly,” you say. “I was just thinking about the best way to wake you up.”

“All you need to do is call my name and I’ll respond.”

“Right. Just like how the last few times I tried to do that, you kept pretending to be asleep until I used physical force.” You emphasize the last few words and Harumasa groans as he cracks open an eye, propping himself lazily up with his elbows.

“Come on. We’ve been working together forever at this point, and you still can’t be a little nicer to me?”

“I’m only nice to those who deserve it,” you say. 

“Right, right. I bet Yanagi sent you up here.”

“How did you know?”

“You usually let me slack off otherwise,” he says easily. “It’s only when there’s something important that you bother me. Huh. If you think about it, that’s pretty nice of you. Isn’t there a word for someone who acts abrasive to hide how much they care about someone else? Ts–”

“Keep talking and I’ll tell Yanagi just where exactly you like to hide during break,” you threaten. 

“Aw, don’t do that!” Harumasa gives you an exaggerated pout, and you roll your eyes. “Come here, partner.”

“Why?”

“Come on. Come closer,” he wheedles, and you reluctantly lower yourself until you’re sitting next to him, face to face, legs folded under you.

Once you do, Harumasa drops his head against your shoulder, leaning all the warm weight of his upper body against your side like he’ll fall apart without your support.

“What’s this about?” you grumble, but you don’t move away. It’s become a familiar routine at this point: he teases, you complain, but you still gravitate towards each other. Maybe it’s because you’ve been paired with Harumasa on so many missions that you’ve developed a habit of putting up with all of his mischief.

“I’m not feeling well,” he says. “Lend me your shoulder.”

“It’s a little too late to ask when you’ve already done it.”

“You know what they say. Ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

“I’m sure you know all about that,” you say dryly.

“Now. now. I’m just being pragmatic.”

You usually don’t come to the roof at all, not unless you’re looking for Harumasa. But when you do come here, the air feels refreshing and cool, the sunlight more gentle. Though you pride yourself on being efficient and responsible, the first one to file your reports and to take notes during meetings, you can understand why Harumasa likes to nap here.

It’s comfortable. Or maybe it’s Harumasa that makes the place so comfortable. It feels like your own private corner of the world, one where it’s just you and him. Not that you could ever tell him that, of course, or it’ll make him insufferable.

“Yanagi needs us to follow up on the Hollow we investigated this morning,” you say.

“Again? We just got back.”

“The ether readings have changed. They want us to investigate.”

“Hm… but I’m on break…”

“Your break was over half an hour ago.”

“You’re on break!” he protests.

“So? I’ll be reimbursed for it.”

Harumasa groans. “You’re way too serious. You need to learn to take it easy. I’m not feeling well, you know.”

“Is that so? Well, if you want to nap the day away, I can investigate by myself–”

“Wait.” Harumasa’s weight shifts off your shoulder, and now you’re face to face with him again, close enough to see the way his smile slips off his face, the intensity of his liquid gold gaze. “I’ll come with you. Don’t do it by yourself.”

“You don’t think I’m capable, Harumasa?” you try to tease, but his lazy smile doesn’t return.

“You’re capable,” he says quietly. “You’re more than capable. But I want to be there to back you up.” He’s the first to look away, and you feel cheated, even though you don’t know what you would have said in response. “So, let’s get going. The sooner we finish, the sooner I can clock out of work.”

“Of course,” you say, a smidge too quickly. “I’ll need to file reports for Yanagi when we’re done.”

At least the awkwardness of the moment on the rooftop blows over quickly as you prepare for departure. Working with Harumasa feels like being a part of a well-oiled machine, every movement in efficient, coordinated sync, the consequence of a well-established partnership. You fall into a routine as familiar as meetings or paperwork as you prepare to enter the Hollow: checking your weapons, gathering your supplies, escorting your Bangboo guide, and then striding into the Hollow at the designated entry point.

Within the Hollow, you and Harumasa alternate who takes the lead as you follow your Bangboo, slipping through half-hidden pathways and narrow crevices, all the while avoiding lurking Ethereals. There’s little need for words with Harumasa when all you need to do is read the tension of his body, like a bow pulled taut, and simply follow what it tells you. You have your own private language of body gestures, flicks of the hand or turns of the head, refined over years.

It’s not as if you always worked this well together, of course. The first time you were paired together with Harumasa on a mission, both of you were fresh recruits to Section Six. You couldn’t stop arguing with him. His lax manner and sloppy dress infuriated you, but what was worse was how he always delivered results with minimal effort when you never did anything less than your best. In turn, he made fun of you for being a stick-in-the-mud and being unable to relax.

“You’re going to go grey if you keep stressing yourself,” he would tease, looking much too pleased with himself, as if he enjoyed your little spats.

Harumasa touches your elbow lightly, and you’re drawn from your thoughts. “Did something happen?” you murmur. The Hollow stretches before you, twisted metal and broken concrete buildings stitched together with corruption that shimmers like an oil spill, but there’s no sign of anything unusual.

“Nope. I’m just bored,” he says. “We’re not any closer to finding the disturbance Yanagi told us about. We might have to head back soon if we still don’t find anything usual.”

“We haven’t even gone that deep in the Hollow yet,” you say. “We should at least cover all our bases. What, scared of doing overtime?”

“Yes,” he says seriously. “Maybe a workaholic like you wouldn’t get it, but overtime is the public enemy of every government employee out there. So, what were you thinking about?”

“About… the past,” you say, relenting. “And how we used to fight all the time.”

“Oh? Thinking about me?”

“Only about how annoying you used to be.”

“Rude. Is this how you talk about your precious partner?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s too late to find someone else. You’re stuck with me,” Harumasa says cheerfully.

“I never said I would find another partner. You’re the only one I want.” You try to keep your voice casual, just like Harumasa, but something honest creeps in, something a little raw and unfiltered, like light through an unsealed crack.

And maybe he senses it, too, your inability to play the blithe role as well as he does, because he doesn’t jump in right away with another joke. The silence lingers, throwing the rhythm of your banter off-balance.

“The only one, huh…” From the way his hair shades his eyes, you can’t make out his expression or read his tone. 

“Harumasa,” you begin, but a sudden beep cuts off your words. You glance at each other, all awkwardness vanishing as Harumasa glances at a device in one of his pockets. 

Your Bangboo guide jerks to a sudden stop. This is the end of its automated guidance, as far as its data will take you. The two of you have reached the top floor of what must have once been a tower, a spiderweb of uneven, rusted metal and crumbling walls exposed to the low, grey sky. The floor slopes down to a sharp drop, leading to nothing but open air.

“Ether spike,” Harumasa says. His hand is already drifting to his bow. “But I don’t see anything. Where…”

It happens in a split second. Your body reacts before your mind can, years of training ingraining in you the necessary reflex to spring back as an Ethereal drops down from above, crashing like a meteor where you and Harumasa once stood.

Your daggers are already in hand, and you leap forward as an arrow flies from above, distracting the creature long enough for you to slash along one of its appendages. It roars, and you’re already darting behind it, Harumasa running along its other side.

It’s an Ethereal like none you’ve seen before. A Thanatos? A Duhallan? No, none of the existing classifications match. It’s eerily beautiful, its core pulsing with multi-colored light, corrupted growth framing it like a star, delicate, vine-like appendages darting out momentarily to propel the Ethereal away from your reach. This must be the source of the disturbance Yanagi told you about.

Harumasa calls your name, and on instinct, you fall back as he lunges forward with a dizzying series of slashes with his blades. You’ve faced worse than an unclassified Ethereal of unknown strength. Even if neither of you have expected to engage an enemy, that doesn’t mean you aren’t prepared to. 

The battle continues back and forth, a waltz of sharp steel and split-second communication between you and Harumasa as you implement all the maneuvers you learned in training. It seems like there’s no end in sight, but you’re tiring the Ethereal, slowly but surely. It’s only a matter of time before you find an opening to destroy its core.

And then, Harumasa stumbles. It’s only a brief moment, his body dipping as something like a cough shudders through him before he steadies, but it’s enough time for the Ethereal to lash out several appendages like a bolt of lightning. You’re helpless to do anything but watch as Harumasa flies backwards, his body bent like a doll discarded by a careless child.

Before you can think, you’re running, propelled by some instinct deeper than habit at the sight of your partner on the ground, throwing your daggers with wild precision as the Ethereal howls like a wounded animal. There’s not enough time to do anything except to throw your body in front of Harumasa before the Ethereal lashes out again in a brutal, sweeping arc.

Your body explodes with pain. Then, you’re weightless. The Ethereal has sent you flying, and briefly, it’s like you’re back on the roof, Harumasa leaning against your shoulder, the wind in your face, before you’re tumbling over the edge of the tower.

In the field of your vision, something gold flashes. Harumasa’s headband. It’s all you can see, the afterimage of it burned into your eyes like the sun as everything goes dark.

—

From your earliest memories as a child, you had always been lonely. Maybe that’s why you were drawn to things that reminded you of the sun, searching for anything to give you stability or warmth.

Your story wasn’t particularly unique: your parents were killed in an accident in a Hollow. You were shunted from relative to relative who never knew what to do with you. You clung to academics and books to prove yourself because you had nothing else.

You had a decently high Ether aptitude, so when you got the opportunity to join an elite academy on a scholarship, why wouldn’t you take away your chance to escape away from relatives who never cared for you? At the time, you had been living with one of your mother’s older brothers–what was his name? You’d long since forgotten, and he hadn’t bothered to keep in contact once you left.

Either way, you graduated with honors and a flawless academic record. When Miyabi selected you to join Section Six, despite your lack of experience, you were excited.

“I believe you’ll deliver results,” Miyabi told you simply, that very first day. “That’s why I chose you.”

A flush of pride made your face glow. “I won’t disappoint you!”

It was so nice to be relied on. To find a place that needed you, where you were valued. You were tied to Section Six through more pragmatic things than fragile family ties that easily dissolved.

You did your best, but it was hard when you weren’t the only new member–Asaba Harumasa was assigned to Section Six at the same time as you. From the very start, your work ethics, lifestyles, and attitudes couldn’t be more different.

“Could you try to finish your paperwork on time? When you don’t, it slows the entire process down,” you would tell Harumasa.

“It gets done, though. Does it really matter when I do it?” he would reply.

Frustratingly enough, even then, the two of you did so well on missions together that you were always assigned to be each other’s partner. Maybe his work on the field earned him a little respect in your eyes; it was the one thing you couldn’t really criticize him on. But at the same time, it was infuriating that you had to put so much time and effort into delivering flawless results, and Harumasa always skated by with minimal effort. 

One particular fall, the two of you were assigned to a mission to investigate high-level Ethereals in a local Hollow. Soon enough, you and Harumasa were surrounded. As skilled as you were, parrying several different Ethereals meant one could easily slip into your blind spot and strike. Too late, you only noticed when it was already moving, and you could only grit your teeth, bracing for impact–until its limbs met a flash of steel. Harumasa had leapt in front of you, pushing the Ethereal back and giving you enough time to strike its core.

“Harumasa–” you began to say.

“On your left!”

And then you were flung into the heat of battle, with no time to process what just happened until the threats were neutralized.

It was only then you saw the gash running along Harumasa’s arm, blood soaking into his rolled up sleeves. Without a word, you took out your medical kit, and started applying disinfectant. Harumasa didn’t even wince as you dabbed away the blood with cotton balls. You knew, from the location alone, he had got it while protecting you.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, wrapping bandages around the wound. “This is my fault.”

“What are you talking about? I did this on my own.”

“But if I hadn’t been so careless–”

“You’re my partner. I’ll always have your back,” Harumasa said. His tone was as blithe as always, but there was a strange, tenderness underlying it.

His face was coated in dust and drying blood from battle, and yet, his eyes were still a startlingly pure gold, vibrant and warm. When he looked at you, it was like he was seeing you, all of you, warming you like the sun. He didn’t avoid your gaze or look past you, like your relatives had.

After that, you settled into Section Six, not because you were needed, but because you were wanted. Your arguments with Harumasa melted into something softer, something more playful. He was your partner, and you no longer grumbled about taking the same missions as him.

One day, when you were sent to fetch Harumasa for some mission or meeting (a favorite errand of everyone’s to send you on because you had developed an uncanny sense of knowing where he liked to hide), you found him hunched him over in an empty office, knuckles white against a table as he coughed wetly, the force of it shuddering through his entire body. 

Harumasa, who had always looked for any excuse to slack off, who slept on the job, who acted like nothing could bother him, looked more vulnerable than you had seen before.

You knew he had a medical condition, but he never talked about it. Even when he did, he always made it seem so trivial. A minor inconvenience, and nothing more.

“You need to go to the infirmary,” you said, rushing over. “Or the doctor. I’ll call someone right now. I’ll–”

“Don’t,” Harumasa rasped. He grabbed your arm with more desperate force than you expected. “It’s fine.”

“You’re–”

“It’ll pass. Just let me… lean on you for a little.” Half-crouched on the ground, he collapsed his weight against you, and you both sank to the floor. You wrapped your arms around him and he leaned his head against your collarbone. You rubbed circles along his back, a meager offering to soothe him until the coughing subsided.

Harumasa’s breathing was shallow, and you wondered if he could hear the racing of your heart, the fear making it pound uncontrollably. His illness was more serious than he had ever let on.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly.

“I’m fine. It’s just all the pollen and dust, you know,” he said. There’s that familiar carefree, teasing edge to his tone, but it’s strained by his recent coughing.

“You don’t have to joke with me. I’m your partner. If there’s something I can do for you, you can let me know.”

There’s a moment of silence before Harumasa sighed, a soft, resigned sound. “I just don’t want the others to know.”

“I won’t tell them,” you promised.

He took a few more shallow breaths before speaking, voice cheerful, deceptively light and hollow, like a bird’s bone. “I have Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome. It manifests primarily in my heart and lungs, but in exchange, I have high Ether aptitude. It’s the reason my parents… left me, a long time ago. A doctor took me in, but… Well. I was recruited to an academy, graduated, and ended up here. But you know about that part.”

You’ve known Harumasa long enough by now to know that he was only giving you carefully curated bits and pieces of his past. There was something he wasn’t not telling you, but that didn’t change the fact he had decided to place his trust in you, regardless. 

You understood what it was like to be left behind, to have nothing but yourself to cling to. Sympathy and pity weren’t what he wanted. No generic condolence could change his past or his fate.

Instead, you drew him closer to you. Harumasa let out a small, strangled gasp as you sheltered him in your arms. “I’ll be here for you, so thank you for trusting me.” 

Sometimes, words were cheap. The only response you needed was Harumasa’s arms wrapping around you in return, a tentative promise. 

It’s only a few weeks after that, when you were passing by a convenience store on the way home from work, that you saw the origami paper strips lining the shelves at a discounted price and remembered the elementary school pastimes of your classmates. 

As a child, you had wanted to make a hundred stars so you could make a wish for your parents to come back. But now, there was something else you wanted: not to make someone come back, but to make someone stay with you.

—

Your body aches. It’s all you’re aware of at first, a throbbing pain, spreading through your body in waves.

Your vision is blurry, the Hollow wavering in front of you like smeared paint, black protrusions and metal platforms blending together, a nightmarish portrait.

You drag your arm in front of your face, flex your fingers slowly until the world stops spinning. 

You’re alive. Against all odds, you’re alive, but you have no idea where you are or how much time has passed. You’d probably fallen into a distortion.

With any luck, Harumasa has already left and called for back-up. You could survive in a Hollow longer than most ordinary people could, but you didn’t want to test your limits. For now, you would have to do your best to survive. With agonizingly slow movements, like you’re dragging your body through water, you check your daggers and equipment, and survey the area around you. It’s full of twisted metal structures corrupted with black growth, platforms and stairs jutting from rocky walls, like a building that’s been swallowed by a cliff, with no particularly distinguishing feature.

It then takes even longer to convince your legs to support your weight, and to take a few steps without leaning against the wall.

Something clatters in the distance, heavy limbs dragging on the floor. Ethereals. This part of the Hollow is infested with them, a mutated sea of green and pearlescent black cores, though you’re temporarily sheltered in the area where you fell. As long as you avoid them, you should be fine; you’re no longer in any condition for prolonged combat.

All you can do is slowly drag yourself around, daggers at the ready, sneaking past any Ethereal you see. It’s agonizing work to be so careful, especially when you’re occasionally hit by waves of dizziness and your injuries make your reflexes slow.

Is Harumasa safe? Did he escape? Did he destroy the Ethereal? Or did something worse happen to him? There’s no point thinking like this and driving yourself insane, but your thoughts scatter like a flight of migrating birds, and no matter where they go, they always end up drifting in Harumasa’s direction.

Maybe you can blame Harumasa for distracting you when an Ethereal catches sight of you before you can fully conceal yourself. You can do nothing but mumble curses under your breath as more Ethereals are drawn to the noise and you’re forced to draw your weapon.

It’s harder to fight without Harumasa to cover your back. You’ve gotten too used to having him at your back. Several times, you open your mouth to call his name, but he’s not there to answer. It’s just you, clumsily dodging blows and aiming weak strikes at Ethereals you normally would have been able to dispatch with ease.

You might die here. The thought comes, unbidden. You’re weakened, surrounded, when an Ethereal looms over you. You twist your body around trying to dodge, but your body refuses to move as fast as you need it to as the Ethereal prepares to strike–only to still, stagger a few steps, and then collapse onto the ground, a spray of arrows protruding from its back.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you whip your head up in the direction the arrows came from. It can’t be, but it is. It’s him. Your partner, his mouth set in a grim, furious line as he draws his bow back. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look so angry.

In what feels like no time at all, the remaining Ethereals fall and your body feels light as you fight with renewed energy. Hardly any of them could get near you before Harumasa has shot them down with enough force that their bodies slam into the floor with a shattering crack. As soon as the last threat is neutralized, you’re running to Harumasa, but he’s faster than you.

“Harumasa—” Your words are muffled as Harumasa pulls you into a hug. His fingers dig into your shoulders, his grip tight. There’s something possessive and desperate about his touch, as if he might never hold you again and he has to memorize the shape of your body while he still has the chance.

His skin gleams with sweat, his white shirt sticking to his torso. Has he been running around this whole time, looking for you, without resting? You press your ear to his chest, where his heart rabbits in his chest in a frightened run.

“I thought you died,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“I…”

“I thought I lost you. And I couldn’t stop until I found your body, and I would have to tell the others that you… because of me, you…”

“Harumasa, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear that.”

You tentatively bring your arms around him, and a shudder wracks through his body at your touch. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“Then don’t do something so reckless again! If you die… If you die, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”

“I can’t promise that. You’re my partner. I told you I would have your back. If I see you in trouble, I can’t just run away.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I want you to live,” you murmur. “I want you to live, no matter what.”

“Then you have to live with me.” Harumasa pulls back abruptly, bringing his hands to your cheeks, and pinching. 

You attempt to reply, but you can only make a garbled noise of affirmation. It’s hard to talk when Harumasa is pulling your cheeks like taffy, but maybe he isn’t ready to hear your response.

You place your hands over his, and Harumasa stills, your touch a soothing balm. He lets out a breath. “Let’s get out of here. You need to get your injuries looked at.”

For the rest of the time until you leave the Hollow, Harumasa clings persistently to your side, refusing to move a step unless you have as well. You would call his pace leisurely if not for the tense way he holds his body, poised for threats from any direction. You’re half-tempted to ask if he would feel more at ease holding your hand, but you have a feeling he would never let you go again if you did.

Harumasa doesn’t relax even when you’re back at your workplace, where he escorts you directly to the infirmary and paces outside the entire time, causing the nurse’s eyebrows to crease in irritation at the sound of his rapid footsteps.

“I’m fine,” you announce the second you step out of the infirmary. “Okay? The nurse said I had no major injuries, though I’m not supposed to be on the field for a week. And I have to do a few more check-ins.” 

It’s only at your words that Harumasa finally relaxes. “This is probably the first sick day you’re going to take,” Harumasa says, but his teasing doesn’t quite match his eyes, which keep roaming your body for stray injuries which the nurse might have missed.

In the office, you’re immediately assailed by Yanagi, Miyabi, and Soukaku, who fuss over your bruises, the bandages peeking under your clothes, and the patches on your face.

“I’m glad you two are okay! I was so worried when I heard what happened. I know you’re capable, but you shouldn’t be so reckless,” Yanagi scolds lightly. 

“Take the time to rest and recover completely,” Miyabi says. “Section Six needs you, and we can’t function well if you’re not around.” 

“Take these snacks! They’re tasty, and they’ll help you feel better!” Soukaku says earnestly, shoving an armful of packaged chips at you.

It’s been a long time since anyone has worried over you like this. It’s a little embarrassing how everyone’s attention is focused solely on you, and you can’t keep a small smile from creeping onto your face. “Everyone… I promise I’m fine! You don’t have to fuss over me like this.” 

“Don’t forget to go back for your checkup,” Yanagi interjects. “All right? I don’t want to see you on the field until you’re cleared. And you, Harumasa! You need to take care of yourself, too.”

“Yanagi is right,” Miyabi says. “Maybe you should get a check-up as well.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Harumasa says, holding his hands out placatingly. “My injuries aren’t as bad as theirs. In fact, I’ll be a good partner and take care of them, promise.”

“That’s a first,” you interject, “Since when you were so excited about doing work?”

“I’m only excited when you’re involved,” he says, and you don’t know what to say to that.

The rest of the day passes by pleasantly once Section Six is satisfied that you’re doing well, though they keep making excuses to stop by your desk and leave you drinks from the vending machine or little treats. You fill your time with paperwork and organizing files, and when those are done, crafting paper stars at your desk.

“What are you gonna wish for when you have a hundred stars?” Soukaku says, sprawling across your desk and picking up a strip of paper to fold with clumsy, childish joy. 

“I’m actually not going to wish for anything. I’m going to give my wish to someone else.” 

��What? You can do that? Then I wanna give wishes to you and Nagi and Miyabi and Harumasa!” 

“Thank you, Soukaku.” 

“Who’re you going to give your wish to?” Soukaku asks as you hand her more origami paper strips. 

“Hm…” You survey the star you’ve just finished folding. “It’s for someone important. It’s a little embarrassing to talk about it out loud, though.”

“Why? I think whoever it is will be happy that you’re thinking about them!” 

“Do you think so?” 

“Yeah!” Soukaku says. “I would be happy if you gave me a wish!”

“Then should I make you a hundred paper stars, Soukaku?”

“Really? Yay!” 

By the end of the work shift, you’ve finally filled your glass jar with the necessary number of stars. You should feel happy, but what you didn’t tell Soukaku is that you wonder if it’s too presumptuous to give this to Harumasa. After all, you still remember what it’s like to be rejected by people who were supposed to love you and take care of you.

You cradle the jar in your hands, the product of all your meticulous work over the past two weeks. It’s heavy with the weight of your feelings and your ridiculous wish.

“Hey, partner.” Harumasa’s sudden voice makes you stiffen and whirl around, keeping the jar hidden behind your back. 

“Harumasa.” You take a breath. There’s no point in being embarrassed. “Do you have time right now?” 

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “What a coincidence. I was just about to ask you that, too.” 

“I assume we’re both free, then. Come over to my place,” you tell him bluntly. 

“Your place?”

“Yes.”

Harumasa tilts his head like an inquisitive bird, considering. “Sure, but I didn’t realize you were that excited to see me after work.”

“Oh, don’t get full of yourself.”

The two of you are back to your usual banter, but it’s devoid of its usual lightness. The events from the Hollow still linger over you, and Harumasa sucks in a breath before giving a casual smile. You respond with a roll of your eyes, but it feels wooden, everything unsaid thickening the air like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. 

The journey back to your apartment is peaceful. You take the train, watching the familiar strips of buildings and city lights streaking past, soft smudges against the glowing sun, sinking like a pat of butter in a red, syrupy sky. 

You live in a relatively nice building, the salary from your job affording you a lobby as well as a doorman and a fast elevator. At your apartment door, you fumble with your keys, fingers heavy and clumsy as you’re aware of Harumasa’s presence behind you, waiting.

The door clicks open and you step into your apartment, a one bedroom, one bathroom affair with sturdy, comfortable furniture, books and knick-knacks lining the shelves of the joint living room and kitchen. More books are stacked precariously on the single table you use for both work and meals, situated in the center. 

You slip off your shoes and into your house slippers, offering a pair to Harumasa, who after putting them on promptly walks over to one of the shelves in the living room and pokes at a little Bangboo statue. There’s a whole forest of them lining the shelf, all in different outfits and poses.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan. Hey, do you get the public security ones to help you cross the street?”

“Don’t touch it. It’s a collectible and I’m trying to get the last one in the series,” you say crisply. “And of course I do. It makes the ones patrolling the streets happy to help.”

“Wait, really?”

“They’re adorable, Harumasa. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“It’s not a bad thing! I just think you have a surprisingly cute side, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” you say, trying to keep your face schooled in a neutral expression, before gesturing to the table in the living room. “Take a seat. I’ll make some tea.”

You brew a pot of bitter green tea, taking out a plate of crumbly packaged cookies to snack on. They’re the least sweet snack you have in the house which Harumasa would be happy to eat.

For a few minutes, there’s only the clink of your cups and the crunch of cookies, a pleasant way to spend your time after work. Neither of you talk, the food giving you an excuse not to. It’s ridiculous how such a small gift could make you feel so nervous. You need to do it now. Otherwise, what would the point be of inviting him over?

You run your finger along the rim of your teacup, pressing hard enough to feel the edge of smooth porcelain dig into skin. “There’s something I want to give to you.” 

“A present? For me?” 

“Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing fancy,” you say, before standing to retrieve the jar of stars, which you had shoved into your work bag.

You hold it behind your back until you’re in front of Harumasa, at which point you place the jar on the table and slide it over to him.

A hundred stars for one wish. You explain the story to him as Harumasa cups his hands around the jar, peering intently as if he could see the hours you spent painstakingly crafting each individual star. 

“I know it’s a little silly,” you say quietly. “But I want whatever you wish for to come true, no matter what.” 

Harumasa’s eyes when he looks at you are just like stars, warm, bright gold, that you would trust to guide you no matter what path you tread.

“I want you to be happy,” you say, the words falling from your mouth like a wish of your own. 

“Happy, huh?” Harumasa closes his eyes briefly, stars winking out of existence. 

“I’m sorry if that’s presumptuous. You don’t have take this gift if you don’t want–”

“Whoa! This is mine now. You can’t have it back now that you’ve given it to me. It’s just… there are some things about my illness I haven’t told you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you say.

“I want to tell you, though. People with Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome don’t typically live long lives. The illness is terminal. The oldest-recorded person lived only to be 26.” Harumasa says it matter-of-factly, the numbers rolling out of him like he’s simply reciting information from a medical brochure. “In late stages, the body breaks down. And if someone with Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome is in a Hollow when their body breaks down, then they’ll turn into an Ethereal.”

This is the knowledge Harumasa has been carrying with him all this time and hiding from everyone in Section Six. It must have weighed him down like stones, knowing that if things take a turn for the worse in a mission within the Hollow, he’ll become one of the monsters you and Section Six have to put down. How long has he carried this by himself?

No matter how you try to hide your feelings, Harumasa knows how to read you just as much as you know how to read him, because he raises a hand and lazily waves it through the air. “Don’t look so worried. It doesn’t bother me that much.”

“I’m your partner. Of course I’m going to be worried about you,” you say quietly. “I told you, didn’t I? I want you to be happy.”

Harumasa gazes down at the table, away from you and the jar of stars in front of him. “You are, huh? Can I trust you with something else, then?”

“What is it?”

“If anything happens to me,” he says, “and I turn into an Ethereal, you have to promise that you’ll kill me.”

There’s no other answer for you, not when he looks at you like that. “I promise. I won’t let anyone else do it.”

“Then I’m all yours, partner.”

“But…” You reach for Harumasa’s hand across the table, slowly and reverentially sliding your fingers under his, feeling the press of each callous on his slender fingers. These beautiful hands, which you have saved and which have saved you again and again. “I gave you a wish, you know? So you can have anything you want.”

“Eh? Didn’t I tell you what I wanted?”

“It doesn’t count,” you persist. “If it helps, I’ll tell you what I want.”

“All right, what is it?”

“I want you to live forever.”

“That’s way too long,” Harumasa protests.

“Then live for a hundred years at the very least,” you say. “I wanted you to be happy for a long, long time. I made you a hundred stars, so each star is worth one year of happiness.”

It’s ridiculous, you know. It’s not pragmatic at all. And maybe it’s cruel, too, to ask Harumasa something like this. But if he’s going to be selfish, then you’re going to be just as selfish. 

“A hundred years? Then you need to live that long, too.” Harumasa shifts his hand and hooks your pinky lightly with his own. “It’s not fair if I have to live that long without you. That’s going to be my wish.”

“Then I’ll make it come true,” you say. “I told you, didn’t I? We’re partners. Where you go, I’ll go.”

In the window across from you, ink-blue shadows flood the world. The sun had set while the two of you were talking, and the city lights wink like scattered gemstones across dark velvet.

“If you talk like that, then I’m not going to want to leave,” he says quietly. “You make me want to act selfishly.”

“Then act selfishly. I’ll forgive you.”

He lets out a sigh, squeezing your pinky. “You’re not fair at all.”

“Good,” you say archly. “Stay the night, Harumasa.”

Harumasa stills at your words, and you can feel the faint tremor of his hand. “I have nightmares. It’s not going to be a good time for you.”

“That’s all right,” you say. “I’ll take care of you.”

It’s easy having Harumasa in your apartment, where he fits seamlessly into your normal routine, the same way he does at work. You lend him towels, and baggy pajamas, and then the two of you take turns using the bathroom. You order cheap takeout from a local restaurant, which you eat in front of the glow of your television, watching the news. As you wash up the dishes, Harumasa perches on the counter, cracking jokes that make you roll your eyes or smile. 

Harumasa, framed in the soft glow of kitchen lights like a halo behind him, hair askew, wrinkling his borrowed clothes, makes your heart ache. It would be nice to have him around like this, all the time. You’ve forgotten the warmth of having someone in your home until now.

You should bring out the futon you keep for guests, but you don’t mention it, and Harumasa doesn’t ask. So he follows you to your bedroom, knees bumping against the side of the metal frame as you pull out an extra pillow for him. 

Harumasa dutifully takes out his rows of medicine, orange bottles lined up your nightstand, brightly colored pills falling down his throat with each sip of water from the glass you’ve brought him. He folds his golden headband neatly next to the bottles, and finally places the jar of stars to stand guard over everything. It makes you feel ticklish that he wants to keep your gift so close.

Your bed is too small for two people, but neither of you complain as your legs tangle together, Harumasa resting his forehead against yours. In the dark, you grope for his hand, entangling your fingers with his, where they belong.

“Good night, partner,” he whispers. He’s so close his breath tickles your face.

“Good night.”

“It’s too late to turn back now,” he murmurs, but you can’t tell if he’s saying it to you or himself.

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t,” you say, tracing nonsensical letters on his back with the fingertips of your free hand, a message he can’t read.

“I know. I guess we’re stuck together.”

“I told you. We’re partners. I’m yours forever,” you say.

Harumasa squeezes your hand. “And I’m yours, so let’s take good care of each other.”

If you strain your head, you can see a faint strip of moonlight from your parted curtains illuminating your nightstand where a hundred paper stars glow. Like a promise, a wish, of a hundred years of happiness.

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[marvelous-llama]

Seventeen recs

<<original book

most of the mentioned works is 18+ NSFW, MINORS DNI

pls don´t hesitate to hmu, if any of mentioned links doesn´t work or you have suggestions for more fics... thank you so much for all the love and comments

one shots

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[lvndrfucks]

Cole Preston was on his last straw.

When it came to feelings and liking someone, he was usually a reserved person. He didn’t make it too obvious, but tried to make it known that he viewed you more than a friend. It was the little things. He remembered your favorite restaurant, your usual coffee order, why you hated wearing polka dots (it was just ugly, in your opinion.)

A person would think they’d catch onto these signs. Especially when it had been six months now. Six months of him pining after you and you thinking “wow, he’s such a good friend.”

Even after uttering those words, he didn’t give up. Now, Cole was determined to tell you how he truly felt. No matter how frustrating your obliviousness could be.

Dinner had just ended and the group of friends decided to try to find an open ice cream shop. While everyone else was ahead, you were lingering in the back with Cole. You were busy looking around the shops while he was busy looking at you.

At the slightest shiver, he was already removing his jacket.

“Are you cold?”

Before you could protest, his leather jacket was already placed over your shoulders.

You smiled at him. “Thanks.” You pushed your arms through the sleeves, savoring the warmth.

He nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets. “So, how was your food? Considering you ate half of mine too.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “It’s not my fault your food looked good too. And I liked mine. Ugh, I wish I tried Eva’s spaghetti, though.”

“But doesn’t spaghetti usually make you sick?”

You groaned, leaning into his arm. You didn’t feel him tense at your touch.

“I know, but it’s so good.”

“Well, if you had it, I think you’d be puking your guts out right now.” He chuckled slightly.

“Yeah, you’re right. As usual.” Your nose scrunched up as you smiled at him.

He even knew what food you couldn’t have. If that didn’t scream romance, he didn’t know what did.

Cole suddenly felt chilled as you let go of his arm. He glanced down at your hands swaying at your sides. Maybe if he just…

His fingers twitched the closer he got. Just when he felt the skin of your knuckles touch his, it was ripped away immediately by your gasp.

“I found one!” You pointed across the street at the ice cream shop.

The group let out noises of excitement and quickly ran over. You looked at Cole with a wide smile, grabbing his wrist to catch up. He looked down his arm.

This was close enough, right?

“I’m hopeless.” Cole laid across the couch with his arm over his eyes. “I’m gonna be single forever. And live alone with my one cat. Then, die with no one attending my funeral.”

Dylan and Braedon looked at each other.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic,” Dylan questioned. “Why don’t you just tell her?”

“I’ve tried!”

“Have you actually?”

Cole peeked over with one eye to see them both looking with raised eyebrows. He groaned while sitting up.

“I thought she would’ve caught on by now. We always hang out together, we’ve both slept over at each other’s places, she’s even worn my clothes,” Cole listed.

“Come on, man. We all know she can be a little…blind when it comes to relationships,” Braeden said. “She introduced Eva and I and didn’t know we were dating until the two month mark. You just gotta be upfront about it. What’s holding you back?”

“I’m scared, okay? What if she doesn’t like me back and— and she’s just messing with my feelings? Like it’s all some game to her.”

“Do you really believe that? After knowing her for so long,” Dylan asked.

Cole huffed and leaned back on the couch. “No.”

“Remember during our Ontario show and she brought brownies,” Dylan recalled, making Cole nod. “She made you brownies. She didn’t even give us any.”

“Which I took offense to,” Braeden chimed in.

“Or when you were sick, she didn’t leave your side until you were better. You said she made you soup and cleaned up your apartment. I don’t think she would do that for us.”

A smile appeared on Cole’s face at the memory. “You really think she likes me?”

“She probably doesn’t even realize it,” Dylan said. “If you can’t say out loud how you feel, try writing it.”

That’s exactly what Cole did. He spent the entire night composing the perfect letter that told you exactly how he felt. Now, all he had to do was give it to you. He was debating whether or not to run away afterwards.

Cole called your name from across the park. You turned around and waved, meeting him halfway. You greeted him with a hug, as you always did.

“Hey, what did you want to talk about? And why at the park?” You wondered.

“Just…thought it was a nice day out.” Not because the park was when Cole realized he had feelings for you. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, but there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

He felt like he was breathing too heavily. His stomach began to churn at the very thought of the letter weighing down his pocket.

“Are you okay? You seen nervous,” you observed.

“What? Me? Nervous? Pfft, no.”

You stared for some time before smiling. “Okay. So, what do you wanna tell me?”

“Right, um…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. “I—“

The two of you yelped as the sprinklers suddenly went off. It happened so quickly. You both ran towards the sidewalk, but it was no use. You were already drenched from head to toe, as was Cole.

And the letter.

He looked at the paper in disappointment as it began to rip pitifully in his hands.

You laughed lightly. “Well, that was unexpected.” You looked at the paper. “What’s that?”

“It’s um…a song I was working on. I wanted to show you and get your opinion. Kind of pointless now.” He dumped the remains into the nearby trashcan. Along with his dignity.

“Aw, I’m sorry.” You frowned, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. “How about we dry up at my place and see if we can try to remember any of the song, okay?”

Even in the most glum situations, you still managed to put a smile on Cole’s face.

It was late at night when you texted Cole. He was a little confused to why you asked to come over. You were always welcomed anytime, which was exactly what he told you. What he didn’t expect was to find you in near tears in your best clothing.

“What happened?” He immediately asked while pulling you inside.

The two of you sat on the couch. You wouldn’t make eye contact, but he could see the faint wobble of your lower lip.

“I had a date tonight,” you informed.

“Oh.”

A date…

While he was stuck at home throwing Cheez-Its into his mouth, you were out with someone else.

“Did something happen? Did he do something?” Cole prepared himself for the worst.

“No, he just,” you sighed deeply, wrapping your arms around your stomach, “it was so awkward. We had nothing in common and everything just felt forced. I offered to get food since we didn’t really establish a plan, and he immediately assumed I would pay. Then, he continued to make comments on how it looked like I ‘didn’t eat’ and it just made me uncomfortable. But, apparently to him, the date when great.”

Cole hated seeing you upset. He hesitantly wrapped his arm around your shoulders. You leaned into his touch.

“I’m sorry your date didn’t go well. If you don’t mind me asking, why’d you go out with him in the first place,” Cole asked.

“I don’t know. My friend set me up. She said I should try dating again.” You sat up straight to look at him. “But it’s just hard. I don’t like throwing myself out there. I like building the relationship first, starting off as friends and getting to know each other. Like us, you know?”

He gulped. “Yeah. Just like us.”

“I don’t know.” You looked down. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not the type of person to love.”

“What? What do you mean?”

You scoffed. “I’m in my mid-twenties and I’ve never been in a stable relationship. All I’ve had were bad flings and failed talking stages. I just want what everyone else around me has. I just want somebody to love me without feeling the need to.” You let your head drop into your hands as you sniffed. “I’m sorry. I’m just talking out of my ass right now.”

Cole could’ve done it right then and there. He could’ve told you that he’s always loved you without feeling forced to. That you came into his life so unexpectedly and now he won’t let you go.

But he couldn’t.

It didn’t seem fair in the state you were in. Right now, what you needed was a friend. That was something he could do.

He rubbed your back gently while calling your name. “You’re gonna find someone one day. Because how could anyone not love someone like you.”

“Someone so emotional?” You teased while wiping your cheeks.

Cole chuckled. “Yes. And stubborn, and hard-headed, and a little bit of anger issues—“

“If I wanted to be insulted, I would’ve gone to Braeden.”

“But,” he paused, “someone is going to love all those sides of you. Not a person you pretend to be just to feel loved.”

You stayed silent at first until a small smile appeared on your face.

“I wish all guys could be as sweet as you.”

Your head fell onto Cole’s shoulder with closed eyes. His jaw clenched as a frown appeared on his face. Why is she looking for different guys to love when he was right in front of her?

Cole had a hard time sleeping that night. He was up early the next day, his leg bouncing up and down while he sat on the living room couch. You were in the other room, fast asleep, in his clothes on his bed.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He was losing his mind. If he wasn’t honest about his feelings for you in the next second, he feared he might explode.

“Good morning.” His head snapped up at your voice. “I thought you left. Made me feel like those one night stands,” you joked.

“I really need to talk to you,” Cole stated.

You stared, a little confused, but took a seat next to him, nevertheless. His hands clenched and unclenched around the fabric of his sweatpants as he struggled to look at you. You sat ever so patiently.

“Are you feeling okay,” you asked. You placed your hand over his, but he quickly ripped it away.

He couldn’t think straight.

“No, I’m not okay, actually.” Cole took a deep breath in, finally making eye contact. “I…I like you.”

…

…

“Well, I like you too, silly.”

Cole face-palmed.

“No, no. I mean, I like-like you. More than friends.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“Oh, my God,” he muttered under his breath. “How do I do this?”

He rotated his body to fully face you and took both of your hands in his. There was a surprised look on your face at the warm feeling at his touch.

Cole spoke your name once. “I like you in a way that would involve us being more than friends. And not just best friends. Like…I want to be that person you learn to love.”

At his last word, it was like realization dawned over you.

Oh, Cole.

You looked at the boy in front of you that resembled a lost puppy. The same boy who knew your favorite chocolate was dark, the same boy who binge watched your favorite shows with you, the same boy who gave you flowers on multiple occasions for no reason.

You could see it now. Everything he’s done for you. With you.

He liked you.

And you liked him too.

Cole felt his heart clench as you laughed. He was ready to leave, but your hands didn’t let go of his.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Somewhere to hide in shame.” There was small annoyance in his tone as he looked away.

“No, Cole,” you chuckled, “I’m sorry I laughed. It’s because I can’t believe I never knew you had feelings for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, very funny.”

“Cole,” you called out gently. This time, he looked at you. “I like-like you too. In a more than best friends way.”

“…Really?”

“Yes, really. And I’m sorry I never saw it before. I guess everything between us felt so natural, I never questioned the fact that how I felt about you was different from everyone else. And I don’t need to learn how to love you. I already do.”

Cole’s cheeks hurt from grinning so hard. “Wow. Saying you love me before the first date.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling your hands away. “Okay, Mr. Hot Shot.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” He pulled you back to his side before you could move away. “I just got you. You can’t get away that easily.”

You laughed, letting yourself ease against his body. Your legs draped over his lap as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“So, now what,” you questioned.

“Now,” he tucked your hair back behind your ear, letting his knuckle graze over your cheek softly, “I take you on a date. Then, a second. Then, a third. Then, maybe, I’ll ask if I can be your boyfriend.”

“Ahh, okay. And maybe, I’ll say yes.”

“How do I make sure that yes is definite?”

You shrugged. “I guess you really have to wow me on these next three dates.”

Cole nodded. “Then, the first one starts now with breakfast.” You shrieked in surprise as he lifted you up from the couch and started walking to the kitchen. “The third date should finish around dinner, right?”

[sailorshadzter]

Can you write a fic where Cat survived the Red Wedding and has to accept that Sansa has to marry Jon to keep the Stark line and the North united? She knows Jon is now the heir but the prospect of marriage still haunts her because of what happened to Robb. And now, Cat wouldn't want to wish what happened to Robb to Jon Snow regardless of his heritage.

HIIII ANON

once again, this has been sitting in my inbox for a long time!!!

hopefully you see this!!!

send me prompts

When the gates open, a wagon rolls in, pulled by a white mare that has seen better days. 

She happens to be standing in the courtyard, talking with a few of the lords when the call comes, so her attention shifts away, blue eyes watching as the wagon comes all the way through. They aren’t expecting anyone, not that it matters, so she excuses herself, wandering away from the center yard and closer to the horse drawn wagon that has now come to a stop.

As the single passenger rises from the bench, her heart skips a beat, her stomach turning over like the wild waves of the sea. Somehow, her heart is telling her all she needs to know about this hooded stranger. 

Coming closer now, she waves away the guards barking questions- who are you, why have you come, and the like, because she doesn’t need to hear the answer the woman will give. As she comes around to the back, the figure is stepping down off the back, her feet crunching in the freshly fallen snow. For a moment, it is as if time is suspended, as if there is not a single other person in the world but the two of them- her lips curve around the syllables of the word she hasn’t used in years… “Mother…”

Catelyn Stark smiles, drawing back the hood of her cloak to reveal a somewhat scarred face, one older than she recalls, but it was her mother all the same. “Sansa,” she breathes, tears overflowing as she forces a smile. “My daughter…” A girl grown into a woman, a sight she thought she might never get to see… But here she was, standing just in front of her. It takes but a moment more for the young woman to fling herself at her, to fall into her arms as if she were that child she’d lost so many years before. “I’m here, Sansa, I’m here,” she whispers, running her hand through the red hair that has grown so long it falls to her waist, twisted back in braids like her own. Catelyn holds her tightly, wishing away her tears and murmuring the softest of words, until only the sound of footsteps draws her away.

When she looks up, over her daughter’s head, it is to look into the eyes of the man she knows has saved Winterfell, has saved Sansa. The boy she once detested, the boy she once neglected, now stands there now, grown into a man, staring at her with wide, gray eyes. Eyes that remind her of Ned, of Arya, eyes that bring pain to her already aching heart. But, she returns to her daughter, the last piece of her, and knows that this was where life was meant to bring her. 

[ x x x ]

“King in the North?”

Catelyn questions without hesitation, looking from one face to the other, once again feeling that ache in her heart. Once, Robb had been called such a thing. The truth was, she imagined to hear Queen in the North upon her arrival, but it was true, Robb had indeed named Jon as his heir, and it seemed as if the North agreed. Truth was, after hearing about all that had happened since the days of Robb, she supposes Jon deserves the title. 

Besides… 

“Have you met with Samwell Tarly?” She asks next, thinking of the man she met some weeks ago, traveling from King’s Landing to Winterfell, saying how once he was comrades with Jon Snow, no, friends even. “Is he not here?” 

Jon shakes his head, surprised to hear his old friend’s name spoken by his step mother. “I have not heard from Sam since before…” He trails off , shaking his head. Since before his death, he means. “Have you met with him, Lady Stark?” Lady Stark… She’s not been referred to by that name in so long now, it feels somewhat foreign. In truth, she’s heard Sansa called by that title all day, her inheritance certain. And now that she looks, there is a closeness between the two of them that she never saw before- perhaps it was one she prevented, in truth. 

“I have,” she admits, wondering if it was her place to tell him what Samwell Tarly had told her. She has but a split second to decide, for they are both staring back at her, Sansa with her wide-eyed gaze, Jon with his somber one. Perhaps this was the will of the gods, whichever ones were still listening…

So she speaks and she doesn’t stop until the story is fully told. 

[ x x x ]

It is the fourth morning of Catelyn’s return and she finds herself in Sansa’s rooms, brushing out her long red hair as she once did so long ago. 

Much has changed in the days since her arrival, the truth of Jon’s birth being an outright shock for all of Winterfell. But, the lords have taken it in stride and it would not be long before they would openly claim him as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. 

In due time, of course. 

Catelyn has been thinking this moment over, again and again, trying to decide the best of the situation. The North deserved to be free, independent, just as Robb had intended…. But they still needed to back Jon, in order to win the war that was to come. Targaryen’s were not well loved here in the North, but lucky for Jon, he’d amassed love and respect from the Northerners that could not be stolen away simply because of his father’s blood. He was a Stark, many lords would say, shaking their heads. He was as much of a Targaryen as any one of them. 

“Mother?”

Sansa’s voice draws her out of her own thoughts and she smiles at her over her shoulder, their eyes meeting in the reflection of the looking glass. “I got lost in my own thoughts,” she apologizes as she places the last pin into place. For a single moment, she cannot help but to imagine her as she once was in this place; a hostage, a victim. Sansa hasn’t come out with all of the details of her two unlucky marriages, though she swears Tyrion never touched her, Catelyn knows Ramsay Bolton did the most unspeakable things to her. And these thoughts lead back to Robb, who married out of young, stupid love, that unwavering feeling many don’t get to feel in a world like theirs. Robb had died for love, Sansa nearly died from the violence of a loveless marriage. In the end, her children had found suffering in marriage, whether it be true love or political gain… There was no happy ending, not for Robb and not for Sansa.

But then there comes a knock on her door and when it opens, Jon is there, the sight of him bringing a smile to her face she’s never seen before. She watches as Sansa lights up from within, as she rises up from the chair she occupies to sweep across the room to stand before him. He spares her but one single nod before his eyes are all for Sansa, eyes that she swears she’s seen before… Eyes that she swore Ned once looked upon her with. 

Sansa offers a quick curtsy- sloppy, though she had it perfected at three- and with her arm slipped through his, she allows him to steer her from the room.

 Left alone in silence, Catelyn sinks back in the chair, laughter bubbling on her lips. 

[ x x x ]

Several weeks later, their betrothal is announced. 

Catelyn watches as the loyal Northern lords raise their glasses to the marriage, chanting their pleasure before they drink to it. At the head table, Sansa is blushing, but not in the innocent sort of way, while Jon pours her a second goblet of wine. They would be the finest of couples and the most powerful of monarchs- already Dorne had written of their support and she supposes the rest of the world would not be far behind. They had far more power than Robb ever had, which she supposes should bring her comfort, should hold her heart steady. 

The boy she once wished would die, she now wishes a lifetime of happiness, of health, of love. 

The boy she once wished never existed, she raises her own glass to toast, hoping for happiness, wishing for a lifetime of love.

[rubus-yunnion]

Anything for our resident Irish man? You know who I mean

Hello! So sorry for answering your question so late, life has been busy for me. I'm assuming your talking about O'Connor, and I've finally found the time to write down some hcs, enjoy!

° Knows every single pick up line, he knows his way around woman.

° Gets along really well with both Gibbo and Trots, he agrees with Trots most of the time but there are others where he seems to be agreeing with Gibbo.

° Sometimes writes love letters to himself about Mary, always keeps it hidden. Caz did find one of them and started to read it out loud in the canteen, O’Connor refused to talk to anyone that whole week.

° O’Connor is roughly around 5’11, tallest crew member being Raffs (6’3)

° Always hated skating, but the thing he hates even more is ice skating, he could never control his balance, even when holding onto the railings and whatnot. But, he’ll always join his Mary as she loves it more then he does.

° VERY GOOD at pool, if he and Rennick were to compete against each other then there would be war in the crew lounge. And also a free job for scouting the pontoons.

° Speaking of Rennick, he doesn’t actually have an opinion on him, at least not too many bad opinions. Though he isn’t very supportive of how Rennick treats the rig, especially when it comes to the pontoon operations.

° Not the best at singing or playing any other instrument, but he is very fluent in playing the piano.

° Has way too many health issues, it’s surprising how long he’s lived for with all these problems, did in fact pee himself one time, Gibbo was the first to acknowledge and Trots unfortunately had to clean it up for him. Poor Trots.

° Has broken way too many bones in his life, specifically his left arm. Nobody knows why it’s always the left arm that gets broken.

° Although he has broken many of bones, he sometimes pretends that he twisted his feet all the time. Though Brodie wasn’t aware of this the first time and immediately tried to convince Rennick to call a hospital chopper.

° Loves pottery, he’s used to his hands being quite dirty so this never really bothered him too much. One time he tried to make a swan for Mary’s birthday, but it ended up looking like a cat that got ran over 3 times. She didn’t mind it though, actually she thought it was quite charming.

° Pretty decent at darts, though not as good as Finlay or Brodie. Speaking of Finlay, he gets along with her well, though still quite scared of her just like the rest of the crew members.

° Addair disgusts him, his views on the world is something he wished Addair kept to himself. Whenever he gets the chance, he’ll rip immigrant posters down from his walls and throw them in the bin.

° Has a bad habit of whistling all the time, many people told him to shut up because of it.

° Talk ill of Mary and you’ll start wishing Rennick called a hospital chopper for you.

[in-memoriam-tgwk]

Amberfuzz is not the type of cat to cry. Or smile. Or… Well, any sort of emoting, really. She’s been this way since kithood; when her father stood shaking over the frozen frail body of her littermate, she sat by his side and observed his grief in silence. Catching her first prey only brought a calm reverence over her face as she quietly thanked her teacher for her exuberant praise. When Glowstar appointed her as his second-in-command, she was truly honored to be considered! But she didn’t jump around like an excitable fawn. It’s simply isn’t her nature.

Meeting Shinefreckle was like getting caught in a flash rainstorm. It left Amberfuzz befuddled and uncomfortable, and soaked to the bone. It made her irritable and snappy, and wishing for better days.

But it was also eye-opening for Amberfuzz. The older molly was everything she isn’t. Shinefreckle was bubbly, and naive, and she felt everything at an eleven. She’d squeal at the sight of lady bugs, she’d weep during the sad tales Heatherdash would regail over the evening meal, she’d loudly berate the apprentices for grabbing moss littered with pine needles. She was a whirlwind of sunlight and storms and she could grab attention without having to lift a paw.

Amberfuzz hated her for it, just as much as she envied her for it.

She never expected to get close to Shinefreckle, but it wasn’t long before they were sharing meals and sharing tongues on the regular. Shinefreckle was good at conversation in ways that Amberfuzz lacked; she could chitter on about the littlest things, investing in mostly one-sided conversations and pausing every so often for Amberfuzz to offer commentary. When Amberfuzz’s turn came to speak, she’d sit and listen with full attention, nodding when needed, gasping and smiling and giggling like anything she said was the single best thing Shinefreckle had heard all day.

She’d never admit it, but Amberfuzz preened under the attention. She’d even started smiling more, much to the confusion of the other Colony cats.

Losing Cliffclaw destroyed Shinefreckle, in more ways than could be seen. Eating was no longer a priority. She grew thin and unsteady as her frame became more bone than muscle. She couldn’t leave camp without an escort, and she rarely left at all at that point. When bathing took too much energy, her fur grew matted and dirty. Eventually Amberfuzz set about doing it all for her; she’d force her to nibble on her prey, she’d take her on small walks along the cliffs, she’d pick the tangled twigs from her fur. Despite her best efforts, however, Shinefreckle looked worse and worse as the days rolled on.

And then, Shinefreckle developed a cough. It was manageable at first, but despite a moon of treatment she just couldn’t seem to get better. She eventually had to be carried to the medicine den.

Amberfuzz doesn’t cry, but her eyes stung as her ears tuned into the rasp of her friend’s breathing, the only sound in a dusty room. Her own air hitched in her lungs— and what a foreign feeling to her— as the stench of sickness flooded her senses. Her nose burned as she tucked her face into Shinefreckle’s neck, pressing close enough to feel her heartbeat lightly tap in a withered rhythm.

She doesn’t cry. She never cries. She will not cry—

“Fuzzy…?”

Shinefreckle’s voice rattled where it caught on her cough, her head raising just enough for Amberfuzz to see her tired eyes. They crinkled at the corners from a weak smile.

“I’m here, Shinefreckle. You’re in the medicine den.”

Shinefreckle’s gaze flitted about before coming back to rest on the other. “It seems I am,” she croaks.

“Don’t move too much,” Amberfuzz said, and pressed a paw to her flank. “Heatherdash says you’re very sick. You need to rest, to get your strength up.”

She expected Shinefreckle to scoff, or to whine, or to make a fuss like she usually would. Instead, the molly’s eyes drifted to the side, like her thoughts were leading her somewhere else entirely. It took quite some time for her to float back.

“I’m tired, Fuzzy. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Amberfuzz frowned at her. “Don’t say that. You’ll see, you just need a few days of proper rest. You’ll be well in no time—“

Shinefreckle shook her head, and her body shuddered through a series of coughs. “N-No. I won’t be.”

“Shinefreckle.”

“But it’s okay,” Shinefreckle said, and bumped her head gently against Amberfuzz’s temple. “It’s alright, Fuzzy. Just sit with me a moment. Can we please sit together?”

She smiled a soft smile, the kind that a mother would use to ease her wailing kit. It filled Amberfuzz with a sadness she couldn’t describe, one that she could only feel her way through, hanging heavy and wet in her chest. She flexed her jaw, scowling through the tears that dampened her cheeks. “Okay,” she said with a tremble in her voice. “Okay.”

She held Shinefreckle until her rattling chest finally stilled, until her eyes fluttered shut, until the first streaks of dawn tickled at the medicine den’s entrance. She held her on her final descent down the cliff, refusing anyone who offered to help carry the load. She only let go when it was time to lay Shinefreckle on her bed of rosemary, right next to Cliffclaw’s grave. Only then did Amberfuzz let go.

Amberfuzz doesn’t cry. But the buzz of a lady bug’s wing is sure to stop her in her tracks. She talks more to the rest of the Colony, and even shares stories of her own in the evening time. And if you’re lucky, on the right kind of day, her stone face will crack at its edges in a smile.

[abitofboth]

even more owen carvour hcs because I’ve got brain worms or something

he got his ears pierced when he was younger, and even though he rarely wears them now, he’ll put studs in every now and then just so the holes won’t close up.

he’s a bit of an insomniac. sleep doesn’t come easy to him and he can spend hours just tossing and turning. half the time he’ll just give up and find something else to do- read a book, go over mission plans, sit at the window with a cigarette and watch the world go by.

a shakespeare snob through and through. he has a quote ready to go for every single situation possible and he doesn’t care how many eyes roll every time he whips one out.

he’s semi-decent at drawing. not the best, but he does have a sketchbook he uses in his downtime that he’ll draw whatever’s in front of him in.

he learnt how to hot wire cars when he was bumming around as a kid. every time he gets the chance to steal a car on a mission it’s like he’s 13 all over again, filled with the thrill of not getting caught.

he thinks mrs mega is maybe the best woman alive. her and her antics entertain him endlessly and he adores how much she loves curt. he hasn’t met her many times, but every time he gets the pleasure of staying at the safe house he finds himself wishing he had a mum like her.

he has a soft spot for barb. every time curt makes a mean passing remark about her he’ll smack him across the arm.

he’s thought about (more often than he’d like to admit) running away with curt. taking them both far from the danger and secrets and living life quietly as just the two of them. (and a cat. his fantasy definitely involves him being with curt and owning a cat. he has two hands for a reason!!)

he never got to meet tatiana before he was in his cunty villain era, but if curt and owen would have found her before the fall in their prime time I just KNOW that they would have been the ultimate team (I literally drew it hehe). owen and tati would have been bitchy best friends and I don’t even doubt it for a second.

he and curt have had so many “romantic” patching up sessions after missions. before they were officially together, there were so many uncertain gentle touches and lingering caresses where they both wish they could say and do more. the moments when there’s been some serious blood loss and things that would normally remain unsaid start slipping out are the moments when the two start realising that they might just feel the same way about each other. (I also literally wrote this hehe :P)

in a similarly trope-y way, there have been so many ‘Whoops! Only One Bed!’ situations. before they got together owen loved being able to sleep curled up right next to his crush (he hates the term ‘crush’ btw), and then after they got together it just gave him an excuse to spoon him all night long.

curt snores. owen hates it.

he can ride motorbikes and he can do it well. he loves when curt rides behind him and clings onto him with his arms around his waist. he drives extra fast to sate curt’s adrenaline junkie tendencies (and he loves the way curt laughs out of pure joy right next to his ear).

if he finds himself being tortured, as spies do, his go to is pretty much get so cocky and smarmy until it pisses off the torturer so much that owen can find an opportunity to overpower them and fight back. works like a charm.

once, he was captured and had his head forced underwater and was threatened with being drowned to death. the whole experience fucked him up for a good while.

regularly gets curt to light his cigarette for him while he’s holding it in his mouth.

every injury the fall gave him is a painful reminder of curt. even years down the line, every time a scar smarts or his knee plays up he’s filled with too many emotions to name.

he doesn’t actually remember a whole lot of the actual fall happening, it’s all very patchy, but he has vivid memories of curt’s horrified face getting further and further away from him as he got closer to the floor.

he learnt how to play an old family violin when he was a kid, and he’s gotten a little rusty over the years but he can still play a pretty tune on one.

he loves late night walks through cities. he thinks it’s the best way to really get to know a place. plus, it’s like he can hide in the shadows for a few hours and be someone other than owen carvour.

he’s a bit of a lightweight when it comes to booze. it doesn’t take many drinks to get him tipsy, and he’ll be full on drunk before you know it. curt can handle alcohol much better than him and has had to drag him away from bars more times than he can count.

he’ll frequently stop to fix curt’s tie and collar if they’re in disguise. everything needs to be perfectly in place or he thinks curt’ll look sloppy and give them away.

when they’re more into their relationship, owen starts buying in coffee to keep in his flat, and curt starts taking tea bags back to america with him every time he visits the uk.

spicy, be warned

post fall he tried sleeping with someone else but he could literally think of nothing but curt the entire time. he was never eager to try again.

if he’s in a submissive mood, he will go nuts if you call him a ‘good boy’. ‘my good boy’ is even better.

if he’s pent up he’ll just unashamedly jerk off in the shower whether he’s alone in there or not.

if he’s feeling particularly decadent and has the time, he’ll touch himself with a cigarette in his mouth and a bottle of wine in his hand.

shotgunning. he’ll take a drag and kiss it into curt’s mouth. they both think it’s hot as fuck.

if truth serum is something at their disposal, he's definitely used it during sex.

[aesrein]

relationships within sm .｡.:*☆

more under cut!

in… red velvet

yeri

status: platonic + 30% romantic

closeness rating: 75%

- arinators4lyfe

: initially haerein was extremely intimidated by her seniors as she was only a trainee in the company for less than a year

: literally could not maintain eye contact with anyone in red velvet for more than 5 seconds

: but intp realness brought them together and their love for ariana grande solidified their blossoming friendship

: there was a period of time where they would be seen everywhere together and netizens swore they were in a relationship as they had matching phone cases, matching keychains etc

: yeri’s number 1 instagram hype girl commenter

: yeri often jokes that haerein owes her for helping her get a boyfriend

seulgi

status: platonic

closeness rating: 60%

- ‘that’s mother…’

: seulgi took haerein under the wing after seeing her untapped potential in dancing

: haereins often calls seulgi her mother because seulgi and her spend so much time together training in the practice rooms

: whenever haerein has doubts about her performance she seeks seulgi for help

: both of their personalities are so similar which made them connect even more

: the best mentor haerein could ask for

in… nct

taeyong

status: platonic, familial

closeness rating: 80%

- older brother dynamic

: haerein first bumped into taeyong when she overstayed her booking for the practice room

: haerein honestly just wanted to run away in embarrassment but couldn’t escape taeyong and his doe eyed- curiosity asking her questions about her debut

: haerein was lowkey intimidated by him (and men in general) but taeyong’s friendly nature broke through her hard shell

: from then on they became good friends

: they both understand the stresses of being a leader and give each other support whenever needed

: taeyong once stated that if nct had a female subunit haerein would definitely be apart of it

: both of them have neo in their veins… when taeyong first played sticker’s demo to haerein she immediately vibed with the song

: haereins unofficial older brother

jungwoo

status: platonic + 5% romantic

closeness rating: 90%

- black cat x golden retriever energy

: when taeyong first introduced haerein to jungwoo they were both SO awkward with each other and couldn’t hold a single conversation

: when jungwoo witnessed haerein giggling to his infamous “just give it give it give it”, he thought she was really cute

: but then haerein started mocking him and it was an all out war from there

: he would NOT stop pestering haerein whenever haerein came to visit taeyong

: haerein often states it’s hard for her to make friends because she’s a really awkward person in general

: but somehow he managed to shove his way into haerein’s life and is now her closest guy friend

: high key black cat x golden retriever vibes from them, with jungwoo joking around and haerein trying to act like she dgaf but she does cause let’s be fr jungwoo is so so funny

: whenever haerein is around jungwoo follows her like a lost busydog

: so noisy when they are put together to the point where sometimes taeyong wishes he hadn’t introduced them to each other

: although haerein often calls him an annoying stupid brat she treasures their friendship very very much

: twin flames af

jaehyun

status: romantic 20%

closeness rating: 20%

- ‘i looked at him once giselle, once’

: haerein thinks he’s really nice to look at

: which was a mistake because fans caught her sneaking glances at him during an smtown concert, and started rumours that they were dating

: she doesn’t fancy him anymore though (loyal to her man!), but is so awkward whenever he’s around

johnny

status: platonic

closeness rating: 65%

- ‘real recognise real’

: johnny is the realest person haerein knows

: was so cool, calm and collected when haerein first met him, that it made haerein realise she was an idiot for being awkward around him

: entps are compatible with intps!

: whenever haerein gets delusional johnny always snaps her back to reality

: which makes johnny haerein’s therapist / love advisor

: america buddies! johnny promised to take her on a tour around his hometown one day and vice versa

in… exo

baekhyun

status: platonic

closeness rating: 10%

: haerein is a huge exo-l and her bias is baekhyun so when her songs were chosen for baekhyun’s solo album she freaked out

: although they’ve only met once or twice during recording sessions, baekhyun believes haerein is one of the most talented trainees he’s seen in SM, and is rooting for her success

: silently dies inside every time he acknowledges her

in… riize

wonbin

status: platonic + romantic 5%

closeness rating 65%

- haerein’s favourite junior

: haerein thought he was so cute because he was trying so hard to keep up with his mysterious agenda

: sadly for wonbin, haerein is into older guys

: so haerein kept treating him like her younger brother and the crush faded away

: haerein absolutely adores wonbin and spoils him till the point that it makes ningning jealous

: younger brother x older sister dynamic

[emotionalmotionsicknessxx]

Belated Valentine's Day Drabble

Erik/Christine, Meg POV, Fluffy as I get

"What a tragedy this is."

Meg crossed her arms as she considered the scene. Erik stood, sleeves rolled to the elbows, in the kitchen of his modest apartment. There was a considerable amount of flour in the mixing bowl in front of him. There was considerably more on his face and shirt.

“Don’t.” He said, lips pressed together in a thin line below his mask.

“I wasn’t going to,” She said, stifling the laugh and swallowing it. “This looks very...good.”

“Meg Giry, you are a terrible liar.”

“But a wonderful friend,” she piped in, traversing the tile floor in an attempt to see what, exactly, had gone wrong in the kitchen. “So I assume the soufflé was a bust?”

“They can be very touchy, yes,” he said, trying to dust the worst of the flour from his once-black shirt. “The humidity isn’t helping.”

“Erik, it’s February,” Meg reminded him. “And...” She pointed to the oven clock. “Your date will be here in an hour.”

It had been several years since her mother had called her asking for a favor; that her friend’s son needed a place to stay when he was in the city. She had said no, obviously - she wasn’t some pervert who was about to let some random man traipse around in her determinedly feminine space and get beard hair in the sink and God-knew what else. But then Erik had arrived three days later with the proof that her mother had ignored her wishes, and he was soaked through from the rain like some horrifying, sopping wet cat, and she could not leave him out there and the rest was history.

It was not a roommate situation that was without flaws; he was a composer, among many things, and this meant listening to the same three notes be plunked out in varying tempos until she thought her ears would bleed; he did leave the seat up, to her chagrin; and he was horrifyingly, constantly, simply always:

There.

She woke up, he was there, making coffee and beginning the same insipid melody. She got home from work, he was still there, several half-drunk beverages on the coffee table. She fell asleep to the sound of his tinkering at the keys, or typing away on his disturbingly out of date white MacBook, which seemed to have been modified to recreate the sounds of typewriter keys.

It was a day, not unlike this one, where she came home from a particularly challenging day of navigating the donors of the city opera AND her increasingly boundary-less boss, that she came home, soaked in a sheen of sweat from the packed train and bus, to find her kitchen upended, and Erik crouched in an unnatural way in front of her tiny oven. She had opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand.

“Silence,” he said. “We need silence.”

She nodded, not bothering to ask why, or for how long, or for what reason. She tiptoed around the counter, only to find her socks soaked through in the dribs and drabs of thick batter, cold and squishing between her toes. She nearly gagged, but did not break her silence until she saw, with horror, every single plate, cup, and kitchen tool in the sink. On top of the soapy water poked out her KitchenAid, the bowl still attached to the mixer now sodden and submerged, the wire cheerfully greeting her from the suds.

“ERIK!”

The soufflé deflated that day, and the KitchenAid got thrown out, and Meg was determined to get Erik a Date™.

“You don’t have to do all this,” she reminded him as the two cake pans were removed from the oven. “She’s very kind, and I don’t know if they even are sweets people.”

“Who?”

“Christine. Erik, focus,” Meg held back the impulse to snap her fingers. “Do you even know if she likes chocolate?”

It seemed he did not consider this. “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”

“I don’t know, Swedish people?” Meg exclaimed. “Look, all I know is she is very sweet, and works in the costume department of the opera, and no one thinks ill of her, which at the opera is a miracle.”

She did not include that most people called Christine Daae, “odd,” or “always with her head in the clouds” or even “strange.” Erik was using a multitool to ice the cake. He could handle a little strange, especially for a girl who said yes to a first date on Valentine’s Day.

She set about straightening the living room, Erik’s compositions into neater piles. “Remember, don’t dominate the conversation.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Erik...” Meg warned. “No composing diatribe. No mansplaining.”

“I don’t mansplain.”

“You are a man, and you ‘plain,” she retorted. “And she works at the opera. She doesn’t need to hear you explain Puccini, she knows things.”

She stood, the living room straightened, the candles less...scattered, to see Erik, covered in flour and now icing, standing in the decimated kitchen. She sighed.

A shower, a brisk cleaning of a kitchen that would not hold up to her mother’s scrutiny, and one intercom buzz later, Meg was smuggling her take-out to her room with a blown kiss to a very startled, very rigid Erik. Every candle and then some illuminated the area around the piano, and Meg prayed to any God that would listen that he wouldn’t come on too strong. She crossed her fingers for good measure, and retreated.

That night, the tinkling of piano keys woke her to the most beautiful music. She fell back asleep to it, her dreams colored by the placid joy of the new composition.

She found him alone in the kitchen, standing over the espresso machine.

“So...it went well?” She asked, wriggling her shoulders.

Erik looked up at her, as though startled out of a reverie. “Yes, very well, in fact. We are getting married!”

Meg blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

[skulls-soul]

I love the idea of Bowser always being in love with Luigi another princess peach

Like hear me out and imagine with me the first time Bowser kidnaps the princess he was like oh she’ll be a perfect mom for junior and queen for my kingdom and although technically he’s not wrong the feelings just don’t spark and I also like to imagine that peach doesn’t really want kids currently so she’s just like “no no kids for me not until way down the line I am not ready to be a mom ”

Bowsers people love and respect the king and don’t really care who he picks to be his partner as long as they love the king back and would treat his kingdom with respect , you know? So they’re kind of on the fence with peach since it seems to be a one-sided relationship (not knowing that Bowser doesn’t actually love peach)

Bowser would try thinking about who else he can have as his spouse and then remembers the green guy and how even though he looked like he was about to pass out still tried his best to protect the princess and Mario

 by the third kidnapping or fifth peach no longer sees Bowser as a threat and more of a nuisance since he’s never actually threatened to hurt her and only asked her to marry him twice The rest of the time he seems to be asking relationship advice and whether or not The human with the big blue eyes and fluffy/curly brown hair is single

Peach automatically assume that Bowser is talking about Daisy  and peach would say something along the Lines of “all depends are you planning on kidnapping them like some sort of lunatic”  And Bowser responds with a scoff  saying “maybe I don’t know how else will get to know them”

 before the conversation could continue however Bowser ends up getting beat up by Mario and Luigi (well mostly Mario) because of this peach ends up asking Mario if around the time when Bowser would usually come and kidnap her if instead of staying in mushroom kingdom to protect her he’d go to the other Kingdom where princess Daisy resides to stay with her Mario’s like “but what if Bowser comes to get you” and peaches like “if that happens I have Luigi to help protect me plus you’ll come to my rescue if I get kidnapped again“

 Of course Daisy doesn’t get kidnap but peach doesn’t get kidnapped either instead peach ends up seeing Bowser taking Luigi instead and I can imagine that peach just thinking about all the relationship advice that she gave Bowser and how he talked about there was this human that he was interested (that was before he gave a clue of the blue eyes and brown hair Bowser thought that this would be a good enough clue because he low-key forgot what Daisy looked like since the three humans that he sees the most is Mario peach and the green one who he embarrassingly still doesn’t know the name of)

Peach would definitely feel horrible about not realizing who Bowser was talking about especially since Luigi looked so shocked and scared when Bowser grabbed him looking at peach like if she had the answers which technically she did

And you know the rest is literally just bowser’s crush becomes him lovesick and Luigi a gay mess I Think bowser probably wouldn’t tell Luigi why he kidnapped him since unlike peach he actually has feelings for Luigi, also poor Luigi would be completely oblivious and will take all of Bowser‘s excuses as the truth. so for the longest time Luigi would think his feelings was one-sided since how could Bowser his brother‘s nemesis ever fall for Luigi the awkward shy scaredy-cat of a human and also he was in love with peach in which the only thing he has in common with her is the fact that they both have blue eyes it just wouldn’t make sense there’s no way!!

And you know something that I don’t see that I wish I saw more of. Mario finding out before Luigi with this story/idea I think peach would help him find out because on their way to save Luigi (peach of course would join )  peach would probably blatantly say “I can’t believe the person Bowser‘s been crushing on this entire time was Luigi” and Mario would probably get whiplash just by the speed of him turning to look at princess peach  his eyes slightly twitching as he asks “what did you say?”

I could add more to this concept but I have to get ready for work also to anyone and everyone who has their own ideas to add to this by all means please do and if you want to write a story with this concept 👀 you better @ me :)

[antebunny]

Witchers v administration

[part one] this is part two of warlord!Geralt facing his mortal weakness: administrative warfare. Feat. soap-making, lots of food, and witchers getting to enjoy soft things.

-

To date, Lambert is credited as the one who brought feasting to Kaer Morhen. It’s entirely on accident, of course. But it’s not entirely untrue, either. But the story belongs to a human. A woman, three decades of age, by the name of Olga, born and raised in Novigrad’s crowded lower middle class districts. 

Olga first met Lambert on a beautiful spring day, bearing none of the storybook flower-blossom romance such days promised, but all of the pollen and drizzling showers. Like every other morning, she drags her cart out to the crowded streets of Novigrad’s morning markets, and sets up shop. Soon enough, the sun is fully out and so are the citizens of Novigrad. Smells of all kinds permeate the drizzly atmosphere. Fire smoke, charred meat, fresh fish and a thousand other organic scents waft past Olga’s cart. 

But her wares carry the strongest of scents: dried rosemary, thyme, coriander, cloves and more. All wrapped up in little bundles, set out along the surface of her cart for those middle class people who wish to enjoy some spices in their meals, but cannot indulge in the spice overdoses of nobility or upper classes. 

It’s a slow morning. Olga begins to grow antsy as the hours wear by. Growing herbs is not terribly expensive, once one has gotten started, but she would like to know why today her customers seem to have disappeared.

“You got this?”

At least, it was a slow morning. A tall man with red hair shoves a piece of paper in Olga’s face. She blinks twice, but really, it’s no use. Olga is not blind, but her vision is extremely poor. The man may as well have shoved a blank piece of paper at her.

“I can’t read,” Olga replies, vaguely puzzled at who exactly this man is. 

His red hair seems rather unkempt, certainly not upper class at all, but surely only nobility would assume that someone like her can read. Nearly everyone Olga knows is illiterate. Perhaps if Olga could make out the finer details of the dark clothes the man is wearing, she would know more about his profession. As it is, all she sees is a vaguely black blur, and since he is so much taller than her, she does not even bother to look at his face. 

“It’s a drawing,” says the man.

“I can’t see,” Olga amends.

The man grunts and brings the paper closer to his own face. “Do you have thy…me,” he tries. 

His rough demeanor makes Olga think of a tradesman, but she can’t think of a tradesman that doesn’t even know what he’s trying to buy.

Olga runs through every herb and spice in her inventory. She can’t think of a single thing. “What is it?”

“A plant,” the redhead says, frustrated. “It’s got…” he makes a spreading gesture with his hands. “Uh. Some fuckin’…needles or something.”

A plant with needles. And he came to an herb seller. Unfortunately, that describes a lot of Olga’s products, so both of them are forced to wait an uncomfortable twenty minutes until Olga can get ahold of Marjon, the bookkeeper and the only person of Olga’s acquaintance who can read. He can also see, however, or has close enough to average vision that he stops in his tracks when he sees Olga’s redhead customer.

“Witcher,” Marjon whimpers. 

Olga suspects it was meant to sound more like an accusation. It’s not. But it’s a revelation, for her. She finally cranes her neck up to study the redhead’s face, and sure enough, his eyes are unnaturally bright and yellowy. If they look like a cat’s, well, she can’t tell. And she knows now that the two dark things on his back are a pair of swords, not the traveling equipment she thought it was.

Perhaps she ought to feel more fear, but Olga has managed a perfectly civil interaction with the Witcher thus far. Mostly she’s just confused about what this Witcher wants with her herbs.

“Could you read the damn paper, please Marjon.” Olga interrupts whatever tense, manly standoff Marjon and the Witcher are engaged in.

The Witcher thrusts the paper at Marjon, who accepts with trembling hands. All three wait impatiently for Marjon to finish scanning the sheet.

“Thyme,” says Marjon finally.

“The fuck,” the Witcher says blankly. “It’s spelled with a Y.”

Olga would not have guessed that Witchers can read. She had never wondered such a thing before this morning. But she wonders now if all of them can read or this one. She wonders how and why they learned, and, if Witchers can hold a non-violent if gruff conversation with a no-name marketplace vendor, what else she’s been told about Witchers is untrue.

“Well,” Olga says, “You’re in luck, Mr. Witcher–”

“Lambert.”

“Mr. Lambert,” Olga corrects on the fly. “I just harvested my thyme.” She indicates the left-most bundle on her cart. “Dried and packaged. How much would you like?”

She had not thought that Witchers were the type to season their food. Then again, since Lambert was clearly sent out by someone to buy thyme, perhaps they are not. She wonders who in the world had a craving for herb seasoning and the ability to command a Witcher to buy them some.

Lambert shrugs. “I don’t fuckin’ know. A normal amount.”

“Well, it’s for cooking, right?” Olga goes out on a limb. “How many people?”

“Is it?” Lambert scratches his nose. “I just followed the smell.”

“I–yeah. Uh, yeah. Thyme is food. Seasoning. Food. Yeah.” Olga’s brain blanks for a second as she processes the idea of Witchers following scents like a hunting dog. It sort of makes sense, with what they say of Witcher mutations. Sounds useful for them. “Uh. So. How many?”

“Couple hundred.”

Olga looks down at her sad little cart. She should maybe be thinking about the implication that Lambert is part of the White Wolf’s army. Surely there’s no other reason for a Witcher to need to season the food of hundreds of people. Instead, her brain works out the logistics of growing enough herbs and spices for everyone. The cost calculation comes in at way too high.

“Well, fuck me.”

Lambert barks out a laugh, startling everyone in the nearby vicinity and scaring away poor Marjon, who had already inching away from them. He sizes up her cart. “I’ll buy everything,” he decides.

“Herbs are not substitutable,” Olga fusses. “You can’t just replace thyme with anything you like! And they don’t all go together. Thyme and rosemary are very nice on chicken of all sorts, but adding oregano is a bit too much, and paprika is also great on chicken but not with thyme and rosemary, but thyme and rosemary are also good with pork, and cloves are good for soups while–”

“Say,” Lambert interrupts, a strange light on his inhuman eyes, “want a job?”

And Olga, ever impulsive, agrees.

The thing is, Lambert is as impulsive as she is. Olga arrives in Kaer Morhen to find she is now in charge of feeding every Witcher and human in the castle every single day. It is sheer luck that Olga used to work as an herbalist in noble houses before she left that stability for the whims of the market. There, at least, she was subject to the whims of coin purses rather than the tempers of her masters. 

The good news is that the Witchers have absolutely no idea what they should be doing as lords of the castle, and as such there are no expectations for Olga. Moreover she can run the kitchens how she likes. Unexpectedly being appointed head chef for the Witchers is not how Olga thought she would spend her thirty-fifth birthday. 

The bad news is that she is the only cook in Kaer Morhen. The thyme, it turns out, was requested by a Redanian bard by the name of Jaskier, who missed the taste of seasoning on his food. Since she has free reign, Olga puts in her job requests with Eskel, who in turns asks the Witchers venturing out of Kaer Morhen to be on the lookout. Soon enough, they come back with a baker, whose life was saved by a Witcher from a drowner that killed her family. A butcher, ostracized by her community, picked up by a pair of Griffin Witchers. Another baker, who had no life-changing story with Witchers to speak of, but a positive interaction as a young boy and no family to speak of. 

By the time the sorceresses finish helping Olga set up her greenhouse, Kaer Morhen has six cooks, two of whom moved their entire families to Kaer Morhen. Most are truly desperate and alone, to willingly journey into the halls of which many horror stories are told. Only rarely do humans believed strongly enough in the goodness of Witchers to bring their loved ones to Kaer Morhen. And the Witchers never bring people who are truly afraid.

There are less Witchers than Olga imagined. When people told tales of the White Wolf’s army, she’d pictured the streets of Novigrad flooded with yellow-eyed monsters instead of market vendors. Down every lane and alley, tall and burly men with wolf-like teeth and a craving for human flesh. It all seems so silly, looking back. Even the largest of Witcher schools–for they have divisions, even amongst the Witchers–has no more than a few dozen people. Add to that a handful of humans (two sorceresses, one bard, two seamstresses, a stonemason, a laundress and a gardener spirited away from a noble house in Kovir), and Olga isn’t so overwhelmed with people to feed. 

Kaer Morhen keeps goats, and a growing number of pigs and chicken. The gardener starts a squash patch behind the castle. Olga adds vegetables of all seasons to her rotation of crops. Every once in a while a Witcher goes out to hunt for rabbit and other game, or they slaughter one of the sheep, and they have pumpkin lamb stew for dinner. The Witchers are always bringing back odd bits and bobs. Dried grapes from far south, for example, called raisins by Jaskier, which the bakers add to their morning round of bread-making. 

Sourcing their food is not a problem. The real problem is that their food sources are wildly inconsistent. On some days, Yennefer leads a herd of cattle through a portal and they feast like kings on roasted tomatoes and braised beef shank seasoned with rosemary and sage. On other days, all they have to offer is potato soup. So long as everyone gets fed, it’s alright. The Witchers, certainly, never so much as hint at a complaint.

“I can’t believe they used to cook their food in the main hall,” their butcher, a big man not so dissimilar in form from the Witchers himself, says one day.

Olga steps back from the ovens and wipes her brow. She’s still unused to this form of cooking, but they’ve all had to learn everyone else’s trade. “Mhm. It was every man for himself. Roasting rabbit over a makeshift campfire. Or making porridge.”

Yolan chuckles at the mental image. “Unbelievable.”

The cooks survey the rows of roaring ovens, working away on the racks of rabbit, pheasant and chicken. To the side, bucket after wooden bucket is filled to the brim with bloody rabbit fur, feathers, feet and the like. They still haven’t found a tanner, but all the Witchers know how to work fur onto clothes and feathers into arrows. They are used to being self-sufficient. 

“Still can’t believe this is the best castle I’ve ever worked for,” Fetrov, one of the bakers, throws in. He wipes his flour-sticky hands on his apron. 

Fetrov was the only one of them who knew how to bread chicken, and even though he’s taught all of them, he still breaded a good half of the meat in the ovens right now. Before Kaer Morhen he worked for a Redanian nobleman who was overly handsy with all of his staff, men and women alike. The Witchers, apparently, could smell their discomfort, and before they knew it they all found themselves in need of a new employer. But Fetrov was the only one to accept their job offer. He had not hoped for better, but he’d also had nothing to return to. 

As they did with every human, the Witchers had completely surprised Fetrov. They’d nearly rioted when he and Elyise (the other baker) put raisins in their bread loaves. Eskel tried to offer them some of the White Wolf’s treasure, from the many offerings of jewels and other delicacies given as tribute by terrified kings. 

“I can,” says Elyise. She’d brought her husband, a yeoman by the name of Ivarn, with her to Kaer Morhen. “When you live on the move, fresh bread is a delicacy.”

Fetrov scoffs. “As if dining on delicacies has stopped any noble from being horrible.”

“Hear, hear,” the others chorus. 

About an hour later, the long tables of Kaer Morhen’s great hall are swarming with sweaty Witchers. Each of them swings by the kitchens to grab their plate, silverware, etc. and bring it up the short staircase to the main hall. Kaer Morhen still doesn’t have any servers, and none of the six cooks can be spared to set the table. Initially the humans who brought their children to the castle thought that they would be put to work as table servers, but every Witcher who was told of that idea looked offended or outraged at the notion that Witchers were incapable of serving themselves. Children learn, train, practice and play in Kaer Morhen, but they do not work. 

Within a few minutes, the Witchers have piled into the benches, talking and laughing loudly. Mead, beer and wine slosh back and forth in the weirdest collection of cups ever seen. They tear into their supper like a horde of starving beasts. None of the cooks have ever felt more appreciated.

“Is this what it’s like to be a noble,” marvels Keldar, a Griffin Witcher. 

The Witchers around him take an extra second to examine the food on their plates. Crispy breaded chicken, seasoned with parsley, basil and black pepper. Each person gets only one piece, but there’s also sliced cucumber, roasted rabbit, cheese, rye bread, blackberry spread, a mysterious green paste which some Witchers are putting on their meat and others are putting on their bread, and White Gull. Very few of them had to hunt for their food. None of them had to cook. In fact, all of them were kicked out of the kitchens while the cooks got busy. None of them understand what it is they’ve done to earn free suppers like this. 

“Oh, absolutely not,” says Jaskier.

“Eh, close enough,” says Erland of Larvik.

Across from him, Kristov (also of the Griffins) raises his mug in a mostly sincere toast. “I still can’t believe it.” 

“Hear, hear,” the others chorus. 

The feeling, it seems, is mutual.  

But Olga left family behind in Novigrad. Now that she has come to see the Witchers as a sort of family, she would never betray them. Yet she still aches for her true family, so every once in a while, Olga accompanies a pair or trior of Witchers whose Path takes them past Novigrad. During each of her visits, Olga struggles to balance her desire to tell the truth of the Witchers with the secrecy of their lives. 

Part of what makes Kaer Morhen so strong is the unmatched loyalty of its inhabitants. Every other castle sees workers, servants and employees come and go. Every other castle has nobles, head servants, and people in positions of authority abusing their power over others. Spies, double-crossers, people looking to make extra coin; anyone might be convinced to sell their secrets for the right price. 

Such treachery is not true of Kaer Morhen. All the common person knows of Kaer Morhen is that it houses a fearsome army of Witchers. Their leader is the White Wolf, the most fearsome of all, named for his stark white hair. Spymasters, mages, kings, and those in the business of information, also know of Viscount Julian Pankratz, sent as tribute by the Redanians. Some have schemed unsuccessfully to get their own nobles implanted in Kaer Morhen, viewing the Redanians’ venture as a victory. Others believe the viscount met a vile end at the hands of the White Wolf. Most know that he has become the White Wolf’s beloved, but most believe he is beloved the way a wolf loves a deer. Ripping its throat out tenderly. Licking the blood off its dying body. Violence, sex and love: three radically different concepts with but one meaning to monsters. A few know that he has become Jaskier the bard. None know the inner workings of Kaer Morhen.

It is Olga’s responsibility, when in Novigrad, to keep these workings a secret. Everything from the much-loved hot springs to the bags of flour carried over the shoulders of miffed Witchers who have no idea how bread is made. Still, she can’t help but argue in favor of the Witchers. Even though she knows the danger of advertizing her knowledge of Kaer Morhen. Even though many refuse to believe that she’s ever set foot in Kaer Morhen, or refuses to believe a word of what she says about the Witchers. 

On one such stay in Novigrad, Olga picks up a young seamstress by the name of Vasilisa. She is not insanely impulsive, as Olga is (or was, to join Kaer Morhen the way she did), but perhaps too curious for her own good. For Vasilisa, despite having a family of her own, accepts an offer to work in Kaer Morhen as a seamstress. 

And for a while, it is okay. Vasilisa assists in the development of Kaer Morhen’s black dye, getting her hands deep in monster guts. She washes clothes with Triss’s “blue smell” soap suds, sews sturdy shirts and learns to repair armor. They get a leatherworker who teaches all the seamstresses the basics of how to make shoes, and Vasilisa figures out how to work in embroidery to her boots. She sews dresses and sleep shifts and puts in her own requests for colored threads and fabric and the like. The Witchers all know how to sew–to be self-reliant, one has to be able to mend one’s own clothes, shoes and armor, after all–but none of them can make soft shirts and snug boots quite like the humans of Kaer Morhen. 

It is so much better than she had feared. The other humans become her friends and Vasilisa loses her reservations around Witchers the more she comes to love the hot springs. But it was still the wrong decision. And eventually, Vasilisa has had enough.

“I want to quit,” Vasilisa confides in Cenna, their laundress and as the original human in the clothing department their head tailor as well. “Can I quit?”

“Well, of course you can, dear,” Cenna replies easily. 

The sewing circle, now five strong, share a room deep in Kaer Morhen for their work where they can speak in private. Everyone looks at Vasilisa in surprise at her announcement, for she has seemed nothing but happy in her time at Kaer Morhen.

“What happened?” Questions the tailor, a young man by the name of Vilkor. “Did one of the Witchers do something?”

“No, nothing,” Vasilisa denies. She sets her embroidery aside. “Or rather, everything. I have loved it here, truly. But I miss my family, and I miss the markets of Novigrad. I miss having a quiet dinner with my family, and getting contracts for dresses and cloaks, instead of watching out for hidden knives they forgot to remove and–oh, everything, really. It is not for me. I know that now.”

The others all nod along. Kaer Morhen’s communal style of living simply isn’t for everyone. Some of them, who lack any other place to go, simply have to adjust. But Vasilisa, who left family behind in Novigrad and came, in part, for the adventure, wants to go home. It should not be a problem. And yet.

“But the secrets,” Vasilisa continues. “I mean, I know everything.”

That isn’t quite true, but what she knows could make the best spymasters go mad with envy. The names of half the Witchers, the range of their abilities, how they like their ale, how they take their bread. What potions they take that make their eyes turn black, and how long the effects take to wear off. What weapons they carry, and where they are typically sewn into their clothes. It is fatally dangerous knowledge to carry.

“And no one’s ever quit before,” Vasilisa concludes. “They’ve never let anyone who knows them to just…leave. Have they?”

They have not. It is a terrible test. The Witchers will swear that they hold no one against their will here; anyone who wishes to harm Kaer Morhen’s people is turned away or killed. But they cannot risk their people’s safety, and Vasilisa at the mercy of Redania and Temeria’s kings would be the greatest risk of all. Therein lies the first true test of Kaer Morhen’s mettle. 

[count-alucard-tepes]

Headcanons for my favorite kitty man, Who’s-Who aka Who of the droplets😍😍😍

He loves when someone plays with his hair and massages his scalp, he instantly falls asleep.

He doesn’t like drinking a lot of alcohol because he gets drunk pretty quickly…to save himself a terrible hangover and hilarious stories being told about him, he just drinks light beer and a whole lot of water.

He has cat-like eyes but because they come off really intense, he always covered his eyes with his hair or a mask.

Even though he dislikes kids, he doesn’t mind having a few of his own one day.

He’s real smooth with the ladies but he’s really selective too, he wants someone he knows will be loyal to him.

Fanfic for my baby daddy😍

You guys know I love the idea of a female Lunarian in the Big Mom’s crew so I had to base Y/N as her😆

Who’s-Who never really wanted to date especially within Wano and Onigashima, he knew those that did want to be with him was because of his status of being in the Tobiroppo.

Since the alliance with Big Mom happened, more of her crew would be visiting Onigashima and the Tobiroppo were informed to welcome them as they were strong pirates too.

“…you know I heard there is a Lunarian in Big Mom’s crew”, Black Maria said with a sly smile.

“…I thought they were a dead race”, Drake murmured.

The others looked at each other in silence for a moment and smirked.

“…you should get to know more of the pirates here…you’d find out that isn’t the case”, Who’s-Who said as he exhaled some cigarette smoke before they walked out to meet Big Mom’s crew.

To everyone’s surprise, Katakuri was here and that put the Tobiroppo on edge, they knew how strong he was and wanted to test their strength out against him but that was difficult with the current circumstances. Another walked behind him, with large black wings and a flame on her back, Y/N wasn’t sure about being here but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice.

“…don’t let your guard down, Y/N…”, Katakuri murmured as Y/N looked up at him and nodded quietly.

“…easy on the eyes I’ll say”, Sasaki chuckled as Who’s-Who noticed the woman and smiled a little in response, not wishing to comment.

“Katakuri?! No ways!”, Ulti said, “…no one is as cute as Pay-Pay!”.

“Stop, sis! That’s not who he’s even talking about!”, Page One said as he blushed brightly.

Queen of course was performing like the star that he is and introduced the beast pirates with the usual roll call…and didn’t miss a beat by insulting the Tobiroppo.

“…I’m gonna fucking kill that guy, I swear to Nika”, Who’s-Who hissed as he turned to face the bar tender and sipped his beer before slipping a cigarette in his mouth while searching his pocket to find his lighter.

“Oh that’s pretty harsh…need a light?”, a feminine voice said from next to him.

He looked up to see the Lunarian woman with her finger lit up. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly into a smile before he leaned forward to light his cigarette.

Inhaling deeply and then exhaled, “…thanks…that must come in handy”, he said as he took a moment to take in the beauty before him.

“…let’s put it this way, I’ll always have the best party trick to offer”, she said teasingly which earned her a laugh from the male.

“I like a woman with a sense of humor…it always keeps things spicy…let alone when she is stronger than most I’ve encountered”, Who’s-Who flirted.

Y/N smirked in response, “…and how would you know of my strength? I am yet to lay a single finger on you”, she flirted back before sipping her drink slowly.

Oh she was playing such a dangerous game, surely she knew that too. He couldn’t help but feel his ears burn and he was most certainly glad his mask covered them so that she couldn’t see the color change.

“…a finger…a hand…you’re welcome to lay anything on me…anytime…any place”, he said with a grin. He couldn’t help but take it a little further, it wasn’t often that a woman of her caliber would even try flirting with him. It made his blood boil.

Y/N laughed in response, “Oh? I’d like you to say that while staring into my eyes…can I take it off?”, she asked as she reached up to touch his mask.

He gently took hand and kissed the back slowly, “…only after a successful first date…”, he said playfully, “…got to keep a little mystery in the air”.

“Are you asking me on a date already? Well then…what are we waiting for?”, she asked as she leaned against the countertop and watched him with interest. He was attractive even with the mask on and she couldn’t help but want to know more about this mysterious man who also happened to be one of the most powerful beast pirates. She could hear Katakuri’s words in the back of her mind but Who’s-Who was so damn cute!

He stood up immediately without another word and took her hand into his, “…let’s go, beautiful”, he said gently as she stood up and followed him out of the party.

They would go to his private quarters on Onigashima, his subordinates were dismissed after food and drink were brought for them to enjoy.

The word ‘Neko’ caught her attention on the Torii gate at the entrance, “…I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re a cat-lover”, she said as she took a seat next to him and helped herself to a drink.

He chuckled in response, “I wonder what gave that away…”, he said as he relaxed and watched her with a smile as he continued to smoke a cigarette, “…always been fond of them”.

“I have a pet cat back home…his name is Magic and his fur is as black as my wings”, she said with a smile.

It took him a moment before he chuckled in response, “…black magic…that’s cute”.

She grinned in response, “…most don’t think it’s funny but I’m glad you see my humor”.

“Like I said, I like a woman with a good sense of humor…and one that likes cats is just the cherry on the top”, he said as he leaned his head against his hand, “…I have a few here too but my devil fruit ability allows me to turn into one…a saber tooth tiger to be exact”.

Her eyes widened at this, “…will this girl be lucky enough to see that transformation soon?”, she asked as she leaned in closer to him.

Oh he knew that was coming from a mile away and he couldn’t help with chuckle.

“…and what would this guy get in exchange for that, hm?”, he asked as he placed his cigarette in an ashtray and then gently caressed her jaw with his fingertips.

“…you’ll get to see a picture of Magic”, she said with a smirk, two could play this game.

“Just a picture? I thought more along the lines of getting to kiss his owner tonight..”, he said as he leaned in to kiss the woman before him.

“It’s a pretty special treat you know, sir”, she said as she leaned before her lips met his for the first time, her fingers running through his hair slowly and she swore she heard him purr.

His arms snaked around her waist and in no time she was sitting in his lap as they kissed despite the slight height difference, he didn’t mind it at all.

Y/N reached to his helmet and gently slipped it off with his silent permission, “There… I’m going say this is a very successful date”, she said as she looked into his beautiful eyes and leaned down to kiss him over and over again.

He was nervous to have his identity revealed but it soon washed away with her sweet words and gentle kisses, “…oh it’s far from over, baby”, he whispered as his hands ran up and down her back, being very gentle around her wings.

The former CP-9 agent didn’t think he’d be dating a pirate from Big Mom’s by the end of the night…he had no regrets though.

[thetypedwriter]

The Starless Sea Book Review

The Starless Sea Book Review by Erin Morgenstern 

This book made me feel like I was drowning. 

In honey. 

If you don’t get that reference, don’t worry. Morgenstern will beat you over the head with it every single chapter until you can never see honey the same way again. 

Now, I feel like I’m in an odd camp where I actually haven’t read Morgenstern’s famous masterpiece The Night Circus. I’ve always wanted to get around to reading it, but it always seemed to slip right past my to-be-read pile. 

So when The Starless Sea came out, I thought yes! This is my chance to get in on a Morgenstern book early. 

Too bad I didn’t like it. 

The Starless Sea starts off really interesting. There’s a series of vignettes that hook the reader right away, including a pirate and a girl, an acolyte in training, a dollhouse village, and a fortune-teller’s son. The fortune teller’s son turns out to be the main protagonist of the novel—Zachary Ezra Rawlins. 

Zachary Ezra Rawlins is a hermit-like young man in his mid-20’s studying game design. He ends up finding an old book at his university’s library in which his real life childhood memory is one of the chapters. The other chapters of this old novel? All chapters that we as readers have been consuming since the first page. Very meta, Morgenstern. 

Understandably baffled, Zachary Ezra Rawlins sets on a quest to uncover the book’s secrets, leading him to the very real underground world of the Starless Sea, including its inhabitants, puzzles, and magic. 

Throughout the journey, Zachary Ezra Rawlins meets other characters connected to the Starless Sea in some capacity and finally gets the answer to the question that has plagued him since childhood: what would have happened if he had opened that door? 

I genuinely wish I could go more in depth about this book’s plot, but there’s only one main problem—this book doesn't have a plot. Go ahead and read that sentence again. I’ll state it once more for good measure: As an objective third-party outsider with absolutely no stakes in the matter, The Starless Sea contains no discernible plot to speak of. 

I can say that the plot was a convoluted mess that didn’t make any sense. Zachary Ezra Rawlins (yes, it does get annoying repeating this again and again, yet Morgenstern opens every chapter with it) goes deep down underground past the Harbor into the Starless Sea for…reasons. 

He encounters numerous puzzles and magic and lots of rooms that Morgenstern likes to describe in excruciating detail, mainly that they’re dripping in honey and occupied by cats. The other people he encounters don’t answer most of his questions, leaving the reader bewildered and frustrated. 

One character in particular is a man that Zachary Ezra Rawlins falls in love with for seemingly no reason at all. They have about three stunted conversations, including one where the other man whispers menacingly in his ear in the dark about bees and owls and swords for ten minutes, and then Zachary Ezra Rawlins is risking life and limb in the abyss of the Starless Sea to rescue him. 

Another character is trying to blow up the Starless Sea for inane reasons that don’t make sense, but essentially get boiled down to she’s trying to protect it.

The other characters include Zachary Ezra Rawlins’ college friend who gets way more page time than she needs to, the keeper of the Starless Sea that answers nobody’s questions, Mirabel who is apparently the embodiment of fate, and her parents, who have been trapped in time and space for…a long time? 

None of these characters called to me. None of them were awful, but all of them outside of Zachary Ezra Rawlins were either too brief, underdeveloped, or abstract for me to connect with on any kind of emotional level. 

I wanted to connect to Zachary Ezra Rawlins, but none of his actions held much depth, his thinking was too shallow, and his commitment to his love interest Dorian actively didn’t contain any kind of logic or understanding. 

You might be wondering: if she didn’t like the nonsensical story or the characters, did she like anything?

Indeed, I did. The setting of The Starless Sea was really incredible. I’m always in awe of people’s creativity and imagination, both qualities Morgenstern seems to have in droves. The descriptions of the rooms, the Harbor, and the Starless Sea itself were all intricate, beautiful, and extremely symbolic. 

I wish I could say that I liked Morgenstern’s writing, but it really grated on me. What started off as moving writing, well-crafted sentences, and intentional symbolism turned into a repetitive slog that drove me up the wall. 

I like symbolism as much as the next person, especially subtle symbolism, but Morgenstern’s symbolism is the opposite of subtle. 

Morgenstern’s symbolism wants to beat you over the head with a key. Or a bee. Or a sword. Or a crown. Or an owl. You get where I'm going with this. What could have been a really cool series of motifs turned into a pretentious drone that aggravated me more and more as I continued to read. 

Overall, I was really disappointed with The Starless Sea. With a little more plot direction, tightening of the characters, and less symbolism, The Starless Sea could have been an alluring and fantastic read to rival the everlasting fame of The Night Circus. 

As it stands, however, The Night Circus would only need to contain a recognizable plot to be better than The Starless Sea for me. 

Recommendation: If you are a Morgenstern fangirl and will be reading The Starless Sea regardless of what I say, fantasize about the incredible setting of The Starless Sea and hope to forget about everything else. If you’re like me and haven’t delved into Morgenstern’s worlds just yet, start and end with The Night Circus. 

Score: 4/10

[burnwater13]

A pencil sketch of Grogu on off white paper. Grogu is standing, with both hands raised next to his collar, his eyes are closed and his mouth is open, while his ears droop slightly. The caption reads: Now, let me explain... Art by me.

The Odds

Grogu was happy to take Thirty and Dagon with him as they made their way to visit Peli Motto. ‘They’ included Din Djarin and Lacc Straso, but not Jedi Seb, because, as Jedi Seb put it, ‘No task really required more than one Jedi’. Grogu had laughed at that. Jedi Seb was correct, of course. This was a simple research mission and he’d be there with some experts and that lifted a huge burden off of his shoulders.

Dagon seemed to understand Thirty just perfectly, so the conversation they held was fast paced, covered a lot of territory, and largely kept the two Mandalorians in the dark. Grogu felt strongly that Jedi Seb would appreciate that as well. 

After a leisurely walk across Mos Eisley, they reached Peli Motto’s landing bay and repair service. Grogu wished that he had thought to ask Thirty to record the whole thing because the reaction Peli had to meeting Dagon Jade, THE Dagon Jade, mind you, was priceless. First she had tried to start with her typical fast talk, but she was immediately tongue tied. Then she practically fainted, but Lacc Straso caught her by the collar of her coverall and that ended that dramatic moment pretty effectively. Finally, she seemed to come to herself when the Mandalorian told her that Dag and Thirty were taking over the repair of the N-1. 

“Hey! Now just wait one darn minute. I’m the repairer here. I mean, this kid is as handsome as the sun is bright on this planet, but I was just waitin’ to tell you that I have a line on fixin’ the darn thing. Have it purrin’ like a Loth cat in no time.”

Peli seemed to grow taller and Grogu laughed when he glanced at her feet and noticed that she was on her tippy toes.  It made him wonder if she had ever taken dance lessons when she was a youngling. 

“You told me I’d be luckier than a bantha that fell out of a Krayt dragon’s mouth if I found a replacement for the part that’s broken. The best you could say earlier was that I might find the part I need on Naboo, but you couldn’t make any promises, you didn’t know of a single supplier, and that maybe I should just start lookin’ for another ship.”

Din Djarin was having none of it. 

“Now, Ms Motto, I’m just honored to be standing here with you today. It was never my intent to move the ship, but to simple come here and work under your well esteemed guidance. Everyone at the Boonta Eve Pod Race parties have heard of your skills. I’m just lucky to be here at the right time.”

Grogu wondered who’d taught Dagon to speak like he was Major Domo’s understudy in a play. The hard lines on Peli’s face softened. She smiled just a little, and she was standing at her normal height. She was as happy as Grogu had ever seen her. 

“Now you can see that he’s Seb’s son.”

Lacc Straso commented to Grogu’s dad. Grogu didn’t agree, but he perhaps Dagon’s sister was a diplomat of some sort and had taught him how to negotiate with hard customers, like Peli. 

“Whaddaya say, Peli? Dagon and his mech work with you and your crew on fixing the N-1? You get to ask him a thousand questions about pod racing and he learns something about rebuilding an N-1 from you. It’s a win-win.”

Grogu smiled at his dad. Obviously he had gone back through his memories and education and pulled out the little bit he knew about negotiating with hard nosed business people. 

“Well, if that’s how you’re gonna put it, fine. But the cut is 70/30 and I get the 30, err, ah, no. I get the 70. Yah, that’s right. Well, fine. Come on over here Curly. I’ll show the patient. She’s pretty even when she’s sick.”

Grogu wanted to go along with Dagon and Thirty, but his dad scooped him up as he and Lacc stayed right where they were.

“So, if this doesn’t work, can you bring me to Naboo?”

Grogu’s dad spoke softly. Grogu guessed that he didn’t want Dagon or Peli to realize that he didn’t think that either of them could actually fix the ship. 

“Of course. But I don’t think you’ll have to do that. Dagon and his sister are pretty remarkable when they’re working together on a project. I don’t know if she’s going to be here in time, but if she is, the repair is a certainty. If she’s not? I still give him an 90% chance of success. He’s that good.”

Grogu smiled at that. He had only known Dagon for a few hours, but he felt like he had known the tall, curly haired man for years. It was nice meeting folks like that. Your whole day got better and you might just have forgotten that you had planned on sulking about not going fishing anywhere good. 

“That’s good to hear. After so many things going wrong lately, it would be nice for something to just work out for a change.”

“True. And if they can’t get it fixed, it won’t be from lack of trying. Anyway, you have your apprentice to think about now. An N-1 might be pretty and fast, but you can’t carry many bounties in it, warm or cold.”

Lacc pointed the truth out to his friend and Grogu was glad about that as well. Now that he’d seen even the outside of YT-1300, he really missed the old Razor Crest and wished his dad would consider getting a different ship. Well, maybe some day. In the meantime, the pit droids were calling to Grogu, so he chirped at his dad, who let him hop down. They wanted to play Sabacc and Grogu felt like he was going to get nothing but Idiot’s Arrays and he liked those odds.