#one piece 854

[onepiecebdays]

december 24th - tony tony chopper

debut chapter: 134

recent chapter: 1134

epithet: cotton candy lover

current age: 17

affiliation: straw hat pirates

bounty: 1,000 berries

[kookoofufu]

Chopper and Zoro bro moments :)

[algumaideia]

Sanji will give his food to Luffy!!!!!

Besides Luffy and Brook everyone got together

[pardon-my-scifi]

Luffy pretending like his ass isn't being handed to him so his crew can do their jobs. And Jinbei knowing what's up.

Someone needs to do what this cat is doing to the kitten to Luffy. He is too good.

[perfectlyoongi]

THE GREATEST PROOF OF LOVE - Yoongi, wc: 854, i dare u to read this

“I love you.”

“No, you don’t,” you gently placed your hands on Yoongi’s chest as a light laugh escaped your lips sweetly.

“Yes, I do,” Yoongi said with conviction, joining his hands in yours, looking into your eyes and allowing you to lose yourself in them.

There was a brief silence where contemplation was practice by the two of you, a feeling stronger than love being conveyed in a simple look, in a simple holding of hands.

“Then prove it.”

You roamed Yoongi’s delicate face with your eyes, your words coming out of your mouth without your permission, your entire train of thought shrouded in Yoongi’s beauty.

“How?”

“Kill me.”

Yoongi felt your hands squeezing hard on his shirt. The feelings that you refused to utter began to rise in the tip of your fingers, in the tears in your eyes.

He didn’t speak.

Seeing you so immersed in his figure, so lost in your own emotions, Yoongi didn’t speak and allowed you to recite your emotions, giving you a stage for the dissertations that your heart intended to express, never shutting you up, never judging you.

“Say that you love me one more time. Kiss me and say you love me, that I am your moon and all the stars in the sky. Say you love me and hold me in your arms before the sunrise. And then leave me. Take with you all my magic and every hope that lie in me and never speak to me again. Never love me again. For I know that if you love me, I will never be able to love you back.”

“But, don’t you love me?”

Yoongi eased the pressure on your hand, your lover’s bright eyes brimming with worry and some doubt, so many questions and scenarios running through Yoongi’s turbulent mind.

“I do love you. But I loved you more yesterday when you held the café door for me. I loved you more last week when you gave me the last piece of cake. I loved you more when the idea of loving you was more enticing than the idea of dating you. Because no one ever loved me when I loved them, and everyone left me when I wanted them to stay.”

Yoongi pulled away from you, his hands dropping to his sides, totally lifeless, totally unresponsive, totally hopeless.

“If you love me, kill me now. Right here. Please. I won’t be able to withstand your departure tomorrow.”

“Why?”

Fear?

Insecurity?

There was a different gleam in Yoongi’s eyes, a new shadow that beautified the worry on his face, that made him intriguing, mysterious, different.

“Because now that you’ve say it, now that I’ve felt it, I will love you more tomorrow than I do today. I will love you more in two days when you take me home after work. I will love you more in a week when you tell me about all the legends contained in each star.”

“So, you love me?”

“Only until you kill me. Only until you destroy this love. Only until you destroy me.”

And, finally, a smile.

Yoongi gracefully approached you, one of his hands resting so lightly on your face, the other seeking out your trembling and so cold fingers. He proudly wore a small but careful smile that sent you back to frames of memories created in times when everything was easier, when feelings were not verbalized.

“What if I help you live?”

Your heart stopped beating for a brief moment - your hands felt warm at Yoongi’s words, your eyes losing themselves, once again, in his.

But this time it was different.

This time, when you looked into Yoongi’s eyes, there was something beyond contemplation and love, a deep sense of understanding radiating from your lover’s beautiful eyes.

And with that feeling came an immense calm that went through your entire body, wrapping you in a comfort so foreign to you, in a comfort that you had been craving for a long time. It was a wave of serenity that consumed you with Yoongi’s gentle gaze, waters of tenderness that bathed you in the delicacy of Yoongi’s touch, loving words that caressed you without any difficulty.

“What if I kiss you and say I love you and repeat it tomorrow? And the day after tomorrow? What if every ‘I love you’ I tell you is a promise of one more day with you? Every kiss I give you is the certainty of one love reborn in every moonlight? Because I don’t love you the same today as I loved you yesterday. Or as I will love you tomorrow. Today I love you as you are, tomorrow I will love you as you will be.”

Yoongi brought his forehead to yours and you stifle a laugh, Yoongi’s soft hair caressing your face in the gentle movement of the soft night breeze.

“Maybe it’s because I would never be able to kill you, or because I know I’ll never be able to leave you. But, for me, the idea of living for someone is the greatest proof of love.”

[siriuslylantsov]

haircare routine

pairing: sirius black x fem!reader

description: in which sirius does your hair.

tags: fluff, they're best friends!, sirius takes reader through his extensive routine that he undoubtedly has because he has amazing hair, reader is a bit lazy so im assuming she uses no products, reader wears a swimsuit but nothing is specified.

a/n: first sirius piece!! i love that guy. also, i'm being so unspecific about the bathroom arrangements, so think of it however you want. i didn't want to get too into the logistics. enjoy!

wc: 854

“ow! fuck, sirius,” you curse as he yanks your head with a brush. he continues to abuse that knot in your hair much to your dismay. 

“it's not my fault your hair is like this.”

“yeah, but- ah! i said i could do it myself.”

“when? you wouldve left it like this for a few more days and then been all pissy to me because you look like shit. i'm doing you a favour. stay still,” he says firmly.

you whine, “you could be less rough with it.”

“sorry,” he frowns sympathetically at you in the mirror, “just trying to detangle, ‘m almost done.”

his actions soften, smoothing a hand over your hair. he turns you around and nods his head toward the bathroom. “get in the tub, i'll be there in a second.”

james had dared you to jump in the lake and you, always up for a challenge, did it. when sirius found you, sopping strands and layered clothes, he coerced you into letting him wash your hair, yapping on about how your hair’s going to be matted if you don't shampoo it now–high maintenance prick.

you assess the temperature of the water, deeming it perfect, you take off the damp shirt you had on. climbing in carefully, you sink down till you're fully submerged, letting the warmth encompass you. you come back up for air after a few seconds, and sirius walks in with a stool. he sets it behind the clawfoot and looks at you.

“where'd you get that swimsuit from?”

“oh, got it from marlene, i ran into the changing room after her swim team practice.”

its explanation enough for him as he doesnt press further, far be it from him to question your antics. he pulls out a shampoo and conditioner–his ones, fancy looking bottles with labels written in cursive print, they exude expensive, nothing like the plastic bottles that sat in your shower caddy. 

he sits down and picks up a cup filled with water and tips it over your head, you don't mind that it drips down your face. he slowly scrubs the shampoo into your scalp, unintentionally massaging as he goes, you hum in approval and he chuckles. he does this twice, rinsing off the soapy suds before moving on to the conditioner, raking it through your ends. he combs through your hair before washing that off too. 

when he's done, he leaves you to clean the rest of your body. Its a clumsy ordeal taking off the swimsuit that clung to your skin, but you manage, leaving a few puddles in your wake. stepping out of the tub, you slip into a bathrobe, securing the tie at your waist. you walk out to find sirius waiting next to the vanity.

“what are you still doing here?”

“you’re getting the full treatment, sweetheart,” he urges you closer, “c’mon sit.”

you tentatively step forward and take a seat in front of the mirror, eyeing the box of vials–all glass but containing liquids of different colours and consistencies. you peer at him suspiciously through the mirror.

“you're not dyeing my hair green are you…?”

he flashes you a wicked smile that makes you nervous, “if i was, would i tell you?”

a small pout forms on your lips and he shifts to earnest, fingers gently raking through your hair, “i'm not,” he says firmly.

a hint of hesitancy remains but you nod nonetheless, allowing him to begin.

you watch as he pours product into his hand, and work it into the damp strands, making sure to evenly coat it. he crosses over to stand before you, a different substance in his palm, it looks like whipped cream and you arent sure how he managed to get it to foam up like that.

“bend your head please,” he guides your head down till your hair hangs over, he kneels down too. “your neck will hurt a bit because of the angle, but i’ll finish up quickly.”

he scrunches your hair up, careful not to accidently tug, causing drops of water to trickle down his arm. he continues doing this all over, all the way up into the roots. you notice how loose ringlets of curls form as he lets go.

when he finishes, he mutters a quick drying spell, one that when you use leaves your hair a frizzy mess but when he does, it looks fine. maybe those strange vials contributed to that. 

he stands and raises you up with him. he's still in front of you so it obstructs your view of the mirror. he sneaks his fingers in and shakes through your hair, to give it more volume, he confirms later. 

finally, stepping aside, you see yourself. he's stood beside you, with a somewhat smug look on his face, as you admire your hair. the waves are defined and remind you of your hair when you're at the beach, only healthier and more hydrated. 

“thanks,” you chirp, offering him a small appreciative smile.

he brushes it off with a wink, returning your smile, “you've got great hair, you should let me style it more often.”

m.list

[syoish-aot]

"I Found You (too)" - EREN/READER - REINCARNATION AU (chapter 1)

eren/reader

Rating: M

marleyan nurse reader & undercover eren

cw: canon typical xenophobia, dissociation , maladaptive daydreaming, canon typical gore/violence

2,422 words

also on Ao3

< first fic (Ao3 / tumblr) | ch 2 ->

“Are we somewhere nice…”

Eren’s eyes widen as the words came spilling out of your mouth:

“...Mr. Kruger?”

Liberio 854

Hot.

It was always so hot in the middle of summer.

The heat made you feel sluggish, especially in combination with the thick humidity in the air that was likely indicative of an upcoming storm.

It wasn’t just the heat though, there was something else in the air, the anxiety of… of… of impending doom? An undeniable end? The constant fear that something could happen at a moment’s notice that would completely shatter everyone’s life into pieces?

Yeah. Something like that.

You were used to that though. That was just a part of war.

So the heat, you figured.

That’s what was really bothering you.

The intense heat.

You sighed as you leaned against the window sill, looking out across the courtyard two stories below. 

A doctor in a white hospital coat was ushering a patient inside. The old man sobbed and hollered about- honestly, you had no idea. There wasn’t a point in paying enough attention to find out. Two patients sat at a bench in hushed conversation. A delivery boy rushed through the gates with a stack of papers in hand as the white armband he wore immediately caught your eye from the way it contrasted with his dark clothing. 

You brought your teacup to your lips and sipped your tea as your mind slipped off to somewhere else.

   Somewhere nice.

      A small home.

      A warm bed.

      A scratchy couch.

“I hear we’re getting a new shipment today.” Your coworker Myra said, snapping you from your daydream as she joined you in looking over the courtyard below. She snickered as the doctor struggled to lift the old man to his feet before escorting him inside.

“Shipment of what?” You asked wistfully, only half paying attention to her as the rest of your mind was still swept up somewhere else.

   Somewhere nice.

“Eldian devils, of course.” Myra sighed, the amusement now gone from her tone and replaced with boredom. “They’re coming in from Fort Slava. Probably going to be all fucked up because of it.”

“We won the war,” you pointed out, still barely paying attention to what she was saying, “you should probably be celebrating.”

“I am celebrating.” She turned away from the view and pressed her back against the windowsill so she could stare into the break room instead of the courtyard. “Unfortunately, the celebration comes hand in hand with how much damn work it’s going to create for all of us.”

You sighed, giving up on your daydreams. You’d go back to them later.

“Soldiers are coming home.” You reasoned as you looked over at her. “That’s a good thing.”

Myra scoffed. “ Eldian soldiers,” she emphasized. “It’d be easier on all of us if they just died out there. Fucking devils… what a pain.”

You didn’t get what her deal was.

If Myra didn’t want to work with Eldians, maybe she shouldn’t have taken a nursing job at an internment zone hospital.

But you didn’t say anything to her, there wasn’t a point in making enemies with the one coworker that you (sort of) considered a friend.

“Oh look,” Myra said just in time for a large truck to pull up to the front of the hospital. A Marleyan escort dropped the tailgate and a line of soldiers began climbing from the back of the truck.

Soldiers with bandages across their chests. Limbs. Heads.

Soldiers with missing legs. Arms. Eyes. 

Soldiers that stagger forward in a line, passing through the gates of the hospital with their heads turned down, barely paying attention to the world around them and focusing more on putting one foot in front of the other (if they even have two feet to focus on, that was).

Eldian soldiers straight from Fort Slava.

“Hey, you!” The Marleyan soldier escorting them called, slamming his gun against the side of the truck.

One last Eldian pulled himself out, walking on a single leg as the rest of his body was supported with an old crutch. 

He had a bandage around his head concealing an eye injury, with long brown hair that was in desperate need of a trim.

You assumed he would wear the same expression as all the other traumatized soldiers did when they showed up at your hospital. The same bags under their eyes, frown lines etched against their face, and depressed lost look of desperation. The desperation for what? You weren’t sure. Escape. Death. Freedom. It didn’t matter what it was, because it was always the same.

You’d worked at that hospital for years and it had always been the same. 

And yet when this soldier, this Eldian soldier, crossed the courtyard below you, he was shoved by the Marleyan officer escorting him. He stumbled. 

Then he looked up.

That’s when you saw it.

You saw the look on his face.

And you saw the look in his eyes.

A stunning composition that reminded you of the night sky on a full moon- swirling blues and greens beautifully illuminated with flecks of golden stars. 

Your fingers tightened against your teacup, pressing its warmth firmly against your palms.

Hot.

It was always so hot… in the middle of summer.

a few days later

“You take a suspiciously long time with Kruger every morning,” Myra told you as the two of you walked down the hall on the way to the break room.

“I- I do not!”

“Yeah, okay.” She rolled her eyes as your cheeks flushed pink.

“I’m just being thorough. Unlike you, I take pride in my work.”

Her loud laugh bounced off of the bleak walls. “Did you know that you always get feisty when you’re being defensive? All you’re doing is proving my point~”

“Well, sometimes he can be- difficult. Everyone knows that.” You said, not wanting to argue with her and further “prove her point”.  

“Yeah,” she scoffed, “not with you though.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Maybe he’s got a crush on you or something.”

You immediately stopped walking.

“What?” Myra asked.

“That’s- I-... don’t joke about that. Someone might hear you.”

Myra scoffed. “Who gives a shit.” She dismissed with a casual wave of her hand. “That kinda thing happens all the time.”

She was right, of course. Plenty of the soldiers at the hospital had indicated that they’d developed-... something for those caring for them. It was natural, you supposed, given the trauma they’d experienced in battle. A terrible experience like that followed by someone treating your injuries, regardless of how cruel they may be while they do it, would seep into someone’s mind and turn into-...

Whatever it turns into. 

It was a mess, regardless. A mess that you would never let yourself fall into.

“It doesn’t matter if it happens all the time.” You muttered as you stormed past Myra, “I could still get in trouble.”

She rolled her eyes again as she caught up with you. “Only if you do something about it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Good.” She said simply. “And not just because he’s your patient. You know what happens to people that get tangled up with Eldians.”

The way she said it made your whole world freeze.

The reminder always did and why wouldn’t it?

You did know. You knew exactly what happened to people who got “tangled up” with Eldians because you’d seen it firsthand. You’d never forget.

No matter how much you wish you could, you'd never forget the way your brother’s body hung limp against the fence outside the internment zone. The way he was left there, for days, to rot against the wall. The way the birds picked at the skin of his face, his fingers, tearing away bits of flesh to the point that his body was turned into something else entirely.

You’d never forget the words ‘ ELDIAN LOVER ’ painted in deep crimson against the brick wall behind him.

“You have to make something of yourself.” Your mother told you that night as she sobbed for her loss. Not the loss of her son, but for the loss of your family’s reputation. “Make something of yourself that we can be proud of,” she cried, “make them forget about him… you owe it to your family…”

   Flesh.

          Rope.

               Red spray paint.

Your stomach turned at the memory. 

And suddenly, you were no longer interested in your lunch.

It trapped you in a daze for the rest of the day.

It always did.

The reminder of why you worked so hard to get this job, why you slave away working extra hours and rarely ever taking a day off unless it was absolutely necessary. You had to work hard for your family. For their reputation. So you could undo the sins of your brother and make up for what he’d done.

It exhausted you.

Your life here exhausted you.

You knew you were supposed to hate your older brother, you knew you were because he betrayed you. He betrayed your whole family and put them in danger for his own selfishness. 

It would have been easy for your family to have been executed for what he’d done, even though none of you had any idea it was happening. You could have been seen as accomplices and punished as such. The only reason you were still alive was because your family had been fortunate enough to pay for your lives. And your lives were a hefty payment.

You’d grown up in a large house in the countryside with pretty dresses and expensive toys. Servants who did whatever you wanted and enough money that you’d never know what it felt like to go to bed hungry.

Your father had been a banker.

Had been.

Because after your brother’s affair with an Eldian maid was found out, your family lost it all.

So, you should have been mad at him. You should have been livid. You should have hated him and spent the rest of your life cursing his existence for what it’d brought you.

But you didn’t.

Despite where your life was after all of it. Despite the pressure that was suddenly put on your shoulders. Despite every moment of agony after it. You couldn’t be mad at your brother.

Because…

          …because your brother had been in love.

“I’m leaving soon.” He’d told you, the night before he was found out. The night before he was hung on that wall and left to rot.

But neither of you knew that would be his fate. So you just scowled as you clutched your doll tightly to your chest, watching as he darted around the room and packed his things.

“Father said you don’t start university for three more years.” You pointed out.

“I don’t.” He laughed. “But I’m not going to university.”

“You aren’t?”

“No.” He stopped in front of you and knelt down so he could look you in the eye. “Can you keep a secret?”

You nodded.

“Promise?”

You nodded harder.

He chuckled softly before he pulled a ring out of his pocket. “I’m getting married.”

You gasped. “To who?”

He got a far-off look in his eyes as the smile on his face turned to something else. Something softer. As if he was suddenly swept up in a daydream that took him somewhere completely new. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I-...” He sighed as he slid the ring into his pocket. “Look,” the wishful expression he had been wearing slipped away as his gaze hardened. “Sometimes adults are wrong.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes,” he said pointedly, “they are.”

You stayed quiet.

“Sometimes they’re wrong and the reason they’re wrong is that they’ve never taken a moment to think about what they’ve been taught. I’m going away soon, but don’t ever forget that, okay? Don’t you ever forget to think for yourself when someone tells you something, no matter who they are or how much confidence they have when they say it.”

You scowled. “What does any of that have to do with you getting married?”

He laughed as the smile returned to his face. “It has everything to do with it.” He patted your head and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he went back to packing. 

As he packed he told you about the life he was leaving to create for himself and his special person.

A small home, just big enough for two. Far away from war and pain and death. Somewhere they could be happy. A warm bed. A scratchy couch. Homemade food. Maybe even a cat, if they found one that was nice enough to keep.

“You should have more than one!” You told him as he described the kitten he would find in this made-up fantasy, tucked under a rose bush in a rainstorm. 

“I should, shouldn’t I! How many cats should I have?”

“Four!!” You exclaimed with a giggle.

“Four!?!” He said in mock surprise, which had you laughing all over again.

It was a beautiful dream. A beautiful fantasy. 

But that’s all it would ever be because nice places like that didn’t exist. No matter how desperately you wished they could.

Still. It was where you always found yourself when you stared for a little too long out the window, when you walked home after a hard day, or when you struggled to fall asleep at night.

That small house in a faraway world without war. Without pain. Without even death.

It was warm. 

And it was where you always found yourself. 

You pushed open the door to Mr. Kruger’s room with his evening medicine. You smiled as you carried it to him. Smiled at the world you’d created in your head. A special escape, just for you.

“You’re late.” Mr. Kruger told you as he closed his book.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I had to go somewhere.”

“Hm.” He hummed. “Where?”

You passed him a paper cup full of pills and the tips of your fingers brushed against his. Just the tips. 

It sent a rush of warmth up your arm.

You watched as the paper cup met his lips and he tilted his head back.

      A warm home.

      No war, pain, or death.

      A scratchy couch.

      Good food.

      Cats.

You slipped away just long enough for him to finish swallowing his pills and when he lowered the cup, you finally answered him:

“...I went somewhere nice…”

It was a shame, really. 

A shame that you’d only ever be able to visit such a nice place

in your dreams.

CHAPTER 2 ->

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[essentiallyleaf]

day 26. selfcest. with. miyeon.

854 words.

tags.

kinktober ‘23, idol x futa!idol (???), selfcest, narcissist miyeon, supposedly a mostly comedic piece but at the same time it’s not very funny, narrator might sound too salty though really they’re just annoyed [beep beep cop out alert beep beep], the real cop out is that miyeon sounds awfully similar to me in this and that’s scary, okay maybe outside of the selfcest part, this entire fic is a huge cop out for me having zero creativity and wit to be honest, sorry for the excessively long tags i’ll stop now, no i won’t, yes i will, no i- okay not funny.

notes.

-5. honestlycantwaitfortheendofoctoberly, leaf.

Miyeon always wanted to write an autobiography, maybe a script, or rather, to get it written for her, ‘cause “Who’s got the time for that, y’knowhatImean?”, and definitely not because she hasn’t used pen and paper for anything other than autographs since she - barely - got out of high school; “Maybe a book of quotes, that could be quicker. What? Whose quotes, you asked? Mine, who else’s? HaHA”

Nah, her life is not really book material. It’s more like a b-movie (or, Bee even?), with all the bad jokes and none of the ironic laughs. This one time she was asked, if you could describe your entire life in a frame - one shot, one opportunity; would your mom be making spaghetti in it? - what would it be? With an intense glare and an abnormal amount of dramatic pauses in between she answered, probably me, in front of a mirror, side-eyeing my own reflection, y’kno, because I, am my only, enemy, the biggest obstacle, on the road to success; wow, that deserves a spot in the book.

It doesn’t come as a shock that a person like her had weird dreams, dreams where she randomly comes across a woman that looks exactly like her, and starts researching about her, trying to get more information, discover where the woman comes from, what she does in her life; it also doesn’t come as a shock that none of that is a product of her own imagination, she just really likes any film with Jake Gyllenhaal in it and can’t come up with any original ideas, even in the hours of the day when her unconscious is completely free and unbound from the chains of the real, or even of the realistic. Joining this exhibition of the unshocking, the first words that Miyeon utters when she gets to meet the woman (even in a dream, where every texture, every face is out of focus and blurred, where humans have twelve fingers and mushrooms have eight legs, she can see the woman’s features clearly - almost like she spent about the same amount of time in a day sleeping and looking in the mirror and could draw her own face blindfolded - and they exactly resembles her own) are “Oh my God, I look so beautiful”. So beautiful that she wants to feel the woman’s sharp, V-lined jaw, her perfectly angled, straight, thin nose, her thick, juicy, pink lips and fuck, how good they’d feel on-

Her tongue invades the double’s mouth like she’s about to have a taste of heaven, and ascending is what Miyeon does as she gets a sample of her own flavor. She feels the woman’s body up all over, hungry for contact, swiping and gripping and tugging now on her soft thighs, now on her bouncy cheeks, now on her perky tits. I need this real fucking fast, she thinks as she feels dampness between her legs, so she kneels to pull the dress of the other her up to her waist, and what she finds is no underwear (it would have been worrying to know that her perfect double does wear it, to be fair) and a gargantuan semi-erect penis. An absolute utopia, truly, for Miyeon to be in front of the two things she loves the most, fused together: herself and dick. No questions asked then, - and honestly, who’s ever questioned anything in their own dreams, even when it’s sucking yourself off - she wraps her lips around the mushroom head and starts bobbing like it’s her favorite hobby, and it is. It’s like she’s practiced her entire life for the moment she gets to taste the cock she never knew she wanted, and that cock thrusts hard back into her moaning throat because only one can know what she always wanted. And as Miyeon loses herself, - in the music, the moment - that’s where it stops, and her body is turned around and put on all fours, her round ass in the air. She feels her slick being spread around and onto her puckered hole, and as the woman’s tip pushes into her back entrance. One thrust in, and then out. Two, a little further. The third time, the huge girth leaves her hole gaping. Four, five, six, and when she loses count (quite soon, and not because of her poor math abilities), that’s when she breaks. That’s when her moans turn into screams, when her hand automatically goes to her clit and starts rubbing, the pleasure from her own fingers causing her muscles to relax even more and her double’s length to reach even deeper into her. The sound of hips bumping into cheeks and of her own feral wails is all she hears before she feels herself cumming and concurrently several spurts of cum fill her ass.

When Miyeon wakes up she has another quote for her book in mind, one to be remembered for generations to come, surely, and just as surely not a stolen one: the opportunity to meet face to face with your greatest enemy comes once in a lifetime - and the enemy will certainly not miss her chance to blow.

-

footnotes.

getting repetitive. contritely, leaf.

[psychidion]

The parallels between Hector and Patroclus, and between Achilles and Andromache, in the last books of the Iliad:

As I was reading through the Iliad, I was struck by how strongly Hector and Patroclus parallel each other in their last moments.

I'm not exactly making an argument that they parallel each other throughout the Iliad, or saying that Hector does not act like a foil for Achilles throughout the narrative too, but I did find it extremely interesting, especially in association with the parallels between Achilles and Andromache.

They are both first given a grave disadvantage by a god, Athena in Hector's case and Apollo in Patroclus'. Athena interferes with Hector by appearing as Deiphobus and then disappearing when he is in need of assistance. Apollo interferes with Patroclus by striking the breath out of him and knocking off all of his armor, so he stands on the battlefield defenseless.

They bear a similar reaction to the loss of their weapons. Both stand still in shock for a moment, and both of these phrases are at the beginning of a line and are immediately followed by a caesura: 16. 806- στῆ δὲ ταφών: ὄπιθεν δὲ μετάφρενον ὀξέϊ δουρὶ 'he stood dazed. But from behind on his back with a sharp spear...' and 22. 293- στῆ δὲ κατηφήσας, οὐδ᾽ ἄλλ᾽ ἔχε μείλινον ἔγχος. 'he stood mute in horror, as he did not have his ashen spear.'

There is a repeated structure of 'three times and on the fourth,' something changes.

16. 784-789: τρὶς μὲν ἔπειτ᾽ ἐπόρουσε θοῷ ἀτάλαντος Ἄρηϊ σμερδαλέα ἰάχων, τρὶς δ᾽ ἐννέα φῶτας ἔπεφνεν. ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ τὸ τέταρτον ἐπέσσυτο δαίμονι ἶσος, ἔνθ᾽ ἄρα τοι Πάτροκλε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή: ἤντετο γάρ τοι Φοῖβος ἐνὶ κρατερῇ ὑσμίνῃ δεινός: Three times did he spring at them, equal to swift Ares, shouting terribly, and three times did he slay nine men. But when he charged the fourth time, like to a god, then, Patroclus, did the end of your life appear. For Phoebus, terrifying, met you in that fierce combat.   22. 165-6, 208-13: ὣς τὼ τρὶς Πριάμοιο πόλιν πέρι δινηθήτην καρπαλίμοισι πόδεσσι: θεοὶ δ᾽ ἐς πάντες ὁρῶντο: Thus three times did they circle around the city of Priam, with their swift feet, and all the gods were watching them. ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ τὸ τέταρτον ἐπὶ κρουνοὺς ἀφίκοντο, καὶ τότε δὴ χρύσεια πατὴρ ἐτίταινε τάλαντα, ἐν δ᾽ ἐτίθει δύο κῆρε τανηλεγέος θανάτοιο, τὴν μὲν Ἀχιλλῆος, τὴν δ᾽ Ἕκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο, ἕλκε δὲ μέσσα λαβών: ῥέπε δ᾽ Ἕκτορος αἴσιμον ἦμαρ, ᾤχετο δ᾽ εἰς Ἀΐδαο, λίπεν δέ ἑ Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων. But when they arrived at the springs for the fourth time, then the father held out his golden scales, and placed on them two fates of woeful death, one for Achilles, the other for horse-taming Hector, and having seized the middle of these, he lifted them, and the destined day of Hector sank, and went to Hades, and Phoebus Apollo left him.  

4. The final pieces of dialogue between Patroclus and Hector and then Hector and Achilles follow a very similar formula: the winner lords over the loser, calling him νήπιε (16. 833 & 22. 333), and then the loser as they die, gives a prophecy concerning the winner’s death (16. 851-854 & 22. 359-360) which the winner doesn’t take well. This parallel also clearly functions as one between Hector and Achilles.

5. And what is perhaps the strangest parallel- their final death descriptions are exactly the same.

ὣς ἄρα μιν εἰπόντα τέλος θανάτοιο κάλυψε: ψυχὴ δ᾽ ἐκ ῥεθέων πταμένη Ἄϊδος δὲ βεβήκει ὃν πότμον γοόωσα λιποῦσ᾽ ἀνδροτῆτα καὶ ἥβην. 16. 855-7 & 22. 361-3

Achilles and Andromache have decidedly less parallels that can be clearly seen, but I think the fact they play the same role of 'the one left behind' is still deeply interesting.

They are both completely ignorant of the fate of their loved one, and did not even expect it to occur.

17.401- 407: οὐδ᾽ ἄρα πώ τι ᾔδεε Πάτροκλον τεθνηότα δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς: πολλὸν γὰρ ῥ᾽ ἀπάνευθε νεῶν μάρναντο θοάων τείχει ὕπο Τρώων: τό μιν οὔ ποτε ἔλπετο θυμῷ τεθνάμεν, ἀλλὰ ζωὸν ἐνιχριμφθέντα πύλῃσιν ἂψ ἀπονοστήσειν, ἐπεὶ οὐδὲ τὸ ἔλπετο πάμπαν ἐκπέρσειν πτολίεθρον ἄνευ ἕθεν, οὐδὲ σὺν αὐτῷ: πολλάκι γὰρ τό γε μητρὸς ἐπεύθετο νόσφιν ἀκούων, ἥ οἱ ἀπαγγέλλεσκε Διὸς μεγάλοιο νόημα. Not yet did noble Achilles know that Patroclus was dead, for they were battling very far from the swift ships under the wall of the Trojans: he never expected in his heart  that he was dead, but that he would return back again alive having reached the gates, since he did not at all expect him to sack the citadel without him, nor even with him, for often did he hear things from his mother, who secretly reported the intentions of great Zeus to him.  22. 437-446: ἄλοχος δ᾽ οὔ πώ τι πέπυστο Ἕκτορος: οὐ γάρ οἵ τις ἐτήτυμος ἄγγελος ἐλθὼν ἤγγειλ᾽ ὅττί ῥά οἱ πόσις ἔκτοθι μίμνε πυλάων, ἀλλ᾽ ἥ γ᾽ ἱστὸν ὕφαινε μυχῷ δόμου ὑψηλοῖο δίπλακα πορφυρέην, ἐν δὲ θρόνα ποικίλ᾽ ἔπασσε. κέκλετο δ᾽ ἀμφιπόλοισιν ἐ��πλοκάμοις κατὰ δῶμα ἀμφὶ πυρὶ στῆσαι τρίποδα μέγαν, ὄφρα πέλοιτο Ἕκτορι θερμὰ λοετρὰ μάχης ἐκ νοστήσαντι νηπίη, οὐδ᾽ ἐνόησεν ὅ μιν μάλα τῆλε λοετρῶν χερσὶν Ἀχιλλῆος δάμασε γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη. But Hector’s wife had not heard about him yet, for no messenger, a true friend, had come  to report to her that her husband remained outside the gates, but she was weaving in a corner of the tall home, a double-folded, purple web, upon which she had added many-colored flowers, and had called to her fair haired attendants in the house to set a great tripod over the fire, so that there would be a hot bath ready for Hector when he returned from battle. Blind to everything, she did not know that far from any bath  grey eyed Athena by the hand of Achilles had killed him.    

2. Upon hearing that their loved one has perished, they mourn bitterly and both express a desire to never have been born.

18. 86-7: αἴθ᾽ ὄφελες σὺ μὲν αὖθι μετ᾽ ἀθανάτῃς ἁλίῃσι ναίειν, Πηλεὺς δὲ θνητὴν ἀγαγέσθαι ἄκοιτιν. If only you had stayed there among the immortal sea nymphs, and Peleus had married a mortal.  22. 479-81: αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ Θήβῃσιν ὑπὸ Πλάκῳ ὑληέσσῃ ἐν δόμῳ Ἠετίωνος, ὅ μ᾽ ἔτρεφε τυτθὸν ἐοῦσαν δύσμορος αἰνόμορον: ὡς μὴ ὤφελλε τεκέσθαι. But I was in Thebes below wooded Placus in the home of Eetion, who brought me up when I was young, an ill fated father to a doomed child; I wish he had not begotten me.

[sc0tters]

Moments of Awe | Kirby Dach

summary: you and Kirby are at the same party but this time there are feelings involved.

song: Fuck Up The Friendship- Leah Kate

request: yes/no

warnings: mentions of drinking

word count: 854

authors note: every time I wrote Kirby I get on thinking about that animated character. This was crap but I spent the day writing it and this is somehow the best we could find.

Kirby watched as you let your finger tips wrap around your can of seltzer.

You had both been drinking since pres and now it was hours into the party. He knew it was wrong to think of you in the way that he was. The way his palms grew sweaty at the sight of your legs in your shorts as you danced along to the music with some of your female friends. Your laugh in between the horrible attempts to do your own versions of karaoke as you all sang along to the song that were blaring over the speakers of the club.

It should have been a crime to look at him the way you did with that piece of lime wrapped around your lips “why does he keep looking at you like that?” One of your friends asked as she titled her head in Kirby’s direction.

His eyes hadn’t left you, hadn’t left your body since Cole started talking to you forty five minutes ago. The conversation only lasted fifteen minutes or so because Kirby wasn’t counting of course. You grinned as the American had said something stupid that made you wrap your hand around his arm. It brought up thoughts and feelings that Kirby had never imagined he would feel.

You let your lips form a pout as you locked eyes with your best friend “I don’t know,” you mumbled as you felt your knees grow weak at the way his eyes almost undressed you.

Your friend smiled “go talk to him,” she mumbled as she softly placed her hand on your back to give you a soft push.

Kirby smiled as his eyes lit up when you smoothed out the ends of your shirt “hi doll,” he mumbled as he reached his arms out so that you could sit on his lap.

That was something that was common for you two. Usually at parties you were attached at the hip, both teams that Kirby had been with got the chance to see how you were attached at the hip to your childhood neighbour.

Your hand went to the nape of his neck “what’s going through your mind?” You asked as you smiled.

It was a sight that made him want to curl up into a ball and pass out “just thinking about you,” he confessed as he wrapped his hand around your thigh.

A giggle left your lips “me?” You cocked your head as you hated how kissable his lips look in that very moment “always about you,” Kirby seemed to share your thoughts as he let his fingers softly pull at your chin.

Before you had a chance to respond as your cheeks turned pink, one of the boys called Kirby because they wanted him to meet.

What irritated you was the way that Kirby placed you next to him before he sent you an apologetic look as he sighed getting pulled away from you when the boys wrapped their arm around his shoulder.

You spent the next few hours with the girls as they all swore that Kirby clearly had feelings for you “you ready to go doll?” It was tradition that Kirby would drop you off at home after a night out, part of it was because he wanted to make sure that you got back safely but the other part was him loving the fact that he was the last person you would see before you went to bed, because there was nothing you hated more than talking to strangers after dark.

Your playful mood came back as you nodded “of course,” you held your hand out for the boy to hold onto in your efforts to combat the Montreal autumn night time breeze.

The car ride back to yours was quiet as it seemed the moment from earlier on in the day was now a bust as you had both sobered up and didn’t have the atmosphere to egg you on.

Kirby’s arm never left your shoulders on the walk back up to your apartment as he watched you rest your head on his shoulder until you got to your door “you want to come in?” You offered as you spun around unaware of the fact that he was so close behind you.

If you were taller your lips would have been touching but given the height difference, Kirby instead had his lips hovering dangerously close to your forehead “always,” occasionally you’d invite him in if he didn’t have places to be in the morning, each time he’d say yes.

Despite all of the drinks that you had already had you realised you were going to need another one if you were going to keep your hands to yourself “what you thinking about doll?” Your silence made it easy for him to pick up on the fact that your mind was moving quicker than the rest of you.

Your sigh was noted “just something big that I don’t know if I should do.” You explained as your eyes moved from his to his mouth and back again.

“I think you should just go for it.”

[onepiecebdays]

december 2nd - charlotte newichi, charlotte newji, charlotte newsan, charlotte newshi, charlotte newgo, charlotte nutmeg, charlotte akimeg, charlotte allmeg, charlotte harumeg, and charlotte fuyumeg

debut chapter: 894

recent chapter: 900

current ages: 18

affiliation: big mom pirates

bounties: unknown

[colleitheglidingchampionofsumeru]

bsd men x gn!reader reader is an artist

Them seeing you draw on their arm

note:please ask me before using my work you don't have to just give me credit I forgot to add how many words there was on one sorry about that it was about 856? Or 854 but yea here we go!

Warnings:cuss words,self-harm scars,self-harm talk (let me know if I missed anything)

Characters:Dazai,Chuuya,Ranpo,Poe,Kunikida,Jouno

word count:806

Dazai Osamu

He had asked you to change his bandages about a week ago you both have been really busy with work and you couldn't but one day you both had a day off and you changed them and he wasn't to happy to see his scars the scars he did to himself self-harm scars you have thought they were beautiful he was looking away and you took your pen and drew on his arm and made something with the scars together than kissed his scars he looked at it and than you and you smiled and said "they are beautiful Dazai" he than said "but- I cut myself and you think that is good?" you shook your head but said "no but they are beautiful" and you changed his other arm and wrapped his arms up in the new bandages he smiled and said nobody will see "I know but still" you said and you kissed his cheek and said I'm going out to get stuff for dinner and left and he went with you

Chuuya Nakahara

it was a boring meeting and you were bored and you felt like you were gonna die Chuuya kept yelling saying "OH FUCK THAT!" or "fucking shit great" and "well we are fucked now you assholes!" You took his arm and drew to cure your boredom and he looked at you than said "what the fuck are you doing" than saw you drawing something on him he than saw when you finished it was like a whole art set this after this something after another after the meet was over he would hide that he liked it you would catch him smiling while looking at his arm his arm was like a child drew on it but it wasn't that bad just looked like a child went crazy

Ranpo Edogawa

He was just eating his snacks in the meeting room and you were in their signing some paper work you could hear Dazai getting yelled at it was funny Ranpo's hat was off and he kept feeding you some of his snacks like some pieces here and there when you were done ranpo was his head up and you took his arm and drew on it I guess he fell asleep because he said who? than saw you and did the biggest gasp you looked at him than showed him he said "my arm looks like it is an canvas" you giggled and said or more asked "do you like it?" He said "I love it!" Than hugged me and than he said "thank you"

Poe Allan Edgar

He was writing a book and Karl was running around the room you were sitting on the floor drawing in your book he bought you with the pens he bought you ended up some how with some weird ass thing draw in the whole book in under 3 hours you got up and played with Karl for about a hour amand than you found yourself drawing on Poe's arm amyou said "Poe look!" He looked at his arm and said "what happened to the notebook?" you picked it up and gave it to him and said finished it he looked so shocked and just said "how did you do that in under 3 hours I bought you it before I got to work" you nodded he said "I'll buy you a bigger and better one tomorrow than love" he than kissed your forehead

Kunikida Doppo

You were supposed to be working but your boredom had other plans you picked up you pen and wrote on Kunikida arm his sleeves were rolled up he was typing in his computer and than he turned his head slowly and said "what are you doing! It's not time to draw on- my- arm?-" you were looking at him and said look he looked at his arm he said "I knew it wasn't a good time to gave my sleeves rolled up-" you giggled and said "oh well" he than got hit in the face by a paper airplane. Kunikida slowly turned his head and looked at Dazai and yelled "I TOLD YOU TO GET TO WORK YOU BASTARD!!!"

Jōno Saigiku

He came home late after a long day at work you made him something to eat and you both talked and you asked him how was his day at work he said "not to good- same thing" you were drawing in your book while he was getting charged into different clothes he sat down next to you and watched as you drew in your book you ending up drawing things on his arm and he didn't look mad he just said "this washes off right?" "So if I have to wash it off a work I can" you nodded and kissed his cheek he ask what kind of things did I draw and you told him

Note:I forgot this guy was blind xD

[syluscore]

One Foot Here, One Foot Out the Door

~Leon Kennedy angst~

Word count: 854

Content warnings: PTSD, mental illness, gun use, suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideation, near suicide attempt, self-destructive behaviors, Leon is depressed and contemplating suicide. No comfort, no happy ending, just pure sadness.

I've been having a hard time lately with the battles inside my own head, so I wanted to write about the part of Leon that most resonates with me. The one foot here, one foot out the door feeling. Teetering on the edge of the end. I've barely scratched the surface here, but it felt nice to release these feelings from inside of me.

!!!!!SUICIDE IS NEVER THE ANSWER. REACH OUT TO SOMEBODY, NEVER SUFFER SILENTLY!!!!!!

~masterlist~ for those who don't wish to proceed with this piece

Why are any of us even born at all? Brought into a world where pain and suffering is the primary universal experience.

He looks at an old lady pushing her grocery cart, knowing she’s experienced pains he’ll never be able to comprehend. He sees a newborn baby and knows there’s nothing at all anyone can do to prevent them from enduring countless heartbreaks and devastation. He looks in the mirror and sees the shell of a man he once was. Or maybe he doesn’t recognize the face staring back at him at all.

He’s merely the solution of an equation made up of trauma, ache, and dread. 

So that begs the question, why the fuck were we even born at all?

Graced with a life that we beg any higher deity to take away. Take it back, take it all back. Why must we be forced to exist? He never should’ve existed at all.

Projecting his own damage as the general consensus to aid in an endless loneliness that no company could ever fill. Emptiness. How can one person feel so empty and so full of disgusting emotions at the same time? 

Countless people tell him he’s worthy of a better life. That he deserves so much better, that there’s better out there for him. But no one ever offers a solution. It’s just words they tell him to make themselves feel like they did something for him. 

If one day he loses the battle between himself and his own brain, they can say that they tried to help him. They were there for him. They took care of him. They can’t believe that this has happened.

They didn’t do a fucking thing. Thank you, sincerely, for your meaningless phrases that went in one ear and out the other. Empty words that he tossed away. Meanwhile, the words inside his own brain telling him the world would be better off without him dug their claws deeper and deeper into this godforsaken soul.

This soul that couldn’t have possibly been designed to endure such bullshit.

If everything happens for a reason, he’s sure that the reason is to see what will be the final nail in his coffin. Each day is harder. The years pass and traumatic event after traumatic event after traumatic fucking event just keeps happening to him. What will it finally take for him to fall apart completely and give himself away completely?

He wishes he could summarize it so simply. He could proclaim that the darkness has him in its grip, but that wouldn’t do it justice. Maybe he’s become the darkness. Maybe any light left inside of him has burnt out and now he’s left with only the nothingness within him.

If he had a choice, maybe he would feel better. He’d tell himself that he does it because he helps people. But that’s just more bullshit.

He’s never had a choice. He’s always been expected to put everything above himself, who gives a fuck what happens to him? Another statistic? A plus one to the casualty count? He’ll destroy himself until one day, that’s all he is.

If he thinks about how much light he used to hold inside of himself when he was younger, he’s filled with a blinding rage. The hopes and dreams he’s long lost and buried. 

How is one person expected to mourn themselves while still fucking breathing?

He’s not himself anymore. The Leon he once knew, maybe even the one he was meant to be, is gone. And there’s nothing he could ever do to bring him back. 

No matter how much he tries to numb himself, to detach himself and just go through the motions, the depression and anxiety always creeps up. It’s the only consistent thing in his life, and it’s not much to cling to, is it?

And as hard as it is to admit it, he truly wants it all to end. 

Maybe not by his own hand. Maybe not intentionally. No, he’s a coward. Too cowardly to take that final step that he so desperately craves.

His daydreams have become a grim vision of what it would be like if a mission went wrong. If something out of his control finally ended his life. 

Perhaps he’s become careless. Acting despite the possible consequences. Because if something finally clipped that last thread tying him to our world, would that really be so bad? Is that really “worst case scenario”? 

He’s no hero. He’s a fucking fool. A fool who at the root of it all, should’ve never existed at all.

The only comfort he finds is in the fact that one day he will cease to exist and there will be no one left on earth who remembers Leon Kennedy. The pain and suffering he’s seen will die with him.

But unfortunately, today is not that day. Today isn’t the start of the world after Leon Kennedy.

“Fucking coward,” he whispers to his reflection as he clicks the safety back into place. He lowers the gun from his temple and smashes it against the bathroom sink with a loud clang.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hey. i love you. and i would listen to you any fucking time. don't let the worst day of your life be the last. -hannah

[hprarepairfest]

Rare Pair Fest IV Works - Day 11

Another day of INCREDIBLE ships!! 😍

Title: Bad Medicine Author: @phantomgrimalkin Ship: Remus/Draco Prompt: 303 Rating: E Word Count: 8,093 Warnings: None Summary: 

Draco comes up with a plan to spend more time with a man he's had a small crush on for 15 years.

He's just trying to get laid, he doesn't expect it to change the course of his career.

💞🍐💞

Title: Quidditch Meets Couture Author: Charingfae Ship: Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley Prompt: #217 Rating: Explicit Word Count: 7,112 Warnings: n/a Summary:

Ginny Weasley only cares about one thing: leading the Holyhead Harpies to a championship. So she's none too pleased when her coach hires an image consultant to improve their brand. And she's especially displeased when that image consultant turns out to be Pansy Parkinson.

Tensions fly as the two strong-willed professionals fight their way through uniform fittings, media frenzies, and deliberate sabotage.

Through it all, Ginny still only cares about one thing. But this time, it's beating Pansy Parkinson.

💞🍐💞

Title: Hard to be Humble Author: @incywincymoocow Ship: Draco Malfoy/Percy Weasley Prompt: #6 Rating: Explicit Word Count: 14 854 Warnings: None Summary:

Percy Weasley is working hard at the Ministry, going nowhere, when Draco Malfoy turns up and starts taking all the credit. Percy is not going to take this lying down! Or is he…?

💞🍐💞

Title: Follow the Butterflies Author: RainstormRadish Ship: Aragog/Flying Ford Anglia Prompt: #25 (from nanneramma) Rating: T Word Count: 1454 Warnings: None Summary:

There is a visitor. A new beast in the Forest. It has four legs, like the centaurs, but it’s unlike anything Aragog has ever sensed. Cold, metallic, clanging. Few dare to venture deep enough into the Forest to reach Aragog’s lair, and those who do creep and hide, avoiding the Acromantula. The visitor makes no effort to be stealthy. It tramples through the undergrowth, loud and unapologetic. Foolhardy. Reckless. Intriguing.

💞🍐💞

Title: The monster you feed Author: GhostMagic Ship: Regulus Black/Remus Lupin Prompt: #401 Rating: Mature Word Count: 11,259 Warnings: Major Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, Homophobia, Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Drug Use. Summary:

Remus also didn’t know when he had started to ditch his friends with the excuse of studying in the library just to watch Regulus from afar, memorizing every habit and small quirk: how he wrinkled his nose at the sign of damaged books or the way he gave an almost imperceptible nod every time he found the information he was looking for; how he ran his fingers through his hair when he didn't understand something, a small crease between his eyebrows and just a hint of a pout on his lips; how he worried at his cuticles when he thought no one was watching just to put his hand back down when he realized what he was doing; how he wrote each letter as if it was a piece of art…

~

See all of the revealed works so far, HERE!

[vroerry]

Melody of Scribblers

Nagito Komaeda x gn reader (sfw)

Word count: 854

The soft night breeze entered the old library building every once in a while. The windows on the upper floor were opened to cool the building down. The sound of the wind also calmed you down.

You sat in the library of the first island, writing in a journal that was always with you. All your thoughts, rhymes, feelings were kept inside it. Everything that was a part of you, was a part of that journal.

As the ultimate poet, you had filled countless journals already. This one was also about to end. You couldn't help it. The situation of a killing game has awoken the dystopian poet inside of you, making you write like you were running out of time. It was kind of right. You were running out of time. You just didn't know how much time you had left. The words appeared on the paper as you dragged your pen along. They formed words, sentences then a text. You smiled at the filled page. And then an idea struck you.

"Melody of Scribblers" The pen rushes through the paper, dragging a line along, it rounds the letters in a haste, forming them words. The punctuations take their final place but alas, the momentum keeps on. The pen runs and runs, jumping over the edge dodging the lines and rows, hiding from the correction fluid. Suddenly. The hand stops. In a moment, a word is crossed out, its head falling off, rolling away. Chaos has struck. The paper feels it. The inhabintants feel it.

"What are you doing?" you hear a familiar voice behind you. You jump, dropping your pen and looking at the figure who has entered the libarby. Slender body, pale skin,grey-green eyes... Nagito. You let out of a sigh of relief. Then immediately realise he isn't the best company either.

"Just... writing" you reply, closing your journal.

"Ah! I see the ultimate poet is doing their absolute best! Are going to spread hope with your poems?" his eyes lit up with some sort of excitement as he sits next to you. "Tell me about your work!"

"Ah, it isn't really that interesting" you reply. "I just... Write what I feel. I don't plan on changing the work."

"Surely, there must be someting motivating you" he says. You simply shrug.

"I don't know. I just write when I write."

"May I... Look at your work?" he asks. You think about it for a moment. This could go horribly wrong, or just right. In the end. You open your journal and show him the piece you were just working on.

"Here... This isn't finished, but... You can read what I have so far..." You hand him the journal and he starts reading. His eyes reading every single word, looking behind every line. You take a breath to calm yourself. Somehow you're always nervous when showing people your works. No matter who it is. No matter why you wrote it.

"Hm... This is really simple" he suddenly speaks up. "It doesn't feel like poetry. It isn't even wrapped"

"Because it isn't supposed to be" You reply. 'It's just...The feeling of a writers block... That's it"

"I do not believe you" he scoffs. "The ultimate poet is the ultimate poet for a reason... Show me one of your actually...Good poems. That moves me to tears" he demands. You simply close the journal.

"No" you reply. "You don't like it? Read someone else then" he laughs.

"Come on! I want to see how your talent truly shines! I want a real introduction to the ultimate poet! Your poems usually must be hopeful, empowering...!" he dreams. You sigh.

"Sure, sure..." you decide to leave it to him. "How about this... I write the ultimate poem and you leave me alone?"

"No. Choose your best poem from these." he commands. "That would be cheating" you sigh and flip open the journal. And quickly realise, there is no hopeful or empowering poem. The pages are filled up to the brim with despair. You decide on a poem, and start reading.

"Crimson is trickling under the bus, metallic odour fills the air, The end is coming, shower, and the reaper stands before me. And the leafs fall under beneath the midnoon light, My heart sinks, seeing your image blurring away. I walk the streets alone with a band in my ears. I leave the school grounds, you stand there. I saw you in the halls, roaming around, laughing. Alive. Even though I didn't deserve your words, I loved you. Treated me as a ghost, making me question everything. My dear, do not loathe me, I loved you for all. But you shoved me away, fed me with lies and pain. Tried to talk, tried to solve it all, but you left me. Ugly, love is, when you're not here."

"Well, certainly not hopeful or empowering" he speaks. "But I liked this one. So your loved one passed away?"

"Just in my heart" you reply. He nods.

"Tomorrow, we'll write hopeful poems together! How does that sound?" he asks. You smile at him.

"Sounds nice..."

And you meant it.

Ps: Poems by me! I had to translate them, so some things were lost in translation.

[sorcererinthestars]

A Quiet Reassurance - Leverage OT3 (if you squint) aka, I wanted an Eliot focused fic for the quiet days WC: 854

It wasn't just that it was raining.

It was a mixture of those dark, cold days when the weather is just on the warm side of freezing but the atmospheric pressure is off, leaving you kind of feeling unbalanced. When the world feels heavier, the ground feels a bit closer, like you're being crushed by some force you hardly feel exists.

That's the day when Eliot's bones ache; the wounds his body has taken over the years get to remind him that he's not invincible. The ache that goes so far deep its almost one with him, a heat in some way that goes all the way down to his toes.

He hurts. Over his life, he's fought. He's bled, he's been beaten with every weapon known to man. He's been clubbed, slapped, punched, kicked. He's had his bones broken, he's been knocked down over and over again and always manages to haul himself back up, finish the fight, protect those who need protecting - no matter what side of the fight he was on. He was always able to keep going.

But mornings like this? Every scar, every phantom pain flares back up to haunt him, to the point where he doesn't even think he can haul himself out of bed to get to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee (or god, a beer) and hunch over the table like he's aged sixty years. It's hard not to curse the weather - a fucking bullet can't stop him, can't bring him down, but a stiff breeze and a change in pressure can lay him out harder than any knife.

He rolls over painfully, staring at the ceiling, and tries to do what he's learned helps. To - painfully! - tense each muscle to their breaking point before releasing it, that rush of endorphins enough to make him groan with the pain and intense pleasure of it. It's a personal ritual, one every fighter like him has to learn to go through. The aches were going to be there forever, even after he fucking finally quits and leaves this whole life behind.

His shoulders and back are the worst of it. He's used to doing this alone, rolling his shoulders and painfully clawing himself to a sitting position, grunting as the simple movement is almost too much, pain blooming from sleeping in one position too long.

Finally, he lets out a string of curses as he rolls his shoulder and the pain of an old bullet wound sends white hot heat rolling down his arms and his chest, the joint having seized and the movement tugs on all the wrong nerves. Gritting his teeth and riding the pain, he almost misses a soft hand on his shoulder.

Because... that's right.

He wasn't alone this time.

This time, there was another set of hands to gently, wordlessly, knead the pain out of his shoulders. A soft pair of thumbs carefully working through the knots of scar tissue that bound up across his skin. Painstakingly rubbing the pain and then the numbness out, leaving such sweet relief that he almost cries with it, head slumping down.

He doesn't even turn his head to look and see who's hands it is. He knows them enough by now; can tell just by the slightest touch. The ache remains in every part of his body, but the warmth that ignites in his stomach helps soothe it. The hands lay him back down, not letting him take advantage of some of the easing pain and head towards the kitchen for breakfast (as if nothing ever happened).

No, the hands seem to say. You're in pain and we're going to remedy this, you and I. Stay put, we'll work through this together.

So he lays back, on his stomach this time, as a warm body straddles him ever so lightly, hovering above as the talented hands take the time to work out every kink, every bit of soreness the weather brings on, up and down his arms, across his sensitive shoulders, down his back - riddled with scars, remnants of another time - and across his hips. Then even lower, his thighs, his calves, even his ankles. No part of him was spared from weapons over his rough life, and so the hands work every piece of it out.

He is left, twenty minutes or twenty hours later, a puddle. The pain is gone - for now, never forever, but for now, peace. The air seems warmer, almost, despite no one turning up the heat. The hands leave and they could almost groan, wanting them to return. But instead they're replaced by a soft kiss between the shoulder blades.

A promise, almost. You're not alone anymore. You don't have to face it alone anymore.

The hands slide off and the bed shifts as a warm body slides off and pads towards the door, slipping off to start the morning.

And he - alone again, but with the knowledge of love just one room away - closes his eyes and sleeps again. This time with a body free of pain and full of warmth.

Peace at last.