#ooc but fuck it we ball

[shalomniscient]

bring me the sun || arlecchino x reader

You are her sun and she is your moon, and she holds only the stars as witness to the way she loves you to the edges of the heavens and back.

cw: maybe ooc arle? was trying to hit that childhood friends to lovers angle but might have missed the mark. other than that, none !

wc: 1.6k

There are three things the inhabitants of the Hotel know about Father: her orders are absolute, her power is unquestionable, and that you are her utmost and only beloved.

Your visits to the Hotel were always highly anticipated—perhaps even more so than Father’s, at times. You traveled the world in your service of Arlecchino, and by extension the Tsaritsa, which also meant that every time you returned to the Hotel you brought new, exotic sweets along with you. The children clamored around you, tugging on your hands and the silks of your dress, all vying for your attention. You always smiled at the kids, rather than push them away like one would have expected a Fatuus to do—the cadence of your voice light as you entertained the excited children, warm and almost motherly. A bright morning sun in the gray winter. But an icy voice always smothered that warm moment like snow falling into a flame.

“That’s enough. Do you all not have other things to do?”

Father hardly ever left her office upon the arrival of guests—but you, always you, were the only exception. The other children scurried off immediately, unwilling to draw Father’s ire, but one child was a little too slow and hid behind your skirts, frozen in place as he watched Father descend the grand stairs. She moved slowly, a wolf to a lamb, her boots clicking like claws on the cold tile. That was the sort of presence Father commanded—frigid and loveless and distant like the moon. A light in the darkness, to be sure, but one would find no warmth in the Knave.

But then, you smile, a soft thing that bloomed across your equally soft features, the sun emerging from behind grey clouds. Achingly fond. The Knave’s coldness swept up and over you and right out the door as you beam, unbothered by the chill, and drop into a polite curtsey.

“My Lord,” you say, and the children watching from the wings swear they see Father’s lip twitch. But then her gaze passes over you to burn holes into the boy behind you, who quivers under the intensity of it.

“Have you forgotten your assigned duties for today, boy?” she asks, and the boy flinches ever so slightly. “Surely there are more pressing matters for you to attend to, rather than accost our guests?”

“Rest assured, I was not accosted, my Lord,” you interject quietly, placatingly, before the Harbinger could go any further. “I promised to bring sweets, last I was here. He was simply waiting for his share.”

Some would find your bravery admirable yet foolish. But the children know their Father better.

The rigid line of her shoulders relaxes ever so slightly, and she watches you with the calmness of first snow. No icy barb or frosty remark is hurtled your way—instead, the whirling blizzard that is the Knave quiets, as if subdued by you and you alone.

“Make haste, then,” is all she says, and you offer another sweet smile, pulling a few wrapped candies from your pocket and handing them to the boy. He kisses your hand in gratitude before scampering off, eager to escape from Father’s piercing gaze. Once he is gone, disappearing into the winding hallways of the Hotel, your expression falls into a frown, but the twinkle of mirth in your eyes is difficult to hide.

“Has anyone informed you how terribly mean you are, my Lord?” you tease, though your words and posture do not match the joviality of your tone. From afar, one would assume that this was simply another conversation between a superior and a servant. As if the words exchanged were for no one other than you and the Knave.

“No,” the Knave says, frigid as ever. “None have dared.”

“Then perhaps it is a blessing that I have returned,” you joke, and anyone could see the way Father’s entire body bleeds the tension it normally carries, as if you were drawing it out of her with each light word. As if your presence was a balm to her soul. As if to say, always. Father doesn’t deign your teasing with a response, but she may as well have.

“Let us talk more in my office,” she says. A blackened hand rises to rest on the small of your back, a gentle urge that you do not reject. It is such a far cry from the violence they could inflict, the devastation they could deal. “I have a pot of rose tea prepared.”

“Ah, my favourite! You remembered.”

“Of course,” the Knave says quietly, as if it were a universal fact, as if the idea of her forgetting was absurd and incomprehensible. Your gaze is kept forward, admiring the new paintings of sunrises and sunsets that line the walls as you both ascend the stairs, so you do not see it but the children do. They see the way Father’s eyes soften so imperceptibly in a way most didn’t think was possible for her. They see the way her features smoothen out, her typical sneer of cold condescenscion melting into not a smile, but something so close to fond.

When you both disappear behind the heavy doors of the Knave’s office, the children can’t help but wonder—do you know, that you held a Harbinger’s heart in your hands?

“You spoil them far too much,” Arlecchino says as the doors shut. The hand on your back has not left, but you do not want it to anyway. She guides you to sit on an opulent couch, the cushions the same blood red as Arlecchino’s cross-shaped pupils. On the coffee table is a familiar old teapot, the aroma of sugar and roses wafting from the spout.

“Perhaps you spoil them far too little,” you counter, watching as she poured you a cup of golden tea, those dark hands stark against the pale porcelain.

“They are children of the snow,” Arlecchino rebuts, placing your cup on a saucer. Her hands are steady. “They do not need to be spoiled.”

“And yet, they are still children,” you murmur, bringing the cup to your lips for a sip. The tea tastes sweet, with distinct floral notes—just the same as it tastes every other time you visit. She has your tastes down to a science. Over the rim of your cup you see Arlecchino’s expression twist before it mellows out, and she sighs quietly. She knows where your softness comes from. You, too, were both children once, even if it was difficult to remember ever being allowed to simply be a child. You both grew up far too quickly and far too cruelly—the only constant and comfort you could find was in each other. A truth that remains even now, years into the future.

“Your heart is too warm, mon soleil.”

You set your teacup down, a teasing grin pulling at your lips. “And perhaps yours is too cold, ma lune.”

Arlecchino simply hums. She indulges in your fun where she would have eviscerated anyone else. Instead, dark hands curl in the folds of your dress and with a light tug she has you straddling her lean thighs as her head lies on the couch’s cusions, neck craned upward to look lazily up at you. The pale column of her neck is exposed like this, and you stifle the urge to press your lips against it. Her hands find home on your hips, like they’ve done countless of times before.

“If that’s the case,” she whispers, low and temptous as one hand takes yours to press below her left breast, right above her heart, “won’t you help warm it up again, mon soleil?”

You lean down, cupping her face in your free hand. Dual toned hair falls into her dark eyes, a delightfully messy sight you so dearly missed. Your lips ghost over her own, and you laugh breathily as Arlecchino twitches forward ever so slightly, her eagerness rather cute—though you suspect she would sooner die rather than admit to being anything other than terrifying, least of all cute.

“As my Lord commands,” you croon, and you finally, finally kiss her. She all but melts beneath you, greedily chasing your kiss and the sweetness of roses. She normally loathes sweet things, but perhaps she could make an exception if she drank it directly from your lips. She kisses you as if she might lose you at any moment, slowly savouring all of you. Her blackened hands start to feel warm again, the heat of your body under her touch radiating through her own and making her feel the most alive since you left.

You are her sun. The source of her light, the centre of her universe. You remind her what it is like to be warm, when the chill of those faraway snowfields cut into her skin and bite deep into her bones. Sunshine lies just beneath your skin and Arlecchino craves it, needs it like a thorny rose to the light. It is only with you that she can be more than Arlecchino, more than the conniving Knave who lurks in the shadows. It is only with you, behind these closed doors in the comfort of her own space can she be just your lover, and be loved in turn, away from the prying eyes of the outside world.

You are her sun and she is your moon, and she holds only the stars as witness to the way she loves you to the edges of the heavens and back.

She wonders if you know this—if you can feel it in the way her lips move against yours. It is a silly thought, because when Arlecchino feels you smile into the kiss she knows you know.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

your boyfriend has a little habit of being sort of..spacey. or at least he looks like he is.

despite his..ditzy and aloof appearance. shouto is very acutely aware of his surroundings.

especially when you’re in said surroundings.

he’s walking along the hallways with his friends, they’re chatting about everything and nothing, school and about the results of their last test. shouto doesn’t feel the need to interject, happy to simply listen and respond when he’s spoken to. except his mind is also kind of elsewhere at the moment because even in there he’s looking for you.

no matter what he’s doing, shouto todoroki has a piece of you in his mind. if his friends are worrying about their test results he’s perfectly fine, cus he studied with you. the letters he sends to his mom talk about his daily life, with little details about you sprinkled in. his father is trying to coerce him into coming to his agency again, shouto thinks it’d be a lot more enjoyable if you were with him.

you’re not with them right now, because mr. aizawa had asked you to send in some papers to the teacher’s lounge. you said you’d catch up with your friends as soon as possible and shouto’s listening, he really is. but he’s also scanning the crowd hoping to catch a little glimpse of you.

“what about you, todoroki ?”

shouto blinks, hearing his name come out of his freckled friend’s lips as he blinks at him expectantly with a smile. ochaco and iida also seem to be awaiting a response.

okay, so maybe he hadn’t been listening as well as he claimed..

“i’m sorry. i didn’t catch that last part, what were you saying ?” he asks bluntly, midoriya doesn’t mind and he repeats “i was asking you how you think your test went.” he chirps, shouto hums thinking about the question.

“i studied well for it, so i think it went well,” his friends hum, iida congratulates him for staying focused on his academics, waving his hand around in chopping motions.

and of course, shouto is always looking for you, so nobody’s surprised when he adds “yn also helped me study, so i think i’ll be..”

everyone is surprised though when he suddenly trails off. and without another word shouto walks ahead of his friends further down the crowded hallway. the lack of “oh, give me a second.” or “ i’ll be right back.”, the lack of anything stuns the three students so hard they freeze into place. they wonder what could’ve made him speed off in such a hurry, until ochaco gets a good look and points towards the dual haired boy.

ah, shouto’s found you.

you’re surprised to see him, your eyes widen “oh, hey sho !” he returns your greeting, his face hasn’t really changed from an outsiders point of view, but he leans in towards you the moment the words leave your lips and his whole face has gone soft, almost pudgy when you smile at him.

“i didn’t except to see you, you scared me !”

he blinks at that, shock settles onto his face as he bows his head in shame “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to..” simple, but earnest and it makes you melt.

“oh no, no ! you just popped up outta nowhere and it surprised me is all, got nothing to be sorry about.” you reassured, shouto’s expression changes and he returns, nodding happily.

“i missed you.”

you snort “i was gone for at most 10 minutes, shouto.”

“it was 11 minutes. and i missed you during that one extra minute, too.” if he had a tail, it’d be wagging at the speed of sound the way his face brightens when you laugh. you call him unbelievable and a small smile grows on his face

he’s just about to ask if you need help with your bag when you suddenly wave behind him. at your friends, who all share a sort of teasing, but also absolutely not surprised look.

oh, woops..

[ihauntyoursocks]

🔥I NEED HIM GO GET SO MUCH WORSE🔥🔥

@gougtoug :DDDDDDDDDDDD thank you for this wonderful visual

[sparky-is-spiders]

Jonelias Week Day 1 (Which is definitely today I swear), for the prompt "No Powers AU"

This one... maybe got away from me. This is actually only the first half of what I've written so far, and probably the first third overall! I do plan to post this to Ao3 at some point (although I suspect I'll need to do a lengthy round of editing first lmao). It's some very self-indulgent nonsense, which is a lot of what I write, but now it's getting put in the main tags of a ship during said ship's event week. So. It may also be a little bit "aromantic dude tries to figure out what having a crush is supposed to be like." Also a lot of "dude who took Principals of Accounting once pretending it knows what office work is like." Anyway, quick warning before we begin, and the rest will be under the read-more:

Stalking (played for laughs) for most of the fic.

Just. A weird amount of obsession.

Ok that should be it I think. Fic under the cut.

Jon's new boss was, quite possibly, the most boring man in the world. He wore the same outfit every day (pale dress shirt with dark unpatterned tie and gray slacks and matching suit jacket). The only personal effect in his entire office was a potted plant on the windowsill (some sort of succulent, and definitely fake). He always arrived to work exactly half an hour early and left exactly half an hour late. The only hobby he appeared to show any interest in was scheduling, which he seemed to find both deeply engaging and remarkably irritating. In fact, he was apparently so opposed to the idea of mixing his work with his personal life that he might as well not have existed beyond the walls of their office. Jon had never been more fascinated by anyone else in his entire life.

It stared with the transfer to the accounting department. Elias had met with him personally to get him acclimated to his new role. He had been blandly polite, and blandly handsome, and Jon had stopped listening to him about five minutes into their conversation. It was probably bad form, really. The software Elias was droning on and on about sounded like it was about to become a central feature of his days. He really should've been paying attention to it. Instead, he pretended to make eye contact while zeroing in on the top of Bouchard's forehead (a very useful trick, really) and became inordinately focused on the small lock of hair that had fallen across it. It was terribly distracting, and Jon had wondered how he hadn't noticed it. And then he wondered how it had come to be there. And then he had built up an entire story involving a murder, an illicit affair with the assistant director of marketing, and the potted succulent. And then he had noticed Bouchard eying him with what could've been suspicion or amusement or irritation or nothing whatsoever, and had been forced to rapidly pretend to care about their company's bad debt expense policy. Bouchard had indulged him, and had spoken with the calm authority of someone who knew what they were talking about, and had even managed to avoid being overtly condescending (a feat forever out of Jon's reach). At the end he had shaken Jon's hand (with a nice, firm grip), and had told him "I'm looking forward to working with you, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful member of our team." Jon had left that meeting with a mind shrouded in a fog of boredom and a faint sensation of warmth which he decided was best attributed to curiosity and left otherwise unexamined. Over the next few weeks, Jon had tried to subtly inquire into Bouchard's life. At the time, he had been naively under the impression that surely he must have let slip something about his life; some odd quirk or funny story or harmless bit of information which could justify Jon's blooming curiosity. Unfortunately; "He lives in Chelsea, I'm pretty sure?" (Sasha) "He's currently in a meeting. Honestly Jon, you'll be better off just sending an email. Now can I please get back to work?" (Rosie, probably lying about the meeting) "He actually lives here in the office. Set up a cozy little home away from home in one of the storage closets and sneaks out at night to raid the canteen. And he's having an affair with the assistant director of marketing." (Tim, definitely lying (but maybe a mind reader? Also, full of brilliant ideas for places Jon could maybe set up a cot whenever he needs to stay overnight)) Clearly, Jon would have to take matters into his own hands if he wanted answers. That was fine. It could be his own private little research project.

Jon liked to think that the entire thing had actually been quite reasonable, and that he had acted within the bounds of their pre-established relationship as employee and supervisor. Surely any rational person had to realize that nobody could possibly be that uninteresting. Anyone would be curious as to what dark secrets Bouchard his behind his well-tailored suits and polite, professional demeanor. … perhaps most rational persons would not meticulously record the movements, behavior, and daily appearance of their colleague in a discreet notebook (with annotations, color-coding, and graphs where appropriate), but Jon had always prided himself on his dedication to research and understanding. So far Jon had collected frustratingly little data. If Bouchard was hiding anything, it wasn't apparent from his schedule (see pages 8-13, figure 2.b), his eating habits (see page 22), or his lone plant (see page five, figure 1.c). His breaks did seem specially timed to avoid other people (and he appeared not to engage in many social behaviors generally), but he never acted irritated or otherwise unhappy to encounter one of his subordinates, so Jon wasn't entirely sure if it was deliberate avoidance or simple coincidence. Really, the only truly odd thing about him was his inexplicable interest in Jon. That very morning, for example, Bouchard had stopped by his cubicle for a fifteen minute discussion on the upcoming Annual Team Luncheon, an event Jon had never attended before (due to an annual migraine which coincidentally always happened to occur on the exact date of the luncheon), which Jon did not plan to attend, and which honestly sounded like some sort of violation of the Geneva Convention. The topic itself was not especially odd (small talk was an archaic tradition which had stubbornly clung on in every workplace Jon had ever set foot in), but Bouchard's low propensity for inter-office socialization combined with the fact that he had both chosen Jon specifically as his conversational partner was… highly suspicious. Most people who encountered Jon inevitably concluded that he was more effort than he was worth (an attitude Jon mostly appreciated).

And of course, there had also been their interaction two days ago, when Elias had paused briefly to inquire as to whether Jon would be staying late, and what he was working on, and if he might perhaps consider heading home soon because there was only so much overtime they could pay him. Or on Friday, when he had managed to hold two separate conversations with Jon where very little was said. Honestly, Jon somewhat suspected that Elias had spoken to him more in the past few weeks than he had spoken to any of their colleagues for the entire time Jon had been there to observe him. Most of Jon's notes were now dedicated to their interactions. From his cot in the unused storage room (which was indeed a good place to stay overnight, thank you Tim), he could jot down everything he recalled about their interaction; it had begun at 8:32 and had concluded at 8:47; the weather was warm and slightly humid, although the office interior remained at a comfortable 21 °C. Bouchard's shirt had been a nice, cool gray, which complemented the silver of his eyes. Jon (who had been busy digging for his favorite pen (the ink was a lovely deep green color, and it was usually kept on the left side of the top desk drawer, and Jon had no idea where else it could have possibly gone)) had settled on "irritation" as his tone, which Bouchard either had not noticed or had not cared enough to acknowledge. He had easily dominated the conversation, and Jon could admit in the sanctity of his research journal that his voice had been soothing enough to cool away some of Jon's annoyance. He wrote his conclusion: Subject behaved near-identically in tone, posture, body language, and apparent mood as he has in all previous communications. Subject displayed no strong thoughts or opinions on subject of discussion nor conversational partner. Interaction was pleasant but slightly dull, no new information discovered. It was almost exactly the same as every previous conclusion. Jon had to admit, so many months with so little progress was… discouraging. He shifted on the narrow mattress and winced when his movements aggravated his backache (which was surely unrelated to his frequent occupancy of the cot). It was becoming more and more apparent that the only possible solution was to do some actual, direct investigation. His first idea (break into Bouchard's office) seemed a tad far (also, he didn't know how to pick locks). His second idea (follow him home) seemed a stretch further than the previous one, and was perhaps best saved as a last resort. His third idea (something something computers? (perhaps "idea" was a bit generous)) would almost certainly require Sasha, who would have questions Jon couldn't answer. He flipped idly through his notes, half-skimming, half-thinking. It was only when his gaze landed on figure 2.b, Weekly Schedule of E. Bouchard, that he actually came up with something reasonable. Something actionable.

[whereismyfoot]

“ Hello everyone. Does anybody know how to talk to the creator of roblox? Somebody just scammed my daughter for her mega neon fly ride strawberry bat dragon, and the rest of her pets on the roblox game, 'Adopt Me'. I did not spend over a hundred dollars for this shit. ”

[askchilchuck]

(Sent this on Halloween lol) HAPPY HALLOWEEN :D

-squeaker-juice 🪲🧃

Happy Halloween, everyone! Make sure to pace yourself with the candy, okay?

[black-cherry-faygo]

The Daredevil costume was fucking itchy.

It was also tight, Dex grunting as he moved, the fabric scraping against some bruises on his ribs as he sat up on the roof, watching the building.

A heavy pair of footsteps appeared behind him before they scraped to a stop and Dex turned around, ready to ask what the hell the person was staring at before he stopped as well.

The Punisher was standing right behind him.

He looked every bit as intimidating as the media portrayed him. Buzzed hair with dark eyes that seemed to pierce into Dex. That white skull emblazoned onto his clothing, subtle.

Dex stood, The Punisher eyed him, like he was examining him over. The other man’s jaw clenched. Dex thought Fisk had mentioned something about Daredevil and Punisher having fought together, he nodded to him,

“Hello”

“Hey again” Punisher said, those dark eyes still staring into him. Dex speaking again,

“What brings you around here, Punisher?” he asks, “Kitchen’s my turf”

The brick of the roof colliding with Dex’s back knocks the wind out of him, for such a large man, he didn’t expect the other to move that fast.

“Where’s Red?”

“Pardon?” Dex coughs up and Punisher chuckles, a dry and sarcastic noise as he has Dex pinned,

“You think I haven’t heard? About you killing folks? Red doesn’t do that, would never fucking do that, you aren’t him…he doesn’t fucking call me by that name”

Dex internally cusses. Apparently the Punisher and Daredevil were closer than he thought, it’s obvious as the former leans down to snarl in his ear, voice dripping with barely restrained fury,

“I’ll ask again, where’s my Red?”

[relentlessconqueror]

sylus to mc (original under cut)

link to tweet

[drifting-stars-dipper]

Day... uh...

listen. i can't remember. it's been a while. i'm tired. i talked with mabel the other day and she's okay but i'm still so scared something might happen to her before we meet up. when... when was the last time i slept? or ate? or made one of these reports. i feel sick.

the multiverse is still weird and crazy and wild. normal multiverse craziness. saw a world die and burn and shrivel up next to me the other day.

anyways. ask me questions and stuff. i need something to... keep me sane right now.

[ritterdoodles]

Saw that one meme on Twitter and I couldn't resist

[yearningfortheend]

Blood dealerrrr @suspiciousamountofblood

...It better not be poisoned. You remember the agreement.

[harmonia-university]

Pretty random: If you were to turn any of your characters into a dragon type, which character world it be and to which dragon type would you turn them?

No particular reason

[crustyfloor]

Ways of endearment for the observers

Was there a part of you hoping you could mimic what they had?

Status: Completed

Words: 2k

Read on AO3

Read here:

Mizi and Sua were something special, among all the other kids in Anakt Garden. They were the closest to each other. Ivan hadn’t seen Sua smile more when she wasn’t near Mizi. Mizi had that kind of effect on people Ivan guessed.

“Mizi….for you.” 

Ivan observed the two from his desk nearby. In Sua’s hand was a miniature version of a flower crown and a rare look of nervousness on her face when the creation was taken by Mizi. But of course, even though it looked bad. Nothing compared to the ones Till made. Mizi still accepted it with a big smile and grabbed Sua in a tight hug to which the other girl averted his eyes and mumbled something Ivan couldn’t hear.

Till liked flower crowns. If the many hours Ivan had spent seeing Till make flower crowns with ease all the time even when they weren’t meant for anyone in particular was any proof. If he liked them so much, Ivan wondered. If he were to make one for Till instead, would Till like it the way Mizi does?

And so here he was now, carefully threading two stems together as he remembered seeing Till do it many times before, though admittedly Ivan wasn’t as good at this, the result was anything but a proper flower crown. But he still found himself proud of it, proud enough to present it to Till with a smile. 

“What’s that..?”

Till asks as he glances up from his notepad and pauses his rapid scribbling. Instead, focusing on the flower crown Ivan was holding. And not the Mizi doodle. Just Ivan. 

“It’s a flower crown,” Ivan said with a practiced chirpy tone as he placed it on Till’s head, a single flower fell onto Till’s lap. “Do you like it?” 

Till slowly took the flower crown off and gave a look when the whole thing crumpled from the impact and then snorted. 

“No. it’s bad.” 

“Oh.” Ivan breathed. Well, he knew that already. So it didn’t hurt when Till said it, but maybe a part of him was expecting Till to put on a smile anyway and be happy about it, but alas he wasn’t like Mizi in that sense. 

There was silence a long stretch of silence between the two, awkward as Till averted his eyes and huffed, grabbing the bundle of flowers with bent stems. 

“Sit down…. I’ll teach you how to make a better one” Till replied curtly, snapping Ivan out of his thoughts and he immediately took a seat next to Till as he began explaining how to properly tie the stems together. 

‘Well….This is good enough too.’

————

Till was beside him, still visibly seething after taking a thorough scolding from their teacher for drawing during class. 

This didn’t stop Ivan from trying to tease Till about it when they took their seats at lunch, which caused him to get a thorough verbal beating from Till…. so it was apparent Till was too busy to talk. 

That left Ivan with nobody to talk to but two eyes to look around and entertain himself by watching his peers. Mostly everyone was minding their business and eating if not talking to the person beside them. Ivan’s eyes were easily drawn to the vibrant pink hair that stuck out among the crowd first. A few tables away Mizi and Sua were sitting together as they always were. Seemingly in their own world as Mizi was happily talking, facing Sua who was more focused on the braid she was making with the thick strand of Mizi’s hair than what Mizi was saying but still nodded and replied things Ivan couldn’t hear now and then. 

Ivan averted his eyes away from the girls and back to Till who had looked to calm down, distractedly stabbing the small pile of white rice on his tray with his spoon. Ivan’s mind went to a time when Till had mumbled something along the lines of “Would she touch my hair too if I grew it longer…” and when Ivan popped up behind him and asked what he said Till jumped in place and proceeded to shout at Ivan. 

Ivan had read in one of those cheesy romance books that he happened to pick up one day and put back the next, a girl was getting her hair braided by a guy she had a crush on. She described her feelings as “butterflies.” It sounded silly to Ivan, but he wondered. Was that what Mizi felt when Sua touched her hair? Would Till get that same fluttery feeling if it was Ivan doing it to him instead? 

It was now later in the day. The sky was a bright orange and curfew creeping around the corner Ivan had gotten bored of making faces at the sky so he sought out Till as he always did. And he wasn’t hard to find. Ivan, as expected found Till already lying by the tree asleep. Till had a weird knack for sleeping everywhere but his bed and Ivan had half a mind to throw something at him to wake him up but decided against it when his eyes caught on the sight of Till’s usual untamed, wild grey hair, and then his mind wandered back. Till’s hair wasn’t quite long anymore so it would be difficult to make a solid braid but it didn’t stop Ivan from slowly settling down beside the boy and grabbing at a few strands.

Till’s hair was rougher than it should be. 

Well, to be expected Ivan guessed. If he couldn’t help to go a day without causing his uniform to rip and stain then why would he bother keeping up with his hair? Thats okay. 

And so for the next few minutes, Ivan meticulously ran his hand through till hair, meticulously taking out and tearing at every knot until he was unable to catch on anything else. 

It looked softer now and Ivan couldn’t help but feel proud of himself for his work. It was only when Till started to shift did he realized he was waking up and removed his hands. Looking innocent when till woke up, at the weird dull throbbing in his scalp he cast Ivan a suspicious glance. 

————

Ivan had expected Mizi to be the first one to go. But in a less than surprising turn of events Sua had been the one to fall to the floor, surrounded in a pool of her blood. Ivan watched as Mizi’s stiff body had to be dragged away from Sua after not responding to her name for the third time. Ivan felt a little sympathy for her. He remembered her being so excited only a few hours ago, hugging Sua tightly after assuring her that they would show the aliens ‘the best duo they’ve ever seen’ and that they could make it out together. All they needed to do was be themselves. That mizi loved her and she believed in them. All that positivity amounted to nothing at the end of the day. It’s such cruelty that she had to have her bubble popped in such a horrific way. Wouldn’t it have been better for Sua to spare that innocence such a rude awakening?

It put a knot in Ivan’s stomach.

Through the side of his eye, he looked to Till who was a few pods down staring down at the scene with widened eyes, Similarly, the reality was dawning on Till too. Just where the hell they were right now. What they were fighting for. 

Minutes after Mizi was taken off the stage cleaning crew came in. For the few minutes to an hour cleaning crew would spend ridding the pristine white stage of crimson red the participants were allowed back into the building for a breather. He, Mizi, and Till were all gathered into a room, two heavy doors weighed down by heavier iron kept them inside, a precaution for those who may decide to try their luck at escaping. 

The silence was profound as everyone stood in separate areas of the room, taking in what they had just seen. And for once, Till wasn’t even looking Mizi’s way as he was seemingly lost in his head thinking.

Mizi, on the other hand. She was well, not okay. At all. It didn’t take a genius to know why. She had a distant look in her shocked eyes as she touched the long-since-dried blood splatter on her cheek with a gloved hand. 

After a minute, an alien came in and pulled Mizi out taking her somewhere else and leaving only him and a still stunned Till. Huh. He and Sua weren’t even close, so why was he acting like this? Perhaps now would be a good time to say something. The cleaning crew wasn’t going to take forever, and Till still had his round to win. So Ivan did that. 

“Till.” No response came when he approached the boy’s side. 

“Till.”

“Till?-“ 

“Ivan.” 

The sound of his name from Till’s mouth sent a shiver down his spine, he hadn’t heard that in a while. But he didn’t stay that way for too long as he settled down on the floor next to Till.

Don’t let it get to your head. 

“Sua’s dead.. They killed her…” Till breathed out, pulling his knees close to his chest. 

“I…I mean…shit, I don’t know. That is what this is about but, she and Mizi were doing so well…the plan looked like it was working..” 

“It was always just meant to be a shallow hope.” was what Ivan wanted to say. But that wouldn’t be helpful. And Till was still talking, to himself at this point. He wasn’t addressing Ivan but also simultaneously using him as a brain dump.

Till then seemed to have realized he was rambling and shut his mouth after a while. Awkwardly averting his eyes from Ivan’s direction. Well, to be expected but at least Till hadn’t moved away yet. Looking at him, it was clear he was still on edge. when Ivan thought up some small words of comfort they didn’t come to light on his tongue, it didn’t feel right. It probably wouldn’t be of any use anyway considering it would only work if it was genuine. So instead, without much thought he extended a hand and brushed it over Till’s shoulder in a brief show of hesitancy before giving in and grabbing Till’s shoulder in a firm grip. Ivan hoped Till knew what he was trying to say with that when they locked eyes for a second and Till wordlessly eased into the touch. 

—————

Ivan felt like he was burning

Despite the bone-chilling drops of artificial rain pouring down on him, suffocating him the same way he was suffocating Till now. Just barely. Because no matter how much he willed himself. His grip never got tighter. He didn’t know why. But it didn’t matter, he just needed to make it look convincing. 

And it seems it was working. 

Thump. 

Till was like a dead weight in his hands. Ivan wanted him to move, to keep trying to pry him off, anything. He was trying to find Till. Instead, he was looking straight at a hollow body that was supposed to hold a person but was more like what he always was, a beaten-down boy with nothing left to lose and nothing left to live for. It was like he was already dead in Ivan’s hands. Ivan didn’t know how to feel. 

‘Do you want to leave me that badly? Of course, you do. It’s not me you care about leaving, after all.’ 

Thump. 

Ivan wished he had the heart to give Till what he wanted, but he was selfish. Unworthy of Till’s grace, his attention, even in his last moments. Ivan was nothing compared to Mizi anyway. He would never have the place he desperately tried to claim in Till’s heart for years. He was okay with that. 

‘….’

Was this how Sua felt? When Mizi was singing her heart out thinking that together, they were stronger than the chains holding them down. Whilst she was always too aware of the weight that would inevitably crush them and their spirits? 

Ivan would’ve laughed if not for the stinging in his side preventing him from even retaining the hold he had on Till. To think he was once disgusted at Sua for doing what she did. Painfully etching her memory in Mizi’s mind the way she did. And then turning around and doing the same for the man who wouldn’t even glance his way, even now. Ivan wondered what Till would think if he did.

He was a hypocrite. 

He could accept that. 

But at least, Ivan was better than Sua. Ivan would only be a fleeting memory to Till. And what was Ivan if not a hopeless follower if he was content with that? It was more than he deserved for the person he was.

Thump. 

For these shallow emotions that never mattered, Ivan would die and Till would survive to the end of this, maybe even find Mizi again. Maybe escape Alien stage. Hopefully, live a life worth living like he dreamed of when they were kids.

Ivan’s vision started to blur as an indescribable weight burdened his eyelids. A stinging in his throat and the feel of burning liquid running down his chin sealed his fate as his shaking hands separated from Till’s neck, instantly the other eyes shot open, and then—

…

‘Oh. You’re looking at me.’

[paramounticebound]

Consider this a lil' starter call for old and new followers alike. Multis please specify or it'll be whoever strikes my fancy.

[shalomniscient]

lord above and below i’m so down horrendous for clorivia it’s not even funny 😭😭 brainrotting a clorivia x reader fic where you run a cafe with arguably the best macarons and tea in fontaine, which of course, in turn attracts rather high profile clientele to your humble store. two of your favourite customers just happen to be the most downright sinfully beautiful women in all of fontaine: the president of the spina di rosula, lady navia, and the one and only champion duelist, lady clorinde.

they used to come here often, together, in a younger, softer time, all intertwined hands and chaste kisses. but time crawls ever forward, and life is ever cruel. you see it in real time as they fall apart, a bystander constrained to the sidelines. it hurts, maybe more than it should, but you are nothing if not a good host. you sit with navia and rub her back as she weeps quietly into your shoulder, and you hold clorinde’s hand as she stares forlornly at her tea, that look of guilt seemingly etched permanently onto her face.

the wounds don’t heal, not truly, but they scab over. navia no longer cries in your arms, blossoming into her role as the president of the spina di rosula. she brings you her own baked goods sometimes, helpfully carried by the two impeccably dressed men flanking her at all times. she always sits next to you in the little private room in the parlor, pressed flush to your side as she chatters about the goings-on in fontaine. her cheer is infectious, and there’s always a smile on your face that you can’t seem to shake for the rest of the day when she leaves.

clorinde is still as reserved as ever, but she looks more like herself than she did after that fateful duel. she stops by rather often, but doesn’t stay for as long as navia does, getting a quick fix of tea before heading off to the opera epiclese. but nonetheless she always makes time to talk with you, gloved hands somehow always finding your own, idly playing with your fingers as she grumbles about some idiotic dispute she was hired to settle between cousins, or how a certain friend of hers wouldn’t stop pestering her to try and get your top-shelf teas for him on discount. (you try and give her some to pass to him, but she only looks you dead in the eyes and blandly says, “don’t. he hardly deserves it.” you, as an ever excellent host, decide not to question it.)

such was the status quo for the next decade. somehow, navia and clorinde coordinated their visits in such a way that they would never cross paths. your chest ached as you grieved what once was, but what right did you have to pry into that deep, festering wound? you could only pray to some higher power—certainly not furina, regardless of how entertaining she was as an individual—that someday those two might find peace yet again.

your prayers are miraculously answered in the form of a blonde traveler, who in the span of two weeks solved the serial disappearance case and somehow managed to get clorinde and navia speaking again. frankly, it sounds insane, but you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

clorinde comes to you first with the news, and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen the champion duelist as anything other than calm, cool and confident. there’s a flush to her cheeks and the slightest hint of a rare, girlish smile on her lips as she tells you, and for a moment you’re seized by how cute she is.

“navia… asked me to have tea with her,” she says slowly, though her giddy energy is difficult to ignore. “is her— are her tastes still the same?”

navia never lost legendary sweet tooth, and you inform clorinde as much. she brightens immediately, like a puppy that had just been praised. it’s so ridiculously cute you feel like your heart would burst. and then she’s pressing her lips to the back of your hand in farewell, before striding purposefully down the street, no doubt in the direction of the nearest bakery to scope out her options.

(and you pretend you don’t feel the gnawing loneliness in your belly, because you love her. you love her, more than you know, and more than you should.)

navia visits next, more put together than clorinde, but you’ve known her long enough to notice the nervousness in the restless movement of her hands. navia wilts on the plush cushions of the parlor, draping herself across your lap.

“it’s been so long, i don’t know if i— if clorinde—“ she begins, her voice tense and maybe even a little afraid. “what if i don’t know her anymore?”

you brush navia’s golden curls back with your hand, and meet her eyes. “isn’t that what you invited her to tea for? to relearn what you forgot, and learn what is new?”

“you always know what to say, don’t you?” navia sighs ruefully, but her eyes twinkle with affection. it makes your heart pitter-patter in your chest.

“well, i am a wonderful host.”

“yeah,” navia murmurs, her gloved hand reaching up to take your hand. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

her tone is achingly sincere, and you look away. a part of you fears what you would find in her gaze. a greater part fears what she would find in yours.

(love. love, steeped in the quiet confines of your soul for longer than you remember. a love that you would never give voice, because you know it is not you who navia loves.)

their fateful tea date eventually rolls around, and you hope they don’t see the way your smile wobbles as you see them walk in, navia’s arm tentatively looped around clorinde’s. clorinde says something and navia throws her head back and laughs, soulful and sweet and nothing you’d ever achieved before. you lead them to the private parlor, and before either of them can insist that you stay, for old time’s sake, you rattle off some excuse about needing to take inventory. you don’t linger long enough to see their expressions twist in concern, slipping out the door and shutting it behind you. it takes all of your willpower not to slide down the door and choke out a sob.

really, it makes no sense. they’re your closest friends. if anything, you should be ecstatic that they’ve sorted out the bad blood between them, and are mending their relationship. so why— why does your traitorous chest feel like it’s on fire when you see them together?

(deep down, you know why. you wished so desperately that they would look at you like that—like you hung the stars in the sky, like you’re more than just some normal person who happens to own a tea shop. like you’re more than just a friend.)

but you are nothing if not an excellent host, so you pack your bleeding heart back into a neat little box and go on with your work. clorinde and navia spend nearly the entire day in the parlor, and you have a waiter pop in every once in a while to top-up the tea and snacks. after the third refill, he mentions offhandedly, “i didn’t know lady clorinde and lady navia were that close! they were practically all over each other.”

your other staff coo and giggle conspiratorially, but it feels like someone had driven a blade through your chest. tears sting at your eyes and you blink furiously to clear them. in the end, you leave the shop early, passing the responsibility of closing and cleaning up to your most senior staff member. he doesn’t question your sudden need to return home, but he does put a gentle hand on your shoulder, as if to comfort you, even if he doesn’t really know what was happening.

distantly, you think you should give him a raise. he was certainly an excellent host.

you drown your sorrows in red that night, not bothering with a glass and heading straight for the bottle. you know a few nobles who would cease their patronage at your shop if they ever saw you comitting such alcoholic blasphemy, but unfortunately for them you could not find it in yourself to care. self-loathing and something just like heartbreak swirl like a storm in your soul, fierce enough that an entire bottle was barely enough to dampen it.

as you lie in bed, alone, you wonder what it would be like to share one with either of them. would clorinde curl around you, the big spoon, ever protective and honourable, even in sleep? would navia bury her face into your shoulder like she used to, her warm breath tickling over the skin of your collarbones?

in the end, you curl in on yourself.

(you wish it was enough.)

you make it a point to busy yourself with something whenever they come in together. you fire off practiced excuse after excuse whenever they invite you to join them—a meeting with a business partner, another advance booking by a client, or simply that you were just too busy. they’re weak and flimsy, but clorinde and navia do not try to get you to stay, either.

yet for some reason, they become more tactile with you than ever. navia clings onto your arm whatever chance she gets, interlocking your fingers together because she likes the way they fit in hers. clorinde tends to hover behind you sometimes, a steady hand on your lower back as you move through the crowded teahouse, her touch warm even through her gloves and the layers of your own clothes.

you can hardly look either of them in the eye anymore, and you can hardly stand to touch them, even the slightest brush of either of their fingers against your skin feeling like you’re being burned. like their touch might cut you open and suddenly you’d be bleeding your foolish longing all over the carpet.

no. you could not— would not let that happen. you wouldn’t be the one to get in between them like that. truly, you’d rather die. so you pull back and back and back, but what you don’t expect is how navia would go so far as to corner you one night as you close up the shop, her brows knitted in worry. it was just you and her, since you had sent your staff home early.

“are you alright?” she asks gently, as if she might scare you off if she spoke too loudly. “did i— have i done something to upset you?”

“no!” you sputter before you could stop yourself. “no, not at all! it wasn’t anything that you did.”

navia frowns. “but it is something.”

you bite your tongue, and look away from her piercing, blue gaze. her intelligence was always something you’d admired about her, but having it be used against you was nerve-wracking.

“it’s nothing, navia,” you whisper, mustering all your willpower to not let your voice splinter. “i have to go.”

you make to back out the door, only to collide with a lean frame. you crane your neck back and your breath hitches as your eyes meet electro purple—clorinde.

“i’m sorry,” she says, a quiet firmness in her tone, “but i cannot let you leave until i—we—understand what’s happening.”

“you both…! it’s really nothing!” your voice has gotten uncomfortably pitchy, desperation settling in your bones like dead weight. “i’m alright, really!”

“you’ve been avoiding us,” navia points out. “you can hardly even stay in the same room with both of us.”

“i don’t— i would hate to impose,” you say lamely. “i’m sure you both have plenty to catch up on, and i don’t need to be there for something so… private.”

“we want you to be there,” clorinde counters with a shake of her head. you almost laugh at the unassuming cruelty of her words.

“why?”

“because i love you,” navia says, taking your hands in hers, and for a moment you forget how to breathe. the world spins and your knees nearly give out beneath you, but clorinde is there, steady as a hammer, her front pressed to your back. she leans down, and her lips ghost the tender skin of your neck. “we love you.”

“navia is right,” she murmurs against your flesh. “i’m sorry that we perhaps did not make it clear enough for you.”

“this— what are you both even talking about? is this some kind of joke?”

navia looks almost hurt by the accusation. “of course not!” she takes one of your hands and places it on her chest, her expression one of resolute determination. “can you feel my heartbeat? can’t you feel my sincerity?”

beneath your palm, navia’s heart beats steady and true and devastatingly honest.

you bite your lip, a weak noise between a sob and a wet, disbelieving laugh bubbling from your throat. navia moves closer, wiping the tears from your eyes, much the same way you did all those years ago. after a moment, all you can manage is a weak, exhausted, “why? why me?”

you are just the owner of a tea shop. navia is the president of a national organisation well-known for helping the fontainian everyman. clorinde is the champion duelist, the best human combatant in all of fontaine. hell, you don’t even have a vision! so why—

“because you’re you,” navia answers, an easygoing smile lighting her features. “after my father died, i was lost. i didn’t even know what i wanted to do, or how i felt. if i was angry, or if i was sad. but somehow, you always knew. you were the only one who didn’t treat me like glass. you know, i don’t think i would be the person i am today without you.”

“after that duel, you were the first person to ask if i was alright,” clorinde adds softly, so close you could feel her breath fan along your ear. “you’re also the only person who picked up on my nightmares. in those coming weeks, the only reason i could sleep at night was thanks to your blends. no one… no one else cared about me like that. you’re extraordinary.”

oh, you’re really sobbing now. they’ve gone and done it.

“but aren’t you both already…?” you force out between each shaky inhale. oh archons, if you had to choose between one or the other you really would die tonight.

“yes,” clorinde affirms, “but we want you to be part of it too.”

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way,” navia says hurriedly, “we can forget this conversation ever happened. your friendship still means a lot to us.”

“no,” you admit. “no, i don’t think i can stay just friends. i’m a little too in love with both of you for that.”

navia beams, and she’s looking at you like you’re the centre of her world. her hands cup your cheeks, smoothing over the ridge of your cheekbones. behind you, clorinde chuckles, a low rumble as she nuzzles her face into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo as her arms loop around your waist. navia leans in close, so close that her words are whispered right against your lips.

“can i kiss you?”

you answer her by surging forward and pressing your lips to hers. she greedily drinks you in, the taste of salt from your tears and the sweetness of her lip gloss mingling. navia kisses you with fervor and infectious joy, that you’re both giggling almost deliriously as you pull apart.

“i think clorinde would like a kiss too,” navia coos suggestively, wiggling her brows at the duelist behind you. clorinde rolls her eyes good-naturedly, but tilts your head up and to the side with a gloved hand, and slots her lips against yours.

your lungs empty of air as she kisses you, an electric feeling thrumming in your veins. clorinde tastes like rose tea, a blend you made especially for her, and your stomach flutters. her large hand cups your jaw as her tongue teases the seam of your lips, drawing a breathy noise from you. at some point, navia had moved closer to you, your fronts pressed flush together as she nosed at your neck, peppering the sensitive skin with butterfly kisses.

“i love you,” you whisper, sandwiched as you were between them. “both of you.”

navia hums against your neck, kissing your racing pulse. “we know.”

“we love you too,” clorinde finishes for her. she kisses you again, chaster this time, but when she pulls back there’s a glint in her purple eyes that makes heat coil in your belly. “we’ll make sure to show you tonight.”

[vastiitas]

pov: this is the look he gives u cos he's in love w u tbqh