#promise you won't write

[where-our-stories-start]

Fellow Travelers (1x05) / (1x08)

[tonydaddingham]

yeah no this is actually my favourite response so far

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: not gonna even acknowledge the time break between chappies... all i'm gonna say happy cassian chappie ! <3! i hope u all enjoy it mwah thank u for reading

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: Adjusting to life in Velaris means learning to train with new, friendly faces. A tentative friendship forms. Azriel keeps his distance.

CHAPTER NINE :: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)

Whoosh.

Training staff gripped tightly in your calloused hands, you swing with a muscle memory built over decades, the stick whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard.

You're going through the motions. A simple warm-up, running a drill that you've done enough times you could probably do it in your sleep. The movements are familiar, easy. Routine.

If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you're still in Exordor.

Except... there's no familiar wind current to perform its melody in the early morning, dancing through the mountainside trees. No frozen chill to the air around you. No crunch of snow beneath your feet to throw your balance. No bound chest to chafe your skin.

No looking over your shoulder in pure panic at every unexpected noise.

Well, not quite that last one. It's a habit you're dedicated to breaking for the sake of your shot nerves — but evidently failing, considering how you straighten up and whip around when the door leading out to the training ring shudders open.

You hold your breath on instinct and clutch the training staff tighter.

Stepping out into the early morning air, the dawn still unbroken, is another Illyrian warrior.

Mother, how many of them were there around here?

You hadn't got to meet anyone else after that encounter on the balcony, almost exactly one week ago. Hadn't exactly wanted to either.

You hadn't even wanted to see Azriel again so soon after the churning, sickening twist of emotions you had barely managed to stumble through after your severe reawakening.

He hadn't come to see you.

You hadn't asked.

Besides Madja, Rhysand was the only new face you had come to know. He had taken to coming by your room a couple times over the week, checking on the progress of your healing, particularly sympathetic on the state of your wings. Revealed his own with a polite flourish.

He was... different than you were expecting. Perhaps you were learning that rumours are not everything — certainly it's clear that there is more to Rhysand than what first appears.

As Highlord, he had to discuss your potential living situations once you were healed enough to leave the infirmary.

I meant what I said. He had said, violet eyes kind as he hovered at the end of your bed. You're no prisoner here. You'll be free to go wherever you wish, even back to Exordor if that's what you decide.

And if I don't? You had whispered, your gaze fixed on the fine sheets of the bed. If I decide that... I have no home there anymore?

Then you'll have a home here. For as long as you would like.

And though it overrode every single instinct you had learned to trust, everything that had kept you alive this long, you chose to take his word for it.

Rhys said no harm would befall you in Velaris and you would be welcome here for as long as wanted.

But... that didn't mean you were exactly looking to make new friends.

Staring the newcomer that enters the balcony with much less grace than that of usual Illyrians, you watch him closely, not quite daring to take a breath.

At a first glance, you had thought it might be Azriel—heart leaping up your throat—but that was quickly washed away. Something in you knew from the hair standing up on the nape of your neck, before you even saw him properly, that this male was utterly unfamiliar to you.

He's taller, you realise. His hair is a longer and he doesn't quite move with the grace of the Shadowsinger — though, perhaps you are just so unused to seeing a male so relaxed. So caught off guard, in fact, that when he turns he gives a little yelp in surprise.

"Fuck!" He says, one of his large hands jumping out and clenching into a fist —his whole body switching to a fighting stance, you realise— before he relaxes again. His fist uncurls into a less threatening open palm.

"I- sorry, just didn't realise anyone else was out here." His fighting stance melts away, open palm still extended. He gives what you think might be a friendly smile.

You don't respond, only gripping the training staff a little tighter. Every hackle is raised, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, and your entire body winding itself up to prepare to fight, if it comes down to it.

The male seems to realise this as his next move is to raise both hands, palms out, the universal signal for surrender. They're large, tanned, and void of the scars you've come to know on Azriel.

However, where there are usually shimmering cobalt blue siphons, this newcomer has dazzling ruby red ones instead. You count each of his. Seven.

Your throat tightens — like all of Illyria, you've heard of this warrior too. The Lord of Bloodshed.

He doesn't exactly look so fearsome at the moment, his expression easy-going, even friendly, from behind his raised hands.

He seems to be waiting for you to make a move or to speak but after a moment, he realises neither are going to happen.

"Rhys said there might be another Illyrian around." He says, taking a tentative step forward, in the direction of the training ring, letting his hands drop to his side. You notice how he tucks his wings in a little more, like he might be trying to be respectable. Polite.

He's watching you closely. "Didn't mention you were a female, though."

Instinct makes you want to sneer in response — the only time Illyrian males bother bring up the differences in sex is to make some nasty comment about the biological weakness of females.

Not born to be warriors. They spit. Fragility is bred into them from the moment they're conceived. Breakable. Less than. A female in the training ring has as much place does as a male does in the kitchen.

But this male... says female in a way you've never quite heard before. As though he's somewhere closer to awe.

"My name is Cassian," The male introduces himself, his tentative steps becoming more of a stroll as he wanders across to the weapons stand. He eyes them halfheartedly, his focus still on you.

He turns lightly, tucking in one of his wings to peer back at you. "And yours is...?"

You still haven't moved, only tracking his movements with a slight shift of your eyes. Part of you wonders if he already knows your name and he's simply being polite.

Cassian nods as though you've spoken, despite the fact you haven't made a sound.

"Okay, not a big talker, I get it." He dips his head in a little nod, giving you an easy smile, then a quick wink. "Promise I don't bite."

No reaction. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a joke or not.

Either way, Cassian turns and focuses on his selection, pulling one of the training staffs off the weapons rack into his strong, sure grip.

Despite Rhysand's promise, your heart begins to rabbit wildly.

You wonder if this is some sickening game of cat and mouse—if he's perhaps going to tire you out before he selects his true weapon. If he wants you to know he can best you, even without a blade at his disposal.

You're a decent fighter—hell, a great one even—but you know better than to expect to come out on top against the Lord of Bloodshed.

You finally force yourself to move; shifting your feet to face him, you sink into a fighting stance, staff poised to face him, prepared to bare your teeth.

Cassian blinks. It takes another moment for him to realise that none of his friendliness is working to thaw your iciness. He quickly sets the training staff back down with a clatter, raising his hands once more.

"Woah," He says, giving a small shake of his head. "Not looking to fight. Unless you and I are in that ring—" He gestures to the training ring behind him. "I will never try to fight you. And... I hope you can say the same for me."

You don't even realise you've released your breath until you deflate a little, relief coming in small, incremental waves.

He doesn't want to fight. There's no proving yourself, at least not today.

Maybe some day in the near future, he'll demand you get in the ring to earn your space here—because that was the first thing you ever learned as an Illyrian warrior. But not today.

Reluctant and relieved all at once, you lower your training staff.

Your hesitance or silence doesn't seem to hinder Cassian. In fact, he smiles at the motion.

He's quite handsome, you note. In that rugged way, not quite so classically handsome as Azriel. The unexpected thought makes you flush. You shake it away with a shiver.

"You have your reasons for your unease I bet," Cassian continues, his hands drifting back to his sides. His wings have begun to spread out a little more, as if relaxing.

"And if you want me to piss off, I certainly will. My goal is not to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. But... well, I do have just one question."

He pauses, as if waiting for something. Permission, you realise faintly, which surprises you enough that you give a rather jerky nod, permitting him to ask his question.

A brilliant smile spreads across Cassian's face. "Did you really stab Azriel with a fork?"

The question takes you by utter surprise, fresh bewilderment rippling across your features. You shift back almost awkwardly, stepping out of your fighting stance. The memory from months ago rises up inside, the first meeting in your lonely shelter.

How did he know that? He could he know that?

"I—" You trip over the words, not entirely sure how to answer the question. You can't quite tell why he's asking—is he assessing you as a threat? Your voice is tentative and guarded as you murmur out, "...yes?"

You don't think it would've mattered how you answered truly, as the moment you confirm it, Cassian roars in laughter, his head thrown back and his hand clutching his belly. He laughs loudly for a moment, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Holy shit, I thought Rhys was kidding! Cauldron, what I would've given to see that." His hazel eyes glitter brightly, as though he's excited. "Was he surprised? I bet he was. Where did you stab him?"

His easy tone, like he's talking to an old friend, takes you back. You find yourself responding with an unexpected ease. Looking back on it now, it is a little funny.

"He was," You nod, nearly smiling at Cassian's enthusiasm. Your lips twitch and you gesture to your neck, somewhat awkwardly, miming the motion. "In the neck."

Cassian laughs again. "Oh, and I bet he'd deny the whole thing if it ever came up."

You don't know quite what to say to that—Azriel hadn't ever brought it up and you certainly weren't going to remind him of it. You tilt your head to the side a bit, an unknown feeling making itself known in the pit of your stomach. An anxiety of an entirely different kind.

The male before you is not an enemy. He's not an ally either... and you can't understand what he gains from talking to you.

You can't even fathom the idea that he might just want to be your friend.

So, you turn. Tighten your grip and resume the exercise that had been interrupted. Muscles groan as you work through their achiness, slowly becoming warmer as the hot blood pumps around your body.

Despite what Madja had said a week ago on that balcony, today was actually the first morning you were allowed to train.

For the last seven days, the exercise you were restricted to was mere stretches; only enough to ensure each of your wings could extend fully and that your limbs could move without serious cause for concern.

It had driven you stir crazy.

The only time you ever skipped so many days without training was during your cycle—something you had mercifully missed the end of this time around, hidden away in your unconsciousness.

So, at the first opportunity, when you rose from your bed this morning and Madja hadn't given you that pointed stare and instead gave you directions, you had found the training area. Began with old routines, if only for the fact you don't know who you are when you're not training.

Inhaling now, the wood of the training staff creaks beneath your iron grip. You're trying desperately to use it as a tether, to some semblance of normal for yourself. It's difficult when there's so many changes lurking.

The solid stone makes you sturdier than before. There's no snow beneath your feet to sink your boots into, to find your balance on. But your injuries aren't entirely healed either.

The pain is not fresh but it's still hindering enough to be a nuisance. Your left ear still twinges from time to time—sometimes it seems to hum so loudly you can't hear clearly, others it dulls altogether. Neither are particularly pleasant to experience.

Pain, however, you have plenty of experience in. Gritting your teeth and pushing through it is practically standard for the Illyrian way; especially when you know your body. You know how much it can take. You know it's been through worse.

But the pesky problem with your ear keeps you off balance, just enough that it shows in your motions.

You keep stumbling around like a goddamn fledgling with every new attempt, footing clumsy, which makes you burn in humiliation because that's what you learn first. It's impossible not to feel unendingly frustrated as decades of training all get shifted slightly to the left.

It doesn't help either that there's still those holes in the edges of your wings.

Fae healing is incredibly advanced but even so, there is only so much magic can do.

Lacerations can be healed, stabs and slices stitched up with ease — but a hole, torn forcibly in and through the delicate flesh of Illyrian wings? You know that you should be thanking the Mother that they even still work in their complete capacity.

The skin around where the stakes had been forced is puckered and stiff, whitened by the scar tissue and trauma. It had been sickening the first time you had curled them close around you and realised with a faint horror that you could technically see through them — a irregular circular gash preserved in either wing of how you'd been pinned down.

The air passes through them as you shift, causing an uneasy shiver. They don't catch on the wind quite the same as they did before.

You haven't taken to the skies yet. You're torn between your eagerness to fly again, to prove to yourself that they can still, and the sinking fear that that's something new you'll have to relearn as well.

So, instead, you run through the training drill for the nth time, trying to get back in sync with your own body. Trying to push past where it seems to falter and trying and failing to not care that your wavering movements now have an audience.

Watching him subtly out the corner of your eye, Cassian appears to be running drills of his own, a gentle warmup. He stretches his toned arms above his head, the motions limber and easy. Briefly, your mind wanders to Azriel's own morning training —never mind that you did have experience training with him over many mornings — and the most peculiar fluster flows through you.

You bite your cheek and rein in your drifting thoughts, gripping the staff tighter.

Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard. Your left eardrum squeals, jumping abruptly in volume at the motions, and though you manage to contain yourself to a wince, your twist goes off kilter.

Your wings stretch out to counterbalance but they don't catch the wind as well as you're used to. Your feet stumble to realign and all you can think is how fucking easy it would be decimate you in a fight in that second.

Something awful starts to grow in your throat and it takes a full moment to realise its the urge to cry, clawing up your throat.

You inhale shakily, eyes fixed on the stone beneath you, and will them away. You weren't a crier — but then again, never had you ever felt quite so utterly hopeless as you were right now.

You've always had this—always had the fight from within your bones, always had your body, always relied on your dexterity to push you forward.

Shadow covers the stone before you. Your head shoots ups, that same panic you can't shake jolting in your chest.

"Hi." Cassian says, giving a little two-fingered salute. He smiles kindly. "Cassian. We met maybe, uh, 5 minutes ago? Remember that?"

You blink at him, not even noticing how the distraction sends away the urge to cry. Swallowing thickly, you give a tentative nod.

"Fantastic. Great memory." His smile melts into a grin and though it sounds like he's teasing, you don't exactly feel like it you who's being made fun of. "I— I have no doubt you're an excellent fighter, especially considering you managed to land a hit on a warrior such as Azriel."

Cassian seems to hear his words only after he's said them and gives a minuscule frown. "Wait, don't tell him I said that. He'll never let me live it down."

When you don't react in amusement as he was aiming for, Cassian changes his tone again, more serious this time.

"Look, I might not be exactly sure what happened that meant you ended up here. I know it might not seem like a welcome change of pace but— well- and what I mean to say is— I can see your missteps."

The admittance of your failings makes humiliation swell up within you. You avert your eyes. Cassian, aware of his awful blunder, barrels on.

"But I can see you're getting your feet again." He adds, softer than before. "After whatever happened to you and your wings, I can tell you're already doing better than most Illyrians would. I also know that everything is easier with a little support."

Your gaze tugs back to Cassian's face as his sentence ends, the offer within it leaving you momentarily dazed. He wants... to help you?

You open your mouth to say just that—but instead, say, "They... didn't tell you?"

Something foreign yanks on your heartstrings. You can't say you had expected privacy, not when Rhysand was already generously providing you with both medical aid and a place to lay low and recover. You were in no position to ask for more.

Suddenly, you become hyper aware of your wings and their gaping, obvious scars to pair with the thin white lines of the lashes adorned across them. You rein them back self-consciously, keeping them tucked close against your back. There's relief in that simple motion alone.

"It is not their story to tell." Cassian nods, grave and serious. "And, just as important, sharing it is not a requirement to be allow yourself a little support."

You don't have to tell him, if you don't want to.

Before you, an Illyrian male, like so many that you've detested all your miserable life, and he doesn't know a thing about you. He doesn't get to know what happened unless you decide to tell him.

You taste his words, mulling them over in your mind as you try to figure out what he means. In the heart of it, you can't understand what he truly stands to gain from this offer of support.

"What... kind of support?" You question warily.

Unthinkingly, your grip tightens on the training staff once more—a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of baring your vulnerabilities. It had been well-trained out of you. Connections of any kind risked exposure... and well, the one time in your life you had given it a go, it had only been proven true.

"Whatever you wish." Cassian grins, as if pleased you had asked that exact question. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and rattles off his list easily, with a slight shrug of his armoured shoulders. "Friendship? Training? Someone to listen when you need it or to drink your sorrows with? I've had plentiful practice with all."

He sends you another wink, teasing and easy like everything else about him. It's disarming actually, just how different he is from what you had been expecting from only the rumours around Exordor. Lord of Bloodshed. He's so...casual.

After another beat of silence, Cassian clears his throat when it becomes clear you aren't exactly jumping onto any of his initial offers. The caginess you exude is palpable and something ragged in Cassian's chest tears wider at whatever his mind conjures up about what might be lurking your past.

True to his word, Rhys hadn't delved into your story or how you came to end up here at the House of Wind.

All Cassian knew for sure is that Azriel had talked of training with a bastard some months ago and now, you were here. A female warrior from Exordor.

Cassian thinks that Azriel likely would've mentioned it if the bastard he was working with was female—but he hadn't. There's much more to your story, he can tell, and it seems to ripple from the edges of your wary, dangerous form at just a glance. Almost a full picture for him to realise, to see clearly.

But... these things were earned.

If Cassian wanted to be your friend, to know your story, he would do it the honourable and hard way.

He would become someone that you could trust in this new, unfamiliar place and he knew it was possible because what Cassian knew lay within him was reflected in you. The one clear part of the picture.

A warrior who knows themselves best when they're fighting.

"Train with me. Please." Cassian tries once more, ready to relent if it was too much, too soon. "There is a lot we can teach each other, I'm sure."

That seems to catch you by surprise, your brows jumping a fraction up your face. You school the expression away quickly but not before Cassian catches it. He nods.

"What do you say?" Cassian grins again, holding out his hand, palm up. Nonthreatening as can be. "Friends? Allies? Reluctant rooftop sharers? I'll take any happily."

You eye his hand, that still cautious air in your gaze, but Cassian can see as something settles within you. Tentatively, you reach forward and put your hand in his, giving it an awkward, stilted shake.

"I'll take allies for now," You say, somewhat demurely. It's taking a mountain load of trust for you to do so, Cassian knows. He does not take that trust lightly.

Cassian grins. "Allies it is."

[NEXT PART: SHADOWS]

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[bearskvlls]

if you've never watched the 1965 thunderbirds, this is me begging you to watch the 1965 thunderbirds

[skunkes]

can't fool him

[viperwhispered]

Rest

Guess what? I've got more Jamil x reader for y'all. You can also find this on ao3. No warnings, just 866 words of kinda fluffy(?) caretaking stuff with gender-neutral reader.

At this point, you know Jamil’s schedule almost as well as he does. So, when you have the chance, you head to Scarabia’s kitchen, hoping to spend some time with Jamil while he and the other students prepare dinner. 

However, when you enter, it takes you but a moment to notice Jamil’s uncharacteristic fumbling and the tired look in his eyes. The way Jamil’s chopping the vegetables has you worried about him cutting himself with that knife he’s usually so adept with, and it seems it’s only force of habit that’s keeping him on track.

You frown, and when your eyes meet Jamil’s, you can already see him put his guard up.

So he knows what state he is in, huh? And still, here he is.

It seems Jamil is reading your thoughts, all of him telling you drop it before any words are even said.

At least he still lets you lean in and give a quick kiss to his cheek in greeting.

“Hello love. Do you still have a lot on your agenda for today?” you ask, keeping your tone low for at least some semblance of privacy in the busy kitchen.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” is the response you get.

Of course.

It takes a little more pestering before Jamil actually answers your question. Your lips purse. That list is far too long to your liking.

You take a moment to think, juggling your own plans and to-do list against the urgency of the things Jamil mentioned.

“Will Kalim be eating from that?” you ask, pointing at the food Jamil is preparing.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I won’t be touching that one, then. I’ve gotta do a few things but I’ll be back when you’re done here.”

“Don’t,” Jamil says with a glare, clearly aware of what you’re thinking.

Yet even his disapproving look doesn’t have the usual weight behind it.

“Yes. I will,” you say firmly, even as your heart curls inwards with another bout of concern.

Really, when did he get so tired?

And how did you not notice it earlier?

You leave the kitchen before Jamil can protest further, hurrying through the dorm corridors to find Kalim.

Soon you have an enthusiastic – and concerned – supporter for your plans. You have Kalim point out a few reliable Scarabia students to help with a few of the most urgent matters Jamil mentioned – cleaning up the common areas, delivering some paperwork to Crowley, preparing some dorm-wide notices – while you see to Kalim getting his school supplies in order for the following day. You even recruit a couple of third years to help Kalim with his homework.

You’ll see to the rest tomorrow – after all, you do also have a boyfriend to look after.

Your conversation over dinner can hardly be called anything else than an argument – despite Kalim’s best attempts at acting as a moderating force between you two. It is very tempting to ask Kalim to tell Jamil to take the rest of the day off – it’s not like Jamil would be willing to openly disobey a direct order. Still, you really don’t need to remind Jamil of his position on top of everything else that you’re already doing more or less against his wishes.

Eventually, however, Jamil’s had a square meal, the most urgent things on his to-do list are being taken care of, and you’ve managed to drag him to his bed.

“I really wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard,” you murmur, your arms wrapped tightly around Jamil. You’re telling yourself you really do just want to cuddle, to offer some respite to Jamil. Still, there might also be a part of you worried that if you were to let go, he’d just jump up and get back to working himself to the bone.

Yet, for all his protestations, just the fact that you’ve gotten Jamil to lay down with you speaks volumes of his current exhaustion.

“I can’t just leave my duties, albi. You know this.”

“Making yourself too indispensable, is what you’re doing,” you protest.

Oh, you know it’s not so simple. Not with his background, not with all the expectations and assumptions.

But sometimes you really wish it would be.

Jamil merely scoffs in response to your words.

Still, it is undeniable that he is slowly beginning to relax in your arms, slowly bringing his head closer to yours. His eyes are starting to flutter, too.

“I will still need to help Kalim with his homework, at the very least.”

You wonder who he is trying to convince more, you or himself.

“Amin and Khalil are helping him. They’re basically top of their classes, aren’t they? I’m sure they’ve got it.”

Still, Jamil frowns.

You sigh. He really is not letting go, is he?

“Do you want me to go supervise?” you ask.

And leave you, unsaid yet hanging there right after your words.

“Don’t,” Jamil eventually says, the word barely more than a breath.

It seems he has accepted his fate.

You softly caress Jamil’s hair, listening to his softening breathing.

And when you wake up, wholly unaware of having been lulled to sleep in the first place, it’s to the lightest of touches from Jamil’s fingers.

Tagging @diodellet @twstgo @crystallizsch @jamilvapologist @jamilsimpno69 as per request If you'd like to be tagged for any future works, let me know!

[otomes-world]

Some things never change

no trigger warnings except yandere themes, 2,7k words and as we all love barely edited text

Probably, running away from home wasn't the smartest decision in life. In any case. The reason for such act depended on the questioner. If it was one of the friendly, elderly aunts, then you modestly told them about the desire to achieve recognition for the family. For younger acquaintances, the version acquired more dreamy shades in the form of recognition for yourself. For someone less meticulous, the desire to see the world was enough.

In the end you couldn't change the past, however, you were not eager to return home and beg for forgiveness, as most casual people painted a picture for themselves. Therefore, you always kept silent about the interesting beginning of the journey, preferring to tell stories of a later period. About how, by pure chance, you met a traveling troupe of artists and joined them. Did you know how to sing, dance, play a role? At an average level, yes.

Was it hard at first? Definitely.

Nevertheless, the stubborn decision to live your own life, leaving all the unpleasantness behind, won out and you, convincing and sometimes negotiating with yourself, swallowed the complaints. The meaningful glances from the other performers were safely ignored. They could think whatever they wanted, as long as they didn’t start leaving comments and sticking their noses into things that weren’t their business. Sounded like passive aggression? Touché.

Be that as it may, after a couple of months of involuntary life together and shared stories, the distance between you decreased to comfortable evening conversations and jokes in a whisper.

Has a small troupe of the same lost souls as you become a family in the full sense of the word? You always answered something vague and tried to change topic to something else. If others noticed, they preferred to tactfully remain silent and intercept the conversation. Everyone had their own reason for wandering, which meant that you were in for a maximum of understanding and a minimum of interference.

At least, these were the thoughts that always visited you at the beginning of autumn. To be more precise, when warm weather started dropping hints of cold wind and a rare drizzle of rain. No, you had no complaints about the season itself, only about your own melancholic mood, which was becoming part of everyday life. For performer, the beginning of autumn marked the end of the working season. Of course, there were occasions when you were invited to brighten up the evening of this or that eccentric nobleman, but they were incredibly rare. If you managed to count them on the fingers of one hand, it was considered lucky.

Winter served as a break for most. For agriculture, for trade, for travel… for you. In winter, finding something to do, a job, became more difficult. It was harder to distract yourself. There were no nights whose sky was painted with hundreds of lights. Noisy companies of people, in the flow of which it was so easy to forget and let yourself be led anywhere.

Inazuma - the nation of eternity, was supposed to be the last major stop this year. To be honest, even as a child you listened with apprehension to stories about this country. About visions. However, the gods did not consider you worthy of their gift. The bitterness of disappointment was felt as an unpleasant aftertaste even at a conscious age. Now you were watching life and the changing emotions on the faces of the townspeople from the window of a small ryokan's room with detachment. An unfinished mask for the next outfit rested on your lap.

It seemed that all the nightmares were left behind, it seemed that they were not afraid of the imminent onset of cold weather. The thoughts of both old and young were occupied only with the upcoming farewell to summer - you preferred to tactfully remain silent about the fact that it was already over.

The needle fell out of your hands with a barely audible ringing sound, falling to the floor. Looking down at your hands, you immediately clenched and unclenched them several times, trying to stop the trembling. This was clearly not the first and not the last winter in your life. Why doesn't the feeling of anxiety leave you? So noticeable that if the needle hadn't fallen out, you could have cut the air with it. Your "friends" wrote it all off as autumn dismals and for a moment you really wanted to sincerely believe their words.

It all started with crossing the border, as if the velvety purple skies were warning you about something in advance, carefully forgetting to specify what exactly. You decided that it was all because of the noticeable change in the weather. After the warm Sumeru, Inazuma seemed cold and unfriendly.

The meeting with Commissioner Yashiro took even the most experienced and seasoned performer, your unofficial leader, by surprise. You remembered how someone briefly mentioned a family whose responsibilities included organizing festivals. However, discussing and obtaining permission from the leader still shook you to the depths of your soul.

Despite the obligatory nature of some moments brought by the new life, you still did not like meeting with nobles, especially tete-a-tete. They reminded you of a time you wanted to leave behind. Memories you wanted to rewrite, erase, bury under a pile of new ones and never think about again. Whether it was a defensive reaction or a personal dislike, no one asked. As long as you performed without causing problems, no one was going to pry into your soul.

Tremble in your hands became stronger, as well as your heart beat faster in your chest.

The Kamisato family estate was amazing, causing admiring whispers from the troupe and anxiety in you. The ceilings were too high, reminding you of a beautiful cage, one of which you had so carefully left. You tried to avoid such talent display in front of the nobles: you wanted to show off as little as possible. Even though you understood in your mind that the probability of meeting a familiar face in a foreign country was extremely small, you could never calm your paranoia.

Hope died last, so you prayed that there would be some urgent matter, any really, that did not require delay and a trusted person would conduct the meeting. However, fate rarely took into account someone's wishes, since the quiet voices and greetings of the servants in the corridor became a sufficiently clear sign.

In such grand mansions, your body acted on its own, straightening your back and wiping all emotion from your face, leaving a neutral smile. Despite all your attempts to imitate your new acquaintances, some habits seemed to be engraved on your bones. Whether it was luck or not, was another question. The singer, who for some reason was treating you like a younger relative, winked to you encouragingly, while your insides turned cold.

You didn’t like the look of the Commissioner. He was pleasant, behaved appropriately, flashing his knowledge of the fine arts, without putting himself in an bad light. Looking at the man from under your lowered eyelashes, for a second you felt a pang of envy. About what your life could have been if you had followed the beaten path, instead of jumping off a cliff with the unknown at its very bottom. Suppressing a moment of weakness, you smiled charmingly when the conversation turned to you, playing the role of a silly person who was passionate about arts.

You stood up, forcing yourself to take deep breaths, ignoring the darkening in your eyes. As soon as your gaze cleared, you tiredly sank down again, reaching for the fallen mask, to which you had been sewing feathers a few minutes ago. The quick and sharp pain made you pull your hand back in panic, while the voice of reason reminded you of the needle that had fallen. Shaking your head a couple of times, as if it could throw out unpleasant emotions and restore your calm, you grabbed the mask in one movement and casually threw it on the bed, or as it was called here a futon. The needle and a bag of colored feathers were carefully put away in the nightstand.

For some incomprehensible, twisted reason, you were the one deciding the organizational issues. To be more precise, this was the wish expressed by the Commissioner, and the kind "head" of the troupe did not object. Words about a pleasant impression, an interesting, new look at the performances and compliments from the servants of the estate - like a porcelain doll - were drowned in the general monotonous noise, while the body still refused to move.

The need to end everything as quickly as possible became sufficient motivation. Visit the estate, solve a few pressing issues and return to your room, lock yourself in and hide from the world until the moment when you would have to go out again. Repeating this phrase like a mantra, you sat in the familiar interior and tried to fight the desire to jump out of the window.

"Are you okay?" A sympathetic voice asks, for a second you even believed in sincerity which it hold.

"Yes, Monsieur Kamisato," the answer bursts out on its own, and then, as if realizing your mistake, you lowered your head in a bow. "I'm sorry, I meant Kamisato-sama."

Some habits are unchangeable.

The man just laughed softly, "You may address me as you prefer. I suppose the language barrier is sometimes difficult to overcome?"

"Thank you, I hope my Fontaine's accent does not offend you. I try to fill in the gaps in the cultural peculiarities of the languages ​​of different corners of Teyvat." You answered, reading between the lines of his question.

You tried to ignore the man as much as etiquette allowed, whose eyes narrowed in satisfaction, like a cat, that had been watching a canary for a long time. Reaching for the papers on which the rough plan of the event was sketched, you were about to change the topic, but he was beat you to it.

"I hope that your stay in Inazuma is going smoothly and nothing has marred the first impression." Slightly tilting your head to the side, you looked at the nobleman, waiting for him to continue. "I assume you know about Tri-Commisions, Yashiro, let me clarify."

Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to answer as close to textbook as possible, "It's one of the organizations in Inazuma. They, you, are in charge of managing shrines, festivals, and cultural events."

"With such a well-known history, it's rather surprising that we don't have a permanent troupe of performers. Perhaps we should entertain the idea." The softness in his voice, the pleasant, inviting atmosphere, and the innocently asked question made you genuinely disgusted.

"If you think so," perhaps not the best answer, but short enough not to ruin the conversation or make yourself seem rude. You didn't have to be a prophet to not guess what the other side was hinting at. "Would you allow me to ask your opinion on the event's plan?"

As if he had already achieved his goal, the man kindly allowed the conversation to return back to work, which you were grateful for.

You couldn't flash much experience in small talk. Each meeting with the Commissioner made you remember everything that they had so diligently tried to hammer into you, to mold the version that should correspond to the norms.

He had it all. Soft pressure, skill of confidently inclining the dialogue in a favorable direction. Man never showed open aggression, did not give you anything that you could latch on to. Smoothly and gracefully dropped small hints on where he could press if you decided to act differently from the path he had already planned.

"Thank you, I will take your wishes into account and make the necessary changes," politely ending the meeting, you slowly began to collect the papers you had brought and the sheet of notes.

"Have you ever thought about settling down?" The question catches you off guard, the papers almost falling out of your hands, scattering across the table and the floor. Instead, a smile appears on your face and your body moves on its own again.

"You are very kind. Will you allow me to pass on your generous offer to hire our troupe to the others? I do not have the authority to make such a decision on my own."

"Ah, yes, of course," his eyes narrow slightly again, letting you know that trying to play on the meaning of his words would not work. "Your unity is admirable," the implied 'considering your type of work' hangs in the air.

"I will pass on your praise, Kamisato-sama," another bow. "Please, excuse me."

To your great happiness, he made no attempt to stop you. He let you reach the shoji, push it aside, but just before you could close it, he added, "I hope you'll consider the offer personally."

The sound of the door closing ringed louder in your ears than it actually was.

Hope, such a fragile, unreliable thing, had let you down more often than anyone else in your life. Each time, burning and burying another piece of yourself, you thought about home. If a place from the past could be called like that. About too many expectations and too few opportunities for self-realization. About a ready-made life plan, presented on a silver platter, all you had to do was reach out.

Something wet falls into your palm. The unexpected screams of passersby, escaping from the rain, were barely discernible through the veil of white noise. Focusing your gaze on the window frame of the same empty room in the ryokan, you touched your own face with your other hand.

It was dry.

You wiped your palm on the fabric of your clothes and held back a sigh. Although the Commissioner had not specified a deadline for making a decision, your intuition told you that the day of the festival was the maximum you could hope for.

The troupe took the news ambiguously. Some liked the prospect of a permanent job. Some lived for travel.

Some were… you. A rabbit trying to outrun the clock. Or a bud that, instead of falling and brightly flaring up in the flames of the stove, fell off with the wind. Flower that didn't want to become part of someone's herbarium and was now soaking in a puddle, hoping to dissolve in it and disappear as if it had never existed. No one looked at their feet, hurrying about their business in the hustle and bustle of days.

Almost no one.

A beviolent person stopped and carefully unfolded his own album. You just had to reach out. The voice of a familiar singer breaks through the noise of the rain, like the thunder of Her Excellency. Would you be able to say "Yes" once and keep a right to say "No"? Unfortunately, the strength to answer this question was becoming less and less. As was the time until the event.

The trees had already managed to change into different shades of colors, dappled with orange, red and even purple leaves, attracting the gaze of everyone who was ready to look. Despite the feeling of cold, the sun was still warming the earth, giving the last days of trancility. Could the electro Archon take pity and bless her people, waiting for the festivities with them?

"Opportunities to bask in the sunlight like this are few and far between."

"That's how," hearing a voice right next to your ear, you didn't even take your eyes off the waves. Or to be more precise, their barely noticeable echoes, now and then disappearing from sight due to the wind and tree crowns.

What exactly you were hoping to see in the distance, and whether were you hoping, was a moot point. One of those that tensed up the atmosphere from the first words spoken. You didn't want to take responsibility and get caught in the crossfire.

"The Shogun's mood is extremely favorable these days," it seemed someone decided to take pity and throw you a bone. For this, you ignored the light touch on your shoulder. "Thoma conveyed that the fishermen whose boats safely returned to port do not cease to thank her."

You stayed still for a moment, considering something you couldn't give a name. Expectedly, Commissioner was fine with your lack of reaction most of the time, as long as you were where he wanted you to be.

"Winter will come soon"

Was there any meaning in this phrase or did it mean something completely different. Was it spoken for those who could hear, or did you voice it for yourself. You didn't know anymore.

A drop fell on the windowsill and purely by instinct you touched your cheek again, but, unfortunately, the sound of the rain that began once again reminded you how stupid it was to hope for anything.

He lied after all.

[teddybeartoji]

i cleaned my room i changed my sheets i took a shower i am a normal human person now everybody cheers

[autisticrosewilson]

Um if you write Jason having to get drugs for Catherine I want you dead btw. Not only does it tell me you assume the average drug dealer would give the hard shit to a very small child and then not supervise them at all (classist stereotype that all drug dealers are inherently evil + lazy writing with no grasp on reality) and you genuinely think that Catherine was CONSTANTLY high, as if that's even possible without overdosing far sooner than she did. That's without even getting into the bad mom Catherine propaganda.

[ratcandy]

collection of moth things i never posted all of varying quality and age

[necrotic-nephilim]

in lieu of having posted any writing/headcanons/asks in the past few days because i have been *so* busy and unable to do anything fandom-related which is terrible and evil, i have a poll out of morbid curiosity and self-indulgence. i've been meaning to ramble here about how i feel about DC's lack fo Deaf representation and which Batfam members i would personally make Deaf, but i am mildly curious about the larger opinion and now i will subject you all to the question, i would love to hear thoughts/opinions/headcanons on any specific choices. (would love d/Deaf/HoH opinions esp but i'm mostly expecting this to reach the hearing crowd, so opinions from hearing ppl are ones i'm very curious about. if you've never given it thought before you are going to now or else /lh)

[rweoutofthewoods]

What? Oh, this? Yeah it's just that scene from worst case kid but from james' POV 🤭

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 11

I had an absolute blast with this prompt and I've been looking forward to it for a while. I should've gone and bought some wine so I could write being IDed from experience though. Unrealistic writing ����😮😮

Convenience Store

Each item was set neatly on the conveyor belt.

A roll of duct tape. Kleenex. Air freshener. Trash bags. Zipties. Rubbing alcohol. Superglue. A bottle of merlot. Disinfectant. Sponges. Latex gloves. A wrist brace. Ibuprofen. A hammer. And a bar of chocolate.

A bright beep sounded as the cashier scanned each one.

“Doing some home improvement?” They smiled, placing the superglue onto the other side of the conveyor where one of their customers, the shorter of the two, was busy bagging with their head down. The other stacked the empty shopping basket with the others and pulled out their wallet.

“Definitely an improvement project,” they nodded back with a knowing look. “The whole thing just needs to be demolished and rebuilt at this point.”

“Oh I hear you. A pipe burst in my basement just last month and my spouse had to stop me from tearing the whole thing down then and there.” The cashier scanned the wine and paused. “Your ID please, Mx.?”

They flashed it with a toothy grin. 

“I’m flattered!”

“Just doing my job. Thank you.” They typed something into the system and picked up the next item. A few items later, a snort broke their calm demeanor.

“Hm?”

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry Mx! Just had a funny thought.” The cashier scanned the hammer. 

“Do share! Lord knows we could use the humor.” They elbowed their partner who smiled meekly and nodded along, balancing with a crutch under their arm. 

“Well, sometimes home improvement supplies look a lot like premeditated murder supplies,” they giggled, and the taller one broke out into raucous laughter. The shorter just shook their head. “Sorry, I meant no offense.”

Realizing they were being addressed, they fixed the sullen expression across their face.

“Ah, none taken! I’ve just had a tough day, what with this shithead and all.” A playful poke to their partner who just laughed again.

“You’re in for it when we get home!” They stuck out their tongue.

The other went back to catch the items they’d missed in that time, slipping the chocolate bar in their pocket. 

“Alright, cash or card?”

“Card please.”

“Your receipt?” 

“Sure, why not.”

“Perfect. Have a good one!” 

“You too!”

The taller one took most of the bags, but the other still managed to carry one. They were almost out the door when a voice shouted out.

“Oh! Excuse me, I think you forgot one of your items!” The cashier held up the hammer, and the couple turned around. Neither came forward to claim it, but with a nudge and a whisper, the shorter allowed the cashier to drop it into their bag. “Can’t do any demolition without that, can you?” 

“Absolutely not, I’m glad we didn’t forget it!” The other didn’t say a word, struggling to lift the bag now, and then the two were gone. 

.

“Interesting what you choose to forget, darling.” A hissing whisper in their ear, so different from the friendly persona they put on in public.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re implying,” they averted their eyes as the trunk of the car opened. Fuck. 

Their captor’s foot landed on their broken ankle and they had to suppress a scream.

“I let you have one good leg for today. Don’t let me regret it.” The bag was taken right out of their hand. “In.”

They crutched up to the passenger door but a clearing of the throat stopped them.

“Childlock doesn’t work on that seat.”

Somehow, climbing into the back was more humiliating after that comment. The door was slammed shut before they could do so themself, and they felt the car shake with how hard the trunk was slammed. A horrible indicator of what was to come.

“I behaved around the store,” they grumbled when the doors locked and the engine turned on. 

“And then you fuckin’ ruined it.” 

“Black and white thinking much…” 

A fist flew against the passenger headrest and they were suddenly grateful to be flinching in the backseat.

“I’m buying a car with blacked out windows. That way, next time, I can throttle you in the backseat.”

[yujeong]

Time was at a standstill. Vegas was holding his breath without noticing, and continued to hold it when he did - he was afraid of what would happen if he exhaled loudly enough to draw attention to himself. His gaze was shifting between Pete and the man who was standing before them in the doorway, blocking their entrance. Vegas had never seen him before, but even so, he recognized Pete in him enough to know who he was. A dangerous aura surrounded him. There was an edge to his presence that Vegas would only come across people of certain circles. He was a fighter. A muay khao. Pete's father. Shame coursed through Vegas' body, smearing his skin, settling in his lungs, rendering him speechless. I thought he was dead, he wanted to tell Pete if he could. He wanted to scream at him, I thought you killed him. Pete was the one who broke the stillness. As if awakened by something, he took a half-step back and made a motion with his arms, almost raising them to his chest, but not quite. In an instant, Pete reverted into the pet Vegas had been keeping at the safehouse, bound by handcuffs and afraid of his belt hitting flesh and drawing blood. A lump formed in Vegas' throat. "Have you stopped practicing? Your form is off." The uncanny similarities between Pete and his father appearance-wise didn't mean a thing when it came to their voices. Vegas shivered. Was this what Pete would sound like in a few decades? (Were these the condescending words he'd choose to spew? Was Pete going to embody his father? Was Vegas embodying his?) "What are you doing here?" Pete whispered. "They let me out for a few days, so I came here to collect some money. Imagine my surprise when I found out my offspring left the job someone found him worthy enough of doing to... do what exactly? Yaai didn't want to tell me." He crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. Vegas didn't know what he was allowed to say. If he was allowed to say anything at all. "It's none of your business." "I'd say it very much is my business, as well as yaai's business who was dependent on the money you were making being some rich asshole's human shield." A choked sound scratched Vegas' throat. He didn't like getting reminded of Pete being the main family's bodyguard, even though he stopped being one mere months ago. Especially like this. That was the first time Pete's father stopped looking at his son and turned his head to look at Vegas. For a moment, there seemed to be recognition in his eyes. Did he know who Vegas was? Did he care? A snort came out of his mouth. He leaned on the door. "Oh, I see how it is." He laughed, scratched his neck. "I never expected you to whore yourself out for money. Tell me, is it preferable to the path I carved out for you?" Vegas could sense the disgust in his voice. He could also see it on Pete's face. He was too astonished to share it, but not enough to be unable to speak. "Khun, there has been some misunderstanding-" "Don't bother. I can recognize a faggot when I see one." Pete's movements were too fast for Vegas to stop him. A direct jab to the nose; his father fell like a pack of cards, groaning like a wounded animal. Surprisingly, no blood - Pete held back. Vegas didn't know what to think about that. "That was a pathetic attack, even for you." "Get up." "We're not in the ring, son." Pete growled. Vegas could see his hands trembling as he was keeping them in the air, maintaining an offensive stance. "That never stopped you before." "You were too young to understand what I was doing back then. What I was preparing you for." Pete was silent. "The world isn't kind. It'll fuck you over one way or another." He got up, spat on the ground. "You still haven't learned a thing. You're too old to afford being naive." He turned around, and without sparing a look at Pete again, said: "Now get the fuck out of my house." (For @musictooth, whose posts about Pete's father have reignited my passion for this specific concept and for @wretchedamaranth, whose comments on my writing are always lovely and precious ❤️)

[hawktims]

You took that. I remember. It was our road trip.

FELLOW TRAVELERS (2023), 1.03 "HIT ME" bonus:

[monstermoviedean]

if you have a good vibe/kind thought to spare and could send it my way. i'd really appreciate it.