#so he prepared for it with letting his ink run dry so he activate the plan

[freshest-ink]

This youtube comment about xgaster is how I feel about him

Like, I hate his actions, but I get it. But With an urge of wanting him to get completely decked by everyone in xtale since they deserve to deck him.

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 10: Rue Sans Paroles

Prev - Rue Sans Paroles / Road Without Words - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

J'suis trop fragile Pour me débrouiller sans toi J'ai dansé dans le noir Abaissé mes paupières Pour ne plus t'apercevoir Ça a eu l'air de te plaire I'm too fragile To get by without you I danced in the dark Lowered my eyelids To no longer notice you It seemed to please you - Danser Dans Le Noir by BARON.E

23 June 1789

“Thank you, Patton. I expect to return well before nightfall,” Logan began, clasping the ordinarily bouncy young man’s shoulder. When Logan and Janus had struggled to get the new wheel attached to their carriage, Patton had run right out from the still-closed café to help. But Logan’s somber tone had been infectious and the talkative little server also grew quiet as they worked.

Janus didn’t hear the rest of their conversation when he went back into de Foy. “Rémy?” He leaned over the edge of the bar, looking for the proprietor, checking to see if he’d slipped down to the root cellar through the little door set into the floorboards. He jumped back when Rémy pushed through the swinging door from the tiny kitchen.

“For the road,” he said, passing over a corked glass bottle and a small but heavy bundle wrapped in a tea towel. “And make sure Logan eats,” Rémy leaned close, voice quiet. They both eyed the door. “He’s not looking well.”

“You noticed too?” Rémy made a face and Janus nodded with a heavy sigh. “Of course you noticed. I will,” Janus promised, nodding once. The recent change in Logan had been marked. Throughout the past week, he’d been quiet… subdued. He was ordinarily very healthy and while his energy didn’t manifest in the same ways as Patton’s near-manic bubbliness, Logan was typically up every morning by dawn and active until midnight, eyes steady and bright, observing, recording, and analyzing everything around him. Janus felt a mix of worry and relief that he hadn't been the only one who’d noticed the change in his friend.

“If he grows more ill, don’t let him ride out when it’s time for me to return.” Janus gripped Rémy’s arm and met his eyes. “With the Estates General meeting, there’s a twice-daily post out to the palace. Just send word and I’ll return another way.”

The door opened and Logan stepped through. “Ready if you are,” he said, smiling weakly at Janus. Rémy patted Janus’ shoulder, nodding. “Safe travels,” he said, waving to both men, then retreated back to the kitchen. “Send Patton in when you go.”

“Rémy prepared a little something for us,” Janus said, holding up the packet and the bottle with a grin as he followed Logan out the door. “It smells good.” He leaned close to Logan and whispered near his ear. “To tell you the truth, I think he’s just happy we won’t distract his server all day,” he joked, winking.

Logan huffed out a tiny chuckle and nodded. “Quite likely,” he said, a taste of his usual dry humor peeking through. “Patton,” he called and pointed back at the café. “Rémy needs you inside.”

He gave a little shrug, “I was wondering how much longer it would be before he pulled me back in to help him start the day.” Patton hurried back toward the café, then spoke to Logan over his shoulder. “And you can count on me, Logan!”

Nodding solemnly, Logan climbed up into the driver’s perch and offered a hand to Janus. He passed him their little bounty from Rémy, then clambered up. Janus jerked his head toward the now-closed door of the café. “Have you assigned him a secret mission?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Instead of laughing, Logan nodded his head. “Of a sort. Something to keep him occupied so he won’t attempt to invent ways to be useful until I return.” He clicked his tongue, urging the horses forward before he added. “Rémy still hasn’t quite forgiven me for the time Patton made me ink in the café’s stock pot.”

Janus chuckled. Patton’s fingertips had been stained for days. The pot had fared far worse. “It’s good ink, at least,” he said, hoping to pull a smile from his friend.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

They rode in silence through the quiet streets, the early morning light giving even the dirty puddles in the gutters a soft glow. Without the horses and the hawkers and the people bustling about, Paris was quite beautiful. It was only when she was fully awake that the city's overcrowding and simmering anger overwhelmed the senses.

“How are you feeling this morning, Lo?” Janus finally asked the question that sat behind his teeth since he’d first laid eyes on his friend, waking to find him slowly shaving in a dented tin mirror. He hoped that now that they were underway, with the pressure for Logan to hide his ill health, lest it delay the trip, removed, Logan might be honest if he was getting sick.

“Perfectly fine,” he said, unsmiling. He nodded, lifting his eyes from the road and looking around at the quiet storefronts as they passed through the last business district before the Seine. “It is a lovely morning.” Janus raised an eyebrow and Logan looked away. “Perhaps a bit of a headache. I hope you can forgive me if I am an inadequate conversationalist today.”

“Lo, of course. I am not concerned with your ability to entertain me. Merely with your health and happiness.” Janus squeezed Logan’s knee and the other man’s sharp intake of breath drew his attention. “If you’re in pain, I should drive and you can go lay down in the compartment. Or should I simply leave you in peace?” Janus tried to meet his eyes but they’d reached the ramp up to the bridge and Logan's gaze was straight ahead, concentrating on the path ahead.

“I will be without your company for several days,” he finally said. “I may not be talkative, but I would much rather sit with you and listen than hide from a headache by myself.” Logan finally turned and met Janus’ eyes with a small smile. “Tell me, what are your thoughts of the Jacobins?”

Janus grinned. He couldn’t resist ranting about the new political party capturing all the attention in the streets of Paris and Logan knew it. “I simply do not understand how the Jacobins can possibly think that liberty, equality, and brotherhood somehow can still include slavery! It’s as though there’s no-one at the helm!” He shifted in his seat to better face his friend as he launched into a passionate critique of the party. "Have you seen their latest treatise? It's as thought it was written by the American hypocrites themselves!"

Logan sat back with a tiny smile and alternated between watching the road and his friend rant about the missing moral compass in the increasingly popular group. He kept his smile until the spikes at the gates of Versailles were in view and Janus retreated to the compartment to change.

~~~

“Sir Henri Juriste for His Royal Highness Remus,” Logan announced in a clear voice after he stepped down from the driver’s perch. Janus peered through a small gap in the velvet drapes covering the tiny window in the door. The guards nodded and waved him forward, and Logan opened the carriage door, offering a hand to Janus to help him down. Janus’ hand shook and Logan smiled up at him.

“You can do this, Janus,” he murmured quietly, and gave his hand a little squeeze. “And we’ll see you in just a few days.”

Janus nodded and took a slow breath, then allowed Logan to lead him down out of the passenger compartment. The steward stood a few feet away, waiting for him. “Right this way, Sir,” he said before turning sharply and moving rapidly toward the entrance. Janus flashed Logan one last smile, then turned and followed the steward into the palace.

A little more than an hour into the ride back home, Logan guided his horses as far to one side of the road as the carriage would fit to allow a wagon heading toward Versailles to pass. He waved and nodded to the driver, then nodded again with a little smile at the blonde-haired chatterbox sitting in the back, waving his arms and telling the story of the day his boss confused salt for sugar in his coffee, but refused to acknowledge the mistake.

“And then Rémy drank the whole thing!” Patton’s laughter danced and faded down the road as the distance grew between their vehicles and Logan shook his head, a bittersweet smile lingering on his face as he made the long journey back home to Paris alone.

~~~

Back at the palace, the steward wordlessly strode with precise, fast steps down the winding corridors to the music room. When they reached the tall double doors, he knocked twice, then opened the left. “Sir?” He stood in front of Janus as they entered the room, then stepped to one side with a stiff bow. “Sir Henri Juriste has arrived.”

“Mon Sir Henri,” Remus reached the doorway in two steps and extended his hand, palm up, toward Janus with a low bow. Janus imagined the steward stiffened next to him, but when he looked, his expression was neutral, watching the space between them as though waiting for further instructions.

Remus’ gaze was fixed on Janus, his smile broadening with a little shoulder shimmy when he laid gloved fingers in his. The prince lowered his head to kiss the back of his hand, eyes locked on Janus’. Only after he straightened and led Janus further into the music room did Remus nod to the steward, dismissing him.

Before the door had even closed, Remus pulled Janus close, one arm around his waist, the other crossing his back, one strong hand cradling the back of his head. “You’re here, mon douceur, ” he murmured, looking down at him, gaze dancing between his lips and his eyes.

“Your douceur is here,” Janus whispered, already reaching up to pull Remus down into a kiss. And right now, that was who he was. He wasn’t Sir Henri Juriste, low-level noble who caught the eye of royalty at a ball. He wasn’t Janus Robespierre, revolutionary and schemer dead set on changing France by whatever means necessary.

As their lips met, he was simply Remus’ sweet, his douceur. And that’s all he wanted to be.

[indigowallbreaker]

i have an ot3 prompt for you!

How about dimiclaudevain (dimitri claude sylvain) for "raising the other’s hand to their lips to kiss it softly" ?

(I’m so used to writing Sylvain/Claude/Hubert for myself that I was unprepared for the change in dynamic switching in Dimitri brought. happy for the chance to write more OT3s!)

Though Claude and Sylvain spent their nights in Dimitri’s chambers, they did have their own set of rooms in Fhirdiad. Sylvain’s doubled as a study for when he had to take care of Gautier territory business from afar. Claude had turned his rooms into a kind of malicious apothecary. If he did any work involving Almyra during the weeks he spent Faerghus, Dimitri couldn’t say where he carried it out.

Dimitri could hear laughter as he approached Claude’s rooms and instantly grew concerned. Experience had taught him that leaving his lovers alone for any length of time only invited trouble. Knocking only once in warning, Dimitri opened the door. “Alright, what are you two--” He cut himself off.

On a chair in the middle of the room, towel resting over his shoulders, sat Sylvain. Some kind of thick, pale-yellow goo had been applied to his hair. The applier was none other than Claude, who stood behind Sylvain wearing white gloves now soiled with the goop. They both looked up at Dimitri with clear excitement. 

“What are you two doing?” Dimitri tried again.

Claude held up his gloved hands. “Experimenting.”

“In what way?”

“Claude got this stuff on his desk and it lightened the color of the wood,” Sylvain said. “We want to see what it’ll do to other things.”

“Like hair,” Claude finished with a needless finger wave over Sylvain’s head. 

Dimitri approached, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell. “What do you expect it to do? Make your hair lighter or change the color entirely?”

Sylvain grinned as if Dimitri had finally gotten in on a joke. “No idea. Stick around and find out with us.”

Claude resumed running the goop through Sylvain’s hair as Dimitri dragged another chair over. He sat down and, on reflex, took Sylvain’s hand. It was hardly the activity he envisioned for the three of them today-- but there was something peaceful about sitting with Sylvain in silence as Claude worked. 

The goop seemed to be making Sylvain’s hair damp, and Dimitri watched with some vain disappointment as the brilliant red turned dark. Sylvain laced his fingers through Dimitri’s with a teasing smirk. “Would you still love me if I wasn’t a redhead?” He asked, batting his eye lashed dramatically. 

Chuckling, Dimitri raised Sylvain’s hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss there. “Of course. You could cut all your hair off and my love would never wane.” 

The smirk fell as Sylvain’s cheeks grew pink, causing Claude to laugh as well. “I, on the other hand, will only love you if this turns you blond,” Claude said with a wink to Dimitri. “Think that’s enough. Now we just let it sit.” With care, Claude took off the gloves and wrapped them in another towel he had prepared on the desk.

Sylvain looked up as if trying to see the top of his own head. “How long?”

“Mm... 20 minutes? That’s about how long it took me to notice this stuff had gotten on my desk.”

“What is this anyway?” Dimitri asked. He reached up with his free hand to hover a finger over Sylvain’s hair.

Claude dipped a quill in ink to take notes as he answered, “Crushed up roots of a Zanado treasure fruit bush, plus a few things from here and there. I wanted to see if I could make a substance that burns on contact.”

“... And instead you put it on Sylvain’s hair.”

“Yup.” He finished the note and turned to Dimitri, leaning his hip against the desk. “So how was your day, dear?”

20 minutes later, Claude helped Sylvain rinse the goop off, Dimitri toweled him dry, and the three stood in front of the mirror. 

“Well,” Claude began. Then he stopped.

Dimitri cleared his throat. “Sylvain, what do you think?”

Sylvain ran his fingers through pink locks with a mystified expression. His hair turning from red to pink had been one hypothesis discussed as they waited. But to see it realized... Dimitri couldn’t help but stare. Claude seemed to be of the same mind. He looked nervously between Sylvain and the mirror as if bracing himself to be blamed for this.

Then a grin spread over Sylvain’s face. “I absolutely love it.” He turned to Claude. “Why aren’t you taking notes? Come on, babe, this is important stuff.”

Beaming, Claude pressed a kiss to the side of Sylvain’s head and all but jumped to the desk to scribble down their findings. Since Sylvain was still touching his hair and smiling to the mirror, Dimitri joined Claude at the desk. He leaned over to murmur in Claude’s ear, “It reminds me a bit of--”

“Hilda.” Claude nodded. “I hope it lasts long enough for her to see. She’ll get a kick out of it.”

Dimitri rolled his eyes fondly and turned Claude by the chin to kiss his him. “Please don’t make this a habit,” he whispered against Claude’s satisfied smile.

Claude snorted. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all very important people with very important stuff to do. He’ll look professional enough. Especially if, say, the King of Fódlan and the King of Almyra started a fashion trend?”

“No.”

“You could at least pretend to think about it.”

“Hey, should we do my eyebrows too? They look a bit weird now.”

“Sylvain, beloved, I really do not like the idea of that stuff near your eyes.”

“I’m going to have to side with Dimitri here. At least let me dilute it before we try it on your eyes.”

“...”

“Don’t look at me like that, I was kidding.”

(link to Sylvain’s hair inspiration <3)

(hand-hold prompt list!)

[honey-dewey]

Soulmate Imagines

Another short not drabbles but not full stories either! I was completely inspired by a post made by @absurdthirst and really really wanted to write the boys in these scenarios! So I completely ignored both of my active WIPS and wrote this instead. Oops? Enjoy these long and indulgent soulmate imagines!

Total Word Count: 5,179

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Din Djarin:

Soul Tattoo AU

“Shit!”

You hummed, turning your head over, vision fuzzy. Din was rushing around the Crest, and you could see red painting his beskar. Was he hurt? You tried to stand, and then it hit you. Oh. You were hurt.

“Din,” you rasped out, blinking as his fuzzy image came into more clarity.

Din looked at you, helmet trained on your face. “Cyar’ika,” he said, taking your cold hands. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got run over by a herd of Banthas,” you said, shifting and wincing. “What happened?”

“Bomb,” Din explained, gesturing to your torso, where you were wearing a thin robe and nothing else. “Hit your side. Patched you up best I could.”

You nodded, swallowing thickly. “Did it scar?”

Din hesitated. “Some of it will. Nothing on your back though.”

Relief flooded you. You had no idea why you were so worried about your soul tattoo, but you were. The beautiful star map to Aq Ventina spanned your entire back, from shoulders to tailbone, the sides creeping over your waist. You’d done research about Aq Ventina years ago, when the curiosity had finally peaked. You’d read up on the history and knew that it no longer existed, decimated by a droid attack decades before you’d even known it existed.

“It’s a beautiful tattoo,” Din said softly, out of nowhere.

“Thank you,” you said, looking at his helmet. “It’s my soul tattoo.”

Din nodded. “I figured.”

And that was the last it was spoken of for almost five months. The next time it was relevant was during a two day long bounty hunt, when Din left to shower and you sat in your shared inn room, cooing at Grogu.

The shower water turned off, and you heard Din drying off. Then he called your name.

“Yeah?”

“Come here.”

Worried, you stood and headed to the bathroom. “Din?”

“Come here.” His voice bordered on urgent, and you immediately shoved the door open.

You were met with Din, completely shirtless yet still wearing the helmet, in the bathroom, no urgent problem in sight. However, instead of being mad, you were focused entirely on the tattoo that spread across Din’s back.

It was identical to yours.

“Din?” Your voice was tiny, so apprehensive.

He sighed, looking at you and taking your hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier,” he said. “But Aq Ventina was my home, so you have to understand that it was odd and a bit painful seeing the star map on your back.”

You nodded. “We’re soulmates,” you breathed. “I didn’t even know you had a soul tattoo.”

Din chuckled. “It’s not like I expose much skin,” he reasoned.

That drew a laugh out of you. “Yeah. But still.” Your fingers danced over the exposed edge of the star map that crept over Din’s side. “Soulmates.”

Din nodded, resting his forehead against your head. “Soulmates,” he agreed. “But only if you’ll have me.”

You smiled. “As if I could ever say no.”

Marcus Moreno:

Color Soulmate AU

To say you were stressed was an understatement. A huge project for Heroics was cradled in your arms, all sorts of papers and binders and information you were carrying to the filing room to be sorted. The stack was tall, which was probably why you didn’t see your boss until you ran directly into him.

“Fuck!” You shouted as you fell on your back, folders going everywhere. Marcus Moreno, your boss, was toppled next to you, also swearing.

“I am so sorry!” You said hurriedly, scrambling to gather the papers, eyes focused on your task. “I really should’ve looked where I was going and-“ you looked up, shock killing your words.

Marcus’s eyes were brown. Very very brown.

You gasped, your task entirely forgotten. “Oh.”

Marcus was staring at you with just as much shock as you were staring at him with. “Oh,” he echoed.

Your fragile moment was shattered by the click of heels and another employee coming over to check on you, her voice frantic.

“We’re fine,” Marcus reassured, standing and dusting himself off. Without saying anything else, he walked quickly away.

Once all the files were secure, you headed back to your desk and pulled out a small box of crayons. You’d never seen color, not ever, so this would be interesting. At least it would be if your hands would stop shaking.

One of your coworkers, Matt, came up to you as you used a teal crayon, marveling at the color. “Oh? You met your soulmate?”

You nodded, looking up and noticing the vibrant purple color to Matt’s tie. “Yeah. Bumped into him in the hall. Literally.”

Matt grinned. “Who is it?”

You cringed, the embarrassment setting in. “Mr. Moreno.”

“Mr. Moreno?” Matt practically yelled. “He’s our boss!”

“Yeah, I know!” You retaliated, checking your clock and scrambling up. “Fuck! I gotta go, that huge meeting is in ten.”

Matt smiled. “Good luck!”

Despite Matt’s wishes, you were fairly certain the presentation was a disaster. Marcus was missing, which was odd, and you ended up tripping over your words and getting a huge migraine halfway through the presentation. After sheepishly explaining the scenario, you were told to go home and adjust, you could redo the presentation tomorrow.

Of course, tomorrow was just as bad. Marcus was actually present, wearing a yellow tie that kept distracting you and forcing your words out in a jumble.

After the train wreck of a presentation, you decided this was a situation that called for a large hot chocolate. Getting one and settling in the cafeteria, you sighed, swirling your drink with a spoon. You were a certifiable mess.

The creaking of the chair brought your attention back to planet earth, and you looked up, nearly choking on your spit. “Mr. Moreno!”

“Please, I think we should be on a first name basis,” Marcus said. “So.”

“So.”

Marcus tapped the table. “I’m sorry I ran off yesterday. I just, well, I haven’t seen color since my- Since Clara died.”

You nodded. “I understand if you don’t want this,” you murmured, looking back down at your drink. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Marcus asked. “No! I’m, well, a little excited.”

That shocked you. “Excited?”

“Yeah.” Marcus nodded. “Excited. Missy’s over the moon, of course.”

You grinned. “Thanks. Sorry I’m so nervous. I’ve never seen any of this before.”

“Really?” Marcus said. “Oh I definitely know what we’re doing first.”

“What?”

Marcus smiled, taking your hands. “You’re going to love sunsets.”

Max Phillips:

Black Mark Soulmate AU 

“Oh no.”

You stared at your boss with nothing short of mild fear. Max fucking Phillips. There was no goddamn way. You’d known him very briefly in college, but this, this was unexpected.

He smiled at the employees, shaking hands as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As if his right palm wasn’t the color of fresh stained ink.

He walked up to you, holding out his ink stained hand. You were hesitant to accept. After all, your right hand was equally black. But handshakes were common, very common among soulmate meets. Max Phillips was not your soulmate.

You were able to tell yourself that until the moment your hands touched, the blackness turning into a beautiful swirl of bright colors.

Max’s eyes widened as he looked at you. “Your hand.”

“Yours too,” you said, letting go of Max’s hand and letting him examine the watercolor of reds and purples that spread across his skin.

Max took a nervous breath. “No. Something must be wrong.”

You were shocked. “Max. Is it really that bad?”

“You don’t understand!” Max snapped, scaring you a tiny bit. He leaned closer, so you could see the devilish gleam in his eyes. “I have no soul.”

Your blood chilled as you saw the overly sharp teeth and the hint of red behind the deep brown in Max’s eyes. “Max.”

But he was gone, disappeared from right in front of you. Blinking a few times, you turned to your computer, determined to uncover the truth about your mysterious boss and the still tingling rainbow of colors on your palm.

Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales:

Countdown Soulmate AU

The countdown timer was surprisingly unnerving.

Actually, was it really that surprising? It was counting down to the most important day pretty much ever. Yours had always had years and years, much longer than any of your friends, but you didn’t mind. That was just more time to prepare.

Of course, when you woke up one day to find that the timer that had read seven months suddenly read twelve hours, you freaked the hell out. Taking deep breaths, you calmed yourself and got dressed, texting your best friend and asking him when he wanted you over for movie night. He responded with eight, and promised that you’d love his friends.

With one last deep breath and a glance around your apartment, you left for the day.

And ended up with a popped tire on the side of the road ten minutes before eight.

Screaming your frustration into the night darkened woods and frightening some poor birds, you sighed and called roadside service. An hour, at least, before they could get to you.

Your next call went to Benny, who you apologized to and told him you’d make it up to him.

Your final call was to no one. You simply sat back in your car and waited for roadside service while you tapped away at some mind numbing game you’d downloaded on a whim.

Headlights were visible in the distance not even ten minutes later, which shocked you and then worried you. Who the hell was out on this road this late at night? Were you about to be murdered? Who would find your body? Would Benny still hold true to his promise and wear a lime green tutu to your funeral?

The car stopped when it saw you, and your anxiety skyrocketed. You quickly texted Benny one last time and locked your car.

“Hey!” A few sharp knocks and a face in the window. “Do you need help?”

You were trembling, trying to keep a brave face. “Tire popped.”

“Oh.” The voice sounded genuinely worried. “That sucks. Where are you headed?”

“A friend’s house.”

“Did you call roadside?”

“An hour.”

“Oof. Hungry?”

“What?” You looked over, seeing the dimly lit silhouette of a man holding up what was probably a granola bar. “Yeah actually, I am.”

The man’s cheeks lit up, and you assumed he was smiling. “Well you’re gonna have to open up if you want it.”

You hesitantly cracked the door and watched the man step back. The car lights illuminated him fully, revealing a very attractive man holding a slightly squished granola bar.

Turning in the seat so that your legs were hanging out the car, you took the offered food, smiling as you ate. “Lord this is good! Thank you!”

The man shrugged. “No problem. I’m Frankie.”

You mumbled your name around the granola bar, and then froze as your wrist burned warm and then cold, a clattering alerting you to the fact that your timer had fallen off.

And from the look on Frankie’s face, so had his.

He looked back up at you, seemingly nervous. “So can I get in the car now? I promise I’m not a creep.”

You nodded, still slightly shocked as Frankie got into your car, sitting in the passenger seat. It was silent for a minute before you spoke. “So. Soulmates.”

“Soulmates,” Frankie agreed. “I’m glad I shared that granola bar with you.”

Your phone pinged, and you swore softly, answering Benny’s text and then rereading it. “Do you, by any chance, know a Benny Miller?”

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “I was headed to his place when I saw you.”

“Me too.” You showed him the text, which read ‘Dude! Be careful! My buddy Frankie’s coming along, so if you get attacked, he’ll totally protect you. Also, totally not wearing that tutu because you’re not dying first.’

Frankie smiled. “You’re in on the tutu thing too?”

You laughed. “Oh god! Not you too!”

“Yeah!” Frankie said, laughing along with you. “Benny totally already has it, y’know.”

You sighed. “Damn. That’s wild.”

The hour until roadside service arrived was filled with stories and bonding. After your car was towed, you got in Frankie’s truck and headed to Benny’s, arm in arm.

“Hey, Frankie found the murder victim!” Benny said happily, opening the door. “Oh shit, dudes I was starting to get worried about you.”

Frankie shook his head. “Actually, it couldn’t have played out better.”

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels:

First Words Soulmate AU

You sighed, taking a breath. Today you were meeting your baby brother’s coworkers at a work party. It wasn’t supposed to be so damn nerve wracking, but your stomach was a ball of anxiety. “Danny, are you sure about this?”

Danny, or as he was better known at work, Tequila, nodded. “Hell yeah, it’ll be fun.”

You tugged your bracelet, trying to cover the words winding across your wrist.

What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?

The Statesman Fourth of July party was apparently a big deal. There were sure as hell a lot of people. You stuck by Danny’s side, smiling at his coworkers and eventually sitting with a woman named Ginger. She was nice, and when Danny wandered off to flirt with someone, she stayed with you, giving you names to attach to faces.

“Oh, and that’s Jack,” she said, pointing to someone talking to Champ. “One of the longest lasting agents we have.”

You eyed Jack. He was handsome, especially with that cowboy hat. He must’ve noticed your staring, because he wandered over and sat down at the table.

“So, what’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

You took a breath, gripping the hem of your shorts and trying to think without looking awkward. A thousand responses rushed through your head, and you finally picked one you hoped wasn’t weird. “I dunno cowboy, why do you ask?”

Jack recoiled as if he’d just had ice water poured on his head. Ginger stood, shocked as Jack ran away. “What just happened?”

You were nearly speechless, tears starting to well up. “I think my soulmate just ran away from me.”

After a good long crying session in which you sobbed openly into Danny’s jacket and he vowed to absolutely murder Jack, Ginger gently explained Jack’s past with his previous soulmate. Which sent you into another round of crying and made Danny even more pissed.

He ended up taking you home early to watch shitty movies and eat tons of ice cream, comforting you as you numbly ate half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s on the couch.

When he left for work the next day, you made him swear not to hurt Jack.

You got a call from Ginger two hours later telling you to come pick Danny up.

Marching into Statesman again, you found Ginger at the entrance, lips pressed tight. She led you to the infirmary, where Danny was proudly sporting a black eye and a split lip. Jack was laying in a bed next to him, pressing ice to his cheek.

“Control your fucking brother!” He yelled as soon as he saw you, sitting up in the bed. “He nearly killed me!”

“Oh shut the fuck up!” You snapped back. “You best be glad I’m not petty, or else I’d have let him kill you.”

Jack was, wisely, silent as you helped Danny up and out of the building. Danny was also silent, but was definitely smug about it.

“Y’know I totally won that fight,” he said as you exited the building.

You sighed. “Sure. Whatever. Let’s go home.”

The next day, you got a call from an unknown number.

“This is Jack,” the voice on the other end said when you picked up. “I’m calling to apologize for beating your brother up.”

“Apparently he won the fight.”

Jack snorted. “Sure he did. Look, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

A pause. “Cool. See you around.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He hung up first, leaving you with a dead hole in your chest. When you would see that cowboy again, you didn’t know, but when you did, oh boy was he in for it from you.

Ezra:

Pain Sharing Soulmate AU

You were screaming.

Well, screaming may not have been the word to describe the feeling. No, the agony in your right arm was numbing pain, the kind of pain that brought out animalistic noises and made spots dance across your vision. You writhed on the floor, clutching your upper arm and begging someone, anyone, to make the pain stop. A few nurses you worked with tried to dose you with painkillers, but nothing could touch soulmate pain.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the pain began to fade. You’d had some aches in that arm after a stab that was really painful and you’d assumed some kind of injury that your soulmate had sustained was being treated. But that, that harsh, indescribable pain that had you sweating and panting on the floor with your head spinning, you had no explanation for that.

After that, the nurses set you up in the break room with fluids and a light snack. Your right arm still hurt like hell, but it was manageable now. As time passed, the pain passed, until it was no more than a dull ache once more, with some odd numbness that lingered in your fingertips.

Of course, on the day you decided to try working for a few hours, your soulmate went and got himself fatally injured again.

Gasping and falling sideways, you gritted your teeth through a scream as your gut lit on fire, as if someone had driven a knife into your belly. It was the second time in three days that your soulmate had put you through this. What the hell was he doing?

Yet again, you were put in a room to wait out the pain, probably scaring patients with your sobs and pleads for any merciful god to put you out of your misery. This pain refused to fade, and you completely missed the wail of emergency sirens as a new patient in critical condition arrived.

Eventually, finally, the pain forced you unconscious.

You woke a few days later, breathing deeply as you realized you weren’t in any pain. The faint voice of a doctor met your ears as you slowly regained your senses.

“We’re all shocked they survived. With pain like that, I surely wouldn’t have been as strong as they were. First it was their arm, and then their stomach. We still don’t really know what happened.”

The doctor turned to you, and smiled when he noticed your open eyes. “Finally, you’re awake. We have someone who wants to talk to you.”

You grumbled, trying to string together the past few days. “What?”

The doctor gestured to a man sitting in the other bed in the room. “This is Ezra, our critical patient from a few days ago.”

“I was too busy being stabbed in the stomach to notice any crit patients,” you pointed out.

“Yes, well,” the doctor said with a smile. “He may have some answers for you.”

You sat up, rubbing your aching head and facing the other man in the room.

He looked like hell, face sunken and shining with post injury sweat. You reasoned that you probably didn’t look much better. But the interesting thing about the man was his bandage wrapped right arm. Or more accurately, his lack of an arm that was wrapped in bandages.

“Hi Ezra,” you said slowly, rubbing your temples. “Is this my headache or yours?”

Ezra chuckled. “I think it’s yours,” he said. “I can’t feel any of my own pain right now.”

You sighed. “Doc, can I get some painkillers? I got a headache.”

The doctor nodded, grabbing a few pills, but you shook your head. “The good shit, please.”

Smiling, the doctor picked up a syringe and lifted your left arm, considering your right still felt a bit numb. “Countdown?”

“Nah.”

The doctor gave you the painkillers, and you watched Ezra wince at the pinch from the needle as it hit your skin. Laying back as the painkillers took effect, you sighed, looking at Ezra. “I’d love to stay and chat,” you murmured sleepily. “But this stuff works fast.”  

Ezra smiled. “Don’t worry songbird,” he said. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Javier Peña:

Soulmate’s Name on Wrist AU

“Get up! New client!”

You groaned, adjusting your top and trotting into the hall, standing with the group of women waving and giggling at the new client. He looked up at your group, a light grin on his face.

“He’s cute,” you said to the woman next to you.

She nodded. “He’s a regular at places like this,” she said. “Says his name’s Javier.”

You froze, the small name tattooed on the inside of your wrist practically burning. “Javier? He got a last name?”

“Not that he’ll share.”

In the end, you were Javier’s lucky victim, mostly because when he asked your name and you responded, his watch-covered wrist twitched. So he was your soulmate. Or at least you were his. He showed you bliss, paid you handsomely, and left without a word but with a spark.

Two weeks later, you ran into him again. You’d been in touch with a man at the US embassy about cartel stuff, mostly that the cartels had been reaching out to people like you and you wanted to stay safe, and the man had invited you to come over and give a statement. You were hesitant, of course, but the man looked kind enough, and the other employees knew him well enough that you felt secure.

“This is my partner, agent Peña,” the man said as he gestured you into a room. “But,” he said slowly, eyeing the bare name on your wrist. “I think you knew that already.”

“I did.”

Javier took a breath. “Can we get this done with?” He said, trying to sound annoyed but only succeeding at stressed.

Your statement was quiet and precise, and before you knew it, Javier was walking you out.

“Javier,” you tried.

“Don’t,” Javier growled. “Just go, forget you ever met me.”

“I can’t!” You all but yelled, grabbing his wrist so he couldn’t walk off. “I’ve been wearing your name since the day I was born, you think I can just forget all of that?”

Javier was quiet. “You think I want a soulmate?” He asked quietly, and you froze.

“I’m sorry?”

“No!” Javier growled, shaking his head. “I mean, fuck. This job, if they find out you’re connected to me, they’ll kill you.”

Your blood went cold, but you kept your composure. “Hate to break it to you,” you said, shoving Javier’s sleeve up and exposing your name written on his wrist. “But we’re already connected.”

From that day forward, you were under protection. You quit your job, moved reluctantly to an apartment that was secured by the embassy, and barely left the brand new apartment for anything. The war on drugs dragged on, and every so often, Javier would shuffle across the hall and find solace in your arms, always leaving before dawn.

One night, after a particularly hard day, you and him were tangled together on the couch, name wrists pressed against each other. Your skin burned and prickled at the intimate contact, but Javier was so lost he didn’t even notice.

“Javi?”

“Hm?”

You smoothed through his hair. “Will we ever be safe enough to be soulmates?”

Javier was quiet. “I don’t know.”

You sighed. “One day, I hope we will.”

Another long silence, and then Javier spoke up. “Me too.”

That morning, you woke up in his arms instead of in an empty bed, wondering exactly how life would shake out now that you had fallen in love with your soulmate.

Maxwell Lord:

Dream Sharing Soulmate AU

“I’m going to cry,” you groaned, pressing your head to the table. “He hasn’t slept in days.”

Your coworker, Ellie, sighed. “Hon, you just gotta keep trying. Go home, rest up. Get some sleep.”

You stood. Ellie was right. Just because Max wasn’t sleeping didn’t mean you had to punish yourself. You’d been going rounds with him for months, and it was really starting to weigh on your own sleep schedule. All you needed, all you wanted was to go home and sleep for days to correct your broken internal clock.

Your apartment was cold when you got back, and you quickly fiddled with the thermostat before stripping and falling into bed, cuddling up with the blankets and falling asleep almost immediately.

Just as with every night your soulmate didn’t sleep, you didn’t have a soul dream. Instead, you had your regular dreams, all nonsensical and silly. You woke up at one point to eat before falling back into bed, still exhausted.

This time, your dreams were different. You were in a soul dream, which meant he was finally sleeping.

“Max!”

No response as you ran around the elementary school, but you quickly skidded to a stop, seeing bullies mock a young boy for his lunch. That was your Max as a child, and you immediately rushed to his aide.

“Max.”

The real Max, the one who was asleep right now, looked at you with worry, finally tearing his eyes off the bullies. “You.”

“Me,” you said softly. “You need more sleep.”

Max shrugged. You knew who he was, after all, who didn’t? But the suave businessman you knew on TV was very different from the scared man you knew from your dreams. “Wasn’t tired.”

“For three days?” You asked. “Max, that isn’t healthy.” You felt a tug on your gut, a signal that your dream was starting. “C’mon.” You held a hand out, offering Max a reprieve. “My dreams are kind.”

He accepted, taking your hand as you led him to your dreams. In your subconscious reality, you were a child again, laughing and ice skating with your parents.

“Can you skate?” You asked Max, still holding his hand. He shook his head.

You smiled. “That’s okay, you can learn.” You snapped your fingers and skates appeared on both of your feet. “C’mon!”

Turned out, Max was an abysmal skater, but he was laughing by the time your bodies were ready to wake up.

“I don’t wanna go,” he admitted, and you grinned, squeezing his hands tight. “Can we do this again?”

“Tomorrow night,” you promised. “I’ll find you.”

For almost a month, you rescued Max from embarrassing or painful dreams, taking him to your more comforting dreams. Occasionally, he’d do the opposite for you when you had a nightmare, but you mostly spent the nights in your dreams, watching fireworks or going swimming. His darkest secrets were no longer secret, and he trusted you with everything.

“Y’know,” he said softly as you and him watched a Fourth of July fireworks show from when you were seven. “We could do this in real life.”

“We could,” you murmured, leaning closer to him. “The fourth is, what, next week? Doesn’t DC do a beautiful fireworks show?”

Max nodded. “We could make our first shared memory.”

You smiled. “We could,” you agreed. “We will. I’m not too far from DC, I can totally drive down on the fourth. I’ll pick you up from work, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds perfect,” Max murmured softly. “Dreamlike even.”

You laughed. “Dork.”

“Hey, you fell in love with me!”

“Yeah,” you said, looking at Max’s firework illuminated face. “I did.”

Pero Tovar:

Color Soulmate AU 

You pressed the leaf between your fingers, trying to gauge how sick the plant was. The grey color didn’t worry you, because you were fairly certain it was still green. “It just needs more water,” you determined, standing and brushing yourself off. “Try watering these plants daily instead of every other.”

The woman you were helping nodded, and you smiled at her as you walked back to your own garden. Rolling your sleeves up, you got to work tending to your plants.

It was hours before you looked up, alerted by the sound of hooves on the ground. A mysterious man was sitting atop a horse, his hair long and greasy, his face creased from what you imagined was a grueling ride. He jumped off the horse and stumbled in your direction, leaning against the fence. You stood, abandoning the plants in favor of helping the man.

He shook off your help, but stopped the second his hand connected with yours and both your worlds exploded with color.

You stumbled back, the sudden colors shocking you as the man reeled from you, his sun battered face full of shock.

“I’m sorry!” You said quickly, steadying yourself and reaching out to the man. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” the man said firmly, right before he passed out.

Two days later, the man woke up, his partner by his side. The blond man had showed up yesterday, introducing himself as William and the mystery man as Pero Tovar.

Pero looked around, nervous as he saw you in the corner, slowly and methodically mending his shirt. “William, quien es este.”

William shrugged. “I don’t know. Not a nurse, from what I can tell.”

“Diles que se vayan.”

“I’m not leaving,” you said, without looking up. “And please continue to talk about me in a language you assume I don’t understand.”

Pero blinked a few times. “You’re smart.”

“I pick up on languages fast,” you said, setting down the mended shirt. “Who are you, Pero Tovar?”

William looked between you two before finally speaking up. “Should I leave?”

“Please,” you said.

William left, and you crossed your legs. “So, who are you?”

“No one you should know,” Pero growled, getting up and grabbing his shirt. “Just forget you ever met me. You have your colors, go live a happy life.”

You frantically tried to keep him in the village, but he left with William as soon as the local medic deemed him okay.

For the next week, you slowly learned colors, finding your favorites with much trial and error. Some of the village women who had lost their soulmates in battles consoled you as you grieved for a man you barely knew, a man who had given you a universe of change and then left as if it had been nothing.

Almost exactly one week later, the sound of hooves rang out again, and this time, you didn’t look up from your gardening. At least, not until the visitor entered your garden, standing in front of your vegetables.

You looked up at him, taking in a much neater and more groomed Pero. He seemed nervous, shuffling from foot to foot.

Standing, you raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

Pero nodded, handing you his dagger.

You took the weapon. “What’s this?”

“In my culture,” Pero began. “When a man is ready to settle with his soulmate, he must give them his most prized weapon as a way of showing he is ready to stop fighting and raise a family.”

The dagger gleamed in the sunlight, and you smiled. “Well then, I guess I should make dinner for two, shouldn’t I?”

Pero grinned. “Yes, that would be nice. I’m hungry.”

[seokiloquy]

Bruised Ink - Kageyama Tobio

Soulmate AU: When you write on your skin it appears in the same spot on your soulmates body

Requested (though I changed it a bit to keep it as canon as possible)

Tags/Warnings: GN!Reader, Kageyama being a bit of an airhead, mild swearing

Word Count: 1.7K+

Art club, morning, lunch, and after school. Though admittedly your art club supervisor / English teacher didn’t enjoy seeing an eager face so early in the morning. She, over a matter of days, had gotten used to your silent presence in the corner of the art room as she worked on papers, occasionally asking for your opinion on a topic. 

“See you after school!” you called down the hall, before waving to your aforementioned supervisor who was talking to the art teacher in the corner.

You flicked your uniform jacket off, letting it hang off the top of a chair as you ran to your canvas. The clean paint brushes waited patiently next to the progressing piece of art and your pallet rested next to them, mummified and waiting to let it’s paints feel the air again. You delicately picked at the tape wrapped around the pallet, pulling it off to reveal the chemical smell of acrylics.

You gazed at your painting for a moment, admiring the contrasting muted colours that blended nicely into the slowly fading background. Taking a brush, no larger than the width of your pinky, you reached for a vibrant green and royal blue, ready to dollop small portions onto your pallet. You huffed through your nose as a clump of blue stuck to your fingers. With no paper towel in sight, you kept your mouth shut and rubbed the paint against the back of your opposite arm. 

“You’re going to stain your skin,” your teacher huffed behind you as she walked to her desk, brushing a free hand through her bob cut. “It looks almost like a bad bruise.”

You sighed, picking up your pallet and brush, gently working the bright teal colour you mixed into the layers of your canvas. “Maybe, but if I’m lucky it’ll be gone before any of the other teachers notice just like every other time.”

She gave you a quirked brow sliding into your spinning chair that was tucked into the corner of the room. She grabbed a pen with one hand and sipped on her coffee mug with the other. “What do you mean by that?”

You laughed. “Every time I doodle, draw, paint, or just anything on my skin whatsoever, it’s gone before I see it again.” 

“So your soulmate’s washing it off before class?” she hummed, turning her eyes away from your blocked-out painting and onto the sheets before her.

“I don’t have a tattoo or a red string, so most likely, ya. They probably don’t want to get in trouble. Or maybe they’re in a swim club and don’t even notice it?”

Chuckling she looked up but kept her head down, gifting you the sight of a mischievous look. “Or they could be sweating it all off.”

“How often does a person sweat to get rid of that much ink on a daily basis?”

“There are some dedicated athletes out there.” She shrugged, rubbing the golden tattoo on the back of her hand. “Then again, all soulmate connections are a bit different.

Humming, you turned back to your painting that leaned against the wall. “What are you working on this morning, Ms. Ono?”

Behind you, a page flipped followed by a groan. “First-year English.”

“First-year? I thought you taught second-year English?”

“I did for Sugawara’s class, but I usually teach the first-year.”

You pushed your brush into the canvas a little harder. “Damn, I thought I would get to be in your class.”

“Sorry, kiddo, but you wouldn’t be in my English class anyway. But your Japanese is improving!”

You huffed through your nose. “I’d hope so, the Sugawara’s really aren’t giving me a break.” You studied your canvas and took a step back, looking at how the light bounced off the surface and made the teal look with the less saturated colours.

“Good on them.”

“Don’t encourage it!”

“Kageyama, what happened to your arm?”

The boy’s grown out bowl cut swished as he flipped his arms around turning his head in search before eventually finding the offending colour that had spread into his skin. Twisting his arm, he gave the colour an indecisive look, before poking it his index finger. “Must be a bruise. Probably smacked it when we were setting up the net. Doesn’t hurt though. So hurry up, let’s get started.”

“Why does everyone have to get to school so early,” Sugawara mumbled to himself, pushing the door to the gym open as he ruffled his hair. He spoke louder, “Tanaka, can’t you stop these two?”

“Sorry, dude. But I’m having fun with this. Why are you here so early anyway?”

Sugawara sat down in the doorway, changing his shoes and rolling off his uniform pants to reveal his loose shorts for practice. “(Y/N) has been coming to school early to paint. And my parents said ‘they’ll get lost, you go too’ instead of ‘no, sleep a little longer.’” 

Tanaka huffed through his nose, “Has (L/N) been settling in well?”

“Oh ya. Eichi loves the new company. But now I have to keep up with essentially two siblings instead of one and these two idiots.” The silver-haired boy yawned as he gestured at the two first years that yelled at each other while throwing balls into the air.

Tanaka gets out a gruff chuckle before running into the centre of the gym to join the duo with endless energy.

“Gone again,” you mumbled as you slowly packed up the bento box that Koushi’s mom had prepared for you.

Your arm, which had been covered in paint stains and ink marks across the whole colour spectrum, had been wiped clean. No doubt the work of your soulmate and whatever activity they partook in during their free time. 

Grumbling, you took out your white ink pen and doodled a subtle frowning face on the inner crease of your wrist.

Ms. Ono rose from her seat, patting away invisible dirt that clung to her dark pencil skirt as the warning bell sounded through the speaker system. “Alright, (L/N). I have a class to teach, out you get.” She shuffled hat stacked papers in her hand, pausing for a moment as a look of realization was thrown onto her face. “Oh and, there won’t be art club this evening, so tell the other members too.”

“What? but that’s the best part of my day!”

“Sorry, (L/N) but I can’t be in here all the time.”

You whined, following the English teacher out of the room. Mr. Sato, the art head, walked into the paint-filled classroom as you left. You both gave him a friendly nod, before continuing with your conversation. “What can I do then? I’m not allowed to go home alone.”

Ms. Ono hummed, “Why don’t you sit in on Sugawara’s volleyball practice, you can use it as a figure study and sketch in your notebook.”

“I guess that’s not a bad idea.”

“Well, there you go. Alright, get, to class or you’ll be late.” She stepped into her sunlit classroom, walking straight for her desk with clicking heels.

You left the entryway of class 1-1’s homeroom and started making your way down the hall to your own room in class 1-4. As you weaved through the crowded hall of first years you kept your head up, looking for the nearest tunnel of space, only to get locked against the wall staring into the eyes of an intense schoolmate you were unaware of.

“Uh sorry,” you mumbled, looking away from his pinched brow and sharp eyes that only held your gaze for a moment.

He raised a brow, looking down the hall behind you to his classroom. Saying nothing, he huffed and schooled his expression. Placing the opposite hand on your shoulder, he spun your body to be behind him, switching locations, and continued down the hall. You watched his flat black hair bounce as he turned into class 1-3’s room.

“Well, isn’t he sweaty,” you mumbled to yourself as you made the last few steps into your classroom.

“Koushi, Koushi, Koushi. Are you sure it’s okay for me to sit in?”

“Just don’t encourage any foolishness and it should be fine. We still have to practice.”

You nodded, following your homestay as he led you to his club’s gym, rambling about his teammates.

“Ah, Tsukishima and Yamaguchi? They’re in my class. I didn’t know they played volleyball.”

“Do you talk to them?”

“No sir, I do not think Tsukishima's intimidating.”

Sugawara led you to the side where their manager stood, speaking with one of the teachers you had seen running around the school, you bowed silently as Sugawara quickly gave an introduction and ran off to change his shoes and clothes.

The group had an easy time ignoring your presence as you sat on the metal bench, flipping coloured pens between your fingers. Rough doodles filled the page as messily scribbled outlines took the form of the players you saw before you. Some were stretched out in the air while others dove to the ground in elegant swoops. 

Your pen skidded across the paper.

“Damn,” you muttered, lifting the tip and forcing it into the papers again. Nothing.

Twirling the ink-filled tool between your fingers you shifted the sketchbook off your lap and taking the pen to the surface of your skin.

The ink skidded, leaving uneven marks in an indecipherable pattern along the surface of your skin before running dry. You reached for another pen, only for the result to repeat. You grabbed another, and another. The pattern continued, pushing and pulling, dragging the fine tips as they slowly began to cover the entire surface of the back of your hand in every colour including your white ink, which luckily still worked fine and contrasted brilliantly with the muddied mess on your hand.

You huffed out a quiet cheer of success, finding that a majority of your pens worked fine, and placed the forgotten book back into your lap, coloured pages ready to be drawn over with your trusty series of pens.

“Yo, Kageyama. Is that another bruise?”

God this one is vague as hell but I didn’t have to brainpower to make it any more decipherable. 

It was originally requested that the reader be Sugawara’s little sibling but he only canonically has a little brother, not everyone physically looks like Sugawara, and the adoption trope is meh to me. So I went with a foreign exchange student that is being housed by his family. (if you couldn’t tell)

This au, in particular, is very hard because we try to keep our character (being Y/N) physically ambiguous for the purpose of allowing everybody to enjoy reading it. This au very much panders to those with lighter skin, so I apologize if I didn’t make it as open as I could’ve and please let me know if there are ways I can make this sort of au better. I want everyone to enjoy reading them and not feel excluded.

That’s all, and I hope everyone is healthy and safe. - Bacon

Posted: 06/12/2020

[keiyoomi]

paalam.

⤜ details: a. keiji × reader; 1, 350 words; angst

⤜ warnings! : none.

⤜ note: good morning from PH. thank you for beta-reading and adding more details in this one @samuthots iwuvu!!!

⤜ now playing: ang iwasan by moira dela torre

⤜ masterlist

You smiled upon feeling a cool breeze of autumn air against your skin. It’s been awhile since you step out of your house, wearing something nice and heading towards one of the places you used to love. You could easily take a cab towards that place, but you chose to walk. Wanting to reminisce the old days when you were still young and hopelessly in love with him—Akaashi Keiji.

You turned your head towards the park you could see from where you stand. A lot of things had changed, but the wooden bench is still there. Oh, that poor wooden bench. It had seen the good, the bad, and the ugly side of your relationship with him.

The good—Akaashi Keiji nervously stood from his seat, facing you. . . sort of? You tried to look at his eyes, but he looks away, avoiding your beautiful eyes. “Keiji-kun, did you just invite me here to avoid my eyes?” you asked, your voice laced with playfulness. You weren’t sure if it helped him or if it made him more nervous than he already is. “Keiji—”

“I’ve thought about this for months. I’ve been planning for this for weeks, but I simply can’t get the perfect timing.” You pursed your lips as you look at his cute hands which are curled into fists. “Either you’re busy with our school activities or you’ll be helping us with the volleyball club.” Then, he took a deep breath before looking into your eyes. “That’s why. . .” Blush tinted his cheeks. “That’s why. . .” he clears his throat. “. . .why I tried to. . .I’m trying to do this now.” You tilted your head, smiling at him. “Marry me?”

You laughed at his question. You are fully aware that it wasn’t what he was supposed to ask. The moment he asked you to accompany him in this park, you had a hunch of what he’s about to say. “Keiji-kun, not yet,” you gently told him.

His entire face became flushed. “Please?”

“Keiji-kun, you do realize that you’re asking me to marry you, right?”

His eyes widens. “Oh.”

You shook your head upon remembering that night. He looks so flustered.

Then, you sighed.

The bad—He bailed. Again. You’ve lost count of how many times he had to bail due to ‘unavoidable’ situations in their university. But of course, you trust your boyfriend. You knew him since you were in high school. You’ve been together for years. Hell, you’re already living under one roof for almost a year now. You knew him. You think?

“Keiji! What is it this time?” you asked as you saw him walking towards your direction. You were sitting on the wooden bench for hours. You were lucky enough that it didn’t rain earlier. “Am I asking too much of your time?”

“We’ve already discussed this—”

“Exactly. We’ve discussed this already and we’ve agreed to clear our day to spend time with each other.” You rubbed your face in frustration. “Am I asking for too much of your time?”

“We have an important project.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, right. Important,” you grumbled. You picked up your bag before walking ahead of him. Sometimes, you really wonder who among his professors gave them way too much projects within one semester.

The ugly—“I’m tired.” He stated while the two of you sat on the wooden bench. You were both heading towards your shared home when he suddenly asked you to the park that you used to love.

“Tired of what, exactly?” you asked, sighing heavily. “Of your never ending projects?” you joked.

“Of pretending.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. You weren’t expecting that night to be the last night you’d ever speak to him. If you’d be reminiscing those memories few years ago, you’d probably bawling your eyes out by now. It really takes time to heal a broken heart. Partially.

Honestly, you were still unsure why he left you without saying a word. Not even a letter. . . not even an explanation. Maybe, just maybe, you can finally free yourself from your past after this day.

You’ve proceeded towards the nearby coffee shop. The nostalgia hits you like a truck. Surge of bittersweet memories flooded your mind. The what ifs, your dreams you’ve shared and planned in this place while drinking your favorite drinks. . . everything.

You harshly wiped away the tear that escaped the corner of your eyes. “Let him go, Y/N,” you told yourself as you look for him. When you spotted his familiar face, your grip around your bag’s strap tighten. Your stomach churns as soon as he looks at you with a friendly smile on his face.

You made your way towards him despite your shaky legs. You sat on the empty seat across him and looked at his eyes. The same eyes that you used to adore. “It’s been awhile,” you began, pursing your lips as you heard your voice quiver. “You. . .” You licked your dry lips. “. . .look better.”

Akaashi nods his head with that same smile he used to give you. “Thank you,” he responded before complimenting your appearance. “I’ve heard about your recent promotion from Konoha-senpai.” Then, he smiles. “You’re about to achieve your dreams.”

You turn away from him, brushing the tears from your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, rummaging your bag for your handkerchief. “I. . . I can’t help it.” Your close friends had warned you beforehand that seeing him again would be like opening a can full of worms, but you insisted. You need this.

You need him.

You need to see him.

Akaashi sighs. “I’m sorry.”

‘Let’s discuss this tomorrow. I’m tired.’

“For lying. . .”

‘You’re asking for too much!’

“For not admitting my mistakes.”

‘You have your friends too! I never said you can’t spend your time with them.’

“For not treating you like I’ve promised.”

‘Akaashi—’

‘Just a sec.’

“For leaving.”

Silence filled your apartment. Not even the sizzling of pans while Keiji prepares his breakfast nor the sound of television. All you could hear is the sound coming out of your air condition. “Keiji?” you called, while reach for him. Hoping to feel his warmth.

You were confused when his side of the bed was clean, as if he never lied next to you before you fell asleep. Panic seeps into your mind. “Keiji?” you called, your voice louder than it was earlier. “Are you taking a bath?” you asked, pushing the blanket off of your body. “Kei—” you paused when you couldn’t hear any running water inside the bathroom or the shower.

“Keiji?” you called, but there was none.

You waited for him to return. . . to call. . . but there was none.

“Why did you do that?” you asked. “Am I at fault? Was I too clingy? Am I too detatched?”

You’ve been waiting for this moment. When you can finally ask for his explanation. “No,” he immediately responded as he shakes his head. “You. . . you were a wonderful girlfriend, Y/N. Please. It was my fault.” You look at him, his fingers were wiping the tears from his eyes. Then, he sniffs. “I got too scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of not being enough.”

You chuckle drily. “So, you pushed me away? Is that it?”

You pursed your lips as you saw his familiar gesture. The same action he did when he confessed his feelings towards you. “You threw away everything because you’re scared. . .” you said in disbelief. “You. . . should’ve just told me. Instead of leaving without saying anything.”

“I’m sorry. . .”

“Don’t be.” You forced a smile. “Thank you for inviting me here though. At least, I could finally heal my heart completely.”

“Y/N. . .”

You stood from your seat. “And congratulations, for your marriage. Ah, and for becoming a father.”

And that was the end of your love story.

One without the happy ending.

Without the fancy happily ever after.

But at least, you’re free from him.

Completely.

⤜ general taglist — @haikyuu-ink ; @agaassi ; @lovetsuki ; @sadsugarplumm ; @yams046 ; @namyari ; @thatnikkixx ; @k-eijiakaashi ; @dearest-kiyoomi ; @thatasiang1rl ; @starfleetakaashi ; @stcrryskies ; @kunimwuah ; @shou-kunn ; @sugacookiies ; @ushissugarcube ; @bap-kingdom ; @lilidrawz ; @crypto-s ; @sanitisegermsfree ; @idiot-juice-enthusiast ; @moonlightaangel ; @zephyrria ; @humancasket ; @bbakougo ; @attsm ; @kouffee-ink ; @hqsks ; @osamusamusamu ; @visaintes

[glitterge1pen]

Duke Thomas Rings The Bells

Ch.1 , synopsis ; Moving to an elite boarding school Duke struggles to find his footing. But he clumsily stumbles his way into some friends, and soon his friends turn into comrades and allies. Duke knows his friends won't fall, and he doesn't plan on falling either. How long can people keep secrets? And what secrets are worth anything at all? Maybe Jason is right, and this is all just some really dramatic Dead Poets Society shit. But Duke liked that movie.

Duke's locker was articulate in it's decoration. There was the usual magazine cut outs, the stray polaroid, and the magnets he had made from postage labels. The organization of said locker was lacking a bit.

He didn't mean to just throw things into the metal cabinet but he was still adjusting to the ways of his new home. The locker also reeked of marker ink and the alcohol of his hand sanitizer. Duke learned early on in his young artists career that hand sanitizer killed ink.

Duke switched out his math textbook for the book they were currently reading in English, On The Road by Jack Kerouac. The cover was new, no finger printers or stray penned obscenities. Duke hadn't gotten a chance to read most of it yet but he got an extension from Mr.Farlane.

Transferring a week into school meant that Duke had missed most of the "Welcome Back To School" activities, part of him chided himself for being relieved about having avoided such crowds, but the other half dreaded his lack of basic information about the school. He didn't know the whole layout by heart yet, the schedule felt awkward and clunky, and of course he knew no one.

Despite the school's prestige the extra curricular art courses and clubs were lacking. On top of that most kids Duke had deemed assholes were in said clubs. Duke's current list of assholes was growing. In his throw up book, which was what he called his sketchbook, there were doodles of people he thought were noteworthy.

In his classes he tried to match names to makeshift seating charts on his pages. Not wanting to be caught in some embarrassing slip up of not knowing someone's name. Next to these names were things to pin them to a person. Ones who had bumped into him without apologizing, ones who said weird things in class, had been late or walked funny.

In his second period bio med class was a boy named Tim. Next to his name was a brash doodle Duke had done of the boy along with the phrase 'This is bullshit, the woman obviously died because of her diabetes! Look at the blood splatter you absolute fool! ’ which is what he had said to his lab partner.

Tim had been scolded for disturbing the class and Duke was surprised when his own lab partner also scolded Tim instead of finding the situation funny or amusing at least.

Even though they hadn't officially met yet, Tim so far was the only boy on the 'not asshole' list Duke had formulated. Duke wished there were girls around. They were always so much nicer, and they made guys less defensive.

Blue River Academy For Boys was an all boys boarding school that Duke would compare to a hell on a trust funds budget. Not to mention that so far Duke was the only black kid in sight. Beyond that he was the only not white person on campus he had seen so far.

With nothing but rich white boys surrounding him Duke was already feeling out of his element. Top that off with a new school, a new home, and his general positive attitude was taking a beating.

Duke sighed a heavy breath as he prepared to enter his AP English class. Only four days into Mr.Farlane’s dry, boring lectures were enough to have Duke dreading the class, he still had the whole semester ahead of him.

Fortunately Duke had managed to snag a window seat in the back, as it was the only desk left when he had arrived. Outside was the main courtyard, where most boys went during their study period. There was a stone fountain, several garden benches, and rose bushes that littered the grassy yard below.

Duke couldn't decide if it was cliche, pretentious, or both. All the architecture of the place was overly grand like this. Gray stone walls, silver railings, blue and white mosaic tile floor. None of it felt real. It made Duke miss his neighborhood, his home.

"Today we will be covering chapters ten through fifteen,"

Mr.Farlane’s voice was robotic and empty as he spoke to the class. Mr.Farlane had several conversations with himself about the themes of the book, the overarching plot, and how Jack Kerouac was an exemplary writer.

This was when the boy in front of Duke raised his hand. Mr.Farlane didn't notice him at first but the boy slammed his other hand onto the wooden desk to grab the teachers attention.

Mr.Farlane only let out an annoyed huff of air, Duke noticed the other boys in class had perked up as well. It felt like the moments before a great battle in a movie, like two unstoppable armies had come to face each other on a hill.

"Yes Jason,"

Mr.Farlane’s voice at least wasn't terribly dull anymore, Duke thought.

"Kerouac was not a good writer, he drones on and on, he deals in drivel-"

Mr.Farlane cut Jason off with the palm of his hand.

"That's subjective Jason-"

Jason cut him off in return.

"It's not subjective, he was high as shit when he wrote On The Road , and apparently even being intoxicated wasn't enough to get his ass to write anything good"

"Mr.Todd-"

"I'm Mr.Todd now?"

Jason asked, raising his voice with a snarl.

"Mr.Todd," Mr.Farlane said slowly repeating himself, "Please go to the office if you're going to act like this"

Jason, who was a tall boy with dark hair and icy blue eyes, a streak of white running down his bangs, didn't look handsome as he stormed out of the room, he looked pissed off. The other boys in class also stared at Jason as he moved through the room, knocking or bumping into desks not seeming to care who or what he intruded on.

Mr.Farlane continued speaking once Jason had left like nothing had transpired at all. Duke then deduced that Jason must be one of those moody brooding types who was prone to getting in trouble. A person who sat quietly until they exploded with rage. Which in this case was induced by bad literary opinion.

While Mr.Farlane’s hollow lesson went on, Duke drew. He drew Jason in a loose cartoon style. Putting emphasis on the boy's odd hair color, his angry scrunched up face which Duke only got a few glimpses of because he had been sitting behind him. Duke in scratchy bubble letters drew the words Jason had spoken as well. When it came time to put Jason's name on the asshole list Duke couldn't bring himself to do it.

Because yeah, yelling at the teacher, throwing around curse words, having tantrums in class, that definitely wasn't cool. It made Duke wonder if Jason was putting on some sort of bad boy act. But even this seemed pretty dramatic for something that was just an act. Regardless of the right or wrong of the situation Duke hesitated, because Jason was right. Jack Kerouac couldn't write for shit.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

That night Duke looked at the two boxes that he still had left to unpack. The school had confiscated their phones, so Duke had the radio on low. The radio had been his mothers, and it used to sit on their kitchen window sill, but it hasn't had any CD’s fed to it for years. It had been a long time since he had used the radio at all, and the stations were different out here. Eventually he settled on the ‘Rockin 80’s’ station that was playing that Easy Lover song.

Duke’s room was the same as all the other rooms in the dorms. One bed, one desk, a chair, a closet, and one small window that overlooked the empty fields beyond the school grounds. Duke had almost skipped dinner today like he had yesterday but had forced himself to go to the cafeteria. He didn't want himself to get stuck moping here. Even if he did very badly want to mope about.

His casual clothes were tucked into the back of the closet, while the pieces of his uniform took up most of the closet. The two sweaters vests, one blue with white stripes running along the bottom, the other an inverted version of the first. His black slacks, the gray ones, and the two pairs of khakis. Of course the variety of collared button ups and polos, then the singular school jacket. The crest was embroidered and intricate. The silver string shone even the dim light of his room.

Duke took the jacket off and hung it with the rest of his clothes. He used the key to his dorm to cut the tape off the last boxes. In the first box were posters, photos, pieces of paper he had tacked up on his walls at home, the halloween lights he strung around his room back home and his lava lamp. It took Duke longer than he thought it would to hang all the contents of the box on the walls. But when he was finished and flicked the lava lamp on, he did feel better. Like some sort of normalcy was placed back into his palms.

The second box was one he had been careful to keep from his mother, and one he had made sure to label school supplies. Because Blue River had rules about everything. The length of your pants, scented candles, music, and even books. But more hated than the list of curated books that had been banned from the school curriculum and hence the school grounds, was an even simpler rule and instruction that Duke had not only broken, but disregarded entirely.

In the school handbook, on page ten, was a list of contraband. Underneath the incredibly long list of banned books, was rule 15. No comic books. Duke appreciated his mothers sentiments of good education, he appreciated the scholarship that the school had offered. But Duke, like always, had his own plans.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

A/N: These chapters are also up on ao3 if that is your preferred reading space, and of course The Duke Thomas Playlist 

LINK TO NEXT CHAPTER 

[a-table-of-fics]

Cull to Adventure, Chapter 8, Draft 1

           Cull let the Zapfish swim out above him as he took a moment to breathe, letting his arms dangle over the ladder rung. Two Zapfish in a day, and he was tired. He wasn’t used to so much action, and he hadn’t had that much peril in forever. The pain he went through wasn’t as bad as that one time, though, so that was something.

           “You coming?” he heard Marie ask, some way above him.

           “Y-yeah,” he nodded, banging his head on the rung above. He rubbed his head with one hand as he climbed the rest of the way with the other.

           “You all right?” Marie asked. “I heard a clang—”

           “I’m fine,” Cull replied, waving a hand reassuringly.

           “Well, okay then,” she nodded, before her face hardened. “Now, about you calling yourself a failure…”

           “F-forget it,” Cull said, turning to look for another kettle.

           “No, we’re not forgetting it,” Marie said, sternly. “I’m not having you go into enemy territory saying that kind of stuff. What even got you thinking that?”

           Agent 4 didn’t answer, instead fidgeting with one of his longer tentacles.

           “It’s that personal, huh?” Marie sighed. “All right, but I don’t wanna hear—”

           “No, no,” Cull sighed. “I g-guess if it’s j-just us…”

           He pointed to his hairstyle.

           “I, uh… I-I…” he started, before taking a deep breath. “This was my fault, okay? I…I didn’t know any better…”

           He stammered and choked before falling silent again.

           “Hey, uh,” Marie started. Cod, she wished Callie was here; she was so much better at this kind of thing. Well, maybe if she tried what Callie once told her, it could help…

           “You know, you still came through,” she tried, giving a small smile. “A failure didn’t just save three Zapfish on his own.”

           The two were interrupted by a loud whining from a huge black Kettle. As they both watched, enough steam built up to lift the lid several feet into the air. After just a few seconds, one last burst of hot air shot it into the stratosphere.

           “Ah,” Marie finally said, lifting a hand to close Cull’s jaw. “That would be an Octoweapon activated.”

           “W-what’s that?”

           “An Octarian war machine of some kind.”

           Cull cringed. Fighting Octarians was one thing, but some kind of tank or artillery?

           “Don’t worry, though,” Marie said, patting him on the back. “They haven’t got a lot of those things, and we’re gonna keep it that way.”

            “Uhh…”

           “I’m sure you can do it! All you gotta do is find the weird giant tentacle you can splat!”

           “…The what?”

           “You can’t miss it. Glaring weak spot.”

           Just hope they didn’t fix that, Marie didn’t say.

           “W-well… okay,” Cull tentatively nodded. “That s-sounds easy enough…”

           “I didn’t say easy,” Marie corrected him. “I just said you could do it. I’ll be sure to watch the thing from here, see if I can help you out, but it’ll be up to you.”

            Cull nodded, looking into the Kettle. He couldn’t see too far into it, but he could hear rhythmic clanging and whirring coming from far below. He swallowed.

           “J-just hope I don’t have to swim too much…”

           With that vote of self-confidence, he dove in, hoping he was ready for whatever came to greet him.

* * *

           Nothing greeted him other than a launchpad in front of him. Looking around, there wasn’t much to see, either. It looked like an abandoned warehouse to him, something he was no stranger to. There were even stickers and paint jobs tagged everywhere, though it looked to Cull like they were all placed by one person. Strange, especially given how much warehouse they would have had to tag.

           He heard a clatter over his headset – apparently Marie had just made it to whatever system she was using to monitor – and she quickly asked, “You ready, Agent 4?”

           After giving an affirmative grunt, he stepped forward, to look at where he was going. He could see the Zapfish in front of him, in another bulb. For some reason, this one was floating in the air above a pond of purple ink. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to reach it once he landed there, but hopefully he could get to the poor thing before the so-called Octoweapon did.

           In any case, he wasn’t going to get anything else done up here, so he walked forward and squidformed into the launchpad.

           The moment he landed, he looked up to see the imprisoned Zapfish descend. He took a couple of tentative steps forward, and he could even see the fish smile as it saw him, giving a small squeak as it did so.

           Cull smiled back, getting his Splattershot out and preparing to make a trail of green to meet it. Before he could, though, he heard bubbling, and stopped.

           Suddenly, an enormous octopus tentacle burst out of the ink, grabbing the Zapfish. The poor thing could barely even scream before its bulb was pulled under by the green-scarred arm. Electricity sparked through the ink, and soon a light burst from the center.

           Cull had already started backing up, but the rumble as… something rose from the depths knocked him off-balance. Even as he landed on his back, he was scrambling to get away, but he soon realized there was nowhere to go – he was on a disk-shaped platform floating above Cod-knows-what. All he could do was watch as some kind of hexagonal cylinder emerged, with green glowing eyes. There was a pair on each face, Cull realized.

           The light faded, and the inky mist dissipated to reveal a behemoth of a machine. Six eyes sneered at Agent 4 behind panes of glass, and the vents either side hissed plenty of steam…

           Wait, was that some kind of oven?

           His suspicions were confirmed as the bread burst out of each door, the faces screaming in unison. Cull felt shaken to his core, and he saw the ink on the floor dry up and flake away instantly. He was just glad that wasn’t him, and he was soon able to get back onto his feet, ready to face this thing.

           “Looks like the tentacle’s on top,” Marie said, as the oven approached.

           Three pairs of green eyes looked at him, but Cull’s attention was pulled to an enormous red robot eye glaring at him, right above the front face. It tracked him as he ran far better than the bread did. The fact that all the mouths were saying something in unison with the same high-pitched voice wasn’t helping ease his mind.

           Suddenly, one of the doors opened, and Cull barely leapt out of the way as the bread shouted, lunging towards him before quickly receding back in. Cull could feel the heat from the bread even as it left. He looked at the trail of ink it left behind, and cringed as he could see a bit of steam coming out of it. The bread gave him a mean sneer from behind the glass as the oven spun.

           “That’s why I don’t eat the end loaves,” Marie joked.

           Cull couldn’t help but snicker at that, but only for a moment as another loaf lunged at him.

           Marie could hear the loaves speak as one through her headset. She only knew a bit of Octo, but it was enough to raise concerns – she heard “…nutrition…ingredient…value…” among words she didn’t understand. That, alongside its open-mouthed charge towards Agent 4, painted a picture that, frankly, she didn’t want Cull seeing. Maybe if she kept things light, that would help more than scaring him with reality.

           “Hope you’re bready to find a way up,” she said, forcing a grin. “It’ll get you out of this jam.”

           She couldn’t help but give a more genuine grin as Cull groaned between dodges.

           Meanwhile, Cull attempted to shoot back at the bread, but even when it was exposed all his ink did was cover the crust in green. It seemed there was nothing he could do about those loaves. Well, nothing other than frustrate them, if the tone of their screeching was any indication.

           As he kept evading lunges, he could feel the ink trail left behind get even hotter. Pink steam rose from some of the later trails. Steam also emerged from the oven itself, and a lot of it. Finally, all of the bread started to screech at once, before they all burst out of the oven. They stayed there, hanging in shock.

           Agent 4 put a tentative hand onto one of the loaves. The crust felt firm, like this was the high-quality bread his old neighbor sold. Of course, this was less nostalgic, as he did have a job to do.

           His ink was still on the side of this one, but he wasn’t sure if he’d have time, so he hoisted himself up by hand, looking for any way to the top.

           Well, he had to ink the sides, and the fact the bread was breathing heavily did not help his discomfort. Hopefully, he could at least make it easier by climbing less wall, so he looked to his left, at one of the higher loaves, and took a running leap.

           He was able to catch the next platform, but only barely, as his hands were slipping and losing a bit of their form in the heat. With some effort, he clambered upwards, leaving bits of green as he stood up. Thankfully, he could still fire his Splattershot, and paint the wall that faced him. Swimming up it was another matter, but he would have to do it somehow.

           He eyed the wall up and down, and realized he didn’t coat the whole wall, instead more or less making a thick line up it. Maybe he could work with this…

           Agent 4 dove into the green, struggling for a moment before a slim white tentacle emerged from the ink, feeling around for half a second before slapping onto the wall. It trailed upward as Cull swam a little bit, and then circled further upwards, helping pull him up. Cull still wasn’t as fast as the average Inkling, but Marie could see he was making his own personal record for swimming up.

           Cull didn’t pant from the excruciating swim this time, but more from the heat. Thankfully, he was at the top, and could see the tentacle in front of him. He opened fire, keeping his footing as stable as it could between the oven shaking like mad and his feeling a lot softer and slipperier than normal.

           Finally, the tentacle burst, spewing pink ink everywhere. Cull was already close to slipping, but this deluge was enough to knock him over. He landed on a spongy loaf of screaming bread. As quickly as he could, he leapt off it, making a break for anywhere that wasn’t right next to the mechanical monster.

           “Donut stop!” Marie cheered. “You knead to keep going!”

           Cull couldn’t help but snicker at that, despite everything going on around him. It was short-lived as he saw a new tentacle peeking out above the top of the Octoweapon, and the bread glared at him all over again. What was worse, new things were bursting from the tile walls, revealing more mechanical eyes and massive vents that made it look like it had a crown. As soon as the tentacle sunk into its slot, it blasted way too many ink columns into the air. Agent 4 had no choice but to move closer to the Octo Oven.

           “Mmm, Churros….” Marie joked.

           Cull paused for a moment, looking up at the spiraling Ink Pistons that embedded themselves into the ground. He chuckled, before moving closer to the Octo Oven.

           He was suddenly aware of music that was playing through speakers here, that was getting his ink pumping. It was some kind of weird techno music, with furious guitar strumming over it and incomprehensible vocals. As he dodged the attacks from the Oven, he felt a fresh determination to see it splatted.

           The heat wasn’t doing him any favors, though. His movements were starting to feel sluggish, and the soles of his shoes were starting to stick to the floor. Even his arms felt a little longer, and he could see ink drip from him every so often. He grimaced, trying to keep together long enough to continue fighting.

           Meanwhile, the oven was shouting things at him. Cull thought he could hear the word “cook” in there, but he chalked it up to fighting a giant bread monster. He couldn’t ignore how the loaves were looking at him like they were about to lick their lips, or how the two robotic visors were intensely focused on him, as if they were scanning him.

           “Mar—” he started, realizing his mistake as he dove out of the way again, “Agent 2, y-you know what this th-thing’s deal is?”

           “Er, I do,” Marie replied. “It’s hoping to put Inkopolis in a jam, but it should have loafed us alone!”

           Cull groaned. If all she was going to do was make puns, he wasn’t going to try to encourage her anymore.

           Meanwhile, Marie quickly muted the mic to breathe a sign of relief. That was too close; having Cull know and then panic was the last thing she wanted to happen. At least he had a chance while ignorant.

           Finally, the oven got too hot again, and all the bread launched out to cool off. As it panted, Agent 4 clambered onto the first loaf once more, and cringed at how much of his form was sticking to the bread. He swore he could see some of the loose ink getting absorbed by it.

           No matter; he had to find a way up again. He saw that the huge eyeball had a grid around it, and that meant an easier way up. He went to leap, but his shoes were sticking to the spongy floor beneath him. He reached, straining as hard as he could, but he could barely even reach the vents below, and the heat there certainly wasn’t helping.

           Still, he was able to drag himself up off the platform, and now he was getting a faceful of hot air. He had to fling his arms upwards like he was in squid form – limp, but with good grip. It was awkward, and he was terrified of getting caught in moving parts, but it was the best he could do, with so little control over his own body.

           It actually reminded him of when he was around seven, and he and Soy used their still-not-fully-formed bodies to get to all kinds of places. He remembered his childhood partner-in-crime teaching him how to scale places with their then-loose limbs. The two of them got into all sorts of places they really shouldn’t have. Those were always good times.

           As much as he missed those carefree days, Soy, and having all his tentacles, he was already at the top. No more time for reminiscing.

           It was a good thing the tentacle he was targeting was so large, because his aiming game wasn’t going to be great in these conditions. He tried aiming for the massive green scar on it, but was lucky to be hitting the arm at all. Eventually, though, the tentacle burst, and the oven started to spray pink ink everywhere.

           Stepping back was becoming less of an option. Instinct kicked in, and he squidformed as best he could. Ink pressure built up, and he was just able to launch before he got doused in Octo ink.

           “Good,” Marie said. “But dougn’t get careless or things might go a rye.”

           Cull was upset that he was laughing at these stupid bread puns as he prepared to land. At least it was cut off briefly as he landed with a splat! Besides, it distracted him from how hard kidforming was getting. He was becoming more puddle than Inkling at this point.

            Was it just him, or was the arena far hotter than it was before?

           Meanwhile, there was the sound of metal scraping as plating emerged from the oven, covering bits of the bread before it screamed again. Cull had to focus to not get flung from the roar this time, but he managed to stay on while everything else was cleared of ink.

           “Right,” Marie continued, after a moment of silence. “Hang in there, and the…armored…bread… shouldn’t stop you too much. Just watch for that… um, glazing machine.”

           Cull watched as a pipe emerged from the oven, and several nozzles started pouring a wall of ink. He prepared to run, but that was a tall order as he tripped over his own feet repeatedly. He had to settle for an uncomfortable shamble as he rushed to avoid getting glazed. He shot a sloppy trail of green once he wrapped around the Oven and was reaching a perfectly painted pink floor.

           He and Marie both sighed a relief as the spouts stopped and the pipe rolled back in.

           Agent 4 readied himself; he didn’t know what this thing was planning, but given the way it was spinning and muttering, it was nothing good. He thought he could hear it say something that sounded like “flavor”, but he wrote that off as coincidence.

           He was almost glad it was back to launching its many bread faces at him, albeit far more rapidly. He ducked out of the way of the first, he tripped just in time to dodge the second, but before the third shot out, he found it far too difficult to move, and was punished for it. He closed his eyes and braced himself for a nasty splat.

           Except, that didn’t happen. Sure, he was knocked down, and it hurt, but he was still there. What’s more, he felt a wash of cool green ink over himself. Daring to open an eye, he saw his armor was broken again, and he was able to solidify just a little more in this heat. Not much, but just enough to stand up somewhat normally for once. Just in time, too; the Oven had one more lunge before the bread had to cool off again.

           Cull couldn’t blame it for that; the ink from the armor helped, but it wasn’t enough to beat the heat.

           He tried to clamber onto the metal, but not only was it far hotter than the rest of the Oven, but it was also impossible to get a grip on the inkproof surface in his inky state. So he was back to climbing on weird talking bread. Once again, he swung with loose limbs over the mechanical eye and made it to the top. He hoped this was it as he burst the tentacle one last time.

           Once again, he was able to Squid Jump away, and landed with an awkward splatter.

           “This guy’s toast!” Marie cheered.

           Quietly, Cull cheered too. If the Oven didn’t kill him, any more bread puns would.

           He turned around and saw that the Oven was rumbling once again, but this time, the bread shot out all burnt and charred. The smell of burnt seafood filled the air as the Oven twitched, the panels denting outward. One on the back fell off, and the faces on the bread started to wince from whatever complications their body was going through.

           With one last synchronized scream, the Oven exploded, sending gallons and gallons of green ink everywhere.

           As soon as the ink oozed off the camera, Marie could see the Zapfish, safely encased in an electric bulb in the middle of the platform. But there was no sign of Agent 4. She had seen Agent 3 destroy the Octomaw, and even as that kid was doused in ink, she was still clearly visible.

           “…Agent 4?”

           A mound rose, and gave a blobby thumbs-up.

           She breathed a sigh of relief, watching him try to kidform. He mostly succeeded in flopping around, though.

           “Look, 4,” Marie said, softly. “You might wanna swim until you cool off a bit. Don’t worry, you can take your time.”

           One slow shamble and a Splat Bomb later, Cull had a concerned Zapfish looking over him, and he could see Marie climbing down the ladder to greet him as the platform rose up to greet her.

           “Need a lift?” she asked, casually as ever.

[annaraebananawriter]

A Found Family

Yellow again everyone! Here again with another oneshot. Has anyone noticed that all of my oneshots have been centred around Dream? I don’t know why. Although, I do have a couple planned that don’t include Dream.

Also, this particular oneshot was inspired by @mutated-bunnies post about Dream with wings and @dragonfruiteen post about Blue grooming his wings. Give both of these people love, they deserve it!

Fandom: Undertale, but specifically Dreamtale and Underswap

Characters: Dream (Who belongs to Joku), Blue and Strech (Who both belong to P0pcornPr1nce)

Warnings: None that I can think of, just pure fluff

Word Count:��2224

~oOo~

It was well known among his friends that Dream didn’t take care of himself.

He was on the run most of the time, so he couldn’t. He barely ate, either, as he relied on the positivity from the AUs he visited. That sustained him enough. He barely slept, too. It was rare to see him taking a nap, though if he did it wouldn’t be long and would most likely be on Blue’s couch.

Most importantly, however, he didn’t take care of his wings.

Yes, he had wings. They weren’t just rumours. They were small, though, so he mostly had them hidden underneath his cape. He could fly with them, but only for a short while. They found that out thanks to Ink.

His wings were a mess. Feathers tangled and uncomfortable, though he learned to ignore it. He rarely slept on his wings for the reason of not making it worse. Somehow, it gets worse anyways.

So, no, Dream did not take care of himself at all. Can you blame him? He’s too busy taking care of Nightmare and the Multiverse to give a damn about the state of his health and wings. It wasn’t that hard to understand.

This is what he was trying to get Blue to see. They had argued about this before, but Dream always won in the end.

Now, this argument was different. Blue was done listening to ‘excuses’ apparently.

“Just because you’re busy a lot,” his friend immediately shot back, arms crossed and foot tapping, “does not mean you can’t take a break for a few minutes!”

Dream huffed.

They had been at this for a while. He knew that Blue was getting frustrated with his lack of care to himself recently (it was quite hard to ignore). His friend had a habit of building up his concerns until they burst. Today was that day.

The minute Dream had come back from a battle with Nightmare, Blue had confronted him. Blue’s brother, Stretch, had been entering the room at the time and had frozen, recognizing the incoming lecture/argument from the times it was directed at him. Stretch had then said he would be back and left Dream to his fate.

The Papyrus was probably laughing to himself about it now.

Dream didn’t like being worried about. This was a main issue as to why these arguments even existed. Blue and him had different views as to what friends should do. Blue believed that friends do whatever they can for the others, especially if it’s that one friend who is always overworking himself. Dream, on the other hand, believed that friends don’t pry into the lives of the others, respecting their privacy, especially if it’s that one friend who is the mom of the group.

The other thing was, Dream knew that Blue was right. Blue knew he did too.

Should Dream just give up his fight? Probably.

Will he? Absolutely not.

Why? Because a trait that he and his negative twin shared was that they are both stubborn. They would be in favour of keeping their pride than giving in and accepting help. This trait is probably the reason for most of their problems.

So, Dream was going to fight this to his last breath.

“Blue,” he began, wings puffing a little in anger. Blue had wrestled his cape away from him too and was currently holding onto it. He felt naked without it, but he persevered. “you are asking me to stay here for a whole day, which, need I remind you, threatens your AU, and sleep for at least three hours—”

“I was thinking more like eight, the healthy amount of sleeping hours.”

“—three hours,” he ignored Blues interruption, “and eat a whole meal.” He looked at Blue with pleading eyes. “You know I can’t stomach that much food.”

Blue’s eyes softened a fraction and he sighed, setting Dream’s cape on the arm on the couch. “I know. But, Dream,” he gazed at Dream with his own pleading eyes, “you can’t continue like this. You’ll burn out. Then what’ll happen?”

“I—”

“You won’t be able to fight. Which will hurt you more than fighting would.” Blue clasped his hands together and bowed his head, eyes gazing at Dream even more pleadingly. “Please? Just today, that’s it.”

Dream hesitated. He wanted to argue more, continue fighting for the win. But Blue never did this before. He never pleaded. And Dream knows that if he continues to say no now that Blue will be defeated. He’ll resign himself to never asking again.

He didn’t want to make Blue disappointed. Besides…one day couldn’t hurt, right?

Dream sighed, sagging in defeat. “Fine.” Blue lit back up, beaming. Another thought entered Dream’s head and he panicked a bit. “But Nightmare—”

“Ink will handle him.” Blue grabbed Dream’s hand and pulled him to the bathroom, where a pile of clothes already waited. A bath was run that still looked surprisingly warm. Blue had prepared to win.

Dream still protested weakly. “But—”

Blue smiled and patted Dream’s shoulder. “He will, don’t worry.” A glint was in Blue’s eye that made Dream shiver. “I’ll make sure of it.”

With that, he turned and left, locking the door behind him. Dream blinked a bit at the door.

Sometimes, Blue scared him.

He sighed and looked to the bath. It would be nice to have one, he supposed. He couldn’t remember the last time he did have one. Probably back in the village, if he had to guess. Smiling slightly, he stripped and put one foot in the bath. The water was the perfect temperature.

He entered the bath fully, shifting a bit when his wings got wet. It was a bit of a shock, at first. He leaned back a bit, resting his head against the wall. He usually never had time for a bath, relaxing as it was. It distracted him from all of his other duties.

…Blue was right. He did need this.

Dream sat there a while longer. This was the most relaxed he’d ever been. Eventually, he started to clean himself and his wings. Once satisfied, he hopped out, unplugging the bath. He scrubbed himself clean and gazed at the clothes Blue had prepared for him.

It was a yellowy-orange sweater and some gray sweatpants. Comfy clothes.

Once dressed in those, he took a deep breath and began the process of drying his wings. Whenever his wings got wet, the feathers got all clumped together. This was no exception. It was fine though. He could live with it.

After he was done with everything, even though his wings were a bit damp still, he unlocked the door and exited.

Blue met him at the end of the stairs. He took Dream’s hand and pulled him to the couch, sat him down and left for a minute. He returned with a single taco. Dream felt nauseous even looking at it. He gazed up at Blue when he handed him the plate. “Blue—”

“You don’t have to eat it all,” Blue reassured him, immediately knowing what the guardian was thinking. “just pick at it and eat what you can. I’ll eat the rest.” He then grabbed a blanket and sat beside Dream, wrapping it around them both.

They turned on the TV and settled down to watch a rerun of a cartoon Alphys had given Blue called ‘Voltron’. She had found it in the dump and said it reminded her of the training guard. It was pretty good, with some good jokes.

Dream managed to eat a good corner of the taco before he felt full. He gave the rest to Blue, who happily took it, giving Dream a sympathetic smile as well. His friends ate the rest of the taco as they finished the episode.

After some time had passed, Dream felt Blue staring at him. Looking over, Dream caught Blue’s eye.

“What?” Dream asked, tilting his head a bit.

Blue glanced away to his wings before looking back to Dream. He did that a couple more times before eventually looking Dream in the eye. “Can I groom your wings?”

Dream blinked. Once. Twice. That was unexpected. “…why?”

Blue looked frustrated at that. “You never groom them! You let the feathers get all bunched up!” He put a hand on his chest. “I, for one, think they would look pretty once groomed.”

Dream paused. He supposed the other was right. He never did groom his wings, just let them do whatever they wanted to do. In fact, he can’t even remember if he ever did groom them. Probably not. He’s always been on the run. He never had time too.

It must feel good. “…sure.”

Blue looked at him with surprise. “Really?”

He sighed and nodded, smiling when Blue’s excitement came into focus quickly.

They then shifted on the couch to accommodate the activity. It was tight, but somehow, they got it to work. Dream laid down on his stomach, this way his wings could stretch a bit. Blue sat underneath his legs, twisted to face Dream, which wasn’t as uncomfortable as it sounded, so that the wings didn’t hit him in the face. It was a bit of a reach for Blue to reach all the feathers, but he managed.

Dream startled at the first touch. It was new. Yet…as Blue continued, it grew to be very relaxing, even more so than the bath. It was a constant little thing that sent tingles up his spine. He felt himself relax into the couch, the TV and Blue’s breathing tuning out.

He yawned a bit and found his eyes slipping close.

~oOo~

Blue smiled when Dream fell asleep.

He had a feeling it would happen, though he wasn’t sure. He had been talking to a few of the monsters that had wings about grooming them so he knew what to do and they all said it was pretty relaxing. Relaxing enough to put someone to sleep.

He did plan all of this. The bath, the clothes, the taco, the show, everything. It was all so that he could groom his friend’s wings and put him to sleep.

Because god knows the other needed it.

It both saddened and angered him that Dream had to go through this. Brothers shouldn’t treat each other like this. Yes, he got upset with his own brother, but that would never mean he would want to kill him.

Unlike Nightmare. He knew that something happened between them that he will probably never be told, but that was no excuse. Dream still refused to kill Nightmare, who could care less if his twin died. It sickened him. Dream deserved far better.

Which was where this day came from.

He was glad that his plan had worked. He was very glad that Dream agreed to it in the first place. He also knew that he would do another one of these in the future. He just had to. Dream deserved it.

With these thoughts still swirling around his head, Blue fell into a light sleep.

~oOo~

Stretch sighed as he returned home.

He had been ordered by his brother to stay away for the day. It had something to do with Dream, he knew that, so it was fine with him. He knew that the guardian had been running himself ragged a bit recently. So, he left Blue to his devices.

He opened the door and closed it again, turned to the living room and paused.

The first thing Stretch noticed was the TV, stuck on the menu screen for that season. He subconsciously reached for the remote and turned it off. He then turned to the couch.

The second thing he noticed was the cape that Dream always wore on the arm. It stricked him a bit odd, but then his attention was directed to the two skeletons on the couch, the third thing he noticed.

His brother and his friend were laying on the couch. Dream was laying on Blue’s chest, an arm hanging off. He was also drooling a bit, a wet spot growing on Blue’s shirt. In return, Blue had his arms wrapped around the guardian. Their legs were tangled together and Dream’s wings laid on top of them both.

It was a cute scene. Too cute to resist taking a picture of.

After the picture was taken, he looked to the blanket on the floor. Taking the fuzzy green thing, he carefully draped it over the sleeping pair. Hesitating a bit, he then kneeled beside them.

He first gave a kiss to Blue’s forehead, making his brother shift in his sleep. Then, his gaze went to Dream. He knew his brother viewed the guardian as another brother. It was obvious whenever he looked. And if Blue thought that way about Dream, that Stretch did too.

He wasn’t lying, either. He knew what the guardian’s own brother had done to him. He didn’t like it, perhaps even disliked it more than Blue did. Dream deserved a loving family, and brothers that wouldn’t abandon him.

“You’ll always have a family with us, Dream.” He whispered to the sleeping guardian. He gave a second kiss to Dream’s forehead, who shifted in his sleep also, snuggling more into Blue.

Stretch smiled at his sleeping brothers before sitting down to watch over them.

[heartofswords]

The twilight of our lives

Starter for @konohagakurekakashi

Breathing was an issue. On one hand, Tobirama desperately needed oxygen after the mad sprint he’d pulled, but on the other one he had to keep his breathing shallow enough not to risk piercing a lung on one of his cracked ribs. 

War was a fucking bitch. War with Kumo was twice a bitch. 

Tobirama hid behind a cluster of rocks, suppressing his chakra presence as best as he could, but he knew he was on borrowed time. The Kinkaku Force was persistent, and they weren’t going to stop until they had his head on a pike.

The Hokage’s choices were limited. It had been obvious that Sumo’s objective was Tobirama’s death, so by acting as a decoy he’d managed to attract their attention and had allowed his squad to escape. 

(They hadn’t even cared when his six subordinates had disappeared.)

When he’d sent his shinobi away, he’d been aware that he was going towards his death. He wished he’d had more time to prepare Hiruzen, but what was done was done.

Oh, not that Tobirama didn’t intend to sell his hide cheap: he was going to take with him to the grave as many Kumo shinobi as he could. Three at least had died, and a few more were heavily wounded, but Tobirama was out of options now.

He was out of Hiraishin seals, for the Kinkaku Squad had found a way to destroy the seals he’d littered the battlefield with, and the three shinobi who’d Tobirama had managed to tag directly had promptly retreated to avoid becoming a liability to their team. 

The truth was that Tobirama was plain out exhausted. He’d been running for way too long, and his chakra reserves were almost depleted, to the point he didn’t dare any Shadow Clone anymore.

He still had his chakra sensing abilities, but fat load of good would it do to him if he could locate his enemies but not fight them. He knew that they hadn’t discovered his hideout yet, but how long would that last? Two minutes? Five? And then he was fucked.

They’d thoroughly dried the air of any humidity with way too many katon jutsu, so Tobirama had little water to call forth anymore.

Tobirama still had his katana, but he’d lost his tanto, was almost out of shuriken and was completely out of kunai and explosive tags. His ninja wire was gone, too.

His knowledge of fuinjutsu was useless, too, because he’d never mastered the art of using it on-the-fly in combat like te Uzumaki.

...or was it?

Swallowing on a dry mouth, Tobirama reached for one of his belt pouches and pulled out a thick sheet of paper, folded many times over. 

The ink of the seals glowed dimly in the twilight, green-orange. It was nothing but a prototype, an experiment he had yet to test - but it was something.

Pre-charged hiraishin, brimming with Mito’s fiery chakra, whose sole anchor was back in Konoha.

Tobirama was willing to die for Konoha, but he was also aware that if he could manage to return home, it’d be way better for the Village. Hiruzen was going to be a great Hokage, but a transition of power during wartime was a disaster waiting to happen.

By now, his team had to be halfway through Fire Country. They were safe. 

What did he have to lose? If the seal backfired, Tobirama would die, but that was going to happen regardless. 

And if it worked...

Tobirama activated the Hiraishin.

The in-between dimension didn’t have any attributes that Tobirama could explain: there was no light, no noise, no smell, no feeling of pressure or warmth. It felt like nothing, like the utter absence of matter.

Usually, his presence in the in-between lasted less than a heartbeat, there and gone so fast he could barely notice it. 

But now - now it lingered. Tobirama was frozen, crystallized like an insect in amber, mute and deaf and blind and he couldn’t feel his own heartbeat and oh gods what was happening was he trapped-

Devoid of any way to measure time but his running, frantic thought, Tobirama couldn’t have said how long it lasted. An instant. A minute. A lifetime.

But eventually, light and sound and feeling returned to him and he finally returned to the world-

-and he promptly fell on his knees, barely catching himself before he faceplanted on the ground. He cried out as the folding motion sent a dagger of hotwhiteburning pain through his chest and up his spine, his vision flashing white. Please not the lung, please not the lung.

The modified long-range Hiraishin had worked, please don’t let him die now of a perforated lung.

(And it had worked. He wasn’t on the border anymore: he was definitely in Fire Country, he could tell by the vegetation around him. It wasn’t twilight either, it was noon, but Tobirama refused to wonder if the seal had distorted time, not now. Later.)

As he didn’t start drowning in his own blood, Tobirama gathered that he’d managed not to die in such a stupid way on the threshold of home. Nice. 

Now, to get some medical help…

Tobirama managed to sit up, shoulders drawn back to allow his chest to expand unimpeded, and sent out the strongest chakra pulse he could manage with his depleted reserves. Please, someone, come find him. The lands around Konoha were full of patrols, someone was bound to notice that.

[se7enforse7en]

NBTM | Two — Propositions

☾ synopsis : Love and tragedy has always had a way of being connected, that connection usually held by the red string of fate. A red string that destined two soulmates to be bound for eternity. No matter the circumstances, fate would tie two individuals to meet, to not disrupt their long awaited destiny. In the world of more than five billion people, the red string had made it’s mark plenty of times, going back to perhaps the start of it. The folktale disappeared into obscurity & into believer’s hearts. In the lives of fourteen individuals in the 21st century, their lives seem to be an unfinished puzzle. Some strangers, some friends. Some blissful, others tragic. All unaware of the soon-to-be outcome years in the making. They’ll find it to be entrancingly painful. The red string of fate wasn’t just pretty.

☾ pairing : jinyoung x fem!oc

☾ genre : drama, romance, angst ??

☾ warnings : strong language, rambling from an ass author (I had to), very much angst ur honor, kinda ooc jinyoung, e2l

☾ Parts : one / two / three / four / five

JIHYE CONSIDERS HERSELF TO BE AN INSPIRATIONAL PERSON. Or rather, she usually thinks herself to be inspired. Normally, she had no problem coming up with a concept to paint. The canvas would create itself and she’d feel a bit of completeness. She’d be drawn to the brushes and her extravagantly expensive colors. They’d call out to her, urging her to pick them up and begin yet another masterpiece. Their hues should’ve created a clear image in her head, but they didn’t. Nothing’s happening. Not a damn thing.

She stares at the long, white canvas ahead of her. It’s blank nature taunts her in the face. It dares not to move, nor does it help her inability. She’s sure that there’s new wrinkles in her skin just from the blatant staring she’s doing. It sets an infuriating feeling in her. She’s tempted to throw one of the brushes at the canvas, the thought permeating the main centers of her brain. Alas, a doorbell brings her out of her thoughts. Her eyes fly to the door with a sigh. She reluctantly gets up, her body sluggish. She quickly opens up the door, only to be welcomed with the face of the one and only Jong Minji. She rolls her eyes and lets the door swing open. He scoffs as she beelines for her kitchen.

“So great to see you—oh, it really is!” He mocks the lack of interaction as she pulls out a chilled Dr. Pepper. He strides in, setting down a big, brown paper bag on her marble counter. He squints his eyes, noticing something’s off. She’s characterically cold as per usual, with none of the sassy energy in it. It’s something he’s grown accustomed to in the last seven years. She appears out of her element, even in the silent sigh that flows from her mouth, resulting from the promising liquid full of sugar. He takes a seat at her counter, his eyes quickly finding no paint on her wrists. He cocked an eyebrow at the sight. “Finally one of your white shirts isn't ruined,” he comments.

She looks down, realizing not a single stain of color had tainted it, a rarity indeed. “Yeah,” she whispers as she takes another thirst-quenching sip. Her sleeves are rolled up, preparing for an activity she felt like giving up on. Her eyes drift to the paper bag. She raises her eyebrows. She looks between him and the source of her curiosity.

“It’s not a bomb, sheesh.” He reaches for it, rapidly opening it. He pulls out lazily shoved in fries and several wrapped up burgers, ones she knows too well. She instantly groans at the sight of it. Her rolls her eyes yet again, her annoyance a bit more recognizable. She can practically smell the grease and fat oozing just from the sight of it. She gives an agitated look to him. His shoulders become slumped. “It’s been forever since we’ve had a fast food day - “

“Because it’s shitty processed food. I literally got food poisoning last time.” The mere thought of it makes her groan.

“That’s not exclusive to all fast food.” She sighs at his words, resorting to the remainder of her chilled soda. He pushes one of the three burgers in front of you, quickly unwrapping his own. He expects her to do the same. She casts her gaze down, looking with disdain. She thinks on how she’d have to soon be in the obvious limelight due to the inability of escaping any & all promotions as an artist. She lightly pushes it away, much to his dismay. He instantly frowns as he lowers the overly greasy away from his mouth. “Did something happen?” He knows she’s one to care about her health, but something’s up, he’s sure.

She licks her dry lips. She wonders the same as her friend. Being stuck is one thing and not knowing why is another. The unstableness of her hands is not normal, nor is the blank stare she has as she looks at the burger with disgust. Her eyes slowly float to the blank, not forgotten canvas behind the almost oblivious Minji. Even without eyes, it burns through her soul. The void with what had endless possibilities of what it could be struck a nerve in all that made sense in her mind. There’s nothing that evokes that usual fire of creativity. No color that manifests. No image inducing that familiar burst of whatever she’d call her creations. Children? Sometimes. Art? Somewhat. Perfection? She wishes.

She mutters a quiet “fuck” underneath her breath. It’s unnoticed by the younger of them two, Minji’s focus more concentrated on why she seemed out of place. He shakes his head and picks up the burger once more. He finds it near impossible to even fathom a specific reason at the moment. He bites into the excessively oily food. It’s unhealthy contents explode in his mouth with flavor, an experience not akin to the ever so observant Jihye. Her eyes scan his delighted face. Splendid noises of satisfaction spurred on by the heavy contents of In-N-Out Burger. It’s overloaded with onions, tomatoes, and pickles. ‘Horrid combination,’ she thinks to herself. She shakes a head a bit, taking another prolonged sip. Minji looks to her in confusion, breaking away from his captivated state of momentary bliss. She gives a small wave, hoping he just gets back to his sodium death. He shrugs. With another bite into the burger, he lets his mind wander to how great his taste buds feel and whatnot. Whatnot being a bit more complex than what Jihye may think.

Elsewhere, in a much more tense space, Park Jinyoung wonders if he makes purchases in his sleep. He sits across from an old-styled book, one with a nicely made leather cover and pages as sharp as a knife. They’re a beige worthy of the sands of Persia. The leather front is adorned with gold ends and little flurries of designs resembling that of strings. It shines in the light of his living room. It catches his eye, a quirked eyebrow in the direction of the blasted mystery. He runs his fingers over the forepart. It’s smooth, incredibly so. He finds it to be like a fairy tale book. He expects it to be full of tales, perhaps starting with Cinderella and ending with the Goblin.

However, he has no recollection of ever ordering such a book. His own little mini-library consists of more popular stories, rather than chronicles that fit a children’s shelf. His hands grip the pointed ends, placing the cover on the left. His eyes widen in surprise, his expectations now shattering as a result. That very first page…

It’s blank. Entirely devoid of any color or words, it stares back at him in a mocking manner. His eyes search the pages for any kind of indentation or mark to see if he’s merely tired. It’s not the case as he’s sure nothing gets past his somewhat worn out eyes. All he can find is a small scripture in the corner of the other side of the cover. It’s ink is a mix of gold and red, it’s shiny luster apparent. He squints his eyes. The scripture is written fancily, like an old tale. He can almost barely make it out. The edges are too fastly written and the ink is scarce in some spots.

“The Prince and...The Princess,” he warily reads outloud. “Opposites do not always attract.” He raises an eyebrow at the text. “For those of the likes of the cold-hearted prince and the ice princess, such was a mantra. One of tragedy and love. One of sacrifice and heartbreak as well.” He scoffs at the text, his doubt seeping through his features. He makes a judging face at the book.

“The hell?” His eyes dart to the right of the book. His eyes catch a glimpse of moving letters. His eyes widen a bit. He shakes his head, only to see the expanding ink once more. He tightens his grip on the book. The words fill up the entire first page, moving onto the second, third, & so forth. His eyes carefully scan the words, his heart about to burst out of his chest. He’s suddenly nervous. Just like most slightly cynical young adults, he was a firm believer of genuine logic. And genuine logic is nowhere present in the mystery Park Jinyoung is faced with. He scans the words, thoughtfully, absorbing whatever fever dream is gracing him at four o’clock sharp. His confusion grows by the second. He finds numerous superfluous words and fantastical details too true for a fairy tale. The beginning is a fated mess, such words coming from the old paper.

His iris’ finally land on two words, two distractions.

Prince Jinyoung.

Hi, if you read or checked this out, tysm !! I’d rlly appreciate it if you could reblog or like this post. I’d love to hear what ppl think so a comment is awesome too. This is a work of fiction and for entertainment purposes.

[ikementally-deficient]

Advanced Entomology - Chapter 6: Chrysalis

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice/Love and Producer

Rating: Carolina Reaper (See Masterlist for rating descriptions)

Warnings: dubious/uninformed consent, see masterpost A/N

Due to the nature of the questionable consent in this fic, if you enjoy this story enough to reblog it, please reblog the masterpost rather than individual chapters.

Author’s Note: Second to last chapter! Our first occasion of sex in the traditional penetrative sense, I’m so proud of them. One more to go; I might get it written this weekend if all goes well, but time is an illusion, productive time doubly so, so who knows.

Also of note: I finally managed to work in the prompt that started this whole mess!

*************************************

He can tell there’s been something on her mind. When they go out, she casts sideways glances at him, thinking him oblivious. She hesitates before taking his hand in public. She flinches every time another woman passes by.

“What’s on your mind,” he asks her over tea.

She flushes, her eyes skittering away from his steady gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He chuckles. “Of course you do.” He sips his tea, studying her over the rim of the cup. “You seem apprehensive, lately. Hesitant. As though you’re afraid you’re being watched, and judged.”

Her fingers fidget around the handle of her teacup. She sighs quietly. “Yes -- yes, I suppose I have.”

“Why is that?”

“Well --” she trails off, still staring into her cup. He waits. When the rest of the sentence comes, it’s in a blurted rush. “I don’t know what you see in me.”

It’s rare that Lucien finds himself caught off guard. He stares at her, cup still tilted in mid-sip.

She continues. “You’re so intelligent, and educated, and -- and h-handsome -- and my audiences love you, and I’m just --” her voice lowers sadly, “I’m just me. Plain and boring.” She turns the cup in its saucer, refusing to look up. “I mean, I know you’re getting tired of me.”

Lucien tries to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order. “What makes you say that?”

“We --” her eyes dart from side to side, checking that no one else in the cafe is listening. “We haven’t even had sex yet,” she whispers. “Not properly. And you’re never, you know --” She gestures vaguely to her own lap, “ interested .” Her forehead is glowing beet red.

Lucien puts his cup down slowly, precisely centering it on the saucer, before he answers her. “I’ve been holding back, you know. I didn’t want to rush you.” Too controlled. He never thought there was such a thing. “I’ve been very interested , but my self-control is quite good.”

She still doesn’t look up at him.

“Do you remember the night you couldn’t sleep, and asked me to tell you a story over the phone?”

She nods.

“The artist and the butterfly. The colourblind artist and the golden, glowing butterfly.” Lucien smiles warmly at her. “I don’t know if I can explain it in better words than those, but perhaps I can show you.” He rises to his feet and drops a few bills on the table before holding his hand out to her. “Will you indulge me?”

Her lashes are still lowered, but she looks up through them, the gleam of her golden eyes tantalizing him. “Of course, Lucien.”

They make a few purchases on the way home: an art store, for India ink and brushes. A theatre store, for gold makeup and sponges. Lucien slides his coffee table out of the way and lays down a sheet on the floor. He stands a large mirror at one end of the room. She watches his preparations with avid curiosity.

“Here,” he tells her. “Take off your clothes for me, and lie down on your stomach.” She is, as ever, obedient to his wishes.

She lies naked before him. Her head is turned to one side, pillowed on her folded hands. Her elbows are splayed out in a line with her shoulders, letting her scapulae rest flat against her ribcage. Her legs are straight. The soles of her feet face the ceiling, big toes resting against each other as her ankles supinate outwards.

“Ink me, Professor,” she murmurs into her hands.

********************************************************

The brush drips black ink as Lucien holds it over the pot, waiting for the excess to run off. He carefully studies his canvas in the meantime, contemplating the placement of the next line.

His work is a delicate tracery that stands in stark relief against her pale skin: the careful symmetry of butterfly’s wings rooted between her shoulders, spreading across her upper arms and down her back, wrapping around her ribs and ending in a gentle curve around the undersides of her buttocks.

She’s been lying motionless as he works, for nearly an hour judging by the movement of the sun. Her breathing is so even and relaxed that Lucien thinks she’s fallen asleep. He wipes the brush clean and lays it down, then replaces the lid of the ink bottle. Finally he sits cross-legged to examine his work, losing himself in the intricate tracery of costal and sub-costal veins.

“Are you finished, Professor?” Her sweet voice breaks into his reverie.

“The first stage,” he replies. “The ink should be dry soon.”

She hums in reply, wordlessly comfortable.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Mmmhmm. The sun is beautiful on my skin.” She opens her eyes languorously, and he leans into her field of vision. Her answering smile is warmer than the sunbeam they’re resting in, and he gives into the urge to lie down on his stomach perpendicular to her, so he can breathe kisses onto her eyes and mouth. She giggles, a delicious ripple of joy which starts a warm liquid wave in his stomach that melts a path straight up his chest and face. He rests his chin on his forearms and smiles at her, a spontaneous smile that feels completely foreign on his face.

“I had the dream again,” she sighs, and all the warmth in him freezes solid.

“Which dream?”

“You know, the one from before --” her foot kicks in lieu of waving a hand. “The one with Kiro and the fog and that black haired woman.”

Lucien forces himself to breathe normally. “Was it the same?”

She shakes her head minutely, obedient to his warning about the drying ink. “No. Kiro wasn’t there this time. You were with me instead.”

The ice in his chest cracks; he can feel his heart start to beat again. “Oh.” He breathes in and out, once, twice, thrice before he thinks his lungs can carry on without active direction. “Good. That means I’ll be there to protect you.”

That means Zeus has taken his warning to heart. Helios will not be there to strip her of all his careful conditioning. That means she’ll still trust him, at the end.

Overwhelming relief sends a shudder through him, and he’s thankful her eyes are closed again so she doesn’t see. He watches her silently, memorizing every detail of her dainty features, currently blissfully relaxed and unaware of his tremor.

After a few minutes she rouses enough to look at him again. “Is the ink dry yet?”

He makes a show of examining her back, lightly dabbing his fingertips against the thick margins of her wings. “It seems to be. I can start the gold, now.”

He dampens a small sponge and begins working the shimmering pigment over her back, filling in each wing cell with iridescence that turns molten in the late afternoon sun. This is much faster work than inking the wings themselves, and Lucien finds himself working frantically, chasing the light across her. He feels a desperation in the pit of his stomach, a trepidation that isn’t soothed by the knowledge that he’ll be with her when she goes to the TV tower.

When he finishes, her entire torso is a beautiful blaze, resplendent and shining in the last of the light. He catches her hand, pulling her to her feet to stand in front of the mirror. He pulls her to face him and lifts her arms around his neck to show her the striation of the black veins as her wings flex and stretch. She cranes her neck over her shoulder to see her reflection. Her expression is a mixture of awe and delight.

“Do you see?” He demands hoarsely. He crushes her against his chest, heedless of the gold paint that smears into the weave of his shirtsleeves. “Do you see now what I see, when I look at you?” He turns her face to look up at him, begging for comprehension. All the other colours fade when he’s apart from her, but in his mind’s eye she is always golden and glowing. Her mouth falls open at his uncharacteristic intensity, but her gaze is compassionate and warm.

“Lucien, what’s scaring you?”

She doesn’t know. She can’t know, or everything will be ruined. Her awakening is so close now, and he doesn’t dare deviate from the plan. For the first time he regrets his choices, regrets his success in finding the Queen and preparing her for metamorphosis. He can’t find words to answer her, can’t bring himself to lie to her in this moment when she’s granted him such a tangible expression of his vision. Instead he slams his mouth against hers, claiming her in a fervid kiss. Her gasp of surprise only sparks fire in his belly. The voice of Ares ordering him to calm down and pull back is lost in the crackling inferno.

He bears her down to the floor and continues his voracious assault on her lips, not giving her a chance to protest. One hand tangles in her hair, the other fumbles urgently at his shirt buttons. Finally, impatiently, he yanks and hears buttons skitter across the floor as his shirt flies open. Small hands tug the tails free of his trousers and skim over his stomach to start pulling open his belt.

He grinds into her naked heat as she finds the button and zipper behind the buckle. He’s hard, rutting against her, the long months of self-restraint evaporated like water on a hot pan, leaving behind only the sizzle of need. She bites at his lower lip, not the tentative nips she’s essayed before, but a catch of sharp teeth and the taste of blood as she frees his cock and grabs his waist. She pulls him hard against her, and he slides up through her slippery folds, feeling the head of him rub along her nub. Her chest heaves under him and she releases his lip. He chases her mouth with his own teeth, before laying bruising kisses into her neck, moving down to the trapezius where he bites, hard, and rocks against her.

“ Lucien .” She gasps his name, husky and yearning, and he pulls back to look at her. “God, Lucien, please --!” Her nails drag lines of fire up his back and he pushes into her with no preamble. None is necessary: she’s wet and open and moaning wantonly with each thrust. She slides one hand into his hair and grips tight, as though fearing he’ll pull away. He returns to her mouth, panting into her, and grabs her other hand, lacing their fingers together against the floor. Her legs pull up around him and lock behind his lumbar vertebrae, pulling him deeper as she clenches around his cock. Lucien feels his eyes roll back in his head when his hips stutter.

“Not yet,” he hisses. He slides his free hand under her shoulders and lifts her with him as he pulls back into a sitting position. Suddenly her breasts are right at the level of his mouth, and he traps her against him to indulge himself in the plush roundness. She squeaks as he bites at the curving underside, but he feels her pulsing around him again. His ferocity isn’t frightening her. Just the opposite, in fact. He buries his face in her cleavage and sucks a red mark onto her sternum, branding her as his.

Lucien uses both hands to grasp her slender waist and lift, turning her on his cock until she’s facing the mirror, straddling his thighs. He spreads his knees, forcing her legs further open, and drags her back down to fully engulf him. His hands slide down her pelvis, gripping at her inner thighs hard enough to bruise before spreading her lips so she can see how he stretches her open.

“Do you see now?” He strokes her clitoris teasingly, and she jerks, driving her buttocks into him. “Do you feel how much I’ve wanted you, the fire you’ve lit inside me?” He wraps one arm across her pelvis and pins her to him, while the other hand keeps stroking, increasing in pressure and speed, until she’s shuddering around him, head fallen back on his shoulder and nails driving into his forearm. She’s entirely unable to speak; the only sound she makes is a keening wail while she tries to buck into him. His arm is an iron bar, holding her in exquisite torment. Finally he thrusts up into her and pinches her nub sharply. Her scream of ecstasy matches the violent clenching of her orgasm.

Lucien wastes no time in pushing her face-down to the floor and planting his hands under her shoulders. His abdomen slaps against her as he plunges in, whispering hotly in her ear. “You’re the only warmth in the world. You’re the only colour I see.” He can feel his thighs quivering and knows he’s close. “I can’t be without you.”

He groans gutterally as he comes, pounding against her helplessly until he feels empty and hollow. Breathing is difficult, and he rests his forehead against her spine. The gold paint is smeared everywhere, on her back and his chest and arms, but the ink wings are still precise and perfect.

He understands now that he fears losing her; not the Queen, but the woman wrapped around her. His butterfly.

[thebritishblabbermouth]

Peaceful storms

Heyya beautiful people!!

Its been a year since ive been active on tumblr and my gosh a year through med school has been insanely exhausting! Glad that’s over

This piece is a little hello from my side.

I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think! 

I love you guys and thank you for sticking with me for the year

Feel free to message and just say hi :3 

SUGA FANFICTION 

I’d pick your thunder and your rain over anyone’s sunshine any day – anonymous

The pastel green wall clock struck 2 am, the wind stood steady and calm as the moon hid between dark clouds that hung like blots of ink in the sky. There was no light in the living room, just me and the darkness. Just like it had always been without him. 

6 months ago, I was living a dream. My boyfriend, my job, the weather. What I wouldn’t do to go back to those 3 days. He’d just returned from their most recent stadium tour, hungry for me and for our time together. 3 days of love, food and a whole lot of sleep. But mostly, it was 3 whole days of Yoongi. The peculiar smell of fresh laundry and citrus that I had grown to associate with him, the way his warm eyes crinkled as he smiled, lingering touches and promising words. The sun had beamed down on us, soft clouds in the sky, and streaks of light playing games on our skin as we held each other. Perfection in its prime.

But, 3 days of extreme happiness obviously had to match with 3 days of stormy nights. It had been a misunderstanding, something trivial as it always is. Tour dates or a spontaneous fan meeting on the other side of the world. Something to take him away from me again, something to keep him from my arms and the safe haven of our apartment. Perhaps it wasn’t fair, perhaps it was meant to be. The long distance, the time difference, the lack of trust, empty phone calls with broken syllables and dried tears. Maybe that was all we would get, raging skies with angry clouds- thunder and lightning appearing as we hurled words at each other. Words that held no meaning – just remorse and regret.

And, 6 months after those storms, on this peaceful night. It felt like the storm was inside me. It wasn’t that things no longer made sense, wasn’t that I’d forgotten how to function. Rather, it felt like every breath I took was pointless- for there no life in my being. I was numb to everything, almost frozen with time.

I wouldn’t have noticed him entering the room for I had not heard the keys turning the lock or the shuffle of his heavy boots against the hardwood floor- I was too busy listening to the crickets and the dull voice inside my head, rather it was the lamp he’d switched on that shook me from my trance, its light, bathing the space in a moody yellow.

Auto-pilot mode. That’s what they call it. When you do things without thinking about them. That must have been it. I hadn’t realised id walked over to him until his eyes met mine- steely and tired.

‘’I haven’t…haven’t washed my hair in 2 weeks.’’

His voice was gruff, but not quiet. The noise pulled my from the numbness, jolting me into action. I am not entirely sure what it was he said. But it had been words and apparently I knew what I had to do.

A bath.

Min yoongi had somehow managed to make his way into the shared bathroom, hovering at the door way as I set up the large round tub with a pink bath bomb. Rose and tea tree drove away the smell of disinfectant and surface cleaner, the noise of the tap filling the tangible silence of the room.

He stood in front of me, waiting, watching. Noticing my moves as if he expected me to do something new. He wasn’t in luck.

‘’Unbutton.’’

I thought I’d forgotten how to speak.

Huh. I guess not.

I watched him sigh in retaliation- his slack arms and worn face highlighting his fatigue. The dark circles seemed defined under the vibrant lighting, usually rosy lips devoid of makeup and bruised at the edges- the constant biting having taken its toll on the soft skin.

‘’Too tired.’’ He said, his chin tucking into his chest like a little school boy. Was this defeat? Was this him coming back to me? Was this him tired of running away?

My heart sped up at the thoughts, my own grubbing mind had suddenly been startled awake by the act of Suga casting away his defences. What was this man doing to my sanity? Was he stripping me of it or teaching me how to live? I didn’t know. And at that point, it couldn’t have mattered less.

I began unbuttoning the baby blue dress shirt, my hands trembling as we stood close, breathing the same air. Our eyes too afraid to meet. The shirt was stripped in seconds and his dark slacks pooled at the tiled floor. He stepped into the water timidly, checking the temperature with is pale toes. Suga was ever the baby boy- his fans understood him spot on. But I’d always wondered if I’d ever understand Min yoongi the same way.

It was unspoken I wouldn’t be joining him in the bath, I had another task at hand. His hair. Currently dyed at a marron red, at least this time it hadn’t matched the colour of the bubbles in the bath. I smirked inwardly at the memory and sat down near his head as it perched at the edge of the tub.

‘’It’s really dirty Yoongi.’’ I said, soaking his scalp with warm water. This would take at least 2 large pumps of shampoo and perhaps an extra dollop of conditioner.

‘’You called me Yoongi again.’’

I am not sure what I had expected in reply, perhaps a smirk or a defence. But his words brought a shiver to my spine and I halted, his eyes were wide open- boring into my own as he watched me- gauging for a reaction. I tugged at his hair, the distraction successful as he groaned and turned away- momentarily forgetting the interaction I had not yet prepared for.

Washing his hair should have been relaxing for him- and it probably was because I was sure I heard a snore 10 minutes into the second rinse, but for me it was heaven. The strands were rough and dry from years of hair colour and damage but they felt soft in my palms, the shampoo working its magic as I watched his face in peace, memorising every contour and dip, the way his eyelashes curved and his nose twitched as I massaged his scalp, the slight overgrowth of a moustache he so hated and the acne that remained from years ago. It was imperfect and untouched yoongi at his most natural form. My yoongi.

‘’The water’s getting cold.’’ He said, once again driving me away from my thoughts, but this time as I watched him, I noticed his eyes flood, his bottom lip nipped between his teeth as he struggled to maintain composure. Had he been crying? Right in front of me? How had I not noticed?

I nodded and he swiftly retched away from my hands. The white towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping wet and cheeks flushed as he realised that I’d noticed his reddened face, the tinge to his waterline implying unshed tears and unsaid words. My hands were still wet and he hastily wiped them down with a small rag, his fast movements leaving my still slow mind confused.

‘’What? What are you doing yoongi? You’re going to fall!’’

Suga attempting to multitask was a sight to behold, he failed drastically- often paving way for multiple scratches and gentle kisses to take the pain away. Attempting to wipe my hands and his hair, all the while trying to find a pair of his old boxers from the shelves- ones I hadn’t had the heart to throw away.

‘’We need to get to bed now.’’ He said, grabbing my wrist and pushing me out of the closet, leading the way to the bed.

Had I been anticipating this? Somewhere hidden within my subconscious, he was back in the apartment and id just washed his hair? Why? It made no sense. Had I no self-respect? No life beyond this reckless man? Was I going to let him destroy me all over again?

My thoughts clouded my actions as my back lay against the cool sheets, his hot hand snaking its way around my stomach, teasing the skin as he pulled me towards him. My back melted into his front, head tucked under his chin and arm propped out as my personal pillow. His bangs dripped water into my own hair as I sighed deeply against his skin, breathing him in as I did.

‘’You’re right. I am reckless and this whole thing is crazy.’’

I tried to turn against him, tried to stop this whole vocal declaration but it went to vain, I couldn’t budge. Had his muscles grown in 6 months? Can muscles grow that fast? How does he know what I was thinking about? I took to curling into the pillows and his hand stretched out to touch under the swell of my breast. My breath hitched as he moved, gentle and slow as if he were coaxing me out of my doubts.

‘’I shouldn’t be here. In bed with you, it makes no sense. I swore I would walk away. It was the right thing to do. You were miserable. It hurt.’’ His voice rose an octave has he spoke, words almost trembling.

‘’But I am selfish and clueless and there is nowhere else I would rather be than right here.’’

‘’that’s a terrible combination.’’ I said, rubbing my thumb over his calloused fingers.

Perhaps it didn’t make any sense. Perhaps it didn’t need to. Why he was here and what we had been thinking all those months ago on that stormy night. I didn’t actually remember a word he had said. What was that fight about? I didn’t know. It hadn’t mattered then and it doesn’t matter now. But this, my heart that was finally beating again.

This felt like it mattered. Yoongi and his citrusy smell that came back to fill the room, the damp hair and his warm skin scorching my own under the thin cream covers. His legs tangled with mine as he spoke. This moment right here, this feeling, this would never be replaced.  

‘’it’s a good thing I am both of those things too.’’ I whispered into his arm, wrapping my hands around its width and pulling it towards me. He curled into my form and relaxed, his muscles loosening as he did.

Nothing more had been said that night, as it seemed no words were needed, we fell further into sleep and into each other as the skies broke and rain thrashed against the windows, the violent streaks of lightening falling against our cuddled limbs, playing against the exposed skin as it did with the thunder of the storm.

[sickandtideeeee]

By Bast - Chapter  7 (Erik x Reader)

“This has to be some kind of joke,” you whispered aloud weakly, hands shaking.

But just in case it wasn’t, you tore the piece of paper in half, in fourths, in eighths, in sixteenths, tearing and ripping the note into confetti while hot tears began to well into your eyes. Once you had disposed of the evidence, flushing it down the toilet, you slipped out of your room and headed straight to the temple.

-

You had thankfully managed to escape detection from any of the palace guards and made it to the temple under cover of the sunset. Although you had wrapped yourself with a shawl, hoping to avoid notice, you had the inkling that you were no longer being surveilled anyway. Pushing through a split second of hesitation, you made your way into the temple, hoping you would run into one person in particular.

Asha.

She sat quietly in a far corner, if you could imagine any corners in the enormous hut’s round architecture, pulverizing a fine red powder reminiscent of the immersion sands on a grinding stone.

“Asha!” you called over to her and as if snapped out of a trance, she looked up to you in shock. Although it was late, you knew she often popped in late at night to prepare salves and poultices for the next morning, being the night owl that she was.

“Nkiru?!” She whispered loudly, looking around frantically to clear the room of any observers. Ignoring her comment, you ran into her arms, almost toppling her petite, plump self over. Patting you on the shoulder, she whispered, “Are you even allowed to be here?””

You pulled back from her and shook your head.

“Nki, I’m not trying to be executed!” she said, pulling you with her behind beaded curtains into the nearest mediation room for privacy. “You’re lucky it’s late and no one’s probably here…”

Now that you had re-steadied yourself, you dropped into a seating position on the dirt floor and Asha sat across from you, giving you a wary look.

“I haven’t seen or heard for you in a week. What’s going on?”

“Amina’s gone,” you said, flatly, and Asha let out an audible gasp.

“There’s no way.”

“She left a note.”

“She would never!” Asha said, jumping to her feet. “She’s way too responsible, and- “

She trailed off as the two of you silently acknowledged that the punishment for a Dora deserting was a fate worse than death.

What you really wanted to know was why. Amina was never a rash decision-maker. She was good at mediating uncomfortable situations and while her principles were strong, she was never ideological. Unlike you, she wouldn’t leave just because she did not agree with whoever was in authority.

“How far do you think she is by now?” Asha inquired in a low voice. Thankfully, the precaution was unnecessary, given that the temple was a technology-free zone, so they were safe to speak freely as long as no actual person was within earshot.

Given that Amina had probably left right after she had been escorting you, and you had been with him for about an hour or so, she was probably just out of the palace.

But your girl could haul ass.

“I have no idea,” you responded. You got up to your feet and stepped out of the meditation room, now sufficiently aware of your surroundings for the heavy stench of incense to become nauseating. Asha followed you out, with a heavy sigh.

“Had she been acting strange?” You questioned, following brick steps into the Herb Garden, hoping that the calming, muted glow of the lavender flowers could settle you. Before Asha could answer, you stopped in your tracks. All that stretched before you were the stale smell of charred soil and stone, and gritting your teeth, you stared into the desolate remains of what was once a sacred plant nursery.

He did not… Kneeling, you dug your hands through a handful of packed, dry earth and let it run through your fingers. It seemed as though life as you knew it would continue to disintegrate around you.

“The new king ordered us to burn everything.” Asha mumbled, apologetically. You nodded your head quietly, staring dejectedly at the packed, dead earth.

“And no, the last time Amina came by… she was worried about you, but there were never any signs…” she continued. You rose again and nodded acquiescently at her.

“I think I should go.”

Asha squeezed your hands and smiled weakly.

Before you made it out the door, she called out to you once more.

“Papa Zuri is resting with his ancestors. We buried him well.”

Back turned to her, you murmured a word of thanks, grateful that your voice was just loud enough to hide the waver in your voice.

--

Without Shuri, the laboratory in Mount Bashenga had lost not only the loud gqom music coming from the overhead speakers, but also the hustle, bustle and drive that defined the Wakandan Design Group. After a night of restless sleep, now certain that N’Jadaka had relaxed the security detail he had placed on you, you had retired to Shuri’s old office, taking particular care to avoid any conversation with the other workers. First, you confirmed that the golden necklace had disappeared, and then brought out your journal to start drafting a design.

You flipped the pages to the following report:

EyoKwindla 10, Shemu

(March 10, Harvesting Season)

 Data:

Ezi (998 days, M)

Vitality improved >> 8.3h spent in enriched environment (+33.8% from 6.2h)

Wt 23g, Avg HR 543, Avg RR 123, Avg Temp 37.2C

 Epi (1003 days, F)

Vitality improved >> 8.5h spent in enriched environment (+10.3% from 7.7h)

Wt 18g, Avg HR 483, Avg RR 158, Avg Temp 37.3C

 Indla (1002 days, F)

Vitality improved >> 9.1h spent in enriched environment (+40.0% from 6.5h)

Wt 18.5g, Avg HR 582, Avg RR 199, Avg Temp 37.2C

 Conclusions to date:

- Mice appear to have made statistically significant gains in intelligence, with increased occupation of enriched habitat

- Mice appear to be recovering functionally from intrauterine growth restriction, cerebral palsy and congenital heart defects

- Mice have demonstrated improved longevity, outliving the standard lifespan of 2 years

This journal entry, describing a tiny cohort of three mice, summarized one of your most promising experiments with heart-shaped herb extract. Zuri’s discovery and subsequent destruction of your coveted rodents had spurned your active rejection of your country’s cultural values.

While Wakanda was incomparably medically superior to the rest of the world, its warrior-centric culture favored the naturally strong and those born gifted, leaving those who had been born with congenital defects, absence of organs, or susceptibility to progressive disability to either facilitate their lives with technology (if they could afford it) or perish. All medicine centered on response to trauma or illness. To make matters worse, a cultural taboo against prosthetics and organ implants or otherwise stagnated its society, producing health inequity often hidden to the palace dwellers and other elites.

This unfairness could have easily been solved by greater access to extract from the heart-shaped herb, and your small cohort proved it!

It didn’t matter anyway. The garden was gone, and so was that plan. You began to draw.

Gaze focused on the white canvas, a flash of white light blinded you as though the room’s overhead illuminators had silently shorted and shattered. An all-encompassing, enveloping darkness filled your vision, but rather than a feeling of dread, you felt lightweight, even airy.

Almost as suddenly as you had fallen into the sensation, you came out of it. You awoke, listless, drawing air into your lungs rapidly and desperately, as though you had just emerged from water. You had gripped your pen so tightly that it had shattered, and blotches of dark ink now decorated your palms and had dropped onto your canvas.

Did I just seize?

Now before you, lay a sketch of two jungle cats locked in fierce battle, one black as night and the other spotted and golden. While the dark animal seemed to have the advantage, teeth sinking into its opponent’s neck, the fierceness in the other cat’s snarl suggested that it was far from down for the count. In the backdrop, humans dressed in what appeared like ancient garments with primitive weapons appear to also be engaging in battle.

In the center, a small cat watched from the distance, piercing violet eyes appearing to gaze directly in your soul. For a split second, you were disconcerted.

But then an uncharacteristic fury began to fill your soul, and in a flurry of rage, you began to throw everything you could find. Books, beakers, pens, tools, anything within reach. Once you had tired yourself out, you slumped to the floor, crying profusely.

You couldn’t do this anymore.

You had no idea what Bast wanted from you, but now she was playing tricks on you.

Or you were losing your mind, and this was your descent into madness. After all, somehow you had blacked out and drawn something far outside of your natural artistic ability with pops of vibrant color despite only having a black ink pen.  

It had to be the latter. You wanted to be committed and have it over with. Refusing to take the time to decipher your artwork, you curled up in fetal position and wept.

It was in this dramatic scene of disorder and depression that N’Jadaka barged into your office with two guards in tow.

“The fuck going on with you?” His voice abrasive as usual, you watched him look about the room with an expression in between disgust and genuine confusion. Wide-stanced with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, it was clear that he was more annoyed by you than concerned. Of course, you didn’t answer him. At this point, any violence he exacted against you would feel like mercy compared to the anguish you were feeling at this point.

“You ain’t heard what I just said?”

You continued to stare at the floor.

Irritated, he yanked you roughly by the arm to your feet, keeping his grip on your forearm tight enough that you winced in pain but did not cry out. His two guards, visibly tense, cleared the way for him to drag you out.

“Clean that shit up.” He ordered, without looking back, as the doors slid shut behind the two of you.

-

N’Jadaka was either a terribly fast walker or was prepared to do something drastic. Although your long legs afforded you a pretty long stride, you really were struggling to keep up, giving the effect of resisting when you truly were not. A few times, you stumbled, tripping over your own feet, and he didn’t bother to slow down, towing you along like a child’s rag doll. A few times, you were sure he would pull your arm right out of its socket, if not tear your rotator cuff. Yet, you wouldn’t give the satisfaction of kicking or screaming through the palace like some trapped animal.

So you decided to bear it.

A few minutes into your unwilling trek, his hold on you had gradually loosened and his pace slowed enough that you could now walk upright at a normal pace, even though he never let go of your arm. A few steps behind him, you could only see the back of his head, as he never once turned to look at you and never spoke a word. Yet somehow, you got the sense that he wasn’t actually angry.

You had the fleeting thought that for a murderer, his hands were remarkably warm and soft.

Finally, you stopped at a secured entrance. Your eyes widened as you realized where you were.

These were the King’s own chambers.

Your feet froze in place, and in response, N’Jadaka pressed his hand against your back, and pushed you into the room wordlessly. Your heart began to pound in your chest, and the energy was slowly starting to drain out of your legs. The doors slid shut with a soft thud, and your stomach did a backflip in time with the sound.

You had said you didn’t care what he did to you, but this was different!

N’Jadaka moved past you and while walking towards a heavily adorned California king-sized bed, began to disrobe.

You started to hyperventilate.

The scars along his back seemed every bit as alive as he was, his broad, bare back expanding and contracting with every slow, deep breath. He tilted his head back, staring at the high ceiling for a moment, before he turned around to sit on the edge of his bed. He kicked the sandals off his feet and leaned back onto the bed onto his forearms. The light streaming in from his drawn curtains gave his brown eyes an amber glow, and again, you recalled the beautiful figure in that one seminal vision. He looked at you, but he was neither smirking, nor angry – just expressionless.

Somehow on him that look was terrifying.

He motioned for you to move closer, but you couldn’t move from that spot, paralyzed in fear.

Exasperated, he sat up and rested his elbows onto his knees.

“You making me a suit, right?” he asked with a tired sigh. “You gonna take these measurements or what?”

Tagging:  @syndrlla97 @iwantsomethingeternal @1killmonger@chasingsunlight@hoopshoney @destinio1@wakanda-inspired @thadelightfulone @lalasparkles @pessimisfit @youreadthatright @stark-red19 @ruruly20 @bossyboyd03 @autumn242 @heybriheyyy @thelovelyliterary @muse-of-mbaku @dramaqueenamby @bidibidibombaclaat @supersizemeplz @romanceoftheeveryday

[Prologue][Chapter One][Chapter Two][Chapter Three][Chapter Four][Chapter Five][Chapter Six][Chapter Eight]

[grailacademy]

Welcome To Grail Academy - Chapter Twenty: Dreamy Bruises

“I’m leaving.” Esmerelda stood in the doorway to her father’s office. Ardan didn’t look up from his work, continuing to write things down on the papers on his desk.

“I know.”

“I won’t be coming back for a long time.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be in very dangerous situations. Fighting grimm.”

“I know.”

“Do you have anything you want to say, before I go?” She set her luggage, all Versailles brand leather suitcases, down on the floor. The ink in Ardan’s pen clumped at the tip and made a dark stain on the paper, so he stopped writing. Looking up from his work at his daughter, he noticed how much she’d grown. Not only in height, but in maturity. “....Make sure you’re wearing the new fall line if they take any pictures, the tops from the summer collection don’t fit you. They make you look rectangular.” With that, he went right back to his work, a lock of golden hair falling over his shoulder. “Hmph,” she said, the sound dry and lacking satisfaction. Esmerelda didn’t know what she expected, she was hoping for ‘I love you’ or ‘stay safe’ or ‘goodbye’. Instead, she pulled the sheer pedaled overcoat from their summer line off. She tossed it onto a chair in the corner of the room, opting for a large green fur coat hanging on the coat rack next to her. Her father was only interested in having her attend Grail Academy because of the publicity it would gain for the company. He would much rather be grooming her to inherit the Versailles title, but sending her away to Calicem would keep her out of his way.

As everyone climbed up the side of the hill to the lighthouse, a force of waves pushed Nico the rest of the way out of the water and onto shore. Further off in the lake, it seemed like some of the islands were....moving. Gliding across the water, surfacing and diving below rhythmically, causing large waves to lap at his feet and the edges of the surrounding landmasses. The islands moved closer, until they were circling the clearing. “Guys!” Nico waved his arms to call attention to the gyrating knolls that started to pull the water into a whirlpool, the lighthouse sitting in its center. Beau waved it off, clambering up to the door of the lighthouse and retorting, “It’s just fish or something, hurry up!”

The behemoth-like creature continued to circle the island. It sped up faster and faster until it completely resurfaced. Rising up, 20, 30, 50 feet high above the water, the monster reared its head towards the students before letting out a ground-shaking screech, baring its multiple rows of teeth and tusks. This got the rest of the group’s notice. Vert moved backwards and away, while Esmerelda and Beau instinctively placed their hands on their weapons. Bernard shrugged in surprise at the sea feilong, muttering  “....Big fish.”

It lunged at the group, and everyone sprung into action. Vert ripped two canisters off his belt and quickly chucked them in the grimm’s direction, exploding in a violent burst of sparks and gas. “Hold it off while I fix the beacon!”, he shouted, diving into the lighthouse. The two shots that Vert placed definitely landed, but they had little to no effect, bouncing right off the armor that plated the creature all along its back and up to the top of its head. Bernard made the first move to get near the creature, cracking his whip against the exposed underbelly to push it back. The grimm swung its large tail to skim the water, not only sending waves in the student’s direction, but barreling straight towards Nico. Without thinking, he leapt into the air, narrowly avoiding the tail’s sharp fins. But when he landed, he realized that he was no longer standing on the safety of the island. The slimy end of the monster was what he was clutching to for dear life, getting flung around like a hot pink ragdoll as he screamed like a little girl. “AAH! SAVE ME, BERNIE! I’M TOO PRETTY TO DIE!” While he rode the scaled rollercoaster, Bernard flung his other whip out to wrap around the beast’s neck.

Activating his semblance, he weighed himself down until he sunk into the sand, his new body mass creating a small pit in the ground that made him an anchor while he wrangled the creature. It tugged against the braided whip as Beau ripped her shephard’s scythe off its harness and swept the blade across a portion of its underbelly. The attack drove the sea feilong to break free of its bindings and flick Nico off its tail end, launching him into Bernard’s arms, which were already open and ready to catch his partner. The two of them shared an awkward glance before Nico smiled, “My hero.” Bernard gave a roll of his eyes, attention snapping back to the scaled monstrosity. The grimm writhed around in the water, wading back and forth and puffing billows of steam from its flared nostrils. It was waiting for the students to make a move, patiently, biding its time. As it reared up once more, lifting almost all the way out of the water to loom over the island, it bared its fangs with a menacing snarl, diving straight down with its maw wide open, aiming to catch a few hunters in its mouth.

Esmerelda grabbed Beau by the back of her vest and pulled her out of harm’s way, brushing a clump of dirt off her pants before cracking her knuckles with an audible ‘pop’ and got to work. She dug her claws into the side of the creature’s long neck as it slithered past to strap herself in for a wild ride. She was lifted high off the beach when it rose back up, and she began to climb up its side, claws burying themselves deep in its hide as she started her ascent. Reaching the head, she clamped down with one hand, and tore into one of its beady red eyes with the other.

The sea monster cried out in anguish, distracted by the pain that struck its stomach, neck, head, eye, all of it seemingly all at once. It lost its target of the two hunters that dodged out of its reach, just in time for it to plunge its snout into the sand and kick up a cloud of grainy dust. This proved to be an advantage for the grimm, now that anyone on the island or near its head would be temporarily blinded. Aggressively, it sent Esmerelda flying across the beach like a shuffleboard piece. She rolled to a stop on her side, coughing up some sand as she stumbled to her feet. Nico shielded his face from the dust, protesting with a shrill “Yo, watch it!” He spotted something glowing between the creature’s jaws, growing brighter and louder, like a cannon preparing to fire. He quickly twisted the handle on his bat that released the rows of spikes, and smacked it over the nose with a loud crack, forcing its mouth shut and preventing it from shooting off its lightning breath. Bernard lashed at it again with his whip, the blades sprouting forth and grating against its plated scales like barbed wire wrapped around a wounded animal’s throat. The lacerations did little to no damage, but Bernard managed to hold it in place long enough for Esmerelda and Nico to run out of its range.

It slunk across the shore of the island and began to twist, winding its body around the lighthouse like a snake. With its gigantic form wrapped around the building, the grimm raised its head to watch the students as it started to constrict and tighten, squeezing the structure until a few bricks shifted, and a low crunching sound could be heard. Inside, Vert stumbled at the sudden shaking that overtook the lighthouse. He fell back on a railing for balance and reached out to continue the progress he made on rewiring the beacon, completely ignoring the reptilian form spiraling around the windows, cracking the glass.

“Vert!” Beau exclaimed, “Get out of there!”

“Hang on, I almost got it!” He tied two wires together by the metal portions, and slapped his scroll onto the beacon’s censor.

Esmerelda pulled her coat off. The green fur fluttered to the ground, and she rolled the sinupus muscles in her shoulders. “I can buy you some time, darling.” She nudged Beau, who was ready to pounce on the monster to defend her friends. “Go, help him.” With that, Beau nodded and rushed into the lighthouse that was close to collapsing. Bernard was still snapping his whip at the grimm, trying to push it off the building. Esmerelda took note of his efforts as she called out to Nico, “I’m about to do something extremely stupid. Be my backup if things go wrong, okay?”

“What? Why? How come I can’t do the extremely stupid thing?”

“Because if you tried it, you’d die.”

“....Fair point, carry on.”

Nico waved Bernard away from the sea creature and allowed their team leader to strut into the center of the clearing. The monster eyed the lone girl, weaving its head back and forth, estimating her movements silently. She just stood there, staring back at it with a fierce gleam in her eyes. Abruptly, it let out a screech and dove down at her, mouth agape. Instead of running or defending herself, Esmerelda waited. Bernard and Nico watched as their teammate was swiftly devoured by the sea feilong. Both of their jaws dropped, absolutely slack in shock.

Nico shrieked, “NO!”, grasping his hair in clumps in a frenzy.

“Mierda.” Bernard’s coattails whipped behind him from the gust of wind sent out by the beast.

“WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“WHAT DO WE DO!?”

“I don’t know!”

“WHAT THE HELL!”

The creature gulped happily and continued to constrict around the lighthouse. The bulb at the top started to flicker, the electricity flicked on and off inside to signify Vert had fixed the beacon. A white beam of light shot out, turning and flashing rhythmically in the grimm’s damaged eyes.  Avoiding the bright irritation, it slowly uncoiled and slid into the water. For a moment, Bernard and Nico were convinced that their leader was going to be carried away in a sea feilong’s belly, but they stopped their mourning when the monster’s body shuttered. It stopped in its tracks, straightening out and throwing its head back while it made a strange noise. It was….gagging? Was it actually choking on the snack it made out of the huntress?

It was about to roar, they could hear the sound building up in the back of its throat, but it was cut off before it could release the cry. A pair of bladed claws burst out from the sides of its throat, whirling from the inside until the two deep wounds connected. The head of the sea feilong toppled off its neck, revealing Esmerelda in between the severed halves, arms outstretched and claws brandished. Its body plummeted to the ground, sending up another cloud of sand while its head crashed into the lake and rippled the water with a giant splash. As its mass began to steam and smoke away, the lighthouse stopped shifting on the brick foundation that the grimm had disrupted. Though it was on a precarious angle, it didn't seem to be tipping or falling over. Esmerelda trudged through the water back onto the beach with her team, picking up her coat from where she left it. “That. Was. Vile.”

“Estas loco….” Bernard scrutinized over his friend, looking for any injuries.

“Oh, jeez--you smell nasty!” Nico plugged his nose and laughed, turning his head away from the girl. The scent of monster guts on her was definitely more pungent than her previously pleasant perfume.

The airship veered around and drifted across the purple sky, following the lighthouse like a moth to the flame. On the ride back to the school, the vehicle was a bit off-balance, taking the fact that everybody sat on the opposite side as Esmerelda to avoid the stench into account. As the ship landed back in the courtyard of their academy, white speckles of snow began to shake down from the sky like powdered sugar.

[jancisstuff]

Charms for the Future: Heart

Barengar Armsbreaker makes his way along the road that winds through the Lavender Beds, knowing the way to Lower Spangledance quite well now. He could probably navigate there with his eyes closed. Not that he would, that'd be ridiculous. As he stepped through the archway he scanned the yard, eyes quickly settling on Jancis. With a low grunt to himself and made his way over toward the healer, bowing his head toward her and grunting a low greeting. Jancis Milburga sat with a few books, writing diligently in one of them to the point where the familiar feeling of the Ala Mhigan was becoming more obvious. She slowed down and finished a thought, letting the ink dry by putting the journal down on the bench and pushing herself up to her feet, smiling fondly up at Barengar. Reaching out for his hand, she went to squeeze it before putting the logbook into it. She gave him a curious lookover, checking for anything new from their last meeting.

Barengar Armsbreaker returned the light pressure to Jancis' hand. As usual, the man appeared road worn but in good health. As far as she could tell he had made good on her assumption that he'd be safe since their last meeting. "Y'r doin' well, I 'ope?" he grumbled lowly. Jancis Milburga: "Yes, I am. The pain is something to get use to, in a way. Stayed about the city-states. Even saw Chachanji out here. He wishes to get stronger. Many wish to get stronger. And he was warm to my charm idea. He is going to make one himself." Jancis Milburga smiles softly and gratefully at her own words. "I am very lucky. And I write. Cook. Prepare." Barengar Armsbreaker tilts his head to the side slightly as Jancis elaborates on her recent activities. "Gegenji's makin' s'me charms f'r ya?" Jancis Milburga mimics his movement, tilting her head and meeting his gaze. "Yes. I wanted to ask you the same. He is making one that denotes himself. It is kind of symbolic in a way. But a means to find him as well it is like a map?" Barengar Armsbreaker presses his lips into a thin line, his brow lifting slightly, briefly glancing down at the logbook before looking back up at Jancis. "Y'd like me to make one then?" He pauses a moment, "I ain't so sure I know much 'bout makin' charms." Jancis Milburga: "Need not make your own. He is a smith. He knows metals. I would ask if there could be one about you on it. If I am gone. If my child is lost. I trust you to care for." Barengar Armsbreaker blinks several times at that and the connotations within. He's silent for several moments before slowly dipping his head toward Jancis, "Ain't like I'd allow somethin' t'appen t'the little one." Jancis Milburga: "Cannot do this alone. And I thought if there were many charms it would be a reminder that when things look dark, there are many people to turn to." Jancis Milburga touches her robe, hands curling around the moonstone underneath, "You especially. You would know what to do." Barengar Armsbreaker clears his throat slightly, "Y've got plenty o' folk t'turn too, tha's f'r sure. M'self included." He nods with a resolute and confident certainty. "Though ... I ain't really good at imaginin' wha' ought to represent me." Barengar Armsbreaker: "Mos' cases it's jus' me doin' that." Jancis Milburga purses her lips thoughtfully, "You are better than you realize at imagining things. Simple is best." She clearly hadn't thought of one beforehand. "Not an axe. Nor shark." Jancis Milburga: "Perhaps a feather. A heart would be best suited." Barengar Armsbreaker blinks several times. His first two ideas already cut out of the running. This does not leave his detered, of course. He's a more determined man than that. "A feather 'r a 'eart?" He pondered thoughtfully. It was less a question and more simply repeating what Jancis had said to him as means over consideration. Jancis Milburga nods, "As you named me. A broken axe would not be quite right for a charm. And shark is. Is your father that would be taking the charm you have. But you do have a shark on your face." Jancis Milburga: "It could be a match." Jancis Milburga continues pondering outloud. "If there was a blue metal. I have seen those before. And it would be like a beacon, in a way. And kind of pretty. But also inspiring." You gaze upon Barengar Armsbreaker in deep reflection. Barengar Armsbreaker dips his head to the side slightly, "S'true. Greyshark is m'father. Th'mark on m'face is f'r him, ain't f'r me. Seemin' like a charm meant t'be f'r me ain't meant t'be a shark."

Jancis Milburga brings her hand up, curving like it and obscuring part of his face where it is. "It is your choice, in the end, what it is." Barengar Armsbreaker dips his head toward Jancis as her hand reaches up in acknowledgement, "Righ', though m'thinkin' y'r right 'bout not usin' a 'eart." He pauses a moment once again, it seems the question has really got him thinking, "It ain't s'methin' I've ever really given much thought." He grunted with some measure of amusement. Jancis Milburga blinks at that, still outlining the tattoo lightly for his benefit, for all that it covered his face, in tactile remembrance. "I did not say that, but no heart. Something else, then." She was quiet, but smiling, positive and confident he did not need her pondering it on his behalf. Barengar Armsbreaker: "Could be a 'eart." He said, bobbing his head to the side slightly as a hand rises up to rub at his stuble thoughtfully, "Jus' ain't s'methin' I"ve thought 'bout 'fore. I figure I oughta give it proper consideration if'n it's meant f'r s'methin' important like this." Jancis Milburga nods once, "No piece of metal can encompass all of you. Give it all the thought you wish to. I am not going anywhere." Barengar Armsbreaker takes a few steps toward the edge of the lean-to, removing his large weapon and leaning it up against the support beam before making his way to settle down on the bench. The man's face, though far from being overly expression, was clearly in deep thought to the trained eye. Jancis Milburga: "I do not intend to go, but Tausenadel is most confident about it. I would be. Be foolish to not consider it. " Barengar Armsbreaker tips his head slightly, pausing in his musings, "Confident 'bout goin' where?" Jancis Milburga turns and gathers up some of the miscellaneous journals next to him, the details inside random notes, stories, how-tos. "Dying." Barengar Armsbreaker blinks slowly, "He's dyin'?" Jancis Milburga: "No, No forg-I. I mean. He is not dying. He is confident I will not die." Barengar Armsbreaker lifts his chin slightly, "Figure I share 'is confidence." He pauses a moment before bobbing his head toward her, "Though, y'ain't wrong. S'always better t'be prepared." Barengar Armsbreaker: "Jus' like in m'work. I ain't 'bout to 'ead out there assumin' ain't nothin' gonna try and bury me. Even f'r the easy stuff." Jancis Milburga regarded Barengar's determinated look a moment, staring at him before putting the journals down to sit on the side of the bench, hand going to the back of his head, pressing her forehead to his briefly. "I had not someone before that would need anything of the like if I did not make it." Her eyes were almost apologetic at that as she stood up straight again. Jancis Milburga: "Besides I would disappoint Nymeia. Spinner's thread must be strong."

Barengar Armsbreaker presses  his lips into a thin line as he meets her apologetic gaze with a firm and determined one of his own. His own way of trying to reassure the conjurer. "Figurin' y'rs is quite strong." He grumbled lowly before pausing a moment, "Bu' ..." he pauses a moment, "S'occurin' t'me. This charm 'ere. It's s'methin' tha' y'where, aye?"

Jancis Milburga softens and calms, easing under the silent language before answering. "My first gift to the little one. For them to wear. To know everyone I know that will be there. For all times. Good and bad. Like the one I wore before I was here." She makes a small circle with her fingers, "I had one. My first possession." Jancis Milburga: "At least I think so. For what I could remember. Maybe children have blankets, perhaps I had one of those. The bracelet survived." Barengar Armsbreaker presses his lips into a thin line before a single corner of the warrior's mouth tugs up into a slight smile, "All tha' bein' considered, m'thinkin' tha' it ought t'be somethin' tha' y'think represents me as y'r seein' me. Tha' way y'r little one will see me in a shared sort o' light, aye?" There's another slight pause, "An' I figure bein' seen as 'avin' 'eart ain't at all bad." Jancis Milburga agrees quietly, "Shared sort of light." Her listening went along with watching as he spoke, soaking up each rare word. After being quiet and repeating it to herself, she finally replied. "I do not think it is bad at all. I am Kindheart, no?" Barengar Armsbreaker gives a firm nod, "Y'are indeed." He rumbled quietly, "An' there ain't a trace o' anythin' bad 'bout that. O'tha' m'feelin' no measure o' doubt."

Jancis Milburga smiles, "As you are. My heart is not bad." She carefully sits down. "Thank you."

Barengar Armsbreaker bows his head toward Jancis as she takes a seat, "Ain't really much t'be thankin' me f'r, bu' y'r welcome all th'same, I figure." He grunted quietly before leaning back in the bench and glancing up toward the stars. Jancis Milburga watches him a moment longer before peeking out at the stars. "Let us be thankful—not only because since last our universal thanks were told we have grown greater in the world’s applause,    And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old." Jancis Milburga: "But thankful for all things that come as alms from out the open hand of the land:— The winter clouds and storms—the summer calms— the sleepless dread—the drowse of indolence. Let us be thankful—thankful for the prayers whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, that they might fall upon us unawares, and bless us, as in greater need we prayed." Jancis Milburga quotes dutifully, pausing in the middle to collect her memory, "Let us be thankful for the loyal hand that love held out in welcome to our own, when love and only love could understand the need of touches we had never known. Let us be thankful for the longing eyes that gave their secret to us as they wept, yet in return found, with a sweet surprise, love’s touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept. And let us, too, be thankful that the tears of sorrow have not all been drained away," Jancis Milburga: "that through them still, for all the coming Turns, we may look on the dead face of To-day." Barengar Armsbreaker glances over at Jancis briefly, a single corner of his mouth tugging upward in a subtle smile once more before returning to gaze up at the heavens. He wasn't certain he understood the full intent of the poetry but he believed that he gathered the gist of it. Jancis Milburga settles back onto the bench, wood creaking gently, and sits contently in the quiet. The sound of the stream behind them, animals about, and random chocobo in passing. Barengar Armsbreaker seems entirely content to remain seated there on the bench for many hours into the evening, enjoying the company of the conjurer. Be it in silent companionship or quiet conversation. A subtle smile still tugging on the corner of his mouth.

July 5 2018

Barengar Armsbreaker Jancis Milburga