#this has been buried in my drafts for so long then i stumbled upon this again today and CACKLED HOLY TRASH

[that-was-anticlimactic]

[ID: seven digital 1/2 body drawings of the ninja from Ninjago and which of the seven deadly gender sins they represent. they are all drawn with the yellow lego skin. the first image is of Cole. he is facing the viewer and smiling widely. Cole is labeled as "GENDER PRIDE". he says: "I'm trans! That's cool as hell!". the second image is of Nya. she is scowling. her arms are crossed. Nya is labeled as "GENDER WRATH". she says: "Either you give me gender neutrals bathrooms or I give you a lobotomy.".

the third image is of Jay. he is smiling widely. his hands are pressed together and near his chest. one of the pins on his gi is a bisexual pride pin. he is labeled as "GENDER ENVY". he says: "I like your vibes in the gender sense. Give them to me.". the fourth image is of Zane. he is smiling widely. his left hand is at level with his chin and his pointer finger is raised. his right hand is on his hip. he is labeled as "GENDER GREED". he says: "I have seventy-two genders and thirteen sets of pronouns due to I want to :]".

the fifth image is of Lloyd. he appears tired. he is holding a mug in his right hand. it is white and says "help" on it. Lloyd is labeled as "GENDER SLOTH". he says: "Gender? I gave up on that ages ago. Too much effort.". the sixth image is of Pixal. she is staring at the viewer with an impassive face. her mouth is open, indicating that she's talking. Pixal is labeled as "GENDER GLUTTONY". she says: "I am a different gender everyday. I go through them like coffee filters.". the seventh image is of Kai. his eyes are closed and he is smiling cockily. he is pointing to himself. he is labeled as "GENDER LUST". he says: "My gender is that I'm SEXY". the word "sexy" is bigger than the other words and has three sparkles around it. all of the dialogue is written in a gradient of the ninja speaking's signature colors. /End ID.]

the seven deadly gender sins

[Based on this post]

[ariascoven]

⟡ LOST BUNNY PT.2

PAIRING : salem!agatha harkness x reader

CONTENT / WARNINGS : female reader. petnames (bunny, dear, darling). soft agatha. mentions of homophobia.

WORD COUNT : 4.3k

A/N : sorry for not posting for i-don't-know-how-long, i hate everything i write these days lmao this has been sitting on my drafts for ages until i decided to let it out of the cave. i mostly have the energy to make bots as they're waayyyy shorter than fics so i end up making a bunch, sorry

MY MASTERLIST | PART ONE | C.AI BOT

The sound of birds happily chirping filled your ears the moment you stepped outside of your small, humble little home while carrying your picnic basket. Your mother had asked you to go fetch some apples for the pie she planned on making. Somehow, she managed to get all the ingredients needed beforehand, but forgot the damned apples — for an apple pie. At least you knew where your forgetful nature came from.

As you wandered through the woods in silence, you couldn't help but remember your first and last encounter with Agatha Harkness. A hidden, secret part of you buried deep within your being hoped, perhaps even wished that you would bump into the witch again, but your dreams never became reality. During every mind clearing stroll you took at night, your eyes darted around anxiously, scanning the surroundings and trying to find the brunette with a smug grin on her face, her pretty face illuminated by the moonlight and stars above. If anyone saw you in that state, they would assume you were afraid of what lurked in the dark, when in reality you were looking for Salem’s most feared witch.

It was ridiculous, to say the least. Months had passed ever since the unexpected meeting occured, it was now summer and the snow you had stepped on in the company of the young witch had melted completely ages ago. But the feeling of her hands on your waist seemed to have burned onto your skin, making it impossible to forget the warmth of her touch. You could still feel her, hear her... hell, you could still smell her. You often tried to convince yourself that she had put a spell on you that day, and that you were not absolutely smitten. But you knew the truth, no matter how much you didn't want to admit it — you were utterly fucked. You had met her once and had a brief conversation that was infuriating, to say the least, and that was enough to make you fall. Well, she also gave you a coat.

It might be important to note that your plan to make up an excuse about the piece of clothing to tell your mother failed completely. You weren't able to come up with anything before you reached the worn out door of your house, where you were met with the familiar sight of an upset old lady that noticed her daughter was missing from the warmth of her bed hours ago and decided to wait for the rebellious creature and demand an explanation. You had no friends, so you couldn't say it was a gift from one. For obvious reasons, you couldn't say you had bought it yourself as your mother knew that in your condition, buying a great coat like the one you had on was nothing but an impossible, silly dream.

So you had no choice but tell her the truth you wished to keep hidden, all of it. You spent almost a whole hour sitting on a chair, your head downcast shamefully as your mother scolded you, her voice laced with nothing but pure disappointment and annoyance. “She's a witch, for God's sake! She killed her own mother and the rest of her coven! Why would you even look her way? And even more accept this so-called gift?” However, she allowed you to keep the coat, knowing it was warmer and better quality than your entire wardrobe combined. Filled with guilt and shame, you gave your dear old mother a kiss on the forehead and assured her you would keep your distance if you ever stumbled upon the witch again. What a lie.

Crouched down picking a few berries you had found, you hummed a random tune you had never heard before. The berries were not what your mother had asked of you, but you shrugged it off, allowed to easily fetch the apples afterwards. The basket was big enough to fit all without a problem, and extra fruit was never a problem — you were sure your mother would be excited to make something out of the berries, anyway. You let out a satisfied hum at the amount you had picked, ascending from the crouching position. When you turned around, a yelp escaped your lips the moment you saw her. “Agatha!” Your eyes were comically wide as you exclaimed, face growing warmer at the realization you weren't even able to try and hide your excitement.

“Hello, bunny. You seem pleased to see me.” God, the way you missed her voice was nothing but pathetic. You let out a huff and rolled your eyes in a failed attempt to seem unbothered, but unfortunately, you were not an actress. A smirk appeared on the brunette’s face when she took notice of the subtle pink dusting your cheeks. “Ah, there is no need to respond. Not with that adorable blush saying everything.” When you looked up at her, your bottom lip was curled up ever so slightly, forming an adorable pout that made Agatha feel unwanted things — the flutter in her stomach being one of them, for example.

She stepped closer to you until the tips of your boots were touching hers, hand reaching up to rub her thumb across your bottom lip in a gentle caress. Almost instinctively and definitely against your will, your mouth fell open at the touch. You wished you could pull away and keep your distance from her, there was nothing you wished more. But something about the young woman pulled you in like a moth to a flame — a dangerously enchanting flame that made you crave more of its touch, no matter how much it threatened to burn and swallow you whole.

“How did you find me?” Your question came out as a breathless sound and you cursed yourself mentally at the poor attempt to hide the undeniable shakiness in your voice. Your knuckles hurt from the way you were gripping the basket as you tried to mask how much you were trembling — and you weren't entirely sure why. Maybe from excitement. Maybe from anxiety. Maybe from a mix of both. You noticed the way Agatha’s gaze seemed to search for yours more and more insistently the longer you avoided eye contact. She opened her mouth to respond with what you expected to be another snarky remark of hers, but she faltered, mouth quickly closing.

However, she didn't take much time to compose herself, that wicked and familiar grin returning to her lips and sending shivers down your spine. Considering how surprisingly hot the weather was during the summer, Agatha’s fingers remained cold as she tilted your chin up — freezing, even. And exactly the way you remembered them to be. You lost count of how many times you had harshly rubbed your sponge against the places she had touched on your body during your long baths, trying everything and anything you possibly could to make the memories disappear from your mind. But you kept thinking back at it whenever the chance appeared and you were ashamed to admit, even to yourself, how much you wanted her.

Considering how hot it was during the summer, Agatha’s fingers remained surprisingly cold as she tilted your chin up — freezing, even. Exactly the way you remembered. You lost count of how many times you harshly rubbed your sponge on the places she had touched on your body during your baths, trying everything and anything you possibly could to make the memories disappear from your mind. But you kept thinking back at it whenever the chance appeared. Before bed, waking up, while taking strolls around the town but mostly, in the woods you had your first meeting at. You were ashamed to admit, even to yourself, how much you wanted her.

“What? You think I found you because I wanted to?” She replied, the mocking evident in the tone of her voice and her raised eyebrow. With the proximity between your faces, you could almost taste the sarcasm that dripped from her lips. “It was simply a funny coincidence, my dear.” Your eyes scanned her face for any signs of honesty and widened the moment she leaned closer, her nose touching yours. The only thing you were able to do was hold your breath and anticipate her next move.

There was no way she was going to kiss you, right? Although the answer was pretty much clear, you couldn't help the flicker of disappointment that flashed through your eyes when all she did was chuckle low in her throat and pull away, taking a few steps backwards to put some sort of distance between your bodies. It was funny, the way you wanted that distance so badly at first but now it brought a frown so big to your face that missing it wasn't even a possibility.

Your eyes followed her gaze as she glanced down and towards the basket your hands were clutching. Or rather, the fingers that were a deep shade of red, knuckles turning white from the sheer force you put into holding the small object out of nervousness without even realizing it. You hadn't even realized the way you could barely feel your hands due to the gesture. You let out a loud groan full of frustration, deciding it was a better idea to hang it onto your arm instead of gripping it. Agatha’s curious (or rather, nosy) eyes focused on the content inside of the basket. “Berries…” She muttered quietly, and you weren't sure if she meant for you to hear it.

“Yes, berries.” You repeated as you eyed her curiously, her gaze never faltering from the fruits. It should be illegal to say Agatha Harkness looked adorable, but she did. Her unusual demeanor and sparkling eyes made you tilt your head aside as if the simple gesture would help you solve the current mystery — why would an evil witch become so seemingly excited over some stupid berries? You clicked your tongue in thought before grabbing a few and putting your hand out. “Do you…?” You don't finish the sentence, instead looking at your palm then back at Agatha as you trailed off. There was a pause. Then, she nodded, snatching the fruits from your hands and shoving them down her mouth. Your eyes widened at her enthusiasm, but the surprise soon turned into amusement and you let out a small chuckle, shaking your head.

Agatha’s gaze moved back up towards you, and it was difficult to take her seriously with the way her eyebrows were furrowed and lips were stained red from the berries — like a child who is still learning how to eat properly. “What are you laughing at?” She almost growled. It was clear to see that the witch was trying to seem menacing and scary, as she always did. But unfortunately for her, it seems looking evil when your eyes are shining with happiness while your mouth is full is incredibly hard. You waved a dismissive hand and shook your head once more as your giggles died down, a sigh falling from your lips. She looked at you with suspicion, reaching up to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Your face scrunched up slightly. “What?” She questioned, sounding rather annoyed.

“You just don't know how to not make a mess, huh?” You nagged with the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on your lips as you grabbed the checkered fabric your mother had given you to cover the fruit basket and that was long forgotten. You handed it to her — handed as in shoved it into her hand and gestured towards her mouth with a wave of your hand. “Clean that up, you are looking more like a toddler rather than a feared witch.” The sight of Agatha Harkness herself frowning pathetically was the most amusing thing you had ever seen in your life. You pushed away the thoughts of how cute she looked as you watched her clean her lips and cheeks grumpily. When she tried to give the piece of fabric back to you, you pushed it back against her chest. “Keep it. As a treat.” You joked, continuing your mission to find apples for your mother’s pie.

Agatha snickered and her lips curled up into an amused smirk at your comfortableness in teasing her, being ao used to people running away from her for simply being her. She stayed behind and watched as your figure continued the path, the dark shade of purple of her dress contrasting with the hint of red from the fabric you gave her, poking out of her pocket after she had folded it lazily and shoved it there. For Agatha’s immense displeasure, you were an incredibly fast walker, but she quickly caught up to you.

Her arms were behind her back and she whistled in feigned innocence, strolling just a few steps behind you. You rolled your eyes as you heard the melody, but a smile was playing on your lips. Your mother would kill you if she found out about this, about you hanging out with the woman you promised her to keep your distance from. You quickly pushed those thoughts away the moment you saw the apple trees ahead, full of life and covered in sweetness. As you stepped closer, a gasp fell from your lips at how beautifully red the fruits looked. “Ah, mother will love those!” You exclaimed happily, mostly to yourself, an arm stretching to grab the apples that were in a level where you could reach.

Harkness grabbed one of the juicy fruits as well, bringing it to her nose and inhaling the marvelous scent with an approving hum. “These look delicious. You said your mother will love them?” She raised an eyebrow with curiosity-filled eyes, leaning back against the tree nonchalantly and taking a bite out of the apple she held in her hand. You hummed and nodded in agreement, side eyeing her for just a split second as you continued to fill the basket. “Well, do you think your mother would be so kind as to spare me some apples?” She said playfully, batting her eyelashes in a dramatic manner. You scoffed.

“Well, my mother made me promise I would never talk to you again. Want to take a guess?” You didn't look at her as you spoke, but you could practically see the frown on her face with the way she let out a long, annoyed hum. “Don't take it personally, she would make me promise to stay away from any witch ever.” You tried to sugarcoat it, even though you knew she probably didn't care at all. There was a pause.

Without a word, she stared at you with suspicious interest, those icy blue orbs roaming over your figure as she studied you with narrowed eyes, seemingly trying to find the final piece of a puzzle she longed to solve. “Mind telling me why you are breaking the promise you made to your dear mother, then?” The question came out quietly, as if it was a secret that no one other than you two were allowed to hear. Your movements faltered, hand freezing just as your fingers had wrapped around the last apple that was on your reaching level. You cleared your throat, finally snatching the fruit and shoving it inside the picnic basket.

“I guess,” you began, the almost whispered words leaving your lips slowly as you contemplated what you should say. “Your company doesn't bother me. Much.” You looked her way as you put emphasis on the last part, which elicited a chuckle from her. The brunette observed as you moved next to her and leaned against the tree before sliding down until you were sitting on the grass. You placed the basket on your lap and stretched out your legs with a long and loud groan.

After a moment, Agatha repeated your movement and plopped down onto the ground while holding her skirt securely. Your gaze fell upon the fabric you had given her poking out of the pocket of her dress and then moved up back to her face. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw her already staring at you, her palm supporting her chin as her elbow rested on top of her knees, which were pulled against her chest. Your mind wandered back to your first encounter, in which she had said she wasn't an ordinary girl, nor like you. But seeing her like this, so calm and quiet, she really did look like just an ordinary 18 year old girl.

A hand dived inside the basket and grabbed a few more berries before handing them to Agatha, who gratefully accepted the offer. An unexpectedly comfortable silence washed over the two of you as the witch ate calmly — this time, taking her time to savor the sweet taste. The gentle breeze made her hair sway subtly, and you thought the sight was breathtaking. Fists clenched around the fabric of your skirt as you tried to hold back from the sudden urge to just… touch her. Make sure she was real, that she really was there with you. Since you never saw the young woman after your first encounter, your mind had became a mess of thoughts as you wondered if what happened in the woods actually did happen or was just a fever dream — a fever dream that felt a bit too real.

“Why so many apples, anyway?” The sound of her voice breaking the soothing silence forced you to come back to reality and turn to face her, confusion splattered across your features. She gestured to the basket with a nod of her head, noticing the way you looked lost in thought as she handed you the last berry she had in her hand. “So many apples. Are you baking something?” She didn't miss the way you took and ate the fruit in agonizingly slow movements, as if you were doing anything to not answer the question. She didn't blame you, she was used to it — and she didn't miss the hint of regret that flashed through your eyes when you mentioned your mother earlier. People had always warned you, saying that you should be careful when giving any information to witches, no matter how unimportant it might be. But before she could open her mouth to say you didn't need to give her an answer, you finally spoke up.

“My mother is.” You answered simply, the sound of your voice coming out as a quiet, almost shameful confession as you leaned your head back against the tree and looked up at the leaves hanging from the branches above. “I'm a disaster.” She raised a brow at your statement, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she waited for you to give more details. You looked at her and let out a small giggle. “I'm not exaggerating — I wish I was, but I'm literally banned from the kitchen at home.” The loud laughter that escaped the witch’s lips as she threw her head back forced a smile out of you, the sound making something flutter inside you.

“You— oh, goodness! Are you serious?” She panted out between giggles and laughed even more after you nodded in confirmation, her hand moving to clutch her side as she felt the threat of a cramp forming. “I'm gonna get a side cramp!”

There was only one word to describe your state as you watched the scene unfolding in front of you, and that word was fascinated. Was it weird to be obsessed with someone's laugh? Maybe it was, maybe you were weird, after all. But you simply couldn't help it, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners as the cutest sound left her lips. The so-called evil witch, Agatha Harkness, rather a monster than a woman, a girl, even, that had no feelings nor a heart, laughing so beautifully. You lost count of how many beats your heart skipped, pink lips parting in pure awe. God, you wished you could paint her at that moment, eyes scanning over her features in an attempt to memorize it. She seemed to notice your behavior, her laughter dying down as her face twisted into an intrigued expression. You felt a blush dusting your cheeks at being caught, a shy smile appearing on your face before you looked away, gaze focusing on the ground instead.

She tilted her head to the side then scooted closer to you, so close you could feel her leg resting comfortably against yours. You felt your cheeks heat up at the simple touch, and you mentally cursed yourself for being so easily affected by the woman — although a part of you knew anyone would be if they were in your shoes. Her face leaned closer to yours as she searched for your eyes, and when they met hers, she smiled. It made your heart skip several beats. It wasn't her usual smug grin or teasing smirk, no. It was a genuine and beautiful smile, and you were sure you could die happily at that moment, with the sight in front of you as the last thing you saw before the curtains closed. “You're so shy all of a sudden. Was it something I did, darling?”

Darling. God, the sweet names she called you made you crave her even more. You wondered if she only called you those things, or if she did it with everyone, ignoring the way you hated the simple thought of the second option being correct. “It's just—” you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, stopping yourself from speaking any further. More silence. Your body was set on fire when the familiar coldness of her fingers lingered against your skin as she brushed a lost strand of hair behind your ear, and you noticed the way she seemed to touch you for a bit longer than considered necessary. You cleared your throat, feeling a lump forming. “Your laugh.” You said simply, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

She let out an amused, soft chuckle. “Didn't expect to hear me laugh, hm?” She asked teasingly, her hand now resting on your shoulder.

“Didn't expect to like the sound of it this much.” Crap. Your eyes widened as soon as the unwanted words left your mouth against your will.

Agatha looked stunned, perfectly shaped eyebrows shooting up in pure surprise. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever told her in ages — perhaps, even in her entire life. You couldn't believe your eyes as you took notice of the light, almost unnoticeable shade of pink that appeared on Agatha’s cheeks. The hand on your shoulder slid down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps on its wake. It settled next to your own hand that rested on top of the basket laying on your lap. Your whole body tingled when her pinky brushed against yours in a teasing touch. You finally had the courage to look up at Agatha again, butterflies forming on your stomach at the way your gazes met and the small, maybe shy smile that she sent your way. Your hand was shaking with nervousness, but that wasn't enough to stop you from linking your pinky with hers.

A small gasp escaped from Agatha’s lips at the gentle gesture, gaze darting down to your entwined fingers. The moment your head came to rest on her shoulder was the moment the witch realized that you would be the death of her — but she would never complain, laying her head against yours. You stayed like that for what seemed to be an eternity, simply relishing in each other’s company and touch, the comfortable silence from earlier making an appearance once again. “To be fair with you, I didn't expect to enjoy your company as much, either.” She finally broke the silence, voice sounding so soft it was hard to believe it came from Agatha Harkness herself. Your mind was racing and heart thumping against your chest so fast you really thought you would have a heart attack for a split moment.

That's when you remembered why you had even left your house that day — apples, pie, your mother who awaited you at home. You hesitated before breaking the contact and ascending from the ground, dusting off the skirt of your dress. Agatha frowned at the lost touch and repeated the movements with a hint of annoyance. The sun was starting to set and your lips pursed into a firm line upon realization you would get a scolding when you got back home. “It's getting late, Agatha. I should really go now. Mother would be furious if I took any longer.” The pang of sadness and disappointment at the words leaving your own lips stung like hell. Realizing Agatha wasn't going to say anything in response, just staring at you with an unreadable expression on her face, you stepped closer to her and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on the soft skin of her cheek.

You turned on your heels and started walking away, fighting the urge to glance back over your shoulder, knowing that looking at her would make you turn back around. What if it took even longer to see the witch again than the first time did? What if your mother found out? Not only would you feel her anger for breaking your promise, she would be even angrier at the way you were so affectionate with another woman. You had mentioned your attraction towards women to her briefly once, but quickly learned to never do it again and pretend it was just a mistake, something your confused mind made you believe was real. But it never went away, and it never would. But you hid yourself with bitterness, being the good example of a daughter you always had been. The sound of the familiar voice snapped you away from your thoughts, body whipping around to face the young woman.

“Shall I see you again?” Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she questioned and took a small, hesitating step forward, which did nothing to the still significant distance between the two of you. You couldn't help the bright smile that formed on your face, nodding enthusiastically in response. She smiled back, a hint of something that looked like relief playing across her features. The realization made you feel special, worthy.

“Tomorrow, same place and time?” Agatha’s heart raced at your words and she nodded slowly, trying the best she could to hide her happiness. Never in her life did she expect to be smitten by a woman she met twice. But, oh, she was. Unbeknownst to you, during your time away, Agatha also couldn't stop thinking about you. Her mind wandered back to your first encounter more times than she could count, and knowing she would see you again filled her with an unfamiliar sense of happiness. She couldn't wait to see you again, waving goodbye even as you turned your back to her.

[florallylly]

at the request of absolutely nobody, i present my vaguely fleshed out steddie mummy au 

sources: i still own the mummy on vhs 

there’s a possibility that the whole story of hamunaptra could be tweaked a bit to fit the story of henry creel/vecna/one into imhotep’s story, but the actual nitty gritty doesn’t matter as much as the actual dynamics and relationships between stobin and eddie. the important part is that a man is cursed to be buried alive, immortal but destined to awaken only to take vengeance. 

fast forward and eddie munson ends up drafted into the military. (rick is apart of the french foreign legion stationed in egypt, and i’m not entirely sure how he manages it but eddie munson is apparently a colonel). things happen and eddie finds himself running away from the battlefield, only to stumble upon the ruins of hamunaptra. except they aren’t really ruins and hamunaptra is a myth. so he runs, but when he gets back to the city, alone and half dead, eddie finds that in his rush to leave, he’s grabbed some sort of puzzle box. 

at the same time, one robin buckley has dedicated her life to learning more about ancient egypt. her passion for languages led her down a rabbit hole, and she drags her brother steve to egypt with her for further study. 

robin is set up with a job at a small museum, working as an archivist. unfortunately, it’s a lot more tedious than she anticipated. it would be a lot better if she could work with steve, but forgetting his glasses at home nearly everyday isn’t super helpful when it comes to trying to sort books. 

so what is steve doing in egypt, you may ask? evie’s brother jonathan in the movie literally schlepped around egypt fucking around with his sister and figuring out his next get rich scheme. steve isn’t really the type to open up his own nightclub in shanghai (a la the mummy: tomb of the dragon emperor), but just like jonathan, steve happens to stumble across a cryptex containing a map of the lost city of hamunaptra. 

as an aside: i see steve doing the same minimum wage jobs he did in hawkins, just in egypt. i think it would be funny and makes so much more sense to me than him kind of skulking around for news of possible treasure. (bonus: the party in egypt, and dustin coming up to steve with a “brand new discovery” and it’s eddie’s puzzle box that he’s swiped. (THOUGH NOTE: evie and jonathan’s family is Rich. Rich Loaded. Rich Loaded British. So honestly, he doesn’t even have to work)

either way, when robin opens the cryptex and finds the map, she’s astonished. this is what she’s dreamed of her whole life—being an explorer and discovering lost civilizations. so she gets steve to find out where the puzzle box came from. his search leads them to the prison, where eddie munson is destined for execution. 

the two of them talk to eddie, and eddie tells robin he’s seen hamunaptra in person. he’s been there. he’s walked the same sand that pharaohs had and seen the ruins that no other have laid their hands on. but eddie refuses to tell them the location, but steve convinces (bribes) the warden to let him go. 

so the three of them set off to the city of the dead. 

the details of the trip would make this post way too long, but i’m thinking about dynamics rn… 

eddie is a little standoffish at first, sure that these rich kids won’t be able to handle themselves, and he’ll be stuck carting around two spoiled brats. and robin and steve don’t necessarily trust him. robin is wide eyed and blinded by eddie’s knowledge of hamunaptra, but steve keeps trying to keep her in check. 

at first, eddie thinks steve is cold to him because of some upstairs/downstairs prejudice or big brother protectiveness. and eddie flirts even harder with robin, delighted every time he sees a scowl on steve’s face. even if robin keeps rolling her eyes and ignoring him, he isn’t looking at her anyways. he’s too busy searching steve’s eyes for some spark of disapproval. he doesn’t see that though. he sees worry and concern and fear. and that’s when eddie starts warming up to them. 

[altschmerzes]

hey for something new and different im gonna do something i havent done in a very long time and share a bit of my original sports fiction project. this is from the very beginning of it, not the actual opening-opening but very shortly after it. it helps introduce and get to know our audience surrogate character, hockey player jesse marvel who’s just been drafted and is about to start training camp for the team that drafted him, the minneapolis-saint paul phoenixes.

buries my face in my hands anyways here’s this

Since he started high school, Jesse has been experiencing a recurring dream. It happens every couple of weeks or so, to the point that it’s an inside joke around his family’s home that Jesse got another video call from his alternate life whenever he has it. 

In the dream, he’s at a concert, standing off to the side of a massive stage, grandly lit with an inferno of blinding bright lights. The crowd is enormous, the kind you’d see at Madison Square Garden or Red Rocks Amphitheatre. Thousands of blurred out faces gather in an undulating mass of expectant fans, ready and waiting for the show to begin. The anticipation is so thick in the air that he can taste it, a metallic aluminum-copper, the adrenaline emitting from every person there enough to raise goosebumps on his arms. He never knows what band is supposed to take the stage, and every time he tries to read the banner hanging at the back of the platform it’s like he can’t get his eyes to focus on it. Then the crowd starts cheering, a wall of sound sweeps in a tidal wave across the stage, and someone plants a hand square in the middle of Jesse’s back. There’s the quick jerk of a nylon strap around his neck, the whack of an electric guitar into his chest, and a shove that sends him stumbling out, unable to stop until he stands, centre stage, staring out at the crowd that he now realizes has come to see him.

At this point of the dream, a few things occur to Jesse at once. He cannot play the guitar and in fact has never touched one in his life before this moment. He cannot carry a tune in a bucket. One time, he’d been singing in the car and his little sister Brigit, who’d then been ten years old, had very solemnly pulled a five dollar bill out of her backpack and handed it to him, informing him she was bribing him ‘cash money’ to stop. And finally, in just a moment, he’s going to play a chord, or open his mouth to sing a note, and irreversibly, inescapably, profoundly let every one of these thousands upon thousands of people down. 

Jesse hasn’t had the dream since before the draft. He’d walked up on the stage when his name had been called, selected third overall out of hundreds of talented young players hoping this would be their big shot to make it into the League, and accepted the jersey and hat handed to him by the Phoenixes general manager without a single slip-up. It was the exact opposite of the experience in the dream. So much so that he’d thought maybe the dream had just been him psyching himself out since he really got serious about making the League, some kind of subconscious hazing he’d been inflicting on himself. 

It’s not until after the draft, when he’s milling awkwardly around the hall in a surreal haze surrounded by families in fancy clothing and reporters with flashing cameras and little recorder microphones, that Jesse realizes he'd been premature on deciding that one. If the dream was meant to prepare him for anything, it wasn’t the draft. It was everything that followed. Every day he steps out of the hotel room he’s been calling home for the last couple weeks, Jesse feels like he does in the dream when the shove propels him forward onto the stage. It’s like even the walls in the twin cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul have grown eyes, and every pair of them is trained on him. 

During the rookie showcase, there had been a reassuring degree of anonymity that had helped Jesse feel a little less like he was living a waking version of that dream. Every person there is in the same uniform, the Phoenixes standard gear complete with a blank practice jersey and helmet, none of which had a name or number attached. There, he’d just been another kid with skates on his feet and big dreams in his head, surrounded by fifteen or so others exactly like him. It isn’t until he’s at the first day of training camp, a freshly signed contract placing him in the slim ranks of players who were signed to teams their first year before ever playing a single minute of a game on League ice and a jersey screaming his last name in all-caps across his shoulders, that the feeling comes back. Everyone’s eyes are on him again, and this time it’s worse, because those eyes are the eyes of the Phoenixes.

[klcthebookworm]

20 November 2023 Metrics

Previous Word Count: 66,024 New Words: 1167 Total words for the first draft: 67,191 NaNo 2023 Cumulative Word Count: 21,440 What I Accomplished in the Narrative Today: Started a scene with Alexander and the words just would not come. I babbled on the page how the words were not coming. After ninety minutes of fighting with it, I switched to Peg stumbling upon crime and dealing with it and that scene flowed. Fave line: “I wasn’t trying to kill you, but.” She looked into the van and saw a pile of lumpy garbage bags and smelled rotting meat. “Yeah, you totally had something to do with a murdered person here so good if I gave you brain damage!” What Else I Accomplished Today: Laundry completely done, kitchen dishes are at need to unload the clean ones out of the dishwasher but everything else is done, sorted through the office for 45 minutes and accomplished nothing with it. I really thought I’d get more fiction writing done, but the current state of everything else I have to do means I’m pretty wiped by the end the chore block. What I'm looking forward to: Having everything done and then I can relax. What the hell is relaxing? I have been taking my breaks during the sprints but when I’m sitting right next to what I didn’t accomplish, it’s hard to feel like I will ever finish so why did I reward myself with breaks? Breaks equal to three hours plus however long it takes me to eat. That is five hours for everything on the list. Yes, NaNo is getting three of those hours because I committed to it this year and I am making progress on the project that has been stalled for years and I’m loathe to give it up, especially when writing is my sanity keeper. And giving it up won’t get the chores I hate done any faster. So yes, tomorrow will still have breaks. What I’m going to do before going to bed is download the vague must do X, must do Y, must do Z, etc. onto paper where I can truly see what has to happen around making words tomorrow. What I'm not looking forward to: The reason why this office reset is on my list is that I have buried paperwork and phone calls I need to do in my stacks and now the stacks have reached “oh hell where did I put X?” But I only have Tuesday to find them and deal with them and I’m running out of Tuesday already? Mom needs a trip to town, I also need to pack (some of that is hiding in the stacks too). So yeah, steady wincing think about this now. Also, I think I need to box books I don’t have shelf space for into banker boxes and stack those in a messy corner of the office. That will look more contained and that should help on visual stress. It also comes AFTER dealing with the desktop pile that I’m nearly convinced has the paperwork I need to deal with in it.

[askdracomalfoyofficial]

╭━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╮

𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝

╰━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╯

The Mirror of Erised is an ancient, ornate mirror with clawed feet and a gold frame. It’s said that the Mirror shows the most desperate desire of a person’s heart, a vision that has been known to drive men mad. The writing engraved in the frame of the mirror was a forgotten foreign dead language but if one looks closely it says: ‘I show not your face but your heart’s desire.’ backwards.

It’s rumored that men have stood before it, wasted away not knowing if what they have seen was something real, or even possible. It’s as though the mirror had latched a hook around you, pulled you in and forced you to see what could be just beyond the mind's subconscious. But what would happen when a certain Slytherin stumbles upon this mirror, and what are the things that he may be shown?

The Mirror was supposed to be taken elsewhere after an incident with Harry Potter, but for some reason it was still around in third year, lingering like a ghost in the corner of a dark room. With how tempting the thing could be, you’d swear that it was whispering to you, pulling you in like you were in some sort of trance. That’s exactly what was happening with Draco Malfoy.

Third year was so much different compared to the last two, and it seemed as though things were just going to get even more interesting for this year. Though, he questioned how things would go within the next four years.

One lonely dark night while wandering the corridors, usually he wasn’t someone who went out of their dormitory passed curfew but there was just something itching at the surface that he wanted – perhaps needed to do. That’s when he felt the deep urge to head towards an abandoned wing of the castle, where nobody usually goes. With his wand raised, and a Lumos casted. He dipped into alcoves to hide from Filch and Mrs. Norris, but would continue on his way towards this ‘pull.’

That’s when he found it, as if it was whispering to him. Telling him to come, come see your desires that are hidden beneath where not even you, yourself could reach, even if you think you know what your true desires are. It was manipulating, a trance within a trance of its own. How strange of a magical artifact.

Slowly, he proceeded further into the empty room until he stood tall in front of the mirror. His platinum blonde hair brighter than his Lumos. “Nox.” He whispered, and the delicate glow faded from the tip of his wand before sliding it into the pocket of his robes. His molten gray eyes staring through the mirrors surface, staring back at himself mainly. Slowly reaching his hand up to glide his fingers along the golden ornate frame as the coldness seeped through the pads of his fingers while he secretly admired it.

Pulling his hand away, a brow arched. “What is my deepest desire?” He questioned. Though he swore he already knew the answer. It was power. He wanted power. He was already wealthy, that was something he didn’t need more of as he was completely set in life. Eyes closing, and he entered a meditative state as if to clear his head of anything that may mess up with what the mirror could show him, or what the mirror perhaps knew.

When his eyes slowly fluttered opened; nothing was there but just himself. There was no sign that he even desired this said ‘power.’ There was nothing in there about his future. Perhaps there was a flicker of something with not being the greatest Malfoy disappointment to his father but it didn’t linger very long. Instead, a female appeared, making his head quickly turn around to look over his shoulder to see if anyone had come in, but no one was there. When he turned back... there she was.

“You’re bloody kidding, right?” He spoke to the mirror as if it was a joke, because this certainly was not what he desired at all. Draco shook his head disapprovingly. “No. I refuse to accept that this is what I desire. You’re a phony. That’s what you are!” He raised his voice. For a student who was sneaking out of their dormitory to come stand before a mirror, yelling probably wasn’t a good idea. He just – he couldn’t accept what he was seeing.

Hermione Granger.

Mudblood.

The Brightest Witch Of Our Age.

Gryffindor know-it-all, swot.

There she was, standing before him the Mirror’s surface in a raven-colored dress with her hair slightly pinned back. Her skin glowed like a light had been casted over it showing her fairly sun-kissed tone. Her brunette curls seemed tamed, and for a moment Draco got curious of how her hair would feel falling through the spaces of his fingers.

He shook his head. No, no, no. This has to be all wrong or something.

Hermione in the mirror was moving, she seemed much like the one he knew. Innocent looking, someone who’d have her nose buried deep inside a book. Getting all the correct answers and topping him in all his bloody classes. She looked elegantly beautiful; it was terrifying to see her like that. Maybe he was dreaming, oh, he hoped that he was.

But there was a drafted breeze that shifted around in the room, blowing dust bunnies and dirt around on the floor leaving goosebumps to wake on his skin, and hairs to stand on ends at the back of his neck. Of course, that creepingly odd sensation that in a way told him that this may or may not be real. Though, he wanted to stay, and maybe that’s where he goes wrong.

She smiled at him. She bloody smiled at him, and how dare she even spread those filthy lips. How dare she even come about in the damn Mirror. No, how dare him for even coming here in the first place. Now, when and if he leaves. He’s just going to sit there and think about what the hell he’d just seen, and perhaps the way he treats her may even change and... no – no that cannot happen, will not. He refuses to let this be the case.

His mind was not his friend right now, it wasn’t helping in a situation such as this, at this time.

Draco got frustrated, ripping out his wand. “Lumos.” It lit, and the light casted over the shadows in the room, even made Hermione in the mirror fade away. He shook his head angerly and left the room all together. Leaving behind the Mirror of Erised. “What a bloody waste of time.” He grumbled to himself, quickly making his way through the corridors and back to the dungeons.

That night had come and gone the moment his head hit the pillow. Exhaustion sweeping over and covering over his body like a blanket full of comfort. Morning came, and the sun peaked through the windows just barely. Every student got dressed in their robes, including Draco himself. He didn’t wake up in a good mood, after what he had seen and dealt with last night it was something no one would understand; nor was it going to be something he even spoke to anyone about. It wasn’t anyone's business anyways.

“Hello Draco.” Pansy greeted once he took a seat at the Slytherin table. “Did you sleep well?” She asked, why did she even bother half the time anyways?

“It doesn’t look like he did, Pansy.” Goyle chimed in.

“Was I asking you? Is your name Draco?”

“No, obviously not. I answered because it doesn’t look as though Malfoy is in the talking mood, now does it? You aren’t very observant to these kinds of things, I'm not at all shocked.”

Pansy’s mouth gaped open, her eyes fleeted towards Draco as if he was going to stand up for her or something, waiting for him to defend her. Except he wasn’t even listening in on the conversation, nor was he even watching either of the bicker about him. Usually when it came to someone talking about him, his ears would get that tingly, buzzing feeling – either that or just gets that weird strange sensation inside that someone was talking about him. This time around though? He wasn’t at all moved.

They continued talking, and he drowned them out. Thinking back to last night when he snuck out, and went to the bloody forsaken room. His eyes wandered towards the Gryffindor table, in search for a certain bushy-haired brunette know-it-all witch, and for a moment he thought maybe she wasn’t there but just then she took a seat with Harry and Ron, smiling about with her eyebrows fairly loose. Her hair was slightly pinned back, much like how he had seen in the Mirror.

In the moment; she seemed so care-free, like a feather blowing in the gentle breeze. Twirling, and furrowing to its freedom. He must’ve been staring a little too long, because the next thing he knows, her eyes met his. His expression was stoic; unreadable – almost expressionless. Matter-of-fact, his heart had just dropped to the pit of his stomach. She just figured him out, all in one quick look and head on eye contact.

Their eyes remained locked. She looked almost passive aggressive, as if she was partially disgusted but also partially shocked that he was even looking at her in the first place. She was probably thinking that he was going to curse her for even looking at him, for holding that eye contact for little over a minute now. For a moment, he swore that her breath caught in her throat because her lips parted.

Her delicately soft pink lips formed a space between once was a pressed thin-line.

Draco broke it first. Turning his head away from her, and reverting his gaze back to Goyle and Pansy while they bickered.

“You never chew with your mouth closed.” She complained, (even though Goyle did chew with his mouth closed now thanks to Draco, of course).

“And you’re just always complaining about something.”

A gasp.

“You both are bloody annoying. You do know that right?” Draco finally said something, letting his eyes shift back and forth from the two. “Always on about something.”

They both shut up. It’s like they had been Imperio'd or something, because anything he says or does something they seem to either listen or just go along with it. It liked that; he liked the power he had and didn’t care. That’s what he thought – no that’s what he was sure he would’ve seen in that bloody mirror. Now that he can’t stop thinking about Her, he wanted to destroy the thing. Get rid of it.

But as of right now, his thoughts were just going to be consumed by what he’d seen in it. Hermione Granger, the little golden girl was what he desired,

And he hated it.

[mira--mira]

3 things:

the first, Le gasp. Did Madara gave Hashirama the necklace that Tsunade gave to Naruto? That's always been a headcanon of mine so it'd be super cool if that was the case for OoT.

the 2nd: I now have a mental image of Gai running laps around Konoha with Lee & Hashimada bellowing about youth, like he does. Ppl just assuming that they're his Genin team. Cue either Neji, Tenten or Kakashi hearing about it and going over to check what's happening.

Kakashi will gaze upon the matching jumpsuits and give up on life

Neji and Tenten will be offended that they've been replaced.

The 3rd: Hashirama learns of Kakashi's (or well anyones) distaste for the jumpsuits and innocently suggest that when he becomes Hokage he'll implement them as the official Shinobi uniform. Legwarmers and all.

Now that I think about it, the Gai's outfit it literally Kakashi's except green and w/ legwarmers instead of bandages. So it probably wouldn't be that different, but its still kinda funny.

How are people afraid of the Gunbai? Cuz they're not old enough to have seen Madara use it and since he's a ghost, shouldn't all portraits/pictures of him be gone. I mean I guess there's still the statue. But Madara's not weilding a fan in that one. Are students just told in the academy that the fan is bad or is it more like a cultural aversion to fans. If that's the case then are they afraid of the fan or just dislike it? Cuz its kinda implied that Gai panicked upon seeing the fan and opened the 6th gate, but that's a big reaction that would only be triggered by actual fear instead of disgust.

Sorry for the long ramble. I was just so excited to see Oot update that my words got away from me. Love your fic!

Warnings for slight spoilers, it's more background necklace stuff only in point 1 but just fyi in case it’s important to you!

1. Yes! I love that headcanon but this one has a slightly different history behind it. Madara did give it to him, but it's the necklace he inherited from his mother that his father gave her. This is bc in the "canon" history, Madara and Hashirama were never public about their relationship. The traditional Uchiha courtship necklace was incredibly recognizable (the magatama ie the big "comma" symbol on sage/indra/ashura's clothes) so Madara couldn't easily make him one. However, Tajima made the same necklace for Kou but it broke into its now-recognizable shape of today and she refused to wear any other necklace but that one, saying it was unique among all the Uchiha's (she also compared it to a dick when Tajima added the two beads on either side to make it look nicer, but that's bc Kou had a rather coarse sense of humor). Typically the mother's necklace is inherited by the oldest daughter but since Kou only had sons, it went to Madara and was one of the last things he had of her. It was his declaration of love to give it to Hashirama and, considering how vilified and demonized Kou was to the Senju, his own declaration to accept and wear it.

2. Oh you better believe they’ll run laps together! (edit: I realized this got buried in my drafts so Chapter 17 has already come out, so yes you predicted part of the future 😜) Hashirama will be little more proactive in his revenge so no stumbling upon them haha! And Gai already has plans to introduce the terrors to his genin team 😉

3. He’ll accidentally stumble upon Kakashi’s specific distaste of the outfit but you better believe once he finds, he’ll just happen to bring it up to Kakashi every once in a while just to see his reaction. 

The issue with the gunbai is it’s specifically associated with the Ghost of the Uchiha. Madara’s individual name got lost (only the elders, ninja with access to classified records, and certain clans remember it). But the “Ghost” was a bogeyman to Konoha, an evil, terrible man who was cursed with only hatred in his heart, who turned on the village and tried to destroy it. 

(In the full story, it also connects Konoha’s hatred of Kurama specifically (the monster the Ghost used to try and destroy the village) which will also be connected to one reason why the jinchuriki were always set up to be pariahs, and how by killing Madara, Hashirama’s deification as the God of Shinobi was complete, as well as another reason the Uchiha were separated and held at arms length which only worsened over time as the story became more and more mythologized and Madara’s past contributions as a founder were lost.)

Because there weren’t paintings/statues of the Ghost (except for VotE which...I think is actually a bit of a controversial piece for Konoha tbh, and the Uchiha’s secret mural) the only thing that really stuck to symbolize him was the gunbai. This is a very American-centric perspective and I will be the first to admit isn’t a perfect parallel by any means but the kind of fear/hatred most of Konoha and especially ninja have towards the gunbai/Ghost can be thought of like the Red Scare panic. The “paranoia” point isn’t quite met but that kind of visceral hatred and fear over something that they’re told to fear and hate but don’t actually have first hand experience is similar. I also think it could work as a kind of dark reflection of the Will of Fire ideology. If you’re not someone who would sacrifice everything for the village and endure relentlessly...are you going to betray the village and become the next Ghost? That’s not a vocal belief in Konoha, but more something that’s kind of implied by the black/white mentality that nationalism kind of inspires. The emotion is only towards gunbai in particular, but the culture around fans in general and them being “too similar” has created an aversion to all fans esp in the ninja clans. Tenten has a small tessen (an iron hand held fan) but it’s something that very clearly marks her as clanless to other shinobi because no clan ninja would own one. 

All of this to say, when Gai first saw the gunbai unexpectedly the years of being taught this explicitly and implicitly kicked in and he reacted. It was a panicked instinct and if he weren’t the amazing man we know and love seeing Madara with the gunbai and definitely knowing their connection, other ninja in Konoha would find it perfectly reasonable for him to then try and attack Madara.

I hope this clears things up, I felt I got a bit rambly in the middle!

[codedredalert]

no lead nor steel shall reach him so [Golden Kamuy, Ogata & Yuusaku] -- gen oneshot

Ogata character study || 1705 words

A good marksman could swear blind that he knew a good shot before his bullet left the barrel.

Ogata was a good shot. The moment he pulled the trigger on Yuusaku, he knew he'd made a mistake.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, Ogata is messed up and regrets nothing, this is not a nice softe redemption story.

A/N: written for @narramin​ 

(On Ao3)

===/\===

.

      1.

Ogata knew the rumours.

Second Lieutenant Hanazawa Yuusaku is the eight virtues personified, they said. No wonder he was promoted so young. No wonder he had the honour of bearing the flag.

Perhaps Ogata knew the rumours best  because they were spoken carefully around him— whispers like prey rustling the grass, catching his attention whether he willed it or not.

He's  that Ogata's brother, they said. No, reliably came the disbelieving reply. Can't be, no way, you've got to be lying, is it true? It's true, the Second Lieutenant said so, though Ogata tries to keep it quiet. Ah, well it makes sense,  he's the bastard after all, isn't he? Hah, in more ways than one…

Sideways glances between himself and their vaunted officer, not nearly as discreet as the men of the 7th Division believed themselves to be.

Have you heard? asked First Lieutenant Tsurumi in a conspiratorial whisper when he had Ogata alone. They say the Second Lieutenant is very principled.

Yes, Ogata has heard.

Shall we see for ourselves? proposed the First Lieutenant, hand outstretched, an offer.

.

.

      一.

"Life is a long road."

Grandmother taught this to him in a voice that was light to mask the weight of wisdom in those heavy words. After Mother's death, Grandmother had never faltered in her duties though she grieved, going through the funeral proceedings with head held high, and seeing to Ogata's every need with reliability that Mother had never managed, though she had tried.

"The longer one's road grows, the more places to stumble, and for impurity to rest on the soul. With time, every person falls to the suffering of existence."

She used one of her wrinkled, gnarled hands to smooth back Ogata's clipped-short hair, soothing and pleasant.

"It is just the way life is," she said.

.

.

      2.

Ogata approached Yuusaku for the first time since the young officer had first called him brother, and the younger man lit up with such unadulterated delight that it sent a shudder of disgust down Ogata's spine.

He had to be faking. No one got that excited about a night out with their bastard half-brother. But as long as the Second Lieutenant wanted to play the good brother, that suited Ogata just fine.

Ogata led Yuusaku to the pleasure district, watching with amusement as the younger man's delight turned to discomfort, to embarrassment, to distress.

"Brother… I'm terribly sorry," he said, bowing. And he  sounded sorry too, as if it physically pained him to refuse Ogata's first tenuous offer of brotherhood. His sincerity grated, as did his refusal. In one move, Yuusaku had both undermined Ogata's objective, and plainly made the grave insult that— however much he claimed to want Ogata for an elder brother— Ogata's wants and ways were beneath him.

With the trap now useless, there was no choice but to let him go, and Yuusaku walked out of the establishment as free and upright as ever.

But Ogata could be patient. As the war went on— as the acrid gunpowder, piss, shit, and anguish seeped into them all— Yuusaku would stumble. Ogata just had to bide his time and try again, try better.

.

.

      二.

His mother was beautiful in death. She had hundreds of admirers from the peak of her career, and many a swooning painter had captured her likeness. A portrait of her had been gifted to them, and it smiled bright-eyed and gentle upon Ogata from the family altar as she never had in life.

"It doesn't look like her," he remarked, as he stood side by side with his grandmother and offered incense. He remembered his mother's back as she stood in the middle of a room for long stretches of time, silent and unmoving. Her profile, as she stared out the window, watching for a man who would never come.

The joss sticks burned down to ash, and Grandmother lifted her head from her prayers. She bowed and turned away, gesturing for him to follow. He followed suit.

"People see what they want to see," she said, once she had closed the door behind them. Grandmother was very different from Mother, in that way. She always paid attention to him, even if she was silent at first. He just had to be patient.

"Men wanted her beauty, so they took whichever parts of her they found beautiful and painted over all the other parts to suit their tastes. They did not know her character, the hardship she went through. The  geisha, the  maiko… they suffer greatly for their success. But it was our hope that she would have a good life, a better life than the one we could give her. Not..."

Heartache. Deep despair. The delusion that roused her from bed only to make the same dish, day after day: a desperate, futile offering to a love that didn't realise.

Ogata understood.

.

.

      3.

"Superior Private Ogata. It appears that Yuusaku is a more gallant soldier than we imagined. He's won over the hearts of all the other men."

Ogata let out the breath he'd been holding for his shot and lowered his rifle. He could read between the lines and take the orders the First Lieutenant preferred not to say explicitly. Plausible deniability and all that. It's why the First Lieutenant liked him.

"So you're saying we're better off not killing him, sir?" asked Ogata, reloading and already looking for his next target. He didn't need an answer. "Understood."

Ogata led Yuusaku wraithlike over the fields where gunfire and screaming had reigned earlier that day. The night was quiet but far from silent, the sighing of the wind an unearthly substitute for the dead and dying soldiers' groans. Yuusaku's boots scuffed the earth as he followed. He made enough noise that Ogata could have shot him at fifty yards, blindfolded.

"I want to see you kill him," Ogata said earnestly, pressing his knife into Yuusaku's hands. Yuusaku flinched and his eyes slid away, looking for escape, looking anywhere but Ogata's eyes, anywhere but the Russian soldier gagged and bound at their feet.

"Father said I have to keep my hands clean," Yuusaku begged off, as if the word 'Father' could invoke more authority than 'Lieutenant General' or 'martial law'. Ah, but Yuusaku was a beloved child, Ogata remembered, and this was him trying to appeal to the filial respect that Ogata never had the chance to develop for the man.  

Something must have shown on Ogata's face.

Yuusaku embraced him and Ogata's blood swarmed like locusts in his veins, eating him alive with irritating discontent and a curious, persistent thought.

.

.

     三.

Mother's death was Ogata's first. A lot of customs went with it, though Ogata didn't really see why. When everything was over, Grandmother paid a priest to come bless the family and sprinkle salt at him.

"It's for your own good. Death is an unclean thing, we don't want its shadow over you," Grandmother explained when Ogata grumbled about some of it getting it into his eye. Her voice wavered ever so slightly, as she smoothed the front of her kimono. "Remember to do this after I've passed."

Ogata buried her the year he was conscripted. He didn't get the priest afterwards. There wasn't much point, on the way to a war.

.

.

      4.

It was so easy to find Yuusaku on the field, even in the chaos.

Gallant Yuusaku, leading the throng of soldiers eager to kill and die for the emperor and their nation. Ogata could frame them in his rifle sight like a painter drafting a standing screen. Yuusaku, marked by the rising sun.

It was so easy that it was a wonder how the enemy snipers hadn't gotten him first. The waving flag begged to be targeted. Did the Russians dismiss him for having no gun? For never drawing his unblooded sabre?

It was so easy to line up the shot.

What would happen if— ?

Ogata pulled the trigger.

.

.

      四.

Birds scattered as he missed, taking to the peach-pink sky above the fields behind the family house in Ibaraki. Ogata took aim for his second shot, but the timing was already so far off that there was no point. He lowered his grandfather's rifle instead of wasting another bullet.

He'd been over-eager, moving too much, and too fast. The light was gone now, and he would have to return home empty-handed.

.

.

      5.

Yuusuke's distant silhouette crumpled. His corpse joined the hundreds of bodies on the battlefield, lost in the chaos of the regiment as he went down, the bright white and red and gold tasselled flag falling slowly after him before it too disappeared from sight. Ogata lowered his rifle with a strange sense of frustration and ran his hand through his regulation cropped-short hair.

There was a strange absence of something he thought would be there, and with that... Disappointment. Profound disappointment. Like the shot when he was a child in the fields behind the family house in Ibaraki and learning to hunt, the birds scattering as he missed.

Yuusaku crowned by the sun, beloved.

He'd been overeager and now gallant Yuusaku would be forever gallant, forever pure. The impurity of death didn't seem to stick, and now Yuusaku was an immortal nuisance and Ogata still had no answer to the discontent crawling on his back.

Ogata's hand clenched on the butt of his rifle, white-knuckled with cold. This was the first time he felt  bad when he'd made his shot, bereft of something out of reach, which could have been his but never would. It was a pricking irritation similar to missing a shot. Even though he hadn't.

There were no answers here. There were no answers in the dead. Not in his mother, not in his grandmother, not in this man who called him brother.

Ogata turned and First Lieutenant Tsurumi was there. The First Lieutenant smiled in understanding and nodded in approval, as if knowing Ogata's thoughts before Ogata himself.

The father who only had enough love to raise one virtuous son. Yes, Ogata could just ask him directly. There was no point thinking about Yuusaku any longer.

Yuusaku was dead. That was the end of it. Ogata couldn't reach him anymore.

Time to turn to the living.

===/END\===

(On Ao3)  ( patreon ) ( kofi ) ( paypal )

[princpiration]

Kingdom of Losers

A Creativitwins Oneshot

Word count: 2,065

Summary: Remus finds something unexpected in his side of the Imagination

Warnings: mention of injury, blood, disturbing imagery, Remus being Remus, alcohol mention, self deprecation, Roman angst, morally grey Remus (he’s not very empathetic and maybe even a little mean? But in a way that siblings tend to be imo), if there’s something you want tagged feel free to ask me 

A/N:This has been in my drafts forever, I wrote it basically as practice and it’s the first fanfic I’ve ever completed. I had fun while writing it but I’m honestly not sure how I feel about it now? I might as well publish it anyway as a rite of passage, critique is welcome? (Set after POF but doesn’t reference it directly (Please don’t tag as r//mr//m))

Remus was in the Imagination, doing cartwheels on a trail of broken glass through a dank forest when he found something he didn’t recall having made.

That in and of itself wasn’t particularly strange, as most of his creations were done spontaneously in a frenzy of inspiration and then quickly forgotten about as he inevitably got distracted by something else.

But the thing-he-didn’t-remember-making stood out enough to catch him off-guard, and he stumbled, falling face first into the broken glass and sliding a few yards, leaving a messy trail of blood and teeth behind him. He lifted his head, blinked the shards out of his eyes, and looked at the thing.

It was a castle, or the ruined remains of one at least, surrounded by thorns and brambles. There was a distinct lack of entrails and body parts skewered on the foliage, and no blood or ichor seeping from the castle walls, so it couldn’t be one of Remus’ creations.

Must be Roman’s, he thought to himself, face splitting into a manic grin. He jumped to his feet, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and his bloody face with his sleeve as he began to look for a way in.

The two Creativities tended to keep to their own parts of the Imagination, Roman especially preferring to stay as far away as possible from his twin’s domain, so seeing him essentially trespassing like this was exceedingly intriguing.  

As well as a rare opportunity for some brotherly bonding, though the Duke’s idea of it usually included a lot more violence. Or maybe not that much more violence, sibling-relationships were weird like that.

He circled the structure twice but was unable to find an entrance, so he shrugged his shoulders and just dove straight into the thorny vines, using them as a makeshift ladder to climb the castle wall.

Prince Philip ain’t got nothing on me! he snickered to himself as he flung himself on top of the wall, perching like a gargoyle statue upon it and surveying the area.

The roof was completely gone, as were most of the inner walls. The floor was covered in fallen leaves and there was this pristine gloominess that permeated the place, like something from a gothic romance novel.

Remus scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue at it, thinking Yeah, this place could definitely use a few mutilated corpses.

Something caught his eye then, in the middle of what seemed to have once been a throne room.

Was that … a Chaise Lounge?

It was. In the middle of the ruined throne room, standing on the leaf-covered floor, was a single maroon-colored Chaise Lounge. And lying recumbent upon it was Prince Roman, wine glass in hand and gaze pointed up at the grey skies above him.

Normally Remus would’ve launched himself from the wall by now, screeching like a demon as he descended upon his unsuspecting brother to try and claw his eyes out. You know, as one usually does when finding their sibling trespassing in their domain.

But something about the way that Roman was just lying there, still as a statue, made Remus hesitate.

He blinked once, then slithered down the wall and proceeded to sneak into the throne room, unheeded by his brother who kept his gaze locked at the cloud-covered sky. As he got closer he could see the dark crescents under the Prince’s eyes, and the dull, faraway look in them as well. The Duke contemplated the best way to get his twin’s attention, settling for the most straightforward one.

“INTRUDER!” Remus shrieked, startling Roman and making him nearly drop his wineglass. He shot up and looked around frantically before spotting his brother. He rolled his eyes, slumped back into the sofa and let out a deep sigh.

“Announcing yourself now, Remus?” he muttered, taking a minuscule sip of his beverage. “What are you even doing here?” he asked, giving his twin a tired look. Remus blinked back at him.

“What am I doing here?” he replied, pointing to himself with all fingers. “I’m the one who should be asking you that! In fact, I think I will! What are you doing here Pecorino Romano?” Remus asked, pointing at his twin. Roman stared at his brother perplexedly.

“What do you mean? This is my castle,” he said and looked around, “or what’s left of it anyway…”

“I know that, Roma-nobody-likes-you! I meant what are you and your once-cast-ler doing in my side of the Imagination?” Remus shot back, seeing Roman wince at the nickname. Remus mentally pumped his fist in victory, he had to remember that one for later.

Roman frowned and swirled his glass, watching the red liquid slosh around as he seemed to mull over the question. “I…” he started, clearing his throat, “I hadn’t realized I’d gotten this close to the border, I guess…” he finished, eyes downcast.

Remus perched himself on one of the armrests, leaning his head in one hand, and Roman silently adjusted his position to make room for him, or at least get his legs out of the way of any Duke related mischiefs.

“Border, huh?” Remus thought out loud, picking his nose and relishing in the disgusted look Roman gave him. “I guess the divide was blurrier than we thought,” he cocked his head and stared at his twin, who hummed noncommittally. 

“Guess so,” Roman replied, tracing the rim of his wineglass with his finger, producing a single note he unconsciously began to harmonize with.

Remus’s eyes started to twitch and he closed them, sliding himself down the armrest to properly slouch on the sofa, finger still buried in his nostril. “So technically we’re in neither’s domain, a no-man’s-land of the Imagination! A Kingdom of Losers!” he hollered proudly. “Guess I don’t need to kill you for trespassing then!”

He flicked his booger at his brother, who managed to dodge it despite his reclined position. It landed on the floor and bounced several feet before disappearing amongst the leaves.

Pity, Remus thought, but it was worth it for the absolute scandalized look that graced Roman’s features. The Duke leaned back in his seat, putting both of his hands behind his head as he squinted at the Prince.

“I could still do it though, for fun. Killing you, that is,” he added, looking up at the sky. “You wish,” Roman scoffed back. Remus flipped him off, not taking his eyes from the clouds, and they lapsed into silence halfway between awkward and comfortable, both brothers gazing at the grey above.

What if it started raining blood and teeth?

The Duke grinned as he saw, and felt, the tell-tale signs of blood-rain (or hemo-rain if you will) mixed with human teeth. Unfortunately, his prissy brother kept it from hitting either him or the furniture, which was pretty lame and boring if you asked him (no one ever did).

The pitter-patter of the hemo-rain faded, leaving only the sound of Roman tapping his nails against his glass.

“What’s in that glass of yours anyway?” Remus asked, spreading his arms behind the back of the sofa. “Gatorade? Soup? Blood?”

“It’s a Cabernet Sauvignon, thank you very much,” Roman replied haughtily.

“Sounds fake.”

“It is not! It’s one of the most widely used grapes for red wine!”

Remus tapped a finger against his chin. “So, it sounds super fancy and shit, but it’s actually pretty basic? Fits you perfectly then!” he cackled, casting a sidelong glance at Roman.

Said Side lifted his hand, finger pointing upwards like he was about to come up with a witty retort when he suddenly froze. The fire in his eyes died out, replaced by that same dull faraway look from before. He let his hand fall limp to his side, as he all but collapsed back into the sofa. He let out a long, beleaguered sigh, and his eyelids fell shut.

“Yeah, maybe it does…” he murmured, voice small and quiet.

Remus frowned. Well, that was no fun. He tilted his head and looked at Roman, who still held the wineglass loosely in his grip.

“Didn’t take you for a wine drinker, honestly,” he stated simply, sniffing loudly. Roman let out a breath that had the shape of a laugh but not the joy of one.

“I’m not, really, it’s just been…” he let out another sigh, “…a day,” he finished flatly.

Yeesh, Remus did not like this version of Roman, he was way too boring. He was about to tell him just that but got cut off by his brother blurting out:

“Do you ever wonder what it was like?”

The Duke blinked one eye at a time. “Like what?”

“You know, back then, before the uhm,” Roman waved his hand aimlessly, “before the… split,” he finished, curling his index- and middle-finger halfheartedly on the last word.

“You mean when Thomas had just one Creativity?” Remus questioned, and Roman nodded.

Huh. Hm. Remus scratched his head, dandruff falling from it like snow.

If he was honest, there was a lot about the whole split-thing that was a bit hazy, as it ostensibly happened before any of them had a physical form, let alone awareness of their own existence.

How had four-eyes put it? They had been like an ovum, or zygote or whatever, split in the middle, two not-so-identical halves of an alleged whole.

It was stupid. As far as Remus was concerned, he had always been Remus, and Roman had always been Roman, and that was that. He made a fart noise with his mouth.

“Nope!” he said easily, crossing one leg over the other, dangling his foot. Roman looked up at him, surprise painting his otherwise blank expression.

“Why not?” he asked, sitting up slightly. “You mean you never feel incomplete-” he started, but flinched at his choice of word. Roman looked up at his brother, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“Don’t you want to be… whole again?” he all but whispered and looked away. Remus pretended to think for a second.

“Hell no!” he exclaimed, putting his hands back behind his head. Roman whipped his head around to stare at his twin brother incredulously. Remus gave him his smuggest smile.

“Full offense, but you’re kinda lame Ro,” he said, stretching languidly on the Chaise Lounge, “and it would totally ruin my whole vibe if we became one Creativity again or whatever, so no thanks, I’m good! Or, well, you know what I mean!” He winked at Roman, who just stared back at him with a blank face.  

“There’s no going back to what was before, Bro-man, sucks for you maybe, but I happen to like being myself!” he finished, gesturing one hand over his reclined form.

He expected Roman to roll his eyes at his antics, to frown at his insults or sigh dramatically.

He did not expect the slight curl to the side of Roman’s mouth, his face lighting up in a tiny smile.

“That’s… good,” he said softly, tilting his wineglass to his lips, “that’s good to hear.”

He took a swig of his wine, the small smile still there on his face, looking happier than he’d been for a long time.

Remus gagged. “Ugh. If you’re gonna be this gross about it then I’m out!” he announced, sprang up from the sofa and began strutting out of the room with his hands in the air.

“See you around, Prince of Losers!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the throne room. 

“I sincerely hope not, Duke of Losers!” came Romans reply, sounding a bit more like his usual pompous self. 

Remus gave his brother a backward-double-bird-salute as he rounded the corner.

As soon as he was out of sight he took a running start, hurled himself onto the wall, and scrambled up it like a human-sized gecko. When he was about to leap off the top and back into the dank woods on his part of the Imagination, he hesitated again and turned back to look at his twin.

Roman was still lying in his Chaise Lounge, wineglass in his hand. But he wasn’t looking at the grey sky above him anymore, he was looking at Remus, his twin, his brother, his co-ruler of this Kingdom of Losers.

The Duke pulled a face on the Prince and blew a raspberry before he jumped off the castle walls and scurried on all fours back into the forest.

———

Thank you for reading!

[mysticm3ss]

Could u pls write headcanons/a fanfic about RFA+(V & Saeran if u want to) getting MC pregnant but MC tries to hide her pregnancy (for any reason) and around 3 months later when her stomach starts to grow RFA find her pregnancy test hidden away somewhere and confront her about it. I know u already wrote a headcanon about their kids but I just love any sort of headcanon/fanfic about baby’s and pregnancy’s yknow. Btw I love your requests broski. Your a good writer. Sorry if my English not good lol

sure thing, thank you for requesting and thank you for the compliments! don’t worry your english is perfect! 

so i wrote this literally months ago and forgot it was in my drafts, i’m sorry it’s taken so long to get up!! i rly enjoyed proofreading this bc i’m studying developmental psyc at uni right now and it’s lowkey giving me mad baby fever lmao

(leaving out jaehee for this one bc she ain’t out here getting anyone pregnant, like even if she had a penis she’d be too responsible for that to happen unless it was planned anyway let’s b real. also i varied the way the boys found out a bit as well just so things don’t get too repetitive, hope that’s okay!) 

Yoosung:

The thing you have to know about Yoosung is that he is very small and has no money, so you can only imagine the stress he’s under~

Jokes aside, when you realise you’re pregnant, your first reaction is panic.

You and your boyfriend are both so young–you’re not even old enough to have graduated college yet, how are you going to take care of a child?

It takes you a solid month or two just to come to terms with the pregnancy yourself.

When you finally think you’re feeling brave enough to bring it up to him, the thought of what his family might think acts as another hindrance–he seemed to have a perfect family, and Yoosung himself had admitted they were somewhat conservative… how would they react to your situation?

While you’re busy still coming to terms with it, however, Yoosung accidentally stumbles upon the pregnancy test you had so cleverly hidden in the bathroom cabinet.

You’d slipped it into a box of toiletries, snugly hidden between the myriad of tampons and pads that it held. When Yoosung accidentally knocked it from the cabinet, he scrambled to tidy up, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he tucked away the sanitary products.

He froze when he saw the test, mind whirring as he struggled to explain away the white stick in his hand.

There was no explaining away those two pink lines, however, and so that night, he dared to broach the subject with you.

He fiddled nervously with his hands as he sat on your shared bed, eyes looking everywhere except your face when you entered the room.

“Yoosung… is everything okay?”

A shaky breath. “MC… are you… you’d tell me if something big happened, right? Like… like if you got pregnant or something?”

The guilt-ridden look on your face was all the answer he needed.

Your eyes welled up, and Yoosung’s arms were instantly around you, pulling you against him as he squeezed you tight despite his own shock.

“MC, why wouldn’t you tell me? How long?” His words were soft; gentle whispers into your ear as his fingers combed through your hair.

When you explained your worries, Yoosung’s heart instantly melted, and he felt guilty that he’d never realised what you’d been going through the past few months.

“Don’t worry about my family, MC– don’t worry about anything at all. I love you, and I love this baby, and we’re going to be so happy, okay? I’m right here, cutie, I’m right here…”

And though your face was buried in his shirt, Yoosung could still feel your smile.

Zen:

We all know that Zen is super-focussed on his career, and in turn, works long hours with early starts and late finishes.

His busy schedule and blooming career is the first thing to cross your mind as you stare at the two glaring pink lines on your pregnancy test.

How were you going to tell him? How would he react? His career was just beginning to take off… what if he didn’t want children so soon?

How were you supposed to deal with that..?

And so, spiralling into uncertainty, you decide to put off telling him for as long as possible; to enjoy your relationship for what it was now, in case it all fell apart.

As a result of Zen’s schedule, it’s not too gruelling to hide your pregnancy from your boyfriend.

You usually wake up to brutal morning sickness hours after he’s already left for work, and your fluctuating hormones generally only make their presence known while you’re on your own.

Regardless, Zen is extremely observant, especially when it comes to his jagiya.

He idly notices that you’ve gained weight, but he’d never bring it up; he honestly doesn’t care, so long as you’re healthy, which you certainly seem to be with how radiant you’ve been the past couple of months.

He does, however, notice that you’re keeping something from him. As to what, he’s not sure.

Zen trusts you wholly and completely, so it doesn’t even cross his mind that you could be hiding anything too big from him (at least, at first).

He figures that maybe you’re just planning a surprise for him, as he’s done a number of times for you in the past few years that the two of you have been dating.

When he comes back early one evening to see that you’re not at home, he sets about making dinner for the two of you and decides to get a head start on the chores.

He knows that he’s slacked off on his household duties lately, and the least he can do is pick up a few now that he has some time at home so that you don’t have to worry about them later.

While your favourite meal is warming on the stove, Zen strips the bed of sheets and gathers your dirty laundry into the hamper. 

When he returns with a load of freshly dried clothes, he begins to pack them away. As he folds your underwear and tucks them into the drawer, he notices what seems to be a piece of paper peeking out from beneath the neatly folded fabric.

Confused, he pulls it out, his breath catching as he sees the ultrasound.

He reads your name and the date over and over, unable to even comprehend that you could keep something like this from him.

He’s crushed that you hadn’t told him, and immediately falls into denial.

This has to be a prank, right? MC would never keep something like this from me…

He’s still frozen, sonogram clutched in hand, when you arrive home.

Zen looks up at you, eyes pleading and face soft with vulnerability as he wordlessly begs an explanation.

“…MC?”

His voice is so quiet and broken that it kills you.

You gently explain that it’s real; that this isn’t a tasteless prank but, in fact, reality. Zen takes a deep breath to steel himself.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me? Don’t you think I’d want to be there, especially for this?” he demands, voice ringing with pain and rising in anger as he holds up the sonogram still crinkled in his fist. 

It takes a bit of explaining on your part, but Zen’s hot temper gets the best of him as he shakes his head and turns away from you. Tears prick your eyes.

“Don’t you see, Zen? This is what I was afraid of!” Your voice cracks, and Zen spares a glance back at you, immediately softening as he sees your glistening eyes and the tears beginning to stain your cheeks.

“MC… I love you. I love this baby. I’d never leave, you know that, don’t you, jagi?” His voice is hushed, his heart breaking as he leans in to brush a tear from your face with his thumb.

“You can’t keep things like this from me, princess… not something this big. If you’re worried, talk to me, okay? I’m in this with you. Forever, remember?”

His arms fall around your shoulders as he crushes you to his chest, before pulling away in panic.

“Crap! Was that too tight? Did I hurt the baby?!”

You laugh, and the sound is music to Zen’s ears as you drag him in for another hug.

Jumin:

When you wake up to a sudden wave of nausea, Jumin’s first reaction is concern.

“O-oh, it’s nothing, it must just be something I ate…”

“I see. I must speak with the chef who cooked for us last night, this is a disgusting oversight on his par-”

No Jumin don’t fire the chef ohmygod

You barely manage to calm Jumin down before you’re huddled over the toilet once more, and he lets all remaining traces of fury evaporate as he focusses on holding back your hair and rubbing your back soothingly.

All the while, your mind can’t help but dart back to the pregnancy test that you’d hidden at the bottom of the wastebasket.

You knew you couldn’t keep this a secret from your husband forever; and in your head, you knew that everything would work out just fine. It wasn’t like you couldn’t afford a child, you had more than enough money to provide for them, it was just…

The two of you hadn’t been together for that long; not really. And although that didn’t diminish your love for one another, it didn’t change the fact that Jumin was still just getting used to being emotionally vulnerable and opening himself up to other people.

Would children be too much, too quickly?

He’d never even expressed interest in having children before; he was far too occupied with you and your relationship, enjoying the joys of the present and letting the future bring what it may.

And although you manage to hide your continual morning sickness from him for a little while, you know that as soon as you start to show, you won’t be able to put it off any longer.

When you wake up feeling nauseous yet again, Jumin declares it the final straw.

“MC, you’re clearly ill. I’m phoning a doctor,” he says, voice stern and leaving no room for disagreement. “I should let Assistant Kang know that I won’t be in for work today…”

Your weak protests fall on deaf ears, and barely half an hour later, Jumin is opening the door…

You didn’t realise that “phoning a doctor” entailed bringing in a whole team of specialists in various medical fields.

They check your vitals, and when you hear them begin to murmur about blood tests, you break.

“Jumin, this isn’t necessary!”

“What? Of course it is–they can help, MC. There’s clearly something wrong-”

“Jumin, I’m pregnant!” you snap, the words falling from your lips before you can register their utterance. Jumin’s eyes widen, and he clears his throat as deafening silence falls over the room.

“Excuse us,” he manages, and the team of specialists quickly and awkwardly take their leave.

Honestly, he’s lowkey offended that you kept it from him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is stiff and cold, and your heart sinks as you feebly attempt to explain.

“Do you honestly think so low of me? Do you truly not trust me, after everything that we’ve been through?” he asks, voice hard.

That’s when you start to cry.

Damn hormones!

Jumin immediately softens, pulling you into his arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… you’re right. I do trust you, I swear, I was just… I was scared,” you finally managed, voice thick with tears.

And though it takes a little while, Jumin understands. And once the shock has faded, the small smile that tugs up the corner of his lips betrays the excitement that your news has brought him.

“We’ll have to start thinking of names, hmm?”

Seven:

You could hardly call the life that Seven led “safe.”

The risks that come with his job hardly provide an environment fit to raise a child, a thought that instantly flashed through your mind the instant you saw the two lines on the pregnancy test.

You swallow hard, hands shaking as you move to rest a hand over your stomach. If you had to guess, you’d wager that you were at least eight weeks along…

God, had Seven ever mentioned even wanting kids before?

But despite your worries, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of delight at the idea of raising children with the man you loved so dearly.

Still, that didn’t mean you knew how to tell him.

Luckily, you had time. Seven had been sent on a mission for the agency only that morning, and he wouldn’t be back for at least a month.

Although the news had been initially devastating, you were half-beginning to consider it somewhat of a blessing in disguise… at least you could figure out how to break it to him now, right? It wasn’t like you could break news like that over the phone, after all.

When Seven does finally arrive home, he wastes no time in sweeping you into his arms and planting tiny kisses all across your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, drinking in your warmth and softness and desperately attempting to atone for all the time with you that he had missed.

After finally pulling away, Seven easily notices that you’ve gained weight–of course, he’d never mention it; you were always beautiful to him.

Regardless, he can’t help but observe that you really do seem to be glowing. 

Saeyoung knows you well enough to easily realise that you’re keeping something from him. He sees the nervous twitch of your fingers, the tightness of your smile…

And so, when the two of you cuddle up on the couch later that evening, Seven pressing kisses to your hair and clinging to you like a baby koala, he finally brings it up.

“Sooo… what aren’t you telling me, MC?” he asks, playfully poking your side despite the worry that claws at his chest.

What if they want to break up? Oh god, what if-

He finds himself so lost in his own concerns that when the words finally fall from your lips, it takes him a moment to process them.

“W-what?”

“I’m… I’m pregnant, Sae.”

You hold your breath, and only release it when you see the huge smile stretch over his face, brighter than the sun and just as warm.

And just like that, you know that everything is going to be just fine.

“If it’s a girl, can we name her Elizabeth?” “Seven nO-”

hope you enjoyed, please reblog/comment if you did! ^^

[olivenight17]

Headcanons for Tamaki & Shinso (separate) with an s/o who’s very afraid of the dark but is very embarrassed by it. How would they react/ comfort them etc. thanks and I love your writing xxx

Aww, thank you! It’s not a problem lovely~

Tamaki:

- Man let me tell you when I say that he had no. clue.

- It’s a total surprise that is sprung upon him when the two of you are hanging out and suddenly the power cut out.

- You turned so silent that he thought you might have disappeared in the dark.

- “Butterfly, are you okay?”

- “yEs”

- Lol obviously your answer isn’t exactly convincing and he reaches out to find you because he’s afraid you somehow hurt yourself and when he finds you, you’re shaking like a leaf and he’s so surprised before he pulls you into a hug and he’s asking you what’s wrong.

- You’re doing everything in your power to avoid telling him your fear of the dark but it’s getting harder and harder to try and convince him because you can’t see anything and your mind is starting to play tricks on you and you keep swearing you can see something moving, a light draft turns into some unseeable enemy and Tamaki eventually puts two and two together.

- “Are you, are you scared of the dark?” He asks the question so hesitantly and there’s not a trace of mockery or teasing in his voice.

- You want to deny it, you really do, but it’s so obvious at this point and your throat is closing up from your anxiety that you just nod your head and bury your head into his chest.

- He feels so terrible and he doesn’t want you to feel scared at all! His brain is whirling through all the things he should do to light the place up and in his haste to realize “Light means you feel safe again.” He begins getting up.

- He only gets off the hamster wheel when you grab onto his shirt tightly, pleading that he doesn’t leave you alone like this.

- And he wants to smack himself for being so careless and of course he immediately promises you that he won’t. He helps you to your feet and holds your hand.

- “J-just hold onto my hand and try to breathe, butterfly. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll get some lights soon.” And he sounds actually kinda calm but it’s a lie because it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been dating, the small soft touches still fluster him insanely and his face is practically melting from feeling like its on fire.

- So, with him leading you around, he stumbles around, finds some candles, flashlights and a lighter and you head back to get it all set up.

- He’s still asking if you’re okay, if it’s bright enough and he’s hugging you because it doesn’t matter how flustered it makes him, he wants you to know that he’s got you and he won’t let anything bad happen to you.

- Basically, Tamaki immediately scrambles to make you feel better because Protective Boyfriend mode has been activated, he knows what it’s like to panic and he never wants you to feel that way. And from this point forward makes sure to always have some type of light source handy and to never take you to places that are really dark.

Shinso:

- Now, full disclosure, this guy right here, is a bit of a dick.

- Let’s say we have the same power outage scenario in Tamaki’s, he goes about it in a completely different way.

- Where Tamaki is sweet, Shinso is teasing.

- “Don’t tell me you’re scared of the dark, kitten.”

- “...”

- “Oh? Guess you are a scaredy cat.”

- Like seriously, he teases you relentlessly for the first five minutes just for the fun of it. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, honestly he doesn’t, he just finds the fear kinda irrational so he can’t help but laugh.

- But, then he notices how ashamed you are of it and he didn’t realize this was such a sore spot for you so he feels guilty now.

- So, rather than poke fun of you, he pokes fun at the dark in general and all the ‘monsters’ that are lurking in it.

- Makes fun of the boogeyman, the things you think you’re seeing in the dark, by the time he’s got candles and flashlights, you’re a giggling mess.

- Shinso smiles because hey, mission accomplished and he slings his arm around you.

- “See? It’s not so scary if you really think about it, kitten. Now, we have candles and I have a pack of Uno cards in my bag, you up for a round?”

- Basically, his way of comforting you is by distracting you from the fear, even if he’s a jerk about it at first lol.

[moonlightheretic]

Chapter still unknown FULL (or is it?) WIP NSFW (it gets dark ya’ll)

“Where are we?” I struggled to find my bearings in this dark tunnel. The ground seemed unstable, pebbles shifting underfoot. My hands reached out in a blind haste for something solid to guide me through the dark. The walls practically disintegrated at my touch and nearly caved inwards. I did not feel safe. This place was one wrong step away from total collapse. I stumbled, my feet slipping into the rock ridden path, his hand caught my arm.

“You do not need to know.” He answered simply, pulling me to my feet.

It was becoming his go-to reply for everything I asked. I wasn’t satisfied with it. He watched my struggle and called flame to his hand, the hollowed cave’s secrets scattered into the shadows cast by the wiggling ignition. “You have stripped me of my weapons and most of my dignity. Do you mean to strip me of basic information as well? Am I so scary to you, Dread Wolf?” I challenged. Bitterness chewing through my words.

“They elected you as Inquisitor, not for your skill in battle alone. You are formidable. In any case, there is no benefit in informing you, it will make little difference. You will activate this one, as done previously.” His voice dipped into the octaves of an order.

“Where are we?” I pressed. “I want to know what you will destroy.” I stood firm, shoulders squared, refusing to tread further. He turned to face me, the blaze in his hand distorting the shadows across the planes of his face.

“When has any truth of my plans comforted you? Or perhaps, any truth at all? You live, stuck in a halcyon that never existed and you yearn for its return.”

“And who painted that pretty picture for me? This impressive hiraeth? A lie built on lies, a tower, and then brick by brick, a rotunda, and finally, a castle! What a beautiful empire you raised. Such an artist as you perhaps, should have erected that on Skyhold’s walls.”

We dove into a thick silence, neither of us giving in. I could almost see him biting his tongue, any remark quelled by fledgling self-control. He took a breath and smiled.

“You evade blame almost as skillfully as you evaded me, ah, but then again, where are you now?” He tilted his head, his left brow raised. “I wonder, what more dances have you that I not discovered yet?”

“I believe it was you who taught me to dance, Solas. I cannot take credit for my skills, when I have the master in front of me.” I gestured to him.

A muscle in his neck twitched and the fire cradled in his fingers strengthened significantly, staining his skin red.

“There is work to be done. Enough.” Even though the fire was causing us both to sweat in this enclosed space, his words were of pure ice.

We advanced upon this hovel, a crumbling crooked crevice of rock and stalagmites, dripping with Maker knows what. His steps were full of confidence and prior knowledge, muscle attuned with memory. He maneuvered past the tight angles with experience. He had been here before, perhaps?

“Whose bright idea was to locate an artifact in this dreadful place?” I snapped, as I was compelled to duck when a bat screeched by my head. Ah, but if a bat made its home here, surely there was an additional entrance to this hollowed nightmare.

He answered me with a chuckle and then reassured, “It isn’t far. Have patience, Inquisitor.” Ah, so he was no longer angered by my words, or had he folded the displeasure up and saved it for later?

I grabbed his illuminated jaw and snapped his head towards me. “Patience? I waited for you! With each year passing no more than a decade of drought! I have been patient, Solas.”  I wasn’t expecting a simple comment to provoke such raw emotion into my words, but there I was, fingers digging into the flesh of his jaw.

Solas’s eyes crept over my face, tracing every detail with his heavy gaze. “And so you have me.” He remarked gruffly and shrugged me off. A small draft tingled against my skin, the blooming flame flickered and listed, perhaps a vein in this stone body led to freedom, after all. But, I could only see what his flaming palm afforded me.

I felt it before I saw it. The anchor reacted, fizzling, smoke-like, and churning the air around it a greenish hue. My first reaction was to recoil and hide it within my cloak. Solas’s armored arm slithered into the fold of my cloak, the fabric hissing against his metal arm guards. He held onto my throbbing hand, pulling it from its hiding place, cool fingers calming my shivering ones, he presented it to the artifact before us.  Mist entrapped light uncoiled around the artifact, as if we had woken it from a long slumber, its light stretched and billowed in flight, like a flag caught in the wind and it rippled and convulsed, as if it was rejoicing. A warm welcome, indeed. A statue loomed behind, a winged and headless figure of a woman. Mythal. She was immured in this foul place, a feeling of sorrow washed over me.

“We are within the Vimmark Mountains.” He informed, sullen and remorseful, his eyes lingering on the statue.

A mountain chain, opportunity screamed into my mind. Then we could be in the vicinity of Kirkwall or even Ostwick, or rather, it was also possible we were somewhere in between. What mattered the most was the very fact that we were under a mountain.

“Surely, this place has significance.” I argued, playing along, with my eyes following his.

“Indeed.” He whispered.

Solas closed his palm and in doing so, snuffed out his flame. We were bathed in a greenish and golden light, I stole a glance, his mouth set in a hard line, eyes devoid of emotion, and in doing so, he gave me nothing. Unreadable. He was skilled not only in magic, but also, in masking his intentions. He was undeniably powerful, but so was I.

My heart hammered in my chest, possibly my only chance at stopping the Dread Wolf lay within these simple and faulty rock walls, carved out by water. Maybe, I did not need my little dagger, for it, could not compare with a mountain.

The next set of actions were to be done without instruction, as they were no different than the times prior. But this time, everything would be different. Hesitation would no longer best me.

I neared the artifact, Solas stepped behind me and observed. I lifted my hand and waited, the artifact pulsated with green waves of light surging upwards, and revealing thousands of tiny eyes glaring back at us in this aphotic sanctuary. Fucking bats.

I felt my release and I moved closer to it, the lights brightened in response, and I wondered, could I not only activate the artifact with the anchor, but also destroy it? Hell, I could bring this entire cave down and trap him in, weaponize our very surroundings…and so I did. I had only used the anchor’s power as much as I required of it, in the past, I was too careful to abuse it. That some calamity might befall myself and others if I used it for anything but its intended purpose, but what I needed most was in fact, calamity, itself.

I opened a rift right into the very center of the artifact. In less than a blink of an eye, it exploded into a shower of glass and stone, its ancient powers reveling in the new found freedom. In an instant, the small pocket of this mountain, shuddered and began to collapse, as the rift twisted it into its own shape, pulling and knotting, then thrusting and flailing. The bats flew to an escape as dust, stalagmites and murky water rained down, then chunks of rock plummeted downwards until the very ceiling threatened to fold in like a deck of cards. I tried to avoid the falling debris as the area shook, thunderous and vengeful. I could hear the bats, screeching in terror and I made my way to follow them.

“Moon’Hwa!” Solas roared. Eyes lit, his hands invoked a barrier, though as the mountain piled high, he was struggling to hold it. He gritted his teeth and grunted under the weight, too preoccupied to stop me, for if he let go, we would surely be buried. So this was his limit. I crawled along the ground, my back was pelted with rocks and earth. I covered my head with one hand and dug through debris with the other. He fell to his knee behind me, his gaze burning a hole in my back. The consequences of my actions stopped ricocheting from my body, I peered upwards to realize that his barrier was stretching, enveloping me within its safety.

My heart clenched and I dared to look back at his face. The barrier wavered and he gasped, rocks shimmied through, bouncing off of his pauldrons. His eyes squinting, and I thought I saw the shimmer of tears catching on his lashes, the veins under the skin of his neck and face enlarged as he strained to keep the barrier solid. A stalagmite jabbed into his cheek, drawing a bloody trail down his face. I comforted myself as guilt pulled at my sleeve. I needed to be ruthless, the world depended on it. He saw me as an asset. An important one, if not for the anchor, would he not let me drown in stone and earth? I steeled myself within this resolve. Thus, I needed to get the anchor as far away from him as possible. I pushed onwards and the barrier flickered as it followed me, or rather, it kept one step ahead, an encouragement to go further. Guilt sent its timely reminder and I bit into my lip to keep from turning back. You are leaving him to die. An enormous section of rock slammed into the barrier, it blocked where the humble draft of air whistled through. That meant, the only way out was the Eluvian. I gulped hard, facing disappointment. It would have to do.  Dal’nim will lose her father.

“Be quiet!” I seethed, shaking my head in an attempt to be rid of its voice.

It was becoming hard to breathe, the same air I breathed before filtered into my lungs and I quickened to the eluvian, a beacon in this turbulent darkness. Bats dropped to the barrier, sliding around me in a freefalling current of death. I inched closer, my fingers breaching its fluid reflection, the barrier wavered and as I pulled myself in, the tiny collapsing cavern was blasted with blinding blue light. The noise was…indescribable. My ears rang and ached as I was pushed into the eluvian by the blast, flying head first into the sanctum. I was followed by pieces of rubble, stalagmites, and a multitude of dead bats. The eluvian grumbled and screeched against the green tile as it too was shoved forward, denting it in the process.

I scrambled to stand, collecting my wobbly legs and propelling them to move, I clutched onto the eluvian, and with all my strength I heaved my weight into it, I screamed as the heavy golden oculus resisted my nefarious machinations. With one last heave, I pushed it into the bat littered floor and it shattered as if it were glass. The pieces flung everywhere, slicing my face and hands, the twinkling shards then seemed to dissolve, pooling into a clear and shimmering liquid at my feet. I did not wait around to discover what would happen next. My feet pummeled against the same elaborate green tile, I did not know where I was going, and I only knew that in this matter, distance was a friend. It was blur of gold and green, this place, I threw myself into eluvian after eluvian, until I could find something with the semblance of familiarity. I needed to find Dal’nim. She and I could be free of this place. I could contact Iron Bull, we could go to Rivain. The anchor will kill you. A sobering reminder. All hope gained, was lost in an instant. I…could cut it off, but, my eyes glow with its power, its infection could be septic? Oh, what was I going to do? There was so little I knew. My left fizzled and sparked emerald, free of Solas’s control.

I picked eluvians randomly, changing directions at will, his agents stopped and stared, I charged into them, not caring who I knocked over. It seemed that they simply did not know what to do with me. Perhaps, I had even been veiled as a secret from them. In any case their reaction time was cut short, because once I was within eyesight, I was already gone. I stopped to catch my breath, my chest heaving. This labyrinth was endless, eternal even. My palms stuck to my knees as sweat dripped from my face, not only sweat, no, but tears. They poured from my eyes, a deep mournful cry belted from my stomach. My fists clenched into the fabric of my trousers. I had more than likely killed him. No! I couldn’t stop to grieve. I had to leave! I needed to find Dal’nim! Priority reminded me.  I stood straight and stepped forward, I nearly tripped as my foot caught the edge of sunken tile.

The tile beneath my feet waned, breaking off and splintering into the damp soil. A large gust nearly wiped me from my feet and howled in my ears, I held on to the fragment of a statue to my right for dear life and my hands slipped against its wet surface. Cool droplets coated my face and hair and I turned to see what commanded such a force. A siege of water surfed upon the wind, upwards, over the edge of the cliff side before me, like a waterfall in reverse. A perpetual haze clung to the air, broken pillars and archways framed this place, half shrouded by the mist. This area felt wrong, like I wasn’t supposed to be here, let alone know of it. Old Oaks careened off the cliff, hanging by their roots, as if they, themselves, wished to be elsewhere. Otherwise, this space was devoid of life, but it did not feel empty. This island in the sky, a mere token of a once larger chain, wasn’t particularly large, its counterparts were scattered elsewhere, dipping into the horizon as black dots. Perhaps it was meant to be forgotten? My eyes completed a wide sweep of the island. There was no other eluvian than the one I emerged from. Was this a dead end? My only hope was in the distance, an area still mysterious, as it was outstanding in comparison to everything else this place offered.

A crypt nearly swallowed by erosion and mist, dwelled behind archways and pillars. My steps were chosen carefully, and I swapped from pillar to pillar leading into it, hanging on with all my might when the windy tsunami blew into me. Perhaps there was an eluvian lurking inside? I looked behind me before entering into this forbidden dwelling of the dead, a chill slithered into my bones, every muscle screaming I turn around, flee from this miserable place. But my desire to escape compelled me to ignore those sensations. Torches blazed upon my entry and I nearly jumped out of my skin, bravery almost forgotten. The braziers illuminated the stairway that descended into the depths of the unknown. My only companions were the buoyant echoes that bounced from my steps. My palms sliding flat along the golden walls, a steady reminder of what surrounded me, solid and strong, I could lean my weight into them without worry.

The braziers ignited as I passed by, this place was slowly drawn back to life. With each step taken, a noise loudened just a bit more, a wailing. Though, it did not originate as the result of the wind that labored against the crypt’s exterior. Odd. The landing of the stairs opened into a single room, it was unremarkable, except for the eluvian placed in the center and an exquisite golden recurve bow and full quiver leaning against it. But this reflection, this swirling picture it painted was not of me, nor was it of the room that sheltered it. I approached it, curiosity luring me in no different than a moth to flame. My fingers brushed its liquid like appearance, causing it to ripple, its image stayed the same. A thrashing figure, whom appeared to be female was tied to a massive tree, yet her head was…distorted. As if she wore some type of gargantuan crown that all but consumed her head. Her screams reached me and a gasp erupted from my throat when realization slammed into me.

Those were arrows. Countless arrows driven into her skull. She seemed to be trapped in unfathomable agony. I could not even see her face, for there were so many. How she managed to still live was …disturbing more than it was remarkable. She was a living pin cushion. She squirmed, her legs twisting in the grass, her head rolled from side to side, searching for a release from the pain and she wailed into the void, a haunting noise that echoed throughout the room. She should die. She deserves to die. It was like watching my mother all over again. I felt sick, what was this horrifying depiction? I was entranced, empathy surging like a rapid. I pulled my dagger from my boot and stepped in, gooseflesh punctuated my skin and my hair stood tall. Wait—

Blue light engulfed the humble room, and the taste of blood pricked at my tongue. I was thrown, a force splitting me from the suffering sight before me and I landed in a heap, limbs locked in place, I was physically held to the floor by an unseen force. The air knocked from my lungs, I found it challenging to breathe, and I stained against the invisible chokehold. The anchor’s light vanished as it was sealed.  

“S-Solas!” I winced, air pushing out of my lips with a wheeze.

“Inquisitor, I must thank you.” His voice rang overly cheerful, pulsing with falsehood, his expression read differently. Eyes alit, sharp and unashamedly bright, the blue light trailed him as he turned to face me.

“You were most forthcoming with your intentions for me. I gave you the floor and your performance was…inspiring.” He shook his head, his face embellished with drying blood and dirt. “If my hands weren’t preoccupied with saving you, I would have clapped. A pity that your plan ultimately failed.” His words ending with the cold tone of finality.

I faced my defeat with a retort and growled despite my predicament, “How did it feel to have a mountain fall on you, Solas?” My emotions swirling in an unending whirlpool of despair for my failure and…relief, shameful relief.

“How did it feel? Ask the mountain. Although, you would face a difficult time finding it. I believe as of now, it stands below sea level.” He smirked and faced the eluvian.

He picked up the ostentatious bow and a single arrow from the quiver ruled in shadow, there was a slight shake to his hands, besides his haggard dirt/blood stained face and rock pelted armor, it was the only evidence that hinted at the event that befell him earlier.

“You left me to die when Corypheus besieged Haven! I was YOUR scapegoat! You are nothing but a coward.” The memory, along with rage found me, my mind fumbling with excuses.

“You’ve sacrificed more for the greater good of your cause, have you not? Your rage is misplaced, Vhenan. At one time, you were gladly complicit!" Solas argued, "As I am sure you are starting to remember." "Yes, at one time, I was gladly stupid." I retorted. "I thrived off of your praise alone, the Inquisition taught me I didn't need it."

“Yes, the same Inquisition that now terrorizes Ferelden and the Free Marches, searching for you. How wonderful of a teacher.”

“As were you, if my memory serves me right.” I seethed. “Though, I cannot claim to know what is real anymore.”

His left arm held the bow aloft and he seemed to ignore me, the light from his eyes illuminating its exquisite carvings and jeweled features, I had honestly never seen a bow so beautiful. It looked like it didn’t belong here, like it didn’t belong to this time. Solas nocked an arrow onto it, then to my horror, he took aim at the tortured woman, his right eye closing as he concentrated. He pulled back, deliberate and graceful. The arrow took flight, into the eluvian. I gasped when I heard the impact, I wished I could have covered my ears when her cries of agony hit me. I couldn’t understand how the poor female had any available space left on her head.

“Inquisitor, I must warn you not to wander in this place, for there are areas you may not return from, much like these arrows." He instructed.

“Who is she? What did she do?” I asked panicking, dismissing his warning.

“She numbers among they who killed Mythal. A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment.” He reached for another arrow. “They? Have you more prisoners? Why not kill them?” I reasoned.

“The first of my people do not die so easily, as you can see.” Another arrow flew coupled with another cry of agony. He navigated around my question, I knew not to ask more on the subject. This man had more walls than a gated palace.

“I assume that applies to you as well.” I pried, agitation digging in.

His smirk returned for the briefest of moments, before a deep melancholy was ushered in by his dipped brows and frown. He observed the bow in his hand, his fingers gripping it until his knuckles nearly turned white. “Andruil killed her with this bow. A fine gift, bestowed upon her by Mythal, herself. Yet, it ended in an act of greed, further sullied by lust for blood and power.” His head shook gently and he set the bow down, leaning it against the eluvian.

“When the veil is torn down…wont the Old Gods be freed?” Panic rose in my throat like bile.

“I have plans.” He pulled his hands behind his back and watched the suffering Andruil before him, eyes glassy and reflecting the writhing figure in his view.

“I-I didn’t think you were…I never thought you were capable of-“ I stuttered, the weight of his words plunging me into a deep ocean of fear. Did he imprison the other Old Gods in their own chambers of agony? Just who was Fen’Harel?

Andruils anguished cries bled through the eluvian, and staring into it was a God in the figure of a man whose eyes were gleaming with pride.

Last line credit goes to my friend AYSIA

Yeah I realize its not done. Like there needs to be a flashback for the opening yada yada. 

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 69

Obligatory pun - Nice.

Now that I have that out of my system and can therefore stop making horridly adolescent puns about it, this really is a pretty important chapter.  We finally see what is going to become of Else!

This is also a particularly long chapter - 4500 words, probably my longest to date.  Happy Insert Winter Holiday, Everyone!

I seriously considered splitting it (you can probably figure out where the break would be), but cooler heads prevailed (namely, @satan-parisienne, my beloved beta/sister/IRL!Tyche, and @baelpenrose, my constant source of mutual squeeing).

This is being queued up on December 23, to post on December 24.  I still hope to have a chapter to post next week, especially since what I have is so thematically appropriate for the date ;)

After Grey’s revelation of our timetable, the Council decided that negotiations with Else would take place within twenty-four hours.  To his credit, Eino promised to deliver the lexicon, but admitted that there would not be time for the precisely worded questions to be drafted and approved.  Since we also didn’t have time for Grey to locate another person who had spoken directly with Else, the questions were ultimately unnecessary – I had been making up questions on the fly for Else to this point, so I had no problem continuing to do so.

Once Xiomara closed the channel on our end, I tried to stand.  Almost immediately, my traitorous knees objected and I was only saved from hitting the floor by Xio’s quick reflexes.  “You’ve been on bed rest for the last three weeks, take it slow, dumbass,” she grumbled.

I forced myself into a standing position, propped up on the bed. “I have to talk to Conor and Maverick, and I’m sick of seeing the inside of this bay. Either get me the closest thing we have to a wheelchair, or I’m going to crawl to my quarters.”

“You do realize that even the Ark has backless hospital gowns? Everyone on the Ark would see you practically naked.”

I grabbed her shirt, and my pride was mollified when she leaned forward and gave me the illusion that I pulled her down. “Either get me a moving chair, or I will crawl down the corridor. Naked.”

With a barely-suppressed chuckle, she helped me into some clothes and onto a transport in the corridor. “While we are on our way, I’ll go ahead and give you the rundown of everyone you are going to ask about.  Derek and Sam came out of everything mostly unscathed.  They’re a little more jittery than usual, but that’s honestly to be expected.  Alistair is grumpy as hell from being flat on his back for so long, but once he was notified you were awake, he limited his bitching to the sheets, the mattress, and the lack of exercise.  Charly is awake and alert, but tired and nervous… dropping by to see her would probably be a good idea, honestly.  Grandma Kim is Grandma Kim and taking everything in stride.  Zach is completely undaunted and unimpressed.”

The slouch I had been suppressing made itself apparent in the wake of my relief. “So, everyone is okay?”

“Well, Hannah and Thor are still asleep, but they’ve been upgraded from comatose to just ‘asleep’.  Nixe is breathing on her own, the new lungs are working fine.”

My breath left my body suddenly. “No brain-damage?”

“Not comparatively, no.”

Good. Allowing myself to take in the condition of the real Ark, several things caught my eye. “Xio….”

She grinned and shook her head, locks flying. “Ah. You saw the trees.” I nodded dumbly, speechless. “As soon as they were approved to get out of bed, Derek and Sam started pestering Conor to start setting up the trees for Insert Winter Holiday.  Apparently, they were behind schedule, and Derek was very upset about that.”

“And they’re already done?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “They just started yesterday.   Even with both of your boyfriends helping, they still have at least two more days to finish.”

“They’re already decorated,” I murmured.

“Sam was bored while he was on bed rest,” she shrugged. “So there are a lot of really intricate bows to put on all the trees.”

“Awesome,” I gushed enthusiastically. “I love trees that are over-decorated.” When she quirked an eyebrow at me, I rushed to reassure her. “No, I’m serious. The more heavily decorated the better. I know not all cultures do trees for winter holidays, but if there are trees, I love seeing them absolutely covered.” Truth be told, the decorations were helping dismiss some of the melancholy that came from knowing that I almost missed Insert Winter Holiday in everything that was going on. I shook my head to clear the thoughts. “So, I’m going to guess the trees are the reason we are most certainly not headed toward my quarters.”

With a blinding grin, she shook her head. “Nope. They should be somewhere on Level Eleven. That’s where we’re going.”

Soon enough, we stumbled upon an energetic argument between Maverick and Derek. “But this side looks nicer!”

“That’s not how it was placed last year.  The same side should show. That’s why Sam put more bows on the correct side.”

“How can you even tell!?”

Conor was standing back, smiling like he was watching the cutest thing he had ever seen.  When he glanced up and saw me, the smile vanished and he promptly reached between them to point in my direction. “Looks like our girl is up and around.”

Astonishingly, Derek beat them both to me and reached to tap my hand three times in succession, dropping his hand to his side each time.  My heart swelled with emotion, realizing that he essentially just gave me a bone-crushing hug. “Yeah, I’m okay, Derek. Just tired and a little weak.”

I braced myself for a much more physical greeting, but was saved when Conor and Maverick stopped dead in their tracks and backed up slightly.  In their rush to make sure I was okay, it looked like they tripped the proximity alert in Derek’s implant. “Did you do that on purpose?” I asked in hushed tones.

Without looking up, Derek flashed me a knocking gesture, positioned between his body and mine so the other two couldn’t see it. “They get carried away, and if you didn’t walk down here, they may hurt you by accident.” A brief pause. “Besides, they were in quarantine with you. I haven’t seen you since you brought me your blanket.”

“I missed you, too.  And Sam. Looks like he was busy, by the way.”

“You have no idea. Zach was practically buried under Sam’s bows. I got lucky. Mac kept trying to play with them and accidentally tore one to pieces. After that, Sam stopped piling them on my bed.”

“If you see him before I do, let him know the bows are beautiful.”

“Duh. Sam makes the best bows. But I’ll tell him you said that.” With that, he stepped around to the other side of the transport so my partners could approach, with a warning to them about being gentle and not breaking me.  Xiomara was practically vibrating in her seat from suppressed laughter at this point.

“Hey, you two,” I said softly as they gently checked me over before giving a very restrained double-hug. I took a moment to just breathe them in before breaking the news. “Trees look great – are there more this year?”

Conor nodded, shoving a hand through his shaggy hair. “We started cultivating them last year, so they would all be about the same size.  As soon as we were given permission to get up and about, I figured everyone could use the cheer.”

With a heavy sigh, I nodded my head. “You know how I feel about throwing food at people to help recover from a crisis.”

Maverick nodded solemnly. “But, last year when Insert Winter Holiday happened, there wasn’t a crisis, was there?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but Xiomara beat me to it. “No, there really wasn’t, unless you count all of us being abducted for our own good.  Which makes this more a need to feel normal than anything else.”

“That was kind of the point last year,” I grumbled.

“And it worked,” she reassured me. “Just like it will work this year.” With that, she issued a very pointed look, silently reminding me why we were here.

Taking a deep breath, I turned back to Conor and Maverick.  “The reason everyone feels better is because Else is dying.”  Both of the looked confused, so I clarified. “They are killing themselves in an effort to stop hurting us.  They aren’t eating, and they aren’t spreading.  If something doesn’t change, they’ll be extinct in less than two weeks.”

“This is bad,” Maverick stated uncertainly, looking between the rest of us for confirmation.

“It is,” I nodded. “Because they are sentient species, we can’t just let them die off without trying to help. And,” I held up a hand to prevent the inevitable questions and objections, “I don’t mean just letting them go back to making us sick.  Xio and I talked to the Council, there are two solid options on the table as far as relocation – a dying planet or a nebula. The trick is, Else has to agree to whatever is decided.”

“And if they don’t?” Conor asked in the calm tone he always used when he knew he didn’t have all the information.

“If they don’t agree to anything, and keep dying off, we think there is a chance that they will drop below some kind of threshold for sapience.  In that event, it’s mostly likely that they would forget to restrain themselves, start multiplying and spreading again.”

“So, they would dip below sentience and pop back up?” Conor tilted his head skeptically. “I’m not getting something.  Usually, the plants I cultivate don’t end up with feelings and the impulse control of toddler.”

“To begin with, we don’t know how sick we got before they developed that level of intelligence,” I pointed out. “Second… if they do evolve back into sentient status, there is no guarantee they would be the same – version, for lack of a better term.  Different neural connections are what give us our own personalities… this Else wants to help us. What if the next one doesn’t? Worse, what if it wants to actively hurt us due to some primordial memory?”

“Better the devil you know,” Maverick murmured.

I sagged in resignation at what I had to tell them next. “Pretty much.  Which means humanity needs to negotiate with Else to figure out a solution both sides can live with.” Closing my eyes as tightly as possible, I braced for the torrent of words that would inevitably come.

Instead, I got two beats of silence and Maverick speaking softly. “Is there anyone who can do this instead? Anyone at all?”

“Not that Grey has been able to locate,” Xiomara responded over my shoulder as I cracked an eyelid.

What I saw was a clearly upset Conor biting his lips and holding Maverick’s hand, which was resting on the taller man’s bicep.  “Conor?” I asked slowly. “Are you angry?”

He took two deep breaths before answering. “Yeah,” he finally sighed, tension dropping from his body. “But at the situation, which I can’t do anything about.” Gently, he put both his hands on my shoulders and rubbed my arms lightly. “How soon does this need to be done? Is there more time to find someone who isn’t you?”

“No one knows at what point Else will basically devolve into just another bacterial infection,” I admitted. “So, we want to do this as soon as possible, and regardless of the option chosen, as soon as an agreement is reached, they’ll be placed in coldsleep in the interim to prevent further degradation of us or them.”

“You’re being cagey.” Both he and Maverick pinned me with very pointed looks. “That’s never a good sign.”

“No more than twenty-four hours.”

More deep breaths as he stepped away, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing his neck as he paced in a small circle.  “That should be enough time to get the rest of the trees up, as long as we just let Derek call the shots on placement. Mav, can you manage to do that?”

He shuddered. “I may need to just find something else to do.   I can only handle so much.”

Conor nodded. “Right then.  You keep our bonnie lass company while they get her ready, let me know when they plan to start. I’ll be there, even if I have to tell Zach and Derek to just – I dunno, space the damned trees out an airlock.”

“Conor, you don’t – “

Two long strides and he was back in front of me, stroking my hair. “Love. I’ve mucked up in a big way lately, letting myself be too afraid and not being there like I should be.  ‘S not fair to you, ‘s not fair to Mav being pulled like that.  I understand if you don’t want me in there, with the way I’ve been acting, but otherwise? I’ll be parked by your berth til we land this lady on the colony if I have to be.”

With a sniffle, I nodded my head silently. Xiomara was not as convinced. “Conor, if you lash out one more time, I will take you into custody, do you understand?  I could not believe that you raised your voice the way you did before – you are one of the kindest people I know.”

“Understood, ma’am.” He managed to sound only slightly embarrassed by his previous behavior.

Wiping my eyes, I straightened the best I could. “Okay. I need to head back to the med bay – I’m exhausted. Maverick, ride back with me?”

“You got it, Sophie.” With that, he hopped in behind me in the transport

Twelve hours and a nap later, I was in my all-too-familiar berth in medical, being hooked up to an infusion drip for medication.  By grace alone, there was no need to hook me up to any wires like there would have been on Earth – they could monitor my brain and cardiac activity with scans instead.  “No sedation if I get mad again, okay?” I demanded sternly. “I need to be clear-headed for this.”

“I make no promises,” Grey replied in a very similar tone to when they observed that my plants had grown. “If your heart rate becomes dangerous, or you show signs of an anxiety or panic attack, I will sedate you for your own sake.”

Ugh. Grey was back to being logical. “Can I at least request the minimum effective dose, nothing more?”

One dark eyebrow arched. You are on thin ice, it screamed. “That is acceptable, provided it does not endanger your health.”

Before I could do more than scowl, the door hissed open to reveal a daunting number of people. In addition to the entire Council, I saw Tyche, Antoine, Alistair of all people, Zach and Derek.  Bringing up the rear was Conor, who quickly darted over to my far side, beside Maverick.  Tyche and Antoine took up their now-usual positions on my other side, with my sister’s grey eyes colder than I had ever seen them, daring the Council to try to make her move.

They better have Archimedes’s lever if they plan to try that, I mused. Gently resting a hand on her arm in solidarity, I turned to face the breathless man who just sat on my opposite side. “You made it,” I whispered.

“Told ya I would,” he grinned. “Can’t abandon you and Mav to do this alone.” He glanced up and his brows instantly furrowed. “Why’s the Council here?”

Maverick tackled that one, having been present for the initial explanation. “In case any solutions are suggested by Else that weren’t already covered by the Council, but have merit.”

“Okay… How’re they supposed to know what is discussed, exactly? Noah can only get vague hints, can’t they?”

Grimacing, I rocked my head side to side in hesitancy. “Yes and no? They know the lyrics to songs that are stuck in my head, sometimes.  Or at least understand the concepts enough to make it seem like he does.  We are going to try having me stop and repeat, slowly and emphatically, what Else is suggesting if they go off script.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I’ve – I may have been given executive authority in an emergency,” I admitted.

Conor whistled through his teeth. “Sophie. That’s – that’s a lot of pressure.”

“No shit,” I muttered before turning to everyone else standing in the room. “Okay, is this my entire watch party, or are we still waiting?”

Simon spoke up – he was getting better at that. “This is everyone. And a few extras, but I am not going to be the one arguing with your family, especially since the majority agreed to stay out of your way.” He coughed and rubbed his neck before explaining the obvious exceptions. “Tyche and Antoine are claiming official capacity.”

My sister held her head high, chin out – if there was an encyclopedia entry for not gonna budge, that profile was probably the photo next to it.  “Should something happen, the responsibility would fall on me to identify candidates for her replacement to suggest to the Council. Since I would rather not, I am staying to observe and ensure it doesn’t come to that.”

Before Antoine could do more than straighten his spine, Grey spoke up. “Mr. Costa is a medical professional, and I have requested him be present, in that capacity, for this procedure.”

Eino attempted a token argument. “Councillor Hodenson, you are a doctor. Can you not – “

“I have a doctorate. Three, actually: biochemistry, genetics, and molecular chemistry.  None of that replaces practical training, which Mr. Costa possesses and I do not.”

The educator’s hands went up, mollified. “I stand corrected. Objection withdrawn.”

“Okay, can we please get on with this before I have fourth thoughts?” Second and third were out the window at this point – I had been lying in the berth with nothing else to do but worry for nine hours at this point.

“Any further objections or inquiries from the Council before we proceed?” Grey asked drily.  When only silence followed, they nodded. “Per my reports, Else can currently only communicate when a person is in a REM state. Our previous attempt involved Sophia being lucid during this process, to great effect.  However, I believe that her complete immobility is what caused the difficulty in relaying information back to Miys.  I have adjusted the medication to allow for voluntary muscle control in order to allow her to hopefully subvocalize while relaying information, as this has shown to provide accurate communication with Miys.  Sophia is already aware, but to ensure there are no surprises, a spinal block will be placed in order to limit motion to head and jaw. This is only to prevent flailing and potential injury to Sophia.”

Tyche and Conor both turned toward me with wide-eyed stares. I just nodded. “We’ve tested it a couple times to make sure I could still talk.  It’s the same way Noah kept me from hurting myself further when I came aboard, originally.” Unspoken was the fact that being held down freaked me the fuck out, whereas I had found the spinal block did not do the same thing when I knew to expect it.  In theory, dream-me would never notice the difference.

Grey continued. “Miys will begin transmitting Eino’s lexicon into Sophia’s lingual implant.  Sophia, please recite the lexicon once it starts transmitting.  This will allow us to monitor communication, both from us to your implant and from you to Miys.” They looked around the room. “It is essential that no one speak unless absolutely essential that they do so.  Sophia will perceive this as being whispered, and it is imperative that she hear the lexicon accurately.”

“I love you,” I whispered to the four sitting around my bed, before I started reciting a list of words.  True to Eino’s promise, his team had put together a much more concise recording, one which looped back to the beginning.  Within thirty minutes, I had completed the entire list twice: once completely out loud, once seeming to trail off as the sedation took effect. The spinal block gave a similar sensation to being weighed down by a heavy blanket, making it more therapeutic than nerve-wracking, and only encouraging the sedatives.  When I stopped speaking aloud, Grey nodded to confirm that I was still subvocalizing effectively.  Not long after that, my eyes drifted closed.

I opened my eyes to find myself standing in the familiar dream-Ark, still reciting the lexicon. So far, so good. I wanted badly to call out and check on Else, but determinedly stuck to the script.  Tears of concern flowed down my cheeks as I completed repetition after repetition. Were we too late? Was the threshold closer than we expected?

Threshold. Late threshold.

“Else!” I cried in relief. “Are we too late?”

Threshold further.

“The threshold is further away? Is that what you mean?”

We mean threshold further away.

Belatedly, I remembered I needed to supplement the lexicon with my questions. “That would be a yes. Thank goodness.  I was worried you would be – no longer here.”

We are here.

“We know what you are doing.  You don’t have to kill yourself. We don’t want you to go extinct. We want you to live, just like you want us to survive. I’ve been sent to discuss options. Most likely relocation, like we talked about before.”

We do want you to live. What are the options?

There we go. Much more coherent.  I sat cross-legged on the floor, craning my neck around. “Is there any chance you can try to… manifest or create something for me to look at? I keep trying to see you, just out of habit, and it would be easier if I had something specific to look at.”

I will try.

Slowly, a fuzzy yellow blob came into focus on the floor in front of me. It was about the size I associated with a corgi, but bright yellow.  I couldn’t help the grin that stretched across my face as it slowly drew on grass-green eyes and too many stubby appendages.

Else looked – cute, for lack of a better term.  Like an oversized, fuzzy, cartoon caterpillar

“That works,” I laughed.

I tried to manifest as non-threatening as possible.

“I think you nailed it.” I couldn’t help wondering if this was what Else would look like as a larger being. One could only hope. “The people on my ship have asked me to negotiate with you.  They are monitoring the best they can what I am saying, but there are going to be times that I need to repeat something to be absolutely sure. When that happens, I am going to do this – “ I touched my ear with my hand. “That way it is clear – to me – that I am repeating it for my shipmates, okay?”

Okay.

Still going well.  “Like I said earlier, we know you have stopped feeding, and stopped reproducing.  There is a serious chance that you won’t be sentient anymore… you won’t be you.”

I don’t want to hurt anyone.

“But… Else. If you stop being you, you won’t remember that you don’t want to hurt anyone.  What is the first thing you remember?”

Hungry.

“Exactly,” I pointed out. “You’ll just be hungry, again.  We want you to stay who you are now – intelligent, with feelings, and able to communicate with us.  And we hope to help you with that.”

Help how.

“Well, you and I already talked last time about taking you to a nebula, or to an iron rich planet with no atmosphere.  We can even place beacons to let others know you live there, so maybe a species who doesn’t depend on iron to survive can find you.”

We really like humans.

I sighed. Of course they did. “The problem there is that we need the iron you eat so that we can function properly, just like you need it.  Even if you die faster without it, we can still die without constant transfusions.” I focused on what it was like being in medical, sick and scared, connected around the clock to a machine that basically fed Else. “Humans cannot thrive like that. But you can thrive without us.”

I was one-third my current population when I realized I was hungry.

That stopped me dead in my tracks. “Wait. Did you just tell me the threshold for you to be sapient?”

Yes.

Breathless, I reached up to touch my ear and focused as hard as I could. “Whoever is speaking in fractions out there, I owe you dinner.” I repeated it several times in a whisper, praying it made it through clearly. Finally, I turned back to Else.  “The information you just gave us creates more options, Else.  We can ensure you survive.” I stood and started pacing around the now-wiggling caterpillar.  “If we remove you from our bodies, can you survive in a culture?”

Yes. There are several of me in cultures now.

Right.  Grey’s tests. “If we removed you, placed you in cultures, would you promise to stay in the cultures and start reproducing again?”

I can, yes.

“Next step: Half of you in a nebula, to guarantee you would survive, and half on a planet?  You could potentially be like Miys, and develop more individuals of your species without risking your sentience.”

Thirds.

“Not thirds, halves.” It seemed confused by the change in fractions.

Nebula, planet, Ark. Thirds.

Not as confused as I thought, apparently. “You want us to keep part of you on the Ark!?” I asked incredulously.

All options. One-third of me in a nebula, ensure survival.  One-third on a planet, meet a new species.  One-third on Ark, in culture, stay with humans. Absurdly, it wiggled even more, as though excited at the idea.

I repeated the proposal back to the Council and Miys, again praying they heard me.  After several minutes of hoping in vain, I received nothing.  Knowing that much more time was passing for them, if I hadn’t had a response by now, it wasn’t coming.

“I need to think this through,” I said aloud. “The Council agreed to taking you to a nebula OR a barren world… surely they would agree to both of those, no problem…. But they didn’t agree to you staying on the Ark, except in coldsleep.” I changed direction and paced clockwise this time.  “They – we – also had no idea that you would be willing to stay in a culture, like some fish in an aquarium.”

Aquarium. I like that. Can I stay in an aquarium instead?

“On the scale we are talking, it’s basically the same thing, but please don’t push your luck,” I scowled at the wide-eyed caterpillar.  That thing was just too fucking cute, which was decidedly not helping me.

Executive authority. Executive authority.  I had the power to make this decision, but probably because they knew I would agonize over it. With a groan, I stopped in my tracks. “Else, if we let part of you stay on the ship, we need a guarantee of good behavior.  Meaning, if you infect us again, you have to agree that we are taking that entire third of you to the nearest nebula or planet. Do you understand that?”

The caterpillar fucking bounced, like it was happy. Yes, I understand. And I agree to those terms.

I was going to regret this. I just knew it. Huge mistake.

“Welcome to the Ark, Else.”

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[damienthepious]

yeah

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 10)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [ao3] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [Ch 14] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [Ch 19]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol)

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: Sir Damien is home again. He and Rilla's newer guest must learn to share the space, for however brief a time this arrangement will last.

Chapter Notes: Love you!! Happy LKT! Don't actually think there's anything new to warn for?? Fun fact! the next chapter is also basically entirely done. Just one or two brief scenes to add. Also. pay no attention to the fact that the theoretical total number of chapters keeps mysteriously increasing. I'm sure that's nothing. >.>;;;

~

When Damien wakes, Rilla is already gone from the bed. He can hear cutlery clinking on dishware through the wall, can smell breakfast, alluring and warm, and he slowly stretches his sore muscles against the softness of these familiar sheets, and he-

He realizes, with a pang of strange guilt, that he had forgotten, for a moment, all he needs be afraid of. The worry creeps back slow, like a draft slipping through the cracks in old stone, cool on his spine, but there is something distant about the feeling. Rilla is… Rilla is still safe.

He feels lighter, as well, with the story of Ballast and its curse no longer pressing dark and confusing on him alone. It will not plague his love as it does Damien.

(The cadence of the story slips from him, just briefly. He does not mean for it to happen, but it cracks through, the tragedy, the cruelty-

"His voice, Rilla, they took from him his very voice," he keens, and she holds him tighter, holds him closer. "He called out and called out, sent words on quick wing from so close by and still they would not hear- they put his voice in a box and they hid it in the dark, they buried it, they left it for the moths, Rilla! All he had left were words and they refused, they refused- not even the howling of the hound they heeded, Rilla, and were my hand not stayed, were I not stopped, I would have- I would have been the punctuation on his silencing- I would have-"

She holds him tighter. She holds him closer. She listens. His heart, oh, his twisting, uncertain heart-)

He rolls from the bed, still stiff, and runs through a quick light routine of stretches before he works up the nerve to see what awaits him outside the safety of Rilla's bedroom. He expects another argument, and- and his own mind is so unsettled that he is unsure he can hold his position steady. His beloved is too brilliant to contend with at less than his best.

When he gently pushes the door open, the monster is arranged on the cushions by Rilla's table, claws drumming on the wood as he raises an eyebrow, and Rilla is laughing. The bright familiarity of it jumps in Damien's stomach, but his eyes dart to the monster-

Lord Arum is leaning against the table, his body angled towards Rilla, something like a smile curving his mouth. There is some new cloth clasped around his shoulders, soft and shimmering and precisely as violet as his eyes. His eyes, which are fixed upon Rilla, and the look Damien can see in them is- is nearly the same as the look the monster wore while Damien had been reciting his poem to the creature. Attentive, rapt, patient- but less wary, even, than in that moment.

"Like you're one to talk," Rilla says, teasing, and the monster-

Snorts a laugh of his own, and the almost-smile blooms into a wide grin, and Damien takes a compulsive step forward.

Lord Arum turns his face towards him almost too quick for Damien to see the shift, his grin vanishing, his face going almost blank. Almost. The blankness does not quite manage to hide the flash of concern on the monster's face.

He-

His eyes, violet and wary and piercing. A monster's eyes, and yet-

"Morning, Damien," Rilla says mildly, and Damien snaps back to himself.

"Rilla," he says, and his voice is a little rough at the edges, from sleep and exhaustion both, from the long tale told the night before. "I- I hope you-" he stammers, and he tries, he tries not to feel the monster watching them as Rilla steps close enough to touch his shoulder. He is unsure of his success. "I hope you slept well, despite my- despite-"

"I slept fine, Damien. Better than I've been doing, honestly. Sorry I didn't wake you earlier, but I thought you could use the rest."

"Y-yes. Yes, I believe you are correct. I- I am… I need not leave, today, so there is no hurry in my morning."

Arum is watching him, still. It prickles across Damien's skin.

He has not spoken, though.

Damien takes a breath, takes Rilla's hand, and turns his body towards the creature.

"Good morning to you, as well, Lord Arum," he says, his tone quiet and blank, and the monster blinks, his face going suspicious as Rilla's hand squeezes his own. "You-" Damien stops, wets his lips, observes the creature warily glaring up at him. "You look quite well."

"Do I?" Arum mutters, ducking his head. "How well may a monster look, little songbird?"

Damien pauses. "Certainly better than when last we met. It seems you are… recovering smoothly under the care of such a talented physician."

Arum's snout wrinkles, and he turns his face away, just slightly. "Hm. Yes, well." He mutters something too low to hear, and then he does not say anything else.

Rilla squeezes his hand again, and when he glances towards her she smiles, soft and warm. "Hey. Hungry?"

She puts together a plate for him, and Damien is ravenous, he has not eaten anything but rations for the road since last he was beneath Rilla's roof, but-

When she steps over to her table and settles to sit across from the monster, Damien can't- he cannot help but balk.

He cannot make himself sit beside a monster, not as Rilla can. With such ease, such lack of care.

"I think-" his words stumble, and Rilla must see the look in his eye, because her brow furrows, her lips turning downward in concern. "Perhaps I will- perhaps I will take- take my meal outside."

He has written countless poems on the mossy stump in front of Rilla's hut. The place feels safer, just in this moment, than the table beside the beast.

Rilla continues to stare at him, and he can see that her concern is struggling at the edge of frustration as she asks, "Outside, Damien? You… you don't want to-"

Lord Arum still is not looking at him, but Damien can see the twist of his mouth, the strange twinge of morbid satisfaction, as if this was precisely what Arum expected him to do.

"I- I believe I require a moment of fresh air," Sir Damien lies in a shaking voice, and then he retreats.

~

Damien does not remember, until the meal is halfway done, to be afraid that the monster might attack Rilla in his absence, and when the fear does come, he cannot seem to make it stay.

Something in the way Lord Arum looked at Rilla as she laughed, something in his eyes-

The worry feels false, now.

(he’s not gonna hurt me, Rilla says with a surety as sturdy as stone, and Damien thinks that she may have been correct, even then)

But Sir Damien still does not know if the monster has made Rilla an exception. Others may not be so lucky, when all is said and done.

~

While Lord Arum is resting in the exam room again in the afternoon, Rilla reaches across the table to take Damien's hand, startling him from his thoughts, soothing his surprise back with her thumb gentle on his wrist.

"Hey," she says softly. "If you're feeling up to it… I think we have a conversation we need to finish, Damien."

Damien feels his stomach fall, the sensation of missing a step. "R-right," he rasps. "Of course."

He should not feel this- this-

Damien should not-

"I want to apologize, first," Rilla says, and Damien startles, slightly, his hand fluttering in her grip as he looks up at her wry smile.

"Wh- you do?"

"I know this is… not easy. And I know that it's only gonna get harder, really."

Damien's heart and shoulders sink. "Ah."

"And the thing is," she leans back slightly, sighing. "You were right." She pauses, then quickly continues, "In one way, I mean. You were right that I was… I wasn't being- I wasn't planning ahead, because it was too hard to think about the consequences of this whole thing. And it came back to bite me in the ass, because of course it did."

Damien's eyes go a little wide. "It- what do you mean?"

"Arum saw it too. That I was…" she laughs. "That I didn't know what I was doing, not really. Not beyond like, the actual medical part."

The automatic instinct is to refute, to tell Rilla that she's brilliant, that of course she knows what she's doing-

She rubs at her wrists, not quite looking at him. "And, uh, there's another thing- but I really need you to listen right now and let me finish before you respond, okay?"

Damien opens his mouth, closes it, and then nods.

"So, while you were gone," she says, voice strained, "because- because Arum knew that I didn't have a plan, and because he thought- he thought that when you came back you would kill him, he- he tried to leave, and- well, I mean, technically speaking, he kinda grabbed me and tried to- to make it so I couldn't follow him-"

"What? He did- the beast attacked you?!" Damien's hands fly to his bow, his muscles clenching.

"Damien-" she reaches out again, gripping his shoulders. "Look at me. Damien, I'm fine. Please don't freak out. He didn't hurt me, I'm fine, nothing happened. Everyone is safe, I promise. Just- just breathe, okay?"

It's like trying to see through a pinhole, the panic. He can hear her words, but his ears are still rushing, his throat too tight for breath. Every ounce of him is screaming danger, is howling protect-

"Damien. I'm okay. We're okay, I promise. I- I'm telling you this even though I know it'll freak you out because- because it won't help anything to lie about it, but- but you need to actually listen to me, okay? I'm not hurt-"

"Your wrists," he manages in a strangled voice, reaching to hover his fingers just barely away from her skin. "I- I- I did not- the bruises- I should never have left you alone with that thing, I should have-"

"Damien, I did that to myself." She squeezes his shoulders, the pressure grounding, soothing. "C'mon, Damien, you have to breathe. I can't explain if you aren't listening."

He sucks in a breath and holds it, trembling, and Rilla rhythmically rubs her hands up and down his biceps. She- her wrists, but- but she- she is here, and she is- she is not hurt, not truly. Is she? He rakes her eyes over her, lingering on the light red speckling at her wrists, catching her worried eyes only briefly, but otherwise she- she seems precisely as he left her. She appears- otherwise unharmed. Damien exhales, and his breathing is still fast, now, but he is forcing it under his control again, by degrees.

"I am… I am sorry, my flower," he murmurs. "C-continue. I will- I will listen."

Rilla smiles, just barely, worry still visible on her brow, and then she sighs. "He- he was only trying to go home, Damien. He was- he was scared, and he was desperate." She pauses. "Don't- don't tell him I said that, he'd be upset that I know he's scared."

Damien-

Knows exactly what she means, somehow. The creature seems to have a rather distinct sense of pride. He nods again.

"He just wants to go home," she says again, and there is a note of strange sorrow in her voice. "And I… Damien, I know it's crazy, but- but I have to help him."

Damien blinks. "You- what did you say?"

She sighs and bites her lip. "You were right. I can't keep him here, not any longer than I have to. It's- it's dangerous. For him, mostly, but- he can't stay, and he'll never make it home on his own, and I- I can't just push him out the door with a wave and a good luck, that's not- I can't-"

She presses her lips together hard, looking away. "Rilla-"

She rubs a hand over her mouth, and then she meets his eye again, determination in her gaze. "I've already decided, Damien. I told him I would get him home, and that's what I'm going to do. If- if that's too much for you to handle, I- I can understand that, but I'm not going to let you hurt him, and I'm not going to let you stop me, either."

"Stop you?" he echoes faintly.

"I just kinda assumed," she says, smiling very weakly. "You've been pretty- pretty adamant about your position, Damien."

"I-"

Damien pauses.

He would have killed the creature in the depths of unconsciousness. Damien would have drawn and fired and stopped his heart cold. Would have never allowed the beast to wake again-

As he nearly did to the witch of Ballast.

Damien's heart pulls, as if it wishes to tear in half. His duty, his holy charge, his feet drawn forward into this endless battle-

And his love, and his rival, each by turns staying his hand.

Damien hesitates, and then he reaches, drawing his thumb careful along the soft redness circling Rilla's wrist.

"Precisely how did this happen, then?" he asks, voice low.

Rilla flinches. "He- he didn't hurt me, Damien. He could have, but he didn't. This- he just kinda- tied me to the stool?" she says, her voice going high and worried as she watches his face. "And I pulled my wrists breaking the bandages to get out. I could have done it more carefully and I wouldn't have been hurt at all but I was- I was worried that he would hurt himself trying to get home and I- I was too impatient to- to worry about myself. It's barely a burn, Damien, I swear-"

"I trust your medical expertise," Damien murmurs, and his brow softens as he lifts her hands to kiss the heel of one palm, and then the other. "I… my love, I- I may not- I still do not understand," he manages. "I do not understand what makes this creature different, what makes you- what makes you protect him. But-"

Rilla's hands flex in his own, but she does not pull away. "But?"

He inhales, exhales. "He is… he is your patient. You have claimed him as such, and so he must be. I must trust that you know best, how he should be cared for," he says in a near whisper. He swallows, then, feeling the terror of betrayal at the back of his throat. "If he threatens you- if the situation shifts- if you are in any danger, I will protect you. But I-" his heart stutters, he gasps a compulsive breath. "I will- I will not- I will not interfere, so long as you are certain that you are safe."

Rilla's expression falls open in shock, and then it goes pleased and warm. "Oh. Damien-"

"I only ask that you- you will allow me to- to keep an eye on the situation. To ease my worry, if nothing else. In case the worst should occur."

"Damien…" She stares at him. "Really? You're not- you really mean that? You're not going to-"

"I would not lie to you," he says gently.

"No," she says, "I know, but it's just- unexpected, I guess?"

"To be certain," he agrees in a murmur.

Rilla gives a breath of laughter, then squeezes his hands. "I- maybe I'm gonna regret asking this, but- what changed?"

Sir Damien does not know.

He pushes back his guilt. He pushes down his fear. He squeezes Rilla's hands, feeling her pulse, feeling that she is safe, alive, safe. If this be a trick, still- if the creature is merely acting as he knows he must to survive this, then-

Damien will still slay him, if necessary. But, for the moment-

The faster the creature is well again, the faster he will be gone from their lives, and the sooner Sir Damien can resume his life as it once was. The sooner he may again live with his beloved safe by his side, secure and familiar and right once more.

~

Damien comes and goes, as his duty calls him, but apparently the Queen isn't in dire need at the moment, because most nights he returns to the hut. Rilla can't decide if he's being more overprotective than he means to let on, or if he's just still trying to process what happened in Ballast, along with this whole Arum thing, but it really doesn't matter why. It's more important to her that he's here, even if he's quieter about it, more contemplative. It's more important that he still comes to bed with her and holds her tight when he needs the comfort. And- when she does, honestly.

He still acts stiff and strange with Arum, his words uncharacteristically awkward, but he isn't on the attack anymore, not like he had been, and he hasn't snuck off to play guard dog overnight since he came back. He makes Arum nervous, which is fair enough. He keeps his bow close by fairly often, and Rilla weighs Arum's discomfort versus Damien's and she can't make herself tell Damien to put the damn thing away. She has to trust that Damien won't use it, and she knows that it makes him feel safe. She just has to hope that Arum trusts her enough to know that she wouldn't allow it if she thought it was a risk.

Arum is different with Damien than he is with her, too. More antagonistic, but- in a sideways sort of way. He doesn't directly insult the knight, not usually, and instead he seems to get a kick out of irritating him in little, inconsequential ways. Seems to know exactly what buttons to push with Damien, too, to get him to grit his teeth and snap in return, and the monster tends to grin and chuckle like he's won every time he can make Damien irritable enough that Rilla feels like she needs to intercede.

But- the thing that Rilla is having trouble wrapping her head around is the parts that don't quite seem like simple antagonism. If that was all it was, she could get that. That would make sense, even if it was annoying. There's something else, though. Something that doesn't quite fit into the box of antagonism.

"Hm. I suppose it is for the best that you have returned, little songbird," Arum murmurs, and Rilla hears Damien scoff through the door as she changes out of a sap-stained post-experiment outfit. The walls of her hut don't do much for noise cancellation, she thinks wryly.

"Is that so, beast?" Damien's answer is calm, if vaguely strained. "Why should you wish for my return?"

"I do not prefer to leave matters unsettled," Arum growls, low. "I believe there is unfinished business still between us… and I would think the stubborn little songbird would be eager to finish attempting to prove his point."

There is a pause, and then-

"The- the duel, of course," Damien says, awkwardly. Rilla tenses, because some arranged duel is news to her, and not exactly good news, either. "Of course. Er- however, I do not believe you are yet in a state to fulfill your challenge, friend lizard."

"I- what?" Another pause. "Oh. Y-yes. Of course. The- the duel, takatakataka."

Even through the door, Rilla can hear the familiar uncomfortable rattle Arum gives. She can practically see his tail thrashing, his frill flaring, she knows that noise so well.

"… Lord Arum?"

Arum hisses low, not remotely an answer.

"What…" Damien pauses, for a long sort of moment. "What, precisely, did you mean, if not the duel?"

"Not a thing, honeysuckle," the monster mutters. "Of course I meant the duel. Don't be foolish."

Rilla shuffles on a new skirt, trying not to feel like an intruder in her own damn hut. It- it isn't her fault they're having this conversation so loud. If they didn't want her to hear-

"Oh. Oh," Damien says after another long moment, and then he coughs, lightly. "Ah. I suppose… I suppose that… that I never finished my poem, that evening, did I?"

"I do not remember," Arum mutters. "It does not matter. I had forgotten the whole thing by the next morning."

Another ticking, growling rattle. Another low snarl. Rilla hesitates at her bedroom door, which- she's not spying. She's not, she just- doesn't want to interrupt them.

"Well… I suppose…" Damien trails off. "I suppose," Damien tries again, his quiet voice very carefully pitched to casual, "that the next time you wish to be bored to sleep, I will know which tale to begin with," Damien says, very quietly.

Arum chokes a laugh. "I- I believe- I-" Another pause. Saints, but Rilla could record entire research logs in the time these boys take to finish a sentence. "It was you who lulled yourself to slumber with your words, songbird," Arum says, his own voice gone low, and hesitant, and stilted. "Not I. If you should like to bore me, you would do better to return to your little threats, not your… your poetry. If you wish to finish your tale, it is not as if I could stop you."

Damien does not respond to that, and after a moment Rilla pushes the door open again. There's a half second during which she sees the pair of them staring at each other, Arum with his head ducked and his tail coiling, Damien with his cheeks gone dark, and then the both of them look her way instead.

Rilla-

Doesn't comment. Why would she? Awkward silences are better than fighting, anyway, even if the way Arum looks away from her makes her stomach twist oddly. Even if Damien doesn't stop pinching his face into a guilty frown on and off for the next few minutes.

Rilla can wrestle away a bit of awkward, though. Especially coming from Damien. She's gentle, and tactical, and with a few pointed questions she manages to start him off on that story about the Sphinxes again. She doesn't mind the repetition, today. It's a good story, and-

Well. Arum certainly hasn't heard it before.

~

"Amaryllis," the monster calls lightly, looking up from the book in his hands, and then he goes still.

Damien follows his gaze automatically, and he feels a familiar little pulse of fondness when he sees his Rilla, draped partway over the table, her head sunk to rest on her arms, her shoulders lifting and lowering lightly as she sleeps, her stack of books utterly forgotten and her recorder still clutched in hand.

Arum blinks, watching her for a moment with his head tilted just slightly to the side, and then he catches Damien watching him in return and he narrows his eyes, turning away. "Foolish creature. I am certain she has a bed in this little hut somewhere. Certainly she should find it before she decides to collapse," he mutters, his voice carefully low, and-

Damien feels a strange little pulse again, a soft sort of echo, at the way Lord Arum's eyes return to Rilla as he speaks, just briefly, as if the monster is checking to ensure his quiet words have not woken her.

Damien bites his lips, swallows uncomfortably. "I… I do not think you should speak so, Lord Arum," he says, tone light. "You have your own habit of inopportune sleep, if our previous evenings together are any indication."

The monster blinks, then snorts. "I see that I shall never live my sedation down with you, shall I, honeysuckle?"

"I am quite used to it, in truth," Damien murmurs. "She… this is not an unusual occurrence. Sleep finds her where it may, as she so often spends her nights busily avoiding it." He smiles, helpless, and reaches a hand to press the button to stop her recorder, and then he brushes some loose curls away from her brow. "Any rest she allows to catch hold is quite well deserved."

Damien realizes, after a moment, that the monster is staring at him. As soon as he realizes this, Arum looks away again, burying his snout back in his own book.

Damien realizes, after a moment, that he has taken his own turn, to stare.

"What do you intend," Damien blurts, "When you are home again?"

Arum blinks, looking up at the knight with no small degree of alarm, and then he narrows his eyes. "When?"

That- is not the part of the question that Damien had thought the creature would take umbrage with. "Ah-"

"I do not believe for a moment that you have decided to allow the doctor to return me where I belong," he mutters. "You must think me completely naive, or entirely brainless."

It is unbelievable, Damien thinks, and yet. Damien has decided precisely that, somehow. It is unsurprising that the monster disbelieves. He purses his lips for a moment, considers how to proceed.

"I may change my mind on the matter," he says mildly, "depending on how this conversation progresses."

Arum narrows his eyes further, a ticking rattle growing in his chest. "And you do not think that in telling me such, you might color my responses, little knight? You are not a particularly skilled interrogator, are you?"

"This… this is not an interrogation," Damien admits, after a moment. "Rilla believes you only wish to return home. However… she has not elaborated upon what happens after that comes to pass. What will you do, when you are returned to where you belong?"

Arum scoffs. "Ridiculous. If I ever see my home again, I will put to rights whatever has gone unruly in my absence, and then I will never again be bothered by your kind or my own, if I have my way. I will be alone, as I should be, so I may nurse my own wounds." He pauses. "And my ego, while I am at it."

Damien furrows his brow, watching the way Arum's shoulders hunch, the way his expression goes angry to hide the flash of sorrow Damien thinks he sees, for only a brief moment. "And what of humankind?"

"What of it?" Arum snarls, and then he glances to Rilla and swallows, though she does not stir at his voice. "What of it?" He repeats more quietly. "I do not care what the lot of you foul creatures do, so long as you do not intrude upon my territory. Perhaps I will close the borders entirely. Perhaps that will be safest, in fact." He wrinkles his snout, glaring down at his clenched fists. "Yes. Safest for both of us," he mutters, more to himself than to Damien. "If I ever make it home… yes, whatever it takes, for our safety. I must protect myself, must protect my K-"

He chokes, words cutting off ragged at the end into his low growl, his eyes darting to Damien and then away as his frill flares like a flag in a high wind.

Damien feels himself staring, again. He cannot help it.

That keening note in Arum's voice, that hot protective current beneath the words-

It rings in Damien's mind like the echo of bells, as familiar as home. Damien knows the feeling this creature is trying, so clumsily, to hide.

Rilla shifts against the table and Arum startles, his claws clenching the near-forgotten book in his hand before he lifts it again, narrowing his eyes over the pages at Sir Damien.

"I hope my answers have been enlightening enough for you, honeysuckle," he mutters quickly, and then he hides himself again in the pages.

Rilla yawns, and stretches, and falls partly against Damien's shoulder as she mutters herself awake, and she is warm and utterly safe by his side. Mere feet from a monster, and Damien cannot even force himself to worry for her safety. No, he is not worried, not for his beloved, not at Arum's hands, but-

Arum's answers were more than enlightening, Damien thinks. That is… that is entirely the problem. They were enlightening, because Sir Damien cannot help but feel that every one of them was true.

Lord Arum aches for home, and Sir Damien's twisting, stuttering, traitorous heart aches in foolish sympathy.

[->]

[yayee-prsp]

I was talking with a friend about this idea I have been having for a while, so i ended writing and drawing about them.

(It is a rough draft and i have no beta so all the mistakes are mine ,,)

The background is blurred from this

That time when Grantaire writes on cups.

Courfeyrac and Jehan have a café.

It is a small thing. Two stories building in a small space, cosy and warm, filled with different flowers every day at the request of Jehan himself. Various paintings and dried flowers are put up almost everywhere. Everything is environment-friendly, Jehan has made sure of it. No straws unless requested, uses paper cups and only a few plastic ones, with recycle bin near. Located in a quieter part of town, only a few people know of this place, but those who discover it will surely come around again for more.

The atmosphere is always warm, no matter how cold the weather is. It might be from the smell of coffee and tea lingering around and in the air at all time when you enter, or because of how welcoming Courfeyrac and Jehan are - or maybe both. Courfeyrac will always greet you with a smile and ask you about your day, while Jehan will always leave a small poem for you on your cup - a cheery little thing for your day.

One of the patrons is, of course, the friends of the owners'. A group of students who called themselves 'Les Amis de L'ABC', or the friends of the abase. They are a group of students who wish to change the world, and the small café is one of their bases.

At first, the idea of writing on cups was only reserved for customers, in which Jehan would write their names in beautiful cursives and end with a few couplets or tercets. However, some customers wanted to request something to write for their friends, namely Eliza, a cheerful sweet girl who stumbles into their café one day and wish to add a few things on the cup for her boyfriend.

Enter Grantaire, who sees this and thinks of an idea.

Grantaire, a man who believes in nothing but still a romantic at heart, wishes to spread his positiveness into the public world by requesting quotes for Jehan to write on the cups. Which, well, mostly consists of cheesy pick-up lines which never fail to at least put a small smile and a headshake from the poor readers' face.

The first customer who gets the cup mumbles to herself: “You look cold. Would you like to use me as your blanket?” A scoff leaves her throat, and she leaves with a small smile.

After that, the victims range from Jehan himself, to Courfeyrac, and some poor random customers - sometimes the friends. He wrote for Bahorel once: ‘You must be a broom, ‘cuz you just swept me off my feet.’ To which Bahorel laughed in an obnoxious volume, and jumped up to literally pick Grantaire up from where he was working on his art. And another time to Joly: ‘Can you help me, Doc? ‘Cuz I just broke my leg falling for you :(’ Which was fun, considering the face Joly made.

The point is, many people had to read his lines, except one. It has, and will never, been Enjolras, Grantaire has made sure of that.

Courfeyrac, however, will not have any of that. So he takes it upon himself to deliberately pick a certain cup for the leader of their little group.

"Do you have a sunburn, or... are you always this," Enjolras reads, "hot?"

Courfeyrac just grins and says nothing, while Jehan laughs and shakes his head.

"An admirer requested it," he replies, “Just for you!”

A small smile plays on Enjolras' face though, so Courfeyrac counts it as a win.

———

Grantaire, however, freaks out.

"Why would you give him that, you traitor!" He whines one day, a cup of hot latté held between his hands, and his face buried into the cold table top. Jehan laughs softly and pats him on the back, while Courfeyrac, too, is laughing. Hard. Apparently Grantaire sulking and embarrassment is kind of funny to him.

"It's alright, R," Jehan tells him, patting him a few times on his head, "Enjolras seems to like it. Plus, he doesn't know who wrote or requested that anyway."

Grantaire sniffles, but he looks up at the poet and considers it. Jehan seems genuine, and Courfeyrac seems to agree.

"Can I write it this time?" Grantaire asks and receives a brilliant smile of Jehan's in return.

——

"Roses are red, my face is too," Enjolras reads, "that only happens when I'm around you?" He raises his brow after finishes. Jehan, a sweetheart that he is, remains silent and replies with only a smile.

"This is not your handwriting," the leader observes his cup of black coffee, holding the weight firmly in his hand while careful not to spill it.

"From your admirer," the poet answers.

Enjolras frowns, but shrugs and turns away. Not fast enough that Jehan misses his smile and a small shake of his head.

If only Grantaire could see.

——

For the next two weeks, Enjolras has a collection of take-out cups with pick up lines on them. Some have 2 or 3 on them since he decides to reuse some of the cups. (He also notes that when he reuses the cups, Jehan would be the one who writes the lines. So whoever it is is not in the café when he is, or they do not wish to be found.) He hates to admit it, but those lines do make his days.

He wonders who comes up with all these cheesy lines, and can't help but think about it. When it comes to, he has narrowed it down to only a few people who could possibly do this. And he thinks he is pretty sure who it is, but he needs more proof.

One day he decides to pay back the kindness and walks up to Courfeyrac. He asks the man for a marker and a cup, and makes quick scribbles of words on it, before returning it to Courfeyrac.

"For my 'secret admirer'," he instructs, earning a raise of eyebrows from the cheery man behind the counter.

Then he waits a while, sitting in the café and pretends to do some work while trying to see if Courfeyrac will slip in the cup for someone. Apparently, the man is loyal because all the day he has been sitting, the cup is not given to anyone. So Enjolras just resigns and packs his stuff. He'll find out, one way or another.

As soon as Enjolras walks out, Courfeyrac springs himself into action. The sound of the coffee machine echoes out all over the room, emitting a pleasant smell of coffee everyone loves.

A few moments later, a cup of iced latté with extra whipped-cream is placed in front of Grantaire, startling him out of his trance. He jumps and glares at Courfeyrac who simply grins at him like nothing has happened.

Grantaire puts his sketchbook and art supplies down on an empty chair beside him. His hands, which are half-covered by his green knitted sweater reach out to grasp the cold drink, all the while saying, "I thought I would never get my drink in this life."

Courfeyrac just keeps smiling, then points to him his cup. Grantaire frowns and looks down before his eyes go wide.

"Apparently you also have an admirer," the barista states happily, before making his way out and throwing a wink over his shoulder, leaving Grantaire to his shock.

He would recognise that handwriting anywhere, and that makes it even worse. Because Enjolras, of all people, wrote, in his quick but neat handwriting, "I would say God bless you, but it seems he already did."

That bastard. Grantaire has lost the ability to focus on his work after that.

——

It goes like that for another two weeks, with Grantaire writing pick-up lines for several people every day, and one reserved coffee cup or a line for Enjolras, with additional doodle of small things on all the cup: flowers, cats, dogs, or whatever it is that inspires Grantaire. Jehan seems to like his addition though, and so Grantaire has become one of the professional coffee cup artists of the café after two or three days or so.

Customers seem to appreciate it since Jehan notices they would smile wider when they receive their cups. However, their little game has to stop when the reputation of their heart-warming café has spread for some reason, and there are more customers than ever. Courfeyrac loves it, and Jehan is more than happy, but it exhausts them every day. So, Grantaire takes the matter in his own hands and volunteers to be a barista.

"And don't you pay me with cash, I just want some free coffee every day and that's that. No argument," he says, dismissing any further complaints from the couple.

Now Grantaire has full-control of everything behind the counter. He spends some times learning how to make basic coffee and how to do it quick. But Courfeyrac prefers to let him station at the cashier, and Grantaire is more than happy to oblige. He loves talking to new people, and being at the cashier gives him the opportunity to write on the cups as much as he wishes. Jehan still comes in and writes beautiful poems at times though. He loves it after all, but making coffee at all time makes it hard for him. So, unfortunately, he can only do that when the customers are not so overwhelming. That gives Grantaire no time to write for Enjolras.

Grantaire wonders if Enjolras notices or misses the small exchange of random cheesy lines. But considering Enjolras, it would be indifferent to him, Grantaire thinks with a twinge of disappointment. Still, he is happy doing this - working and meeting people.

A month and a half after the first time Grantaire asked to write, or a few weeks after getting behind the counter, however, Courfeyrac hands him a latte cup with another line written on it, catching him by surprise.

"Apollo sent for you," he states. And on it, written in Enjolras' usual handwriting: 'No wonder the sky is grey today, all its blue is in your eyes.'

And that just leaves him with a racing heart and a face that can be used as a stove to fry some eggs. And the temperature of the countertop is just so perfect to cool his fave temperature down because damn this is so unexpected. It's been too long since their last exchange and Enjolras has to attack him with this-

He is so caught up trying to calm his racing heart and burning face down that he doesn't question why Enjolras knows his admirer's eyes are blue - or to see a smile of a certain someone just through the window outside the shop.

After a while, Grantaire moves to work at the coffee machine since he has mastered it. Jehan and Courfeyrac are more than delighted to know that he can also make latte art! It is amazing, and everyone loves it.

Grantaire practically works at their little café full-time by now, and Courfeyrac would not let him work for free any longer, so he guesses he's an official employee of this café. It's not that bad after all.

(He tried to refuse for a while but it didn't work anymore. Jehan can be terrifying when he chooses to.)

Even then, Grantaire still tries his best to write some messages on the cups, but since the new shop policy which tries to reduce even more plastic, he has to adapt. Hence, he chooses to write on the napkin or the receipt instead. Jehan seems to adore this idea also.

Enjolras comes to the counter one day, tapping absent-mindedly on the countertop. Grantaire, who takes on cashier duty, raises his eyebrow, holding up Enjolras' stainless tumbler.

"Human to the God of sun, Apollo?" Grantaire calls and smiles with delight when Enjolras snaps his head to frown at him. "Iced coffee like usual?"

Enjolras blinks at him then slowly nods his head. The artist smiles back, before turning away to the coffee machines behind him. Jehan and Courfeyrac are on a break since there are only a few customers and Grantaire declares they deserve a break. So it's a one-man job that Grantaire is more than happy to do.

The machine whirs into action, filling the cosy shop with a constant sound. The smell of coffee slowly swirls all over the shop once again. Grantaire smiles, watching as the liquid pours down and into Enjolras' tumbler.

"Well, there we go, Enj. We don't have straws to preserve the environment - you know the drill. And here's no poem from Prouvaire because he's not here. And since you've paid, you're free to go!" He rambles on with a big smile, handing Enjolras his stainless bottle. He frowns, however. When Enjolras takes it but doesn't move away, "Is there anything I can help you?"

Enjolras bites his lips, looking down at the countertop where he is still drumming his fingers. And - is that blush on the leader's face?

"Since you don't use as much cups anymore," Enjolras begins, looks up to meet Grantaire's eyes. "Would you now say those cheesy pick-up lines to me in person now?"

[southeastasianists]

Though 10-year-old Vira Rama didn’t understand what his family’s secrets were, he knew that they had to be kept hidden. At first glance, they seemed innocuous enough: a stash of family photos of trips to the beach and Siem Reap, a photo of Rama in a youth scout uniform, all wrapped up in a bag made of cut tarp.

When the Khmer Rouge seized control of the country in April 1975, Rama’s mother, Kim Pean Ky, had insisted on taking this bundle of photos with her as her family was forcibly relocated from their home in the northwestern city of Battambang. She kept them concealed as soldiers marched them into the country on dusty roads congested with people fleeing in three-wheeled tuk-tuks, on ox-driven carts, and even on foot. As soon as the family was resettled in a village called O’ Srarlao, located in what the military regime called Zone 4, Rama watched as his mother dug a hole under their small wooden hut just large enough for the bag of photos. He didn’t ask questions as she hid the traces of their middle-class life under a pile of banana leaves. Though the family would travel to several other zones during the rule of the Khmer Rouge, from 1975 to 1979, Rama’s mother never forgot about the photos. Each time they moved, she quietly and dutifully excavated the bag and then buried again, and again, and again. If the severe, unpredictable, paranoid Khmer Rouge had found it, their lives would be forfeit.

Now, 44 years later, the archive Rama’s mother risked her life to preserve has been published in a book, aptly named Buried. The book is a collaboration between the family and British photographer Charles Fox, who has worked in Cambodia since 2005 running Found Cambodia, an archive of photos of life before, during, and after the reign of the Khmer Rouge in the late 1970s. Of all the photos Fox has encountered in Found Cambodia, he says the Rama’s archive is by far the most complete. “Their story is one of thousands of stories,” he says. “But their collection is unique. Vira tried to record as much of his family history as possible.”

“I feel lucky to have these photos,” says Rama, who held on to Ky’s archive long after the family relocated to the United States (both now live in Southern California). “It gives me something to go back to. Many people who survive the Khmer Rouge have nothing at all.”

Rama was born in 1965 in Battambang. The second-eldest of seven siblings, he lived a charmed early life that was assiduously documented by his father. “I liked being photographed. I was always the goofy one,” he says, adding that many of his childhood photobombs did not make the cut for Buried. In Battambang, before their forced relocation, the photos lay behind plastic in albums and hung on the walls in frames. The tarp bag provided less protection, and many of the photos were damaged. Rama’s mother also altered some of the photos that would have been impossible to explain her way out of, had they been found. For example, she cut King Norodom Sihanouk—who had a complicated and fraught relationship with the Khmer Rouge—out of a photo of her husband.

In the camps, the photos had to be buried because Khmer Rouge soldiers conducted random searches of people’s huts to purge any evidence of city life. Other families also concealed treasures that could get them killed, such as jewelry or medicine, which indicated you were wealthy enough to have seen a doctor. O’ Srarlao’s Zone 4 became one of the most brutal areas controlled by the Khmer Rouge. In addition to executions, the villages were rife with starvation and disease made worse by forced labor.

At O’ Srarlao, the family slowly splintered as children were sent to perform forced labor at different camps, some planting rice and others constructing irrigation systems. Despite the family’s best efforts to conceal their history, Rama’s father stood out as a target for the Khmer Rouge, which actively persecuted and murdered intellectuals. A former math and French language teacher who worked as a banker for the Banque Khmere Pour Le Commerce, he was a member the class that the new regime saw as an existential threat. In 1977, he was executed.

Shortly after, the Ramas knew they had to leave the country. The family members remaining at Zone 4 split into three groups, Ky dug up the photos and fled with some of her seven children to the less violent Zone 3, reburying the photos in each village they stayed in. “My mom valued these photos even though it was risky evidence,” Rama says. “If they searched us, they would kill us.”

When Vietnamese forces liberated the country in 1979, the Ramas reunited in Battambang. But Khmer Rouge soldiers still lurked, and so they fled once more through jungles and minefields to the Thai border. They arrived in 1980 and settled in the Khao-I-Dang refugee camp. After 18 months there, they found a sponsor in the United States. After a few months in the Philippines to learn English, the Ramas moved to Shreveport, Louisiana, in 1981. Rama had just turned 16. Buried contains photos of these unsettled but peaceful times, both at the refugee camp and during the family’s first few years in America.

In Louisiana, Ky worked various jobs—as a seamstress, in a spice factory, at restaurants. Her seven children went to school. Rama attended Warren Easton High School, the first time he’d been in school for six years, and graduated in 1985. With the help of his math and science teacher Mr. Blanchard, Rama became a civil engineer.

Around a year after Rama’s family arrived, his sponsor gave him a cheap camera. It was the first time Rama had held a one since before the Khmer Rouge took over. Later in life, he upgraded to a series of fancy digital cameras, including a Nikon DSLR he used to snap photos of his children in soccer and basketball games. Taking photos had become an everyday luxury, and Rama errs on the side of over-documentation.

Rama’s love of photography made him the family’s photokeeper. He kept all his family’s photos in a safety deposit box and scanned many to upload to Flickr—glimpses of life before and after the Khmer Rouge. He also kept artifacts of his family’s immigration, such as the Pan Am tickets they used to fly to America. In 2015, he stumbled upon Found Cambodia, Fox’s project. “I sent Charles an email with a link to my Flickr, saying he was more than welcome to take any photos to add to his collection,” Rama says. “The very next day he emailed me back.”

Fox had dozens of questions. Who were the people in the photos? Where were they taken? Who did the photos belong to? Fox recognized that Rama possessed an incredible document of a time mostly lost to history. “Other family’s photos are so fragmented, which have their own importance,” Fox says. “But what the Ramas managed to save and how they managed to survive is quite remarkable.”

The horrors of the Khmer Rouge are hard to imagine, in part because there are almost no surviving photos of what life was like under the military regime due to the regime’s eschewal of modern life. The most known pictures of that period consist of 7,000 portraits taken by Nhem Ein, a young photographer working in the Tuol Sleng prison, according to The New York Times. It is a grim collection, as every portrait is of a person about to be executed.

When Fox saw all of Rama’s archive, he was struck by its narrative cohesion—a family’s story. He proposed the photos be arranged in a simple booklet, and all members of the Rama family were game. “He consulted with me every step, from the color to the title,” Rama says. The book’s design is intentional: The inside covers are decorated with rumdul flowers, the national flower of Cambodia, and pages that separate life before and after the Khmer Rouge are blank and red.

When Fox sent Rama the first draft of the book, the photos were arranged without any identifying details. Fox asked if Rama’s family could jot down quick captions noting who was in each photo and what occasion, if any, it captured. Rama passed the manuscript to his relatives, who each wrote a few lines in blue pen under the photos that were most meaningful to them. Those handwritten captions appear in the final book—occasionally illegible and deeply human. “That’s how close the family is,” Fox says. “And that’s one of the things that made the book possible.”

Now, each year, the family—Ky, Vira Rama, his six siblings and their families—go camping. Sometimes it’s Mammoth Lakes, sometimes it’s Yosemite. Rama says his relatives often jokingly complain. “They say, ‘We escaped all this hardship, why are we going to spend a week in a tent?’ But maybe that’s part of the healing.” On these trips, the family cooks what Rama calls their native food: cajun and creole cuisine—gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice. Unsurprisingly, Rama takes photos of everything. Now that he’s older, he’s traded his fancy DSLR for a lighter antique Fujifilm.

In Rama’s eyes, Buried is a historical document with very modern echoes. Over the past year, he can’t help but spot the parallels between his own family’s harrowing escape and the current situation at the U.S.-Mexico border. He says images of caravans attempting to cross into America bring flashbacks to the fear and violence he experienced as a child. “These people just want a better life for themselves and their children,” he says. “Here in America we’re supposed to be the most generous country but we treat refugees like criminals.”

Cambodia is struggling as well, in particular with its history, according to The Nation. “A lot of millennials in Cambodia don’t know what happened under the Khmer Rouge,” Rama says. “They think it’s fake news.” He hopes Buried will continue to open up new conversations both in the United States and Cambodia about this violent chapter of history. He understands that his family’s journey is not unique, but their records are, and he hopes other Cambodian families will continue to learn their history and break cycles of trauma that afflict generations.

Rama has worked for the city of Los Angeles for 29 years now, and he says he’s five years away from retirement. Recently, he’s noticed more and more people telling him to go back where he came from. “I ask them, which way should I take?” Rama says. “The road I just built, or the other road I built?”