#tl drabbles

[syrupyuu]

Olá! Descobri seu blog recentemente e já estou apaixonada. I'm obsessed with the K trio

I'm curious to know a scenario where their beloved dies, Kotetsu already has an idea, since he already witnessed her death once, and Kazu too. But, what if it was a definitive death? How would the three react?(Kotetsu, Kisa and Kazu) I'm curious because I love drama lol

Anyway, this is the first message I've written for a blog, I really like your writing!! 💋

hi, anon!! thank you so much for the lovely message, welcome to the blog! (ﾉ≧∀≦)ﾉ this ask is deliciously angsty, and you're sooo valid for that <3

anyway! buckle up, anon. drama you want, drama you'll get. we're in for a long ride..

(tw: mentions of suicide, alcoholism and dark themes overall)

as for their reactions?

kotetsu has already felt the pain of losing you once. he knows what it’s like to spend lifetimes without you. even then, he had something to hold on to: the certainty that you’d come back eventually, no matter how long it took.

the moment he realizes you’re no more is when the world loses color all over again. he could wait another hundred years, another thousand, if it meant you’d be reborn, even if you forgot him every single time. that was always enough, just the knowledge you’d return someday kept him moving forward. he’s existed for so long, all of it in pursuit of you—the only human he ever loved.

but if you're truly gone this time around… then so should he be. that’s the simple truth.

he wouldn’t want to keep going. there’s nothing left for him in a world without you. before he leaves, he would gather you gently into his arms, holding your body like you're only asleep. he’d smooth your hair away from your face and press a final kiss to your forehead. even until the end, he can’t bring himself to let go right away. he’d stay there for hours, murmuring your name against your cooling skin, telling you over and over how sorry he is that he couldn’t protect you.

he’s never feared oblivion, anyway. a retainer has no purpose without their master, and for you, kotetsu is no exception.

once he finally lays you down to rest, he'll turn and follow you without hesitation. if you aren’t there to call his name, there’s simply no reason to wake up again.

kisa wouldn't be able to process your death at first, no matter the circumstance.

there would be no immediate outburst. what follows is an eerie, almost childlike confusion. he would sit there in perfect silence, staring at nothing, waiting for you to walk back through the door and reassure him it was all a mistake. days, maybe even weeks might pass before any reaction surfaces at all. it isn’t until the final confirmation of your demise—a new scientist coming to take your place—does reality finally dawn on him.

and then he erupts into violence the same way a dam finally bursts, and the research team would watch as the project’s crowning achievement come undone before their eyes. he’d rip apart anything that dared to contain him, tear restraints from the walls, drag the new researcher across the floor and leave the lab awash in blood. alarms would blare and doors would slam shut, but none of it would matter.

when the worst of it is over, he’d collapse in the wreckage, trembling and soaked in red. he wouldn’t fight when the security detail finally comes to subdue him.

they wouldn’t put the project’s finest specimen down, that much is clear. he’s still too valuable, too perfect a weapon to discard. but without you, all that remains of kisa is the thing they first designed him to be: a tool, a killing machine whose only purpose is to destroy whatever target he’s pointed toward.

the logs will note only that subject K-154 returned to default parameters.

out of all three, kazu is the most familiar with how it feels to lose a life. he’s buried more rookies than he can count—young men and women who trusted him to bring them home safe, whose faces still visit him in his dreams. he thought he’d made peace with the inevitability of death long ago, but you were different; you were the one who made him believe in something beyond duty and guilt. even knowing you weren’t human never changed that.

and so, when your body finally falls still, anger is the furthest thing from his mind. what comes instead is a crushing, colorless horror. guilt at his own incompetence—the fact that he failed to protect you. he sinks to his knees at your side, hands hovering uselessly over you, afraid that the moment he dares to touch you will be the moment all hope dissolves. for what might be minutes or hours, he only stares, counting out each heartbeat that carries him further from you.

eventually, when the fog in his mind dissipates, he’ll smooth a hand over your hair, your cheek, committing every detail of your face to memory even as it slipped further away. he’ll whisper all the things he never had the courage to say when you were alive, voice hoarse with regret. he’ll thank you for giving him something to believe in again, even if it couldn’t last. he'll won't ask for your forgiveness, not after failing you. he doesn't deserve to.

if you were killed, he will make sure your death is never in vain. the being to take you from him—no matter whether they are man or monster—will not know a swift end. it will be slow, meticulous, ugly. for every drop of your blood spilled, he’ll hunt them to the ends of the earth and take tenfold in return.

when all is said and done, kazu would realize there was nothing left in the world for him to do. he would vanish from the ranks of the hunters, disappear so thoroughly that no one would ever find him again.

some part of him would think it was fitting, maybe even poetic, that the only partner he ever truly loved would be the one to end him. when you were gone, he wouldn’t know how to be human anymore. he’d either find some dark corner of the world to drink himself to death in or let the monsters he used to hunt tear him apart. perhaps, in the end, it wouldn’t matter which. all that would remain would be the memory of you—alive, smiling, still so bright it hurt to look at you.

and wherever he ended up, he’d hope that somehow, some part of you still existed to remember him, too.

[raitrolling]

=> You've dropped by to visit your Sanctuary, as while it is somewhat out of the way in the middle of a forest you've noticed it still attracts visitors from time to time. Mostly animals, based on the footprints left in the soft earth and occasionally bones belonging to smaller creatures that must have been a larger predator's lunch.

=> But, you also have found traces of trolls using the glade as a picnicking spot as well, despite it being rather off the beaten track. Either that, or maybe a bird has been using pieces of litter for a nest. Whatever it may be, you've dedicated yourself to keeping this area pristine so you and the forest's animals have a safe place to return to, so anything left behind by visitors needs to go.

=> You spy a glint of a chip packet in the moonlight, and it appears to have caught the interest of a rabbit as well. But just as you're about to walk over to pick it up before the curious animal gets its head stuck inside, the rabbit looks up suddenly, pricking its ears for a moment and then fleeing.

=> Then, you hear the rustling of someone emerging through the bushes.

"Oh-!! Um, ehe..."

=> You're too close to the water's edge of the lake to have any cover to hide behind, so you stay still. If this person is hostile, you know where you can flee to.

[serenescribe]

thank you @oddberryshortcake for letting me write something based on this absolutely heart-wrenching post! i am in shambles from the newest update. spoilers ahead.

“Silver,” Lilia whispers, in a voice that breaks as it spills past his cracked lips.

Lilia pays no attention to the way his knees ache, kneeling for as long as he has been, the thin fabric of his stockings rubbing raw patches into his flesh. Nor does he focus on any of the other ailments afflicting him — the blanket of fatigued exhaustion weighing down his shoulders, the throbbing agony pulsating through his head, the scratchy dryness itching up the inside of his throat. The only thing he has eyes for is his son: Silver, who lays in his arms, cradled close to Lilia’s body, his head lolling against Lilia’s chest.

Silver’s eyes remain firmly shut. He is still asleep.

Oh, Lilia’s heart crumbles with each ticking second, eyes fixated upon the slow rise and fall of Silver’s chest. He is not dead — Not yet, a terrible, pesky part of Lilia’s mind, words uttered from the lips of a disillusioned general, tells him, to which Lilia bats away, trying to ignore the thought. The sight of his breathing should fill Lilia with relief because it means Silver is still alive.

And yet, Lilia can only hang his head over Silver’s body, cradling him even closer, arms wrapped protectively around the body of his son, his child.

“Wake up, Silver,” Lilia murmurs into his ear. He blinks, eyes wet and heavy, feels something sliding down his cheek — a single solitary tear, but not alone for long. Wet droplets land on Silver’s body, sinking into the fabric of his shirt. How long has it been since Lilia cried like this? He cannot remember. Seven hundred years spent alive does that to someone — it numbs their heart, dries their tears, makes it nigh impossible to cry, especially when so much of their past is occupied by something as numbing as the wretched consequences of wars long fought.

Silver still does not stir.

Distantly, Lilia notices the faint tracks marring his cheeks, echoes of tears long since shed. He reaches for it with a thumb, swiping at the dried stains, as though wiping it away could erase all of the pain Silver must have gone through in his dream. He knows enough of what happened, knows of it from what the others has told him, and it makes his heart shatter — the thought that Silver had nearly succumbed to his own blot, all because he found out his past, a past Lilia tried to hide for fear of Silver being judged for the sins of his fathers, breaks something nestled deep inside of his chest.

Lilia closes his eyes. “I love you,” he breathes, words he has been so terrified of saying all these years. He does love Silver, truly — but to utter those three words, the words a young Silver have always said to him so freely with that beaming smile spreading across his chubby child cheeks… For years, Lilia has evaded ever speaking them into reality, to return the obvious affection of his son instead of laughing it off and saying “I know.”

And as a consequence of that, Lilia is now far too late.

He knows he is not alone in this room. He can hear things — conversations that swirl together, hushed murmurs, snatches of his name and Silver’s own, footsteps and doors creaking open and shut. He can see things — in his peripheral vision mainly, shadows that approach and depart, the occasional sight of footsteps slipping into view. He can feel things — a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, fingers reaching out to stroke Silver, all touches that Lilia shrinks away from, pulls Silver away from. Because as far as his addled mind is concerned, the only thing he can process right now is him and his son.

A memory haunts him: He is a few years younger, finding Silver for the first time. He uses his magic to explore his memories, discovers the identity of the child in the cradle, and finds out that he is the spawn of his enemies. And yet, all Lilia can focus on is the knowledge that Silver was fated to slumber until his true love woke him up, an unending rest only broken when Lilia stumbled upon him.

He is Silver’s true love, and Silver is his.

“Silver,” Lilia tries again, his voice cracking into splinters as he forces his name past his lips. “I love you. Wake up.”

Silver is his, isn’t he? Just as he is Silver’s — an absolute truth that Lilia turned a blind eye to for years, too scared to reciprocate the emotions swirling about his soul in full force, to unleash the depths of his love for his dear son. If Silver could wake from the throes of a sleep that had addled him for four hundred years all because of Lilia’s love for him, a love he had not realised the extent of when he found Silver for the first time, then surely he can do the same now, right?

Surely Lilia’s love for him, a love he knows now to show freely in the way he hugs him close, presses kisses against his forehead, will be enough to wake him… right?

So why is he not waking?

Why is he still asleep?

Is his love not enough? That cannot be the case. Lilia loves Silver — with all his heart, with all his soul; they have been bonded since the moment Silver was born, the invisible strings of fate entangling the two of them together before either of them knew it. Lilia is the key to Silver’s lock, his very presence opening the boy’s heart, dispelling the effects of a curse that has kept him in stasis for four long centuries. His only mistake was not showing his affections sooner, of keeping his heart carefully guarded until it was far too late.

So why then?

Why won’t Silver wake up?

[thelonelyshore-if]

Perri 🤝Ravi

( writing their drabbles and trying to hint at their character arcs & romances & Issues while also trying to keep the really important bits quiet )

[xinganhao]

hii ive been a long time lurker on your page and i was just wondering(you totally dont have to answer this btw) you always say that you wrote your fic while keeping other people in mind,,, have you ever kept yourself in mind while writing something too?? (sorry if this is too invasive)

i know it took me a while to get back to most asks (i'm still in a semi-ia status, i suppose haha) but i saw this when it first came in, and i've been thinking of it for quite a bit! you're not being invasive at all; i actually found it as a good opportunity to introspect for a bit ‹𝟹 i think, to a certain extent, all/most of my writing is for somebody else, whether it's a specific person, an ode to the idol themself, or just the fandom in general which i've grown to care for. when you see stuff in "moments" formats on this blog (i.e. mostly just texts, no headcanons or expansions), those may be the closest to writing with 'myself in mind'. i think that spending more time on this site, building more relationships, and interacting with a following/accepting requests highly impacts who i produce content for and why i produce it in the first place. this is tricky, and motivation becomes a real question, hence the reason why i've probably slowed down in posting :'-)

[air--so--sweet]

Read this post by @buddiex911 and ended up writing whatever this is in my notes app. In case it's doesn't come across it's not that Eddie's just unbelievably oblivious, he's just in that place where he's on the cusp of realising something that his brain has tried to hide from him for a long time and the feelings related to that are coming to the surface, but the reason for those feelings is still hidden (me projecting my own experiences onto my blorbos? Never!) Will I spin this into something longer so we get the actual feelings realisation and not just a pile of introspection and angst? Maybe. My track record would suggest otherwise but I've been writing more in general of late so you never know...

He hasnt been sleeping lately. Isn't able to. It's not like when worked at dispatch. When he lay awake at night staring at the ceiling while the dissatisfaction with his life ate away at him, at his carefully crafted veneer, exposing all the pain and hurt and trauma that he had claimed to have brushed off, that he had instead buried deep inside himself and pretended wasnt there.

It's different this time because Eddie actually understands his emotions now. Allows himself to actually feel his emotions now. And what he feels is sad. Incredibly, desperately and overwhelmingly sad. He just doesn't know why. He has Chris back, not only back in his life, but back under the same roof as him. That roof is in El Paso, but rebuilding his relationship with his son is worth the sacrifice of his life in LA. He misses it, and he talks about missing it a lot in therapy, talks about allowing himself to grieve that life. That's not why can't he can't sleep though. It isn't what's keeping him awake at night. Eddie can't sleep because when he lies alone in the dark, when Chris is asleep and the house is silent, he feels like something is missing, something vital. He just doesn't know what. Crying doesn't come easily for Eddie. Even on the rare occasion when he wants to he normally can't. He suppressed his tears so many times his body thinks that's what it's supposed to do. He can only think of one time before this when he really, fully cried as an an adult and that had felt more like he had no choice, like pressure had been building inside him for so long he had to release it somehow or Eddie himself would combust. Even then he had released most of that pressure by taking a baseball bat to everything in his bedroom. Now though his chest aches so profoundly and overwhelmingly with sadness and loss that it feels like there is nothing he can do but cry. He is so overcome that all he can do is sit out on the porch, so Christopher won't overhear him, and let himself shake with the force of his sobbing, without knowing why. How did he lose something that was so fundamental in his life that he feels like part of himself is missing and not know what it is that he's lost? How was he so unaware of what it meant to him that he didn't even register that it would be a loss until after it had already happened? At some point he made a terrible mistake, but he doesn't know what it was and so he can't make it right. There is nothing he can do but sit in the cool night air and cry until his head throbs, and his eyes sting and his throat feels raw. And still his chest aches. When he finally passes out from exhaustion he dreams the same dream he does every night. He won't remember it in morning beyond a vague sense of dread. Still unable to face it. He dreams that it's the day he left LA. He gets in his truck and pulls out from the curb while Buck stands in the rain and waves as he drives away. Eddie watches him in his rearview mirror becoming smaller and smaller as he gets further and further away. Watches until he's just a speck in the distance. Watches until he can't see him at all anymore. Watches until he's gone from Eddie's life. His entire body screams at him to stop, to turn around, to go back, this is a mistake, he's making a mistake, he needs to stop this right now! And he tries to, tries to slam on the brake, to wrench the wheel, to do something, why isn't he doing anything?! But it's just a memory. This has already happened so he can't can't change anything. All he can do is watch it play out the way it did that day. Watch as he keeps on driving, unaware that he's breaking his heart in the process.

[aaternum]

sometimes, late at night when she's in bed alone, ryu looks at the emptiness that resides beside her in the sheets. she'd turn on her side and run her digits along the cold fabric, mapping it with her touch. its a familiar vacancy. one she'd stopped trying to fill with imagination and just lets be. it isn't always uninhabited. sometimes it was a temporary stop for a small few until they found somewhere else to make home of. and maybe one day someone would warm it long enough to never want to leave it. she'd drop her gaze to the spaces between her fingers and draw her other hand forward, pressing her palms together gently. it's never warm or cold. it just is. it's just enough. she'd fill the vacancy's between each digit and curl into herself, tucking her clasped hands beneath her chin. she'd wish she could warm herself the way another could, but she stopped trying to replicate the feeling. she may not have had the touch of another to remind her she wasn't an existence haunting her own walls, but she had herself. she could hold her own hand. that could be enough to make it through the night. that could be enough.

[ceruleansonata]

Hey, so. Update.

Things have gone really, really bad, really fucking fast.

Isla Yura is trying to recreate the Tragedy of Sablier, and he's using the children of Fianna's.

I'm okay right now. So is Vanessa. Her valet, Hans, is. Not.

Right now, we're trying to find Oz.

[waddingham]

rebecca wants a pet

this is just a silly little ditty but here <3

Amongst all these things and more, he has learned that she does not do subtlety. Her opinions, thoughts, wants are shared unflinchingly, in a way he admires as someone who tends towards pleasing others over himself. She doesn't demand and criticize but simply shares herself with him – her opinion is always a prompt to hear his, her thoughts are little hands reaching out to know and be known by him, her wants passed along in hopes of him wanting too. And she makes it easy to respond in kind.

There's probably half a million things he's learned about Rebecca Welton in the first year of living with her. Big things and small things – she can destroy a bowl of berries and nuts in a matter of seconds. She has an almost frightening ability to hold her alcohol. She does a tiny bit of yoga everyday and those minutes of solitude are important to her. She loves him voraciously, would do just about anything for anyone in her club, and doesn't believe she will ever uncomplicate her relationship with her mother.

And because she so rarely employs subtlety, he doesn't think it's anything notable at all when she finds a new minor interest. 

"Look at this."

He turns his eyes from the TV to her, stretching an arm along the cushion as she scoots closer along the couch. She angles her phone so he can see – it's a video of a tabby cat with a mouthful of leaves, chirping as it crosses someone's yard. He grins at it, chuckling as it drops them and sits with satisfaction next to its contribution.

"She brings them a little pile of leaves everyday," Rebecca chuckles.

"Look at her go. Doin' her part."

"She's a good girl."

"Lot better than a mouthful of mice," he remarks.

She gives him a horrified look. 

"What?" he chuckles. "You never had a cat?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Have you?"

"There was an outdoor cat when I was growing up that hung around our house. My mom hated it 'cause she's scared to death of mice and loves the birds and he would come around with either one or the other dead in his mouth and leave it. Tryin' to get on her good side, I guess." 

She stares at him. "That's disgusting."

He laughs a little bit, tilting his head. "Yeah. He brought a bird up on the stoop once, still movin', and Mama was so mad, she smacked the back of his head for him to drop it. And he did. And then another little bird came flutterin' out of his mouth and flew off."

She shakes her head, a smile pulling at her mouth. "You're full of shit."

"I am not," he laughs. "Saw it with my own eyes. He was a big fella."

She snorts, looking back down at her phone. She stays close, leaning against his side as she scrolls on. 

It takes him a while to take notice of the running theme. They send all kinds of silly stuff back and forth – videos and pictures and jokes. She sends him screenshots of funny tweets she sees, sometimes about him or the team, sometimes just random things she thinks will amuse him.

But suddenly there's a very large uptick in cat videos. 

×××

She blames Keeley. It's Keeley's fault entirely.

She doesn't know what possessed her friends, if it was the influence of Phoebe or what, but they've adopted a cat – a beautiful, lithe, sleek one that could nearly be taken for a tiny leopard for its coloring. She's a lively little thing, playful and talkative, but she seems to adore Rebecca. When she goes over, she spends the length of her visit circling her feet or pacing her lap on the couch, purring like a fiend, pushing her head into Rebecca's palm.

And, goddammit, Rebecca likes it. She likes watching her prance around, flopping around on the floor for attention, just in general being entertaining and sweet. 

She sees them everywhere now – or at least is really noticing them as she scrolls through social media, seeing Leslie's sons posting videos of their new kitten and Keeley and Roy's little minx chasing her tail and random strangers with unnaturally gorgeous felines. 

She hasn't any idea how Ted feels about getting a pet. And normally she'd just tell him, have all her arguments outlined, or just recklessly show up with one one day, but they have quite literally just settled into living together. She doesn't want him to say yes just because she wants it and then hate it and hate taking care of it – she wants him to want it too. So she's going a little more insidious. Or trying to, sending out feelers by sending him cats and seeing what he says. 

She's not having much luck. He will aww and ooh, but doesn't express any disdain or desire to get one. Which isn't helping her.

"Who's idea was the cat?" she asks Keeley. 

"I wanted a dog and Roy wanted a cat," she says, stroking Camilla's back as she arches on the couch next to her. "But we settled on her 'cause she's so cool and active and spirited, she's like a low maintenance dog."

Keeley gives her a little grin. "You want one, don't you?"

"I do," Rebecca admits, scratching Camilla's neck as she crosses to her. 

"You guys should get one then," Keeley says. "They're so easy."

"I haven't asked Ted what he thinks yet," she says. 

"Well, I don't think he would refuse you anything, first of all," she says, sipping her wine. "And also how cute would he be with kittens all over him?"

"Stop," she says, tilting her head. "Or I'll show up at home with a box of them tomorrow."

Keeley giggles. "I think he would like a cat. Or a dog, but I would guess you–"

"I do not want a dog," Rebecca says. That's a lot more mess, care, and maintenance to jump right into when she's never even had a pet.

She hopes he wouldn't rather have a dog.

She supposes she's going to just have to bring it up outright – he's not catching on and she's already tired of trying to be slick about it.

×××

"Hey," he calls out when he hears the front door open. He gets one in response as she comes in, kicking her shoes off. She's earlier than he expected – she usually lingers late into the evening when she goes over to Keeley and Roy's.

He looks up at her from his sprawl on the couch as she rounds the sofa and immediately plants a knee between him and the cushions, crawling up and laying over him.

"You weren't gone long," he remarks as she settles herself against him, his arm landing on her back, her head on his middle.

"No," she sighs. "I left when Roy got back from his sister's. Keeley seemed…eager to be alone with him."

He chuckles, pushing his hand through her hair. "Well, cheers to them."

She giggles a little bit, rubbing a hand along his side over his t-shirt. She relaxes against him – the loveliest blanket he's ever had the pleasure to be covered with.

"I like their kitty," she remarks and he smiles.

"She's a lil' firecracker," he says. "Cracks me up."

She rolls her head until her chin is planted on his chest to look up at him. Her eyes are a little wide, eyebrows tipped up. 

"Can we get one?"

His smile grows as he tilts his head. He never would've taken her for a pet person.

"Sure," he says. He likes cats.

She almost scoffs, closing her eyes. 

"Of course you're going to be that easy about it."

He chuckles. "Do you want me to argue with you about it?"

"No, but I thought it would take at least a little convincing," she says and he squints at her a little bit. 

"Is that why you keep sending me cat stuff?"

She does scoff then, rolling her eyes. "Yes."

"Why?" he laughs. "What do you think I have against cats?"

"I don't know," she says, laying her head back down in exasperation. 

And since when does she do sneaky?

He chuckles again, smoothing a hand over her hair. 

"We'd have to go get some stuff," he muses. "But I remember Higgins saying he can't go to the pet store on Saturdays 'cause the shelter sets up with a bunch of kitties and he knows he'll go home with one. We could go then. Get the stuff and peek at the cats." 

"I already have everything saved to order online," she mumbles and he laughs.

"You could've just said something, Rebecca."

"I was trying to sniff you out first," she says. "But you gave me nothing."

"I'm sorry," he chuckles. "What kinda kitty do you want?"

"A soft one. Sweet one. Not so crazy as Camilla."

"Alright," he says. "Kitten?"

"I would like a kitten, I think," she says, lifting her head again to look at him. "Start from scratch."

"Okay, then," he smiles. "Sounds like fun."

×××

He didn't know what he expected when she said she had stuff saved, but he really shouldn't be surprised. The things that arrive over the next couple days look like something straight out of a housecat's dreams. A water drinking fountain and several very soft beds, toys, dishes, food that now has a shelf in the fridge, and, good lord, the litter box.

He just laughs when she sets it on the kitchen island. 

"It's automatic," she says, then lifts her hands, defending herself. "Do you want to do it? Because I don't."

He reads the side of the box, still grinning. "It connects to the WiFi?!”

"Oh, stop," she says. "Like I was going to skimp out on this."

"How much did this cost you?" he asks, looking up with a grin. 

"What does that matter?" she says innocently.

"C’mon, tell me," he says. 

"No."

He looks in the shipping box, spying an invoice and snatching it before she can stop him. 

"Give me that–"

"Seven hundred pounds?!" he says, laughing. "Oh my God, Rebecca."

"Stop," she says, swiping the paper from him, smiling at his teasing. 

"You know it's gonna poop in it right?" 

"Exactly. And then neither of us has to touch it."

"Now I feel like we're not adopting a cat but selecting one lucky winner to come live a life of luxury and refinement."

She laughs, wrapping her arms around the box, giving him a haughty look. 

"If you'll excuse me. I have a cat shitter to set up."

He chuckles, watching her go, but following after a few minutes to help her. 

×××

"I was excited, but now I'm just sad," she remarks as they walk through the narrow room. 

"Yeah," he laments. "Now I feel like adopting a nice round dozen or two."

"I think we'll have to start with one," she says, taking another step, giving the next cat its due attention. "Hello. Aren't you lovely?"

They wander through at a slow pace, having been told the kittens they have are at the far end of the room, but she stops at every cage, offering her fingers and compliments to each kitty. 

They don't make it to the far end – he didn't really expect them to. 

"Oh," Rebecca says, coming to a complete stop at a cage. "Oh, look at you."

The cat inside is a pale gray that fades into white at its paws and nose with long fur – not the longest they've seen, but longer than the shorthairs – curled up in the little bed in the corner.

"Oh, he's pretty," Ted says, stepping closer.

"How do you know it's a he?" she remarks, sticking her fingers into the cage, greeting the kitty. "Hello."

It lifts its head, peering at them with lovely gray blue eyes. He sticks his own fingers in, watching the cat take an interest, standing and stretching.

"Oh," Rebecca says sadly, and he turns to her, finding her reading the information card hooked on the cage. 

"Hmm?"

"'My loving owner died and I had nowhere to go'," she reads aloud. "'I'm an affectionate, easygoing kitty that enjoys lots of lap time.'"

She turns to him with a frown, then to the cat as they both feel him rub himself along their fingers. Ted curls his fingers into his soft fur, turning back to Rebecca, finding her watching the kitty with a little heartbreak in her eyes. 

"I like him," she says.

"I thought you wanted a kitten," he reminds her softly.

She doesn't respond, watching the little guy push his head against her knuckles. He steps around her, trading spots to read the rest of the card for himself.

"He's already ten years old," he says, sliding a hand over her back. He doesn't have a problem with it – he wouldn't mind an older cat, but she seemed set on a baby.

"I know," she says slowly, like she's realizing she's pretty much made up her mind. "But I think he deserves a nice retirement."

He smiles at her, watching the kitty sit close enough for Rebecca to brush her finger over the soft fur at his chest, primly adjusting his big white paws in front of him before curling his tail around. He peers at them, then lets out a soft little mow that has both of them chuckling.

"See, you agree, don't you?" she says. "You're a little sweetheart, huh? I didn't even look to see what your name is."

Ted looks, having skimmed over it too, smiling at what he finds. "Arthur."

"Arthur?" Rebecca chuckles. 

"What a name, huh? Who picked up this little guy as a sweet little puffball of a kitten, looked at him on the most exciting day of his life and then gave him the most old man name possible? I'm so sorry, buddy."

"Oh, stop," she says, scratching at Arthur's chin as she reassures him. "I think it's a great name. And I don't think Theodore has any room to talk."

He laughs fully at that, hearing Rebecca chuckle with him. "Well, that's me told," he says, squeezing her side, pulling her attention as she turns. "Should we see if somebody will open his cage up so we can meet him?"

She nods, giving him a bright smile.

×××

Of course they brought old Art home. And it doesn't even take two days before they're both absolutely smitten. 

He's taken to following them around curiously, as well as flopping and rolling against the shag rug in the living room. He'd been absolutely riveted by the dining room, chirping and chattering at the birds through the windows – to their endless amusement – and surveying the backyard as if it were new domain he's claimed. 

He's just adorable. And quickly growing very comfortable here. 

Clearly.

"Well, he didn't take long to settle in, did he?" he remarks.

Rebecca's laid out on the couch with Arthur stretched along her front, his head nestled against her chest, paws stretched toward her chin. He can hear the little guy purring from where he stands at the end of the couch as she strokes his fur from ears to tail, grinning with pure delight.

"And he found the best spot already."

She chuckles, bending her knees to make room for him to sit. Arthur lifts his head, eyes opening at being jostled. 

"Oh, relax," she mutters. "We share with Ted, alright?"

She lays her legs over his thighs as he chuckles. 

"I see you're having no trouble bonding with our new resident," he says as his arms stretches along the back of the sofa.

"Of course not," she almost coos, rubbing at Arthur's cheek. "And don't think I didn't see you carrying him around like a baby yesterday."

"Oh, c'mon. He was lookin' up at me and making the saddest little noise. And you know what, I ain't even gonna pretend I wouldn't die for him already."

She chuckles, holding Arthur's little face as he just purrs and purrs. "You hear that? You have Ted's eternal devotion."

"Christ, he looks more in love with you than I am," he muses.

She laughs at that, glancing up at him. "I'm pretty sure he's very happy to not be in that cage anymore."

Arthur stands at the disturbance, stretching his back before he traverses Rebecca's body to see what Ted has going on. 

"I think you made a good choice, darlin'," he says to Rebecca as Arthur just stands on Ted's thighs, pressing up into his hand as he strokes him. 

"I love him," she mutters.

He smiles as Arthur throws himself against Ted's abdomen, rolling in his lap.

"Me too."

×××

When she steps into the bedroom, she just has to grin.

Ted's lounging on the bed, scrolling his phone with Arthur cradled in his arm against his chest, dead asleep.

It's almost hilarious to think about now – that she was uncertain if he'd enjoy having a cat. More than half the times she comes upon him in the house, he's either holding or talking to Arthur. He carries him around like a little prince and he just purrs like a madman.

Maybe they didn't end up with a box of kittens, but it's still unbelievably cute. And she hates to disturb it, but, right now, she's going to.

She crawls up onto the bed, leaning on an elbow next to him.

"What's going on here?" she asks, scratching the top of Arthur's head, startling him if his little mrrp is anything to go by.

"He needed snuggled apparently," Ted says as he drops his phone next to him. "And I think I make a pretty good bed if I do say so myself."

"I can confirm," she nods. "But he might have to go."

Ted frowns at her, stroking Arthur's side almost protectively. "He's fine here." 

"Okay, but what if I'm trying to have sex with you?" she asks, watching Ted's brows lift again. 

"Ah, well, I think you're a little late," he says, gesturing to the cat. "I think I'm otherwise engaged for the evening."

She gives him a flat look, getting a little grin back. 

"Arthur, buddy, I think you're in danger," he whispers to the cat, who has no reaction whatsoever. Ted shifts him to get him up and he just lifts his head and glares at him, dead weight against his chest.

"Oh, c'mon man, don't do this to me," Ted chuckles as Rebecca pantomimes looking at a watch. "Look at her. Be a little wingman here, huh?"

He's unenthused as Ted lifts him up and leans to put him on the floor. 

"There," he says, immediately rolling into her until she's on her back, grinning up at him. 

"I'm all yours," he mutters against her neck, his hands immediately bunching her shirt to get to her skin. "Though you might have to work out a schedule with the little man."

She snickers, pulling him down hard against her with a leg, sliding her hands against his back as she catches his lips with hers. She hums as he grinds against her, the little fever in her core telling her this probably isn't going to be especially leisurely–

They both freeze at the sound of the sheets rustling. They look towards the end of the bed, where Arthur's jumped back up, ears pinned back, feet braced against the duvet. Before either of them can say anything, he dives forward, chasing nothing, then does a fast loop before freezing again. 

She can't help but snort when he looks back at them, eyes wild before he does another circle, then gets distracted with licking his leg.

"What is he doing?" Ted chuckles, then startles when Arthur spins and leaps at his toes.

"Oh, Jesus, man!"

She barks out a laugh as he jerks his foot away and she's in stitches as Arthur chases after it before finally doing another loop, leaping off the bed and sprinting out the door. 

"What the hell–" Ted laughs, turning back to her as she catches her breath, pulling him against her again.

"He's not the forgiving kind apparently."

"Who wanted a cat again?" he asks, his grinning mouth falling to her jaw.

"I did," she laughs. "And it was so worth it."

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — backyard cookout.

JULY 4, 1986

“Jesus, the whole block is out there.”

Marty can’t stop looking out of the window, watching distantly as every single resident of Lyon Estates seems to be staking claims on their backyard. The people, the tables, hell, even the food, are all plastered in stars and stripes. His dad is welcoming everybody with a handshake, a clap on the shoulder, and a smile, like there’s a paparazzi hiding in the rose bush. His mom is chatting up Mrs. Wilson from across the street like they’re old pals, which is hilarious considering they were this close to shanking each other with the free, shitty mini candy canes at his dad’s company Christmas party two years ago. 

“Of course it is. It’s the same every year,” Dave returns, balancing vats of macaroni salad and potato salad as he works his way out the door, dressed in Sperrys, red shorts, and a navy polo shirt. 

What if I died, Marty briefly wonders, what if I died in the thunderstorm in 1955 and God screwed up and stuck me in yuppie heaven? What the hell did I do to deserve that?

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Dave promptly derails his train of thought. “Mom and Dad are insisting on taking family photos again this year. I tried telling ‘em I’m twenty-three and way too old for that shit, but–” 

“Dave, shut up,” Linda interrupts dryly, carefully carrying a bowl of punch so as not to spill it down her sleeveless blue and white dress. Marty spares a glance toward the red polo shirt and white shorts that are laid out for him. Matching outfits, Jesus Christ. “Marty, he’s right. Go get your stuff on.” 

“Uh, actually…” Marty rubs the back of his neck. “Actually, guys, I think I’m gonna sit this one out. I-I mean, there’s plenty of people out there already, and–”

“Sit it out!” Dave interjects. “Marty, what’s gotten into you lately? You love this!”  

“... I do?” 

It’s only at Marty’s look of genuine confusion that Dave’s face turns from indignant annoyance to deep concern, making lines in his forehead he’s way too young to have. 

“Quit being a dweeb,” Linda, halfway to the door, gives her brothers a glance over her shoulder. “Go get changed. I’m not bringing all this out by myself.” 

Searching his kid brother’s face one more time, Dave follows his sister out the door. 

When he’s actually outside and sitting on the front steps, watching the kids waving sparklers and running around the yard, Marty realizes he can’t feel his hands. 

It doesn’t freak him out now, but back when it first started happening, his breath would freeze in his throat, his heart trying to make a break for it out of his chest as he made sure that he wasn’t being erased from existence. Now, it’s just one of those things. Maybe he’ll ask somebody about it, but he doesn’t want any more people looking at him the way Dave just did.

Shrieking and talking and sizzling bounce all around him, but it sounds like it's coming from a radio in the other room. Maybe somebody left the TV on again. Maybe–

“Marty?” 

He blinks. Worried brown eyes look back at him and there’s a hand on his cheek he almost– almost– shrinks back from. 

“Jennifer?” he breathes. “The hell are you doin’ here? Your parents… your parents go to Montara for the Fourth. Right?” 

“Yeah, but for the last couple years I’ve stayed in town with you,” she responds. “Remember?” 

“I…” 

“Come on,” Jennifer encourages, gently taking his hands and pulling him up. She lets go of one hand but tightly holds onto the other. “It’s a little crowded for me.”

“Yeah,” Marty agrees, squeezing her hand back, smiling despite the pricking behind his eyes and the lump in his throat. “Yeah, me too.” 

Even if everything else is a shit show, at least two things have stayed the same; one, he doesn’t deserve Jennifer Parker, and two, he’s crazy about her. 

She leads him back inside where she’s put her roller skates and helmet by his skateboard, propped up against the front door. Once they’re geared up, they skate off hand in hand down the streets of Hill Valley. 

The sound of Einstein’s barking and Jules and Verne laughing greet them. The boys are chasing the dog around– mostly through the elaborate automatic sprinkler system Marty had helped Doc had set up earlier in the summer– while Doc fusses over the grill and Clara sets the patio table.

“Hey,” Marty tentatively tries, leaning his skateboard up against the side of the house as Jennifer undoes her skates, “Room for two more?”

“Marty!” Doc exclaims, immediately abandoning his post and sweeping the boy into his arms, an embrace which is gratefully and tightly returned. “Jennifer!” Marty moves over and Doc extends his arm to accommodate her, and she eagerly joins the hug. “You made it!” 

“Marty’s here, Marty’s here!” Verne whoops, pumping his fists in the air victoriously. 

“Hello Martin! Hello Jennifer!” Jules chirps, waving with both hands. 

“Emmett, the hamburgers!” Clara calls to him, laughing, as Doc lets out a theatrical gasp and races back to the now slightly smoldering patties. 

Clara joins the two teenagers, wrapping a maternal arm around them both. 

“I’m so glad you could join us,” she says warmly, “We were hoping you would. I know it’s not anywhere near what your family puts on, Marty, but–”

“No, Clara, it’s great,” Marty reassures, leaning into her touch. “It’s all great.”

[aswallowssong]

Here's my masterlist of the prompts for this year (maybe this time I'll finish them all!)

“I’m not hungover, I’m just sick” (Or vice versa)

Too much of a Good Thing/Overindulgence

Campus/Con Crud

“Great. I got a cold for my birthday.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you up”

Dizziness/Vertigo

Borrowed Hoodie

“The closest doctor is probably hours away from here!”

Overdramatic Patient/Caretaker

The Sniffles™

Medieval Treatment

“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up/coughing up a lung”

Doctor’s Note

Clean Sheets/Fresh Pajamas

“Who decided ______ is ‘sick people food?’”

Toxin/Poison

Brain Fog/Spaced Out

“My body is one big ache”

Hypochondriac Tendencies

Medication Bribery

Anaphylactic Response

“You didn’t use my cup, did you?”

Under a Spell

Tales from the Waiting Room

Summer Flu

Flushed Cheeks

“This is non-negotiable”

Pulling a ‘Ferris Bueller’

Sick on a road trip

Hospital Bed

Some of these are the alternates, because there are things I don't always feel comfortable writing about (or a desire to, tbh.)

[oficeandwind]

he HATES nightmares. more specifically, kami hates the nightmares that feel too vivid and real. the ones that have him crying out, unable to move, and only able to watch as the demons in his dreams stalk closer and closer to him. the same nightmares that have him bolting upright with a scream, because said demons share his mother's face.

makoto hasn't haunted him in a very long time. not that he misses her face or presence; that stupid hallucination had fucked with him plenty to last a few lifetimes. he just hates that every now and then, he'll wake up too terrified to discern nightmares from reality, like she's there with him.

being panicky is never helpful, and neither is staying in bed when he's trying to calm his racing heart. he can feel it now, hand pressed against his chest to feel that rapid thrumming that reverberates through his head. even his breathing is in pace with his pounding chest, making it hard to even THINK straight. his main two thoughts are of his cousin in the room next door, and the still visceral fear that something is looming in the darkness. of course, his heart sounds and feels like some echoing drum beat that signifies something ominous that is to come.

that fear is enough to launch himself out of bed, throwing himself against his door with a series of loud thunks. kami doesn't even know what time it is, though the tiniest beams of light from his window tell kami that it is still far too early for him to make this much racket.

it's such a fucking pain to learn how to be considerate of roommates now.

at least opening his door and moving from his room to his living room is a relatively quieter act. kami flops down on the sofa with a groan, burying his face in the cushion and pressing his head down. this makes it hard to breathe, but at least this option is better than the hyperventilating he was close to achieving. not that his heart rate is any closer to slowing down, yet.

this is almost nice though. his sleep addled brain is likening this to his stint in the facility, when he had to be subdued and quarantined for nightmares and other outbursts. it's STRANGE, how such a dark time in his past would also be one of the few memories to bring him comfort now. it's a twisted sort of comfort, but his brain always had a tendency to work in the strangest of ways.

how had the staffed calmed him down back then? everything had been repetitive, designed to keep him subdued. the staff soothing him with low voices, letting him temporarily play with stim toys, or even offering him candy to suck on if his cravings got too bad.

turning his head to the side, he keeps his eyes closed as he sucks in a small breath. it's more of a painful gasp, since he's still trying to slow his breathing in general, but it's something. he's also stretching his arm downward to fish for something he KNOWS is under the sofa. kami loathes the taste of candy, but this item is the next best thing. (or in some ways, better than candy.)

it's an expired pack of cigarettes. pushing himself upright, he rests on his knees, leaning against the arm of the sofa to peer inside the box. the still faint light from outside is more than enough for kami to see what the contents are. two cigarettes remain, with one of the cigarettes bent and crumpled. the second one looks like it's been snapped in half, with all contents spilling into the box. well, now spilling ash onto the carpet.

future kaminari can clean that up later. ren, if he comes out of his room, can deal with the smell. he can't remember if ren ever smoked or not, but that's not something he's going to concern himself with for the moment. right now, kami is taking the still intact cigarette and putting it between his lips. the stale, almost gross scent hits his nose and throat instantly, and he's slumping to the side, lying back down and pressing back against the sofa.

it feels like a light switch had been flipped; his heart starts slowing down, along with his breathing. his eyes even roll back as the nostalgia sends dopamine straight to his brain, the nicotine cutting through that stress and panic like some security blanket. for a brief moment, kami can even pretend the cigarette is lit.

he doesn't smoke anymore. it had been hard to quit in the first place, but he'd managed it, mostly. it had taken a lot of effort from both cyno and chongyun, and even his therapist had pitched in where she could. that doesn't mean kami got rid of all his cigarettes completely; there are still boxes stuffed into various corners of his apartment. he likes to take them out and hold them sometimes, just to FEEL like he can relax. like now, for example.

the cravings will always be there, of course. and kami LOATHES them. he hadn't wanted to even pick up smoking in the first place, detesting the way the nicotine calms him down with it seems like nothing else will. it's disgusting, but it's all probably makoto's fault anyway.

somehow, her issues had always been his messes to clean up. even after she'd passed, he still had to work out all the stupid details. the stress of being an orphaned teenager had definitely taken its toll. no WONDER he'd turned to drugs and ended up with a bad crowd. maybe this was her way of continuing to punish him for simply existing, he doesn't know. all he really cares about is that somewhere along the way, he'd fallen into a dark pit that he's still trying to climb his way out of.

kami hasn't told anyone about everything. chongyun and cyno know bits and pieces. they know a lot more than ren does, that's for sure. they'd been there while kami spent his time in the facility trying to get his head screwed back on straight, and they were there to help him readjust to life on the outside.

they were also there when ren supposedly died.

as far as what REN knows, kami isn't sure how much more he wants to offer his cousin. ren has his own issues to deal with, and everything about his lifestyle feels kaminari with more dread than he realistically knows how to handle. it just means kami CAN'T burden ren with this. ren knows enough to recognize kami isn't exactly stable, but just how much of kami's past, and how much he'd taken over the years, is still in large part a mystery.

it would break ren's heart to learn that kami still struggles with ren showing up on his doorstep. the nightmares from that alone have kami downing more coffee than he probably should. recovery and stability never seem consistent anymore.

kami loves all of them though. the last thing he'd ever want to do is HURT them, considering how much they care about him in turn. which is why, when he now hears ren's bedroom door open, followed by the bathroom door closing, kami is yanking the cigarette out of his mouth and shoving it back into the box. he clutches the box tightly in his hand, almost SQUEEZING, before stuffing it back under the sofa. the temporary high he felt moments ago is gone, leaving him feeling anxious again, though less so than when the nightmare woke him.

it's kami's love for ren that has him hiding these things from him. kami doesn't want to explain why he still has cigarettes hidden throughout the apartment, nor does he wants to explain why he still sticks them in his mouth. sure, ren would probably want to know. he's probably even going to find out, given how rancid they all smell. kami's noticed that ren seems driven to PROTECT him. the gesture is apppreciated, and kami's even leaning into it. it's hard to remember the last time he had someone so driven to care for him like this (though chongyun and cyno certainly help). unfortunately, ren can't chase away kami's inner demons, nor can he lift a sword to defend kami against himself. even if kami would like for that to actually occur.

besides, kami's vow to help ren out takes precedence. the fatui are still out there, and kami isn't about to let his cousin slip through his fingers again.

the sound of the toilet flushing snaps kaminari back to reality. before ren can come out of the bathroom, kami's on his feet and kicking the stray ash under the sofa as well. the smell of stale cigarette is already starting to seep into the carpet, and kami knows he's going to have to explain himself at some point. it's a conversation that can happen LATER. he's already walking back to his room, trying to make it before ren can come out of the bathroom.

though, kami doesn't bother shutting his door behind him. for some reason, he feels safer with the door open, rather than closed. at least with the door open, ren is only next door, and neither of them will have to fight in case kami NEEDS something from him.

grabbing his phone, kami flops down on his bed before checking the time. it's only five in the morning, which earns a loud groan. for most people, this would be a great chance to sleep for another couple of hours. for kami though, his alarm going off at seven just means he'd end up more tired than if he just stayed awake. he might as well just play around with cheap mobile games for the next couple of hours. that's better than letting himself drown in his thoughts.

at least this time, he's not stewing alone. even if ren is hiding in his room, either asleep, awake, or somewhere in between, he's still only a wall-knock away.

and progress is still progress.

[iinexorabile]

                  Chosen || Drabble

’They put up a good fight. I think one of them almost cut me back there,‘ slowly, Yaha pulled the sharp end of his scepter from the back of a bandits head, one of the many corpses that surrounded the blonde elf.

Urick was a couple of paces away, with no shortage of dead bandits laying at his feet as well. 

’One of these guys?' Urick would step over a severed arm, doing his best to not get his shoes dirty with blood. If there was anything that was difficult as hell to clean off, it was blood.

’I doubt that! I think you’re giving them a bit too much credit,’ Urick smiled, looking over at the blonde elf, his best friend.

Yaha was staring back, a smile, just as bright as Urick– nay, brighter, creased upon his lips.

’Ahh, maybe I am. It’s not like that is a crime, though.’ Yaha would make his way toward Urick, not caring for the corpses he stepped over/on. There sure was a lot of them, just how many had he and Urick dispatched? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? It was so hard to tell. There were lots of bodies laying on that cave floor, many of them cut into a myriad of different pieces.

Their numbers may have been lost, but if the mass of bodies and body parts said one thing, it was that Urick and Yaha were a great team. There wasn’t anything they couldn’t accomplish when they worked together.

’I would not be giving you too much credit, if I said you fought like a true knight back there, would I?’ four or five feet away from Urick, and Yaha stopped, his eyes focused on Urick’s own.

Urick chuckled, giving his friend a nod of approval, ’Haha, no of course not! I know when to take a compliment.’

The white haired Lieutenant would then turn around, stretching, and giving a loud yawn. It was about time they returned to headquarters, they had achieved their goal. Find the bandits planning who were planning a raid on one of the districts, and end them, that’s all they had to do, and now that they were done, Urick saw no reason to stay around this corpse gathering any longer.

Turning around like he did is when he first saw it though. What did Urick see? A scythe. Toward the end of the cave, laying upon a wide stone table, sat the most interesting weapon Urick had ever seen. He hadn’t noticed it before amid all the fighting, but now that everything was calm, it had finally caught his eye.

Curious, Urick moved across the cave, once again carefully avoiding any piles of innards or blood. The weapon looked nice, but he still didn’t want to get his shoes dirty, especially with Yaha present, they were gifts from the guy after all.

’Hey Yaha, do you see that?’ Urick says, gesturing to the scythe.

’See what?’ Yaha had only focused on two things during this whole trip, the bandits, and Urick, and now that the brigands were lifelessly scattered about, he hadn’t given much thought about anything else but his fellow lieutenant in this dank cave.

’This weapon–’ Urick had already gotten close to the scythe, his eyes looking directly down at the masterpiece before him. ’– look at it. It must’ve belonged to the bandit chief.’

Yaha eyed the weapon, a cold chill traveling down the back of his spine in effect. There was something about that scythe that didn’t feel right. Yaha was not one for religion, but that scythe simply felt, and looked..unholy. There was no better way to describe it. The table it sat upon didn’t help either; some sort of macabre altar, by the looks of it.

’Are you sure you should be touching that?’ Yaha voiced his concern, concern that was also evident in his golden eyes.

’It’s just a weapon!’ Urick, jovial as always, picked the scythe up from its resting place. The weapon was heavy, heavier than expected. Even so, it was nothing Urick couldn’t handle. ’A very nice weapon. Better than that rusty heap of metal I was assigned.’

Yaha frowned; he wanted to tell Urick the weapon didn’t seem right, he wanted to tell him to put it down, but Yaha could not work up the will to do so. Urick seemed so excited about the scythe, and the last thing Yaha wanted to do was make Urick of all people sad. When his fellow Lieutenant finally turned around, the scythe still in hand, Yaha forced a smile onto his face. ’It certainly looks more imposing. Are you going to keep it?’

Urick would look down at the scythe once more. From the tip of the blade, all the way down to the skull-themed ornament below the handle, this weapon seemed..perfect. It wasn’t an axe– the kind of weapon Urick was familiar with–, but it was shaped like one.

Yes, Urick was going to keep it, he was dead set on that. ’I think I will! I’d be crazy to pass something like this up.’ Urick would bring his eyes up off his new weapon, looking back toward his friend.

The two of them continued on talking, no doubt speaking on their plans for returning to the Knight’s headquarters.

Unbeknownst to either of them, there was a dark entity listening in, watching them, but mostly, watching Urick, from the skull on the scythe’s handle.

          F̢̩͍̠̅̒̀̀ḯ̫̬̙̙̌̈́̉ǹ̪̱̭̲̑̓̕a̛̯͉͙̖͂͊͗l̜̗̖̭̾̔͒̋l͓̼̱̬̇̇̽͝y̡̗̣̎̀͑͠ͅ,̦̞̬̰̃̿̓̕ ͖̹͔͇̀͛̏̃a̧̡̳̩̎̋͒͠ ̢͖̱̂̓́̍ͅv̧̼͇͈̍͗̽̐e̙̤͉͖̽́̃̏s̡͉̝̖̔̂͆̋ŝ̮̱̺͇͑̈̈́e̳̞̦̗͐́̊̏ľ̠̻̦̟̈́̾̍ ̦̰̤̆̃͋̚͜ḧ̡̦̫̳́̽̇́ą̩̮̥́͛̉́ṣ̭͕͍̋̓͌̓ ̙̳̮̬̊̎̀̊b̭̤͇̬̋̄͛̏è̛̤̪̝̱̌͝é͎͖͓̬͛̕̚n̦͙͖̖̊͐̊̉ ̣̙̩̞̈̿͊̔c̜͉̹͔̄͊̅͂h̦͉̤͍͋́̑̈́ơ̞̣̫̯̑͌̋ș̢̯̗͑̂͆͝ė̘̖͘̚͜͜͝ṇ̙̹͎͌́̉͠.͚̯͔͍̏̈́̃̓

[soulsxng]

@arcxnumvitae and @fatestouch replied to your post:

WHAT?!

👀👀👀

"It is not an issue of having grown tired of my position, or anything of the sort...though it would likely be a lie if I were to say that I were not feeling somewhat drained."

There's a small hum, and Sivel finally lifts his gaze from the mage pools to regard Ranadi and Alsina, who had eventually begun with a steady (albeit nervous) stream of questions. Why he had brought this up. When he had begun to think about it seriously. Would it be temporary, or permanent? Who would replace him, and what he would be doing, instead?

...What had happened to make him want to abdicate in the first place?

"I love Vasyri...I do. And I love my people just as deeply. But over these past few years, I have come to wonder if, perhaps, I have done all that I am able to for them. Vasyri deserves someone with a fresh outlook on things. Someone who does not look at potential alliances and associations that could benefit us, or end up overly focused on how things might go wrong. Someone that does not feel compelled toward the need to do things on our own, even if we do have allies, so as not to potentially open ourselves up to further threats."

"I think about my home, and I think of what I need to do so as to not fail them again. How I do not think I could stand to see any of my people suffer as they did in the past. And no matter whether I realize that or not, I am never able to shake myself from being almost as overprotective of them as I am of all of you. Of my family..."

"That makes any growth or evolution difficult, if not outright impossible. I know that, and yet...I find that, more and more, I am unable to justify the risks necessary to see much worthwhile change take place. So...while I do not necessarily believe myself to be a poor leader, I feel as though things have grown to be stagnant."

"And all of that is without mentioning the ire that so many outside of Vasyri view me with. I worry that, as long as I am Luminary, the stigma attached to myself and my deeds will continue to weigh Vasyri as a whole down, as well."

He talks through everything in a soft, even tone. It's obvious to both Ranadi and Alsina that this is something he had put a good deal of thought into, since a year or two ago, when he had commented half-jokingly about it to the pair of them.

"Besides...I miss it. How things used to be, when we were younger. Being able to go wherever we fancied at a moment's notice. Exploring and experiencing things with our claim-- something that I have never had the opportunity to do with Ania or Cyrus even once. It feels like, by becoming Luminary, I somehow came to believe that I had to give up so much of myself that, even in my earlier years of ruling, I would never have imagined doing. As if I gave up a part of my culture, pieces of who I am, moments with my loved ones...I look at the person I have become on occasion, and oftentimes, I do not like what I see. What I turned myself into, simply because I thought it was for the best of everyone involved. Because I thought that people would be more impressed, or more intimidated."

"...I do not intend to leave Vasyri forever, nor is this something I intend to rush. I want to be sure that whoever I pass this title onto, they are going to be the right fit. I still want to be around here and there to offer my support and assistance, and to teach people where I can-- both the new Luminary, and whoever else may want to learn from me. And when I'm not doing that, I think I would like to start by going along with Ania, Cyrus, and Sivan on one of their expeditions. After that, maybe I will take them on a trip to some of the spots that mother and father used to bring us when we were younger, with Naya and Nesimah...perhaps Quella. Both of you as well, if it is something you would be open to? It would hardly be the same, otherwise."

"Going back to my abdication, however. As I said, it is not something I intend to rush. I...am coming closer and closer to the conclusion that it is simply my time to take a step back, is all."

[pridelessdaydreamer]

✧ liberosis: the desire to care less about things. :3

obscure sorrows drabble prompts (still accepting bc i'm sillay)

// blood and death.

Linhardt, again, feels sick to the stomach.

The first time today was when they had first set out on this mission; though they knew they were in the care of a highly capable mercenary (well, Professor now) and that their enemies were no more than mere bandits, there had still been an unease that they couldn’t quite shake away. It was haunting, in a way; a ghost.

That unease is here as well, staring down at the lifeless bandit body before her. How quickly it had gone from threatening her life to being dead on the floor: a corpse. She remembers the sudden approach, the swing, her impulsive retaliation–

He cannot explain why he feels so upset about it; he simply does.

( You did this, Lin. )

As an act of self-defense (get up)—but that does little to lessen the nausea. It is nothing, he knows, in the face of all the bandits’ previous victims; it is a service, even, to put an end to those who terrorize the common folk. (The blood is still flowing.)

Does this life matter so much more simply because you can see them bleed?

It is a desire to care more and less all at the same time—less, that they might feel nothing and move on without another thought; more, that their determination to help others may override their predispositions to begin with. They are in the middle ground of their emotions—caught in the moment in the worst way.

He curls into himself then, trying to hold his insides together. (Everyone else had been so excited—so eager to demonstrate what they’ve learned.) Linhardt alone was the odd one out; he could not stand the sight of blood.

If only I could be more like Caspar. (Perhaps she could see this as entertaining somehow?)

Standing, sinking, then standing and sinking again; just breathe, Lin. (You have to continue after all.)

“This is terrible,” they mutter to themself. But it’s the only way to make sure he’s safe.

[frankenjoly]

I'm pretty satisfied with my writing + I'm a bottomless pit of writing (& insp) so I had to be nerfed with fear of being too spammy cjfjjgjfkfdndk