#wet cat shadow canon I can’t believe that

[sophfandoms53]

He’s been through enough this year LET HIM BE HAPPY FOR ONCE

[veinsfullofstars]

Who is your favorite character in the Kirby series.

Thank you for the question! Funnily enough, this is one I’ve answered before on my deleted account… though I only managed to save the sketch I did for it and not the response. I’m more than happy to answer it again, though! Let’s see…

Well, to start, Magolor is a big favorite of mine. Love that duplicitous little egg with all his big dreams and secrets behind that friendly façade. I got real obsessed with him after playing through KRtDLDx last year, seeing a whole new side of him thanks to the Epilogue (even wrote some fic during that time). It’s fun to think about all the different masks he wears and what he hides underneath them, the words he speaks versus the thoughts he feels, the layers that comprise him. He’s a character who’s experienced growth, who remains largely the same personality-wise but gains a newfound appreciation for friendship and kindness, from self-interested to… well, still self-interested, but with a genuine desire to bring joy to others. That said, I also like when he’s a snickering little bastard, cunning and prideful and smarter than half the people in the room with him (or so he believes). I like when he’s a monster gloating over his stolen victory; I like when he’s a sad wet cat picking up the pieces after his failure; I like when he’s himself again in the falling leaves of his redemption, exhausted and trembling but changed, ready to try again. All-in-all, I just think he’s neat. He’s silly and fun and complicated, and I want to shove him in the microwave and watch him spin (affectionate).

The same goes for Marx. Stars, I love this shitty little clown. Wanna punt him like a football. He was a fav from a while back, a character my nephew and I used to bond over all the time for our mutual appreciation of terrible jesters. I love his chaos, his manic joy, his deceptive nature - another case of sweet-and-friendly exterior hiding the twisted truth beneath. I love that he might’ve had history with the Animal Friends. I love that Kirby is still happy to see him despite everything he did. And, by Nova, is he a joy to write! Getting that perfect balance of silly li’l memelord and smarter-than-he-lets-on trickster is so much fun, especially when he has others to work off of (like a certain lying wizard, for example). Also, his wings are so stupid and perfect for him, and I love/hate them.

Then there’s my boy Meta Knight, another longtime fav, going back as far as my teen years, I think. I’ve always loved characters like him - cool, mysterious, fierce, a little edgy, a drop of darkness in an otherwise cutesy setting (no, you can’t prove I had a vampire phase or a Shadow-the-hedgehog phase, shut up). More than appearances, though, his character and dynamics with others is what really fascinates me. The rivalries-turned-friendships, his bonds with his crew, the grudges he holds, his presence (or lack of one) during a crisis, his ambitions and the journeys they take him on… for a character who speaks so little (at least in the games), his actions and the context around them speak volumes. Wonderful little knight. Secretive little container of multitudes, strong and stoic and not always in the right, but still good at heart. I give him a little pat on the head and tuck him in next to his king. Also, I thank him every day for getting me to study real bat wings - now his can look even cooler when I draw them.

And that goes double for my most recent fav, Dark Meta Knight. Canonically, this boy has almost nothing going for him beyond being the edgier version of MK, and while that’s great, I really didn’t think much of him at first. But then I discovered fandom stuff about him, and the Wave 2 gang, and the Darkroach ship, and now he lives in my head on spin-cycle. Being such a blank slate means he’s prime real estate for narrative, all my speculation and headcanons gettin’ slapped across that little edgelord’s stupid scarred face, and no one can stop me, hehe. I love thinking about him in relation to MK, what connects them and what separates them - honor versus dishonor, chivalry versus cruelty, a shared sense of stubbornness and pride, a ruthless desire to win at all costs. I love thinking about his relationships to the Mirror World, Shadow Kirby, or his own dark king. What ambitions does he have? Where do his loyalties lie? I love thinking about his brief appearance in KTD, wondering if what happened to Joronia was truly his intention or just a side effect of his rage. I love thinking about the unlikely friendship between him and Adeleine, Ribbon, and Daroach. How did that come about? What misadventures do they get up to together? What do they talk about? I love thinking about the fact that, despite everything, he still answered the call when Kirby summoned him in KSA, still joined the rest of the Star Allies and defeated the Void itself of the sake of the universe. Ugh. Damn this lad. He ping-pongs in my brain all day and night, to the point where I’m writing a whole friggin’ AU about it. Seriously, so many notes, 100k+ words in that file. Send help.

To cap off all the knight talk, we can’t leave out my boy Galacta Knight. Wretched fallen angel as radiant as he is terrifying, a powerhouse with the best theme in the whole series, a monster, a mystery, even something of a meme at this point. The ambiguity of this lad feeds me, the various takes and interpretations everyone seems to have of him, from betrayed hero to slick sociopath to vacuous monster to bumbling dork. He is potential, he is ambition unchecked, he is an age long dead and kept locked in a time capsule of tourmaline, Ancient in more than once sense. I do hate drawing his wings, though, despite how lovely they are.

There are countless others, of course - Adeleine, my very first favorite from my very first Kirby game; Kirby, for who couldn’t love everything about him, even his flaws; Daroach and his merry band of found-family misfits; Drawcia, lost, lonely, long gone mad, escaping into her art and taking everyone with her; our brave little ball of sunshine and hope, Bandana Waddle Dee; King Dedede and his own journey from antagonist to ally; the determined zealotry of Dark Matter Blade and the red gaze of his god; and so many more - but I think I’ve gone on long enough for now. Maybe I'll talk about them more in the future if anyone's curious. Hopefully, this all made sense (rambles like these can get away from me sometimes, haha). If you couldn't tell, this series means a great deal to me, its myriad of interesting set pieces and memorable characters all living in the nooks of my heart like keepsakes, little joys to look at and turn over and think about when I need them. I’m constantly discovering new things to love about this series, and I hope to discover more in the future, especially being here with so many others who feel the same. 💛

[fellpyrean]

I said I love writing corruption & Jon and I am not lying. A little snac.

Baby Jon makes a new friend. (touches of post-canon) 1100 words.

___________

Jon has always seen weird things. Too much, he thinks sometimes. Like he’s in one of those bad stories, the ones he doesn’t like to read because they make part of him feel bad, like he can imagine it if he just lets himself - like he could maybe imagine what it’s like to dance on a puppet’s strings, to feel hot, hungry breaths and the snap of sharp teeth on his neck, like he knows the shadows can reach up from under a bed and just make someone be gone. 

He’s seen the shadows dance. 

He’s seen a man walk into the fog on the dock and never come back. 

He’s seen a person who wasn’t pull on their skin like a glove and wiggle the plastic below and knew if he hadn’t darted off and hid when he did, that those wrong wrong fingers would have dragged him away. He heard them laugh. He smelled them when they walked by, something sharp and bright in their hand, heard their hollow voice speak words he knew but shouldn’t and when he came home, gran didn’t believe him. 

She said it was a costume. 

She said the spiders couldn’t sing or eat people and neither could books and eyes in pictures can’t really watch him. 

She lies a lot. 

He doesn’t think she means anything bad by it, but he knows it’s all true and he sees it all right there, every day, but nobody else does. The mirror thinks it’s funny. Jon doesn’t like the mirror much. It’s a bad friend. 

… But it’s still a friend. Jon doesn’t have a lot of those. 

He sees too much and he scares people. Not the things he sees, though. The mirror isn’t afraid of him. The spiders aren’t either. 

And… not the moth. 

He’s not seen it before. It sits on his windowsill, big as his hand and so fluffy and fat it reminds him of a puppy. It’s not really a moth. He can’t see the truth of it because the truth is just too big, but he can hear the song in the gentle jitter of its wings and knows it has too many voices for one moth. It sits and it sits and Jon watches it. 

Just watches. 

It smells too sweet, like a warm, happy home a-and his stomach turns even if he doesn’t know why. 

Being home is a bad thing, maybe. 

But the moth doesn’t move. It just sits and sings and Jon… relaxes. 

When it rains, he holds his breath and reaches around and above it to close the window and it steps forward like a lazy cat, like its little clawed feet can’t possibly carry its ponderous weight and Jon can’t stop his giggling. Its antennae twitch like big fluffy ferns in a breeze and its song trills like a laugh and its wings flutter like it’s having fun and. And Jon thinks maybe, it wants to be his friend, too. 

The rain patters against the old, empty house - gran would be back before dinner, Jon knew, but he misses before - and Jon holds his book in his lap. It tap-taps against the windows, plunks on the rooftop, splashes and ripples in the puddles in the garden. And. 

He cocks his head. 

There’s something else. 

Under the puddles. Down in the dirt, he hears a quiet, gentle song. Muffled, but happy. Moist and full and wriggling in the dark; in tunnels and tunnels, a million more voices in unison, working working working. A stranger song waits under the bushes in the wet corners of the yard - like strings and pipes in a great big web, waiting and waiting for their chance to come up and sprout and Jon gasps as he sees cottony white mushrooms pop up from the earth. Knows there are so many more, singing their own songs and just waiting waiting, loving. 

They are all so strange and different and so full, full of love. 

His eyes open in tears he doesn’t understand and he sees the moth. 

It’s singing. Its wings flutter, powdery soft as it sits on the corner of his book, and he can hear it. 

We would love you, it says, in words that shift and writhe and purr. 

All you ever wanted was to be loved. To not be left alone. 

We would always be there for you, it murmurs.

It is fat and heavy, its abdomen swollen and furred. And Jon knows how heavy it must really be. How full, how cold. 

How it longs for a home. 

(He misses home, too.)

Jon’s chest hurts. He knows his face is probably a mess, and he hiccups into his arm as he tries to scrub it clean on a sleeve. 

He doesn’t like to be alone. 

He does want friends. Friends who would listen when he sees weird things and love him even if he’s weird - and he must be, because isn’t it only the weird things that like him? 

The moth places a delicate claw on his hand. 

It still smells kind of bad. Like old potpourri, maybe, in a dusty old dish. 

We would love you the way your patron never could have. Know you and love you as you are. 

Isn’t that what you want? 

It’s heavy on his hand. Its little claws scratch at his skin, poke so gently as it looks up at him with those dark, dark eyes. 

We would be a home, all of us, together. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

It’s not his bedroom door, it’s no door in his house, but somewhere else, and it jolts him out of the song. Something is watching him. Watching him so hard he thinks maybe he missed a picture, but no. They’re all turned away, but he still feels it. 

The moth wobbles on his hand as he sucks in a breath and places it gently, slowly back on the windowsill. Its song still twines between the raindrops. Still whispers and crawls beneath the leaves, slithers in the warm wet. 

It’s the sound of love. 

Jon lets out a shaky, wibbly breath and tries not to wipe off his hand on his pants as he smiles at the big, fat moth. 

“I can’t be a home for you,” he says. More words crowd up on his tongue, struggling to burst out, but he swallows them down. 

The weight of being watched lays heavy across his shoulders. He doesn’t know how good it can listen, but he knows it can see what he does so he tucks his hands in his pockets. 

And he speaks in a voice almost as small as its smallest song. 

“Not yet.” 

(He doesn’t want to be alone. 

Not again. 

He is too small to hold them. But he can still hear their love. Each iridescent note, spun in buzzing, wonderful voices, dripping so sweetly upon his tongue.

He would gladly drown in their promises. 

After all, he laughs, cold and aching, wouldn’t it be better this way? To be devoured by something that loves him?) 

[writefightandflightclub]

hey love! hope you’re having a good day so far 💕 for the hc requests, what about javi with pets? dog, cat, whatever you wanna do ✨

Thank you so much for this ask! This turned into a more of a mini fic rather than hcs, so I hope it’s okay for you! 😁 I had so much fun imagining Javi with a cat! Hope you’re having a great day too! 🧡😊

Warnings: It’s mainly fluff / light angst. GN “reader” is mentioned, but their relationship with Javi is left undefined (i.e. written so that it could be interpreted as platonic as this wasn’t a x reader request, but could alternatively be read as romantic / sexual relationship); language; smoking; one crude “pussy” joke; non-explicit canon-typical references to sex work. GIF by @muvana and @zeldasayer

This cat is DEA (mini fic: Javier Peña)

Javi is alone in his apartment the first time he hears it. The cotton soft paw tapping at his window, just audible over the drum of the rain. He’s not sure why he draws his pistol as he tracks from his couch towards the sound - he’s confident Escobar’s men wouldn’t be quite so subtle.

That’s when he first sees it, after a moment of searching. A cat as elusive and grey as a shadow - aside from a pink little nose, and eyes as round and bright as flaming yellow suns.

Javi still can’t help but regard the animal with suspicion - as if they may be a narco or a communist, somehow. In fact, Javi is moments away from shooing the creature when he notes her rain-bedraggled fur. So, he pauses by the crack in the propped open window, the cat nuzzling her head against the frame, the gap slightly too tight to squeeze through.

“This is no place for a street cat,” Javi warns, in his deep, oaky timbre, and yet when he hears her pathetic little mew in response to the promise of his warmth, his heart melts. He unconsciously reaches out with his forefinger, and when she rubs her wet little nose against him through the crack, he already knows he’s going to cave.

“Alright then, little thing,” he purrs, before chuckling to himself in response to the crude joke forming in his head as he reaches for the latch. “Where’d you hear this is the place to be for the finest pussy in Medellin, huh? Have you been talking to Vanessa?”

As soon as there is space to squeeze through, the cat is inside, hopping elegantly down onto Javi’s hardwood floor with a thud of her paws, instantly beginning to preen and groom herself, purring like a motor.

Javi simply looks down at the cat for a moment, raising his arm to scratch his head and emitting a gentle grunt. Okay. What now?

Succumbing to those big round eyes, he crouches down and extends his hand towards the animal. Yet, for all the cat’s eagerness to be admitted, she initially pushes her ears back and recoils away with a half-hearted hiss.

“Easy girl,” he soothes, coaxing her to him, and as soon as his warm, firm hand makes contact the cat collapses onto her back, purring heavily and showing her belly. Another chuckle. “You just rolled on Escobar too easy, narco. He’s gonna be pissed.”

His eyes crease at the cat’s display, all too eager for affection, and the cat earns Javier’s only smile of the day. Without him noticing, he forgets for a moment. Forgets it all. All of the shit.

Perhaps it’s the unfamiliar peace in his heart, therefore, which compels him to say: “Okay. Well, if you’re going to stay the night, we’ve got to set some ground rules, alright?” The cat purrs more deeply as he lifts her and bundles her into his chest. Then, he carries her to the kitchen to seek out some suitable food. “Number one. No drugs in the house.”

***

Javi was so hospitable that the cat keeps coming. It isn’t every night, of course. Javi isn’t always home, or- quite often when he is, he isn’t home alone, and is therefore far too preoccupied to hear the signal- that cotton-soft paw tippy tapping at his window. But, when he is in a position to hear it - home and alone - that is precisely when he needs to see that little face most.

It is a comfort, that a being might choose to return to him when he’s usually the one leaving. Or the one paying for the company. And, even if he doesn’t realise it, Javi does what he does best. He gets attached.

More than that, Javi feels a muted pang of joy whenever the ball of fluff curls up on his lap, or whenever she follows him around his apartment inquisitively to see what he’s up to (or as he refers to it, acting as “back-up”). The first time he gets those little wet kitty kisses on his hawkish nose, he lets out a surprised laugh - one almost strangled with joy.

It isn’t long then, before he is taking her to get her jabs. Before he is buying her a collar - as if Javi could really have a being that belongs with him after all.

“What’s her name?” the vet asks, and Javi looks down, a resounding nothing on the tip of his tongue. He sees her fur, grey as a shadow. Her eyes as fierce and yellow as the lit end of a cigarette. The answer seems obvious, and he replies with a soft smile. “Smokes. Her name is Smokes.”

That day, Javi brings her home and pops Smokes softly on the couch. Then, he brings a cigarette to his lips, lighting it up as she waves a paw towards him. “You’re DEA now, kid.” he says with certainty. So. That’s it then. If anything ever happens to this cat -Javi’s cat- there will be hell to pay.

Soon after, in the days that follow, Smokes comes and goes as she pleases, and the arrangement suits both Javi and the feline just fine.

One evening, though, Javi is tetchy, even pacing the floor, and polishing off a whole packet of cigarettes. He could do with a little company after a tough day, but his little friend is nowhere to be seen. Smokes hasn’t returned to him in a while -a few days- and he won’t admit he is more than a little worried. So, he opts, against his better judgement, to knock on your door - the apartment opposite him. It’s not unusual for him to turn up at your door looking for smokes of one variety or another, he supposes, even if he does try to avoid it. Tries to avoid getting attached.

Javi’s mouth falls open in silent surprise as you open the door with a perturbed expression, and a bundle of grey fur in your arms. Well, well, well. Smokes has been found out a traitor after all.

“What’s up, Javi?” you ask impatiently.

“Is this a bad time?”

You stomp your foot and smile knowingly. “Some asshole put a collar on my cat.”

He reads your expression, and knows you’ve already figured out the shared predicament. “Your cat?”

“Well, she came to my window.”

Javi scratches his head. “Mine too.”

You tut at the fickle little cat in mock annoyance. It seems this is one promiscuous street cat.

There is a beat as you and Javi exchange lopsided smiles, and the furball in your arms throws herself towards Javi. She is as tricky to hold on to as an undulating wave and so, with a sigh, you transfer the cat from your hands to his - as if you had a choice.

“What did you call her?” Javi asks.

“Hm,” you chuckle through a knowing, closed-lipped smile. “I called her Javiera.”

Javi looks at you for a moment, his eyes narrowing, but all his sharp angles gone as he cradles the floofy smol bean in his arms. Even his voice comes out soft. “Why?”

You exhale a small breath, before cocking your head at him, evidently mulling over your words before you speak. Buying yourself some time, you step forward to give the cat a rub behind her ears. “Well. All that coming and going?” You look down at the sweet animal, your eyes glistening with thinly veiled sadness, your voice raw as it echoes into the bare hallway, even as you sport a determined smile. Then, you look up at him, a wistful expression there. “Reminded me of someone.”

A swallow dips down his long, corded neck, and something vaguely resembling guilt glints in his deep dark eyes. There is more beneath your words, he realises; unspoken but ever so thinly veiled. A commentary on the fact you could never get him to stay, perhaps, even if you did offer him warmth and contentment and everything worth staying for.

Javi feels like a stray cat sometimes. Like he may never find a home. Not really. And so, at the implication of your words, his eyes glisten with a subtle, thickly-veiled sadness now too. As though, if you believe that too - that he can never settle- it must be true.

However, his fears are assuaged when you reach up, and bravely cup his face in your palm. It is a gesture which feels at once familiar and alien to him. In fact, he almost recoils back as if afraid of the affection; that is, until your warm, firm hand settles at his cheek. After that, he wouldn’t dream of pulling away.

Your eyes tell him not to worry as your words tumble forth. Your fond tone reassures him it’s okay. “I just mean...” -you search for the right words- “...this agent has too much love to go around.”

A swallow trails down Javi’s long, corded neck as he labours to keep his expression neutral, and yet, the man appreciates your words more than you can know. Especially when your love is something he gravitates to and strays from in a near constant cycle. He’s happy to know that when he turns up at your door, you accept him for who he is. Someone who can’t settle.

Still, instead of processsing, or digging deeper into these revelations, Javi focusses on another detail. Deflecting. “You called her an agent?”

You smile, your expression imbued with mischief. “It says it plainly on her collar, Javi. This cat is DEA.”

Javi smiles at you in return, a free and throaty laugh as you lean up against the frame of your door. Then, you gesture towards the interior of your apartment, inviting him in. You’re already moving and he’s already following before you’re even through with your question, as if you’re a familiar habit: “Wanna come in for a smoke?”

Javi follows you. Sure, he knocked at your door, but he may as well be tapping at the walls of your heart and asking for admittance. And, even if he never stays for long, he knows you will always invite him in. You can’t help it. Your heart is as open to him as it is to this little grey cat. In return, he can’t promise to stay, but he can promise to keep coming back.

So, Javi follows, although he doesn’t realise you’ve both got it wrong. If he is to liken himself to animal, it should not be a stray cat, perhaps. It should be a dog. After all, Javi is tenacious, loyal, and he has so much love to go around. So, as he follows you into your apartment he does what he does best. He gets attached.

You curl up with Smokes together on the couch, watching TV, and he is grateful. In this simplicity he feels a rare kind of peace in his heart, amidst all the complexity of this war.

Smokes purrs.

[vivilove-jonsa]

Hey for the prompt thing 'Dancing in the rain'. Also I love your work🥰

Thanks so much, Anon!

Here's a little Canon Divergent AU for you where Sansa leaves the Vale and winds up in Braavos before heading North :)

****

The plan was to take her from the Vale by ship into White Harbor. The plan, like so many others Sansa had known, has not worked out that way.

An autumn storm at sea brings her to the shores of Braavos, more drowned rat than girl. She has nothing of value save a dozen knights to assert her claim and the price on her head which will do her little good.

The men who had accompanied them find shelter though, a room for herself and Myranda upon an active square beside the busy canal.

“It’s temporary, ladies. Just until we can secure a ship with a captain we can trust.”

A fortnight passes in Braavos while Sansa Stark waits for the right ship to carry her home and hopefully lead an army, in name at least, to reclaim Winterfell and the North.

It rains here, day and night, it seems. Fog, rain, fog, rain and sometimes freezing rain. Autumn in Braavos.

One of the knights has been talking to some girl down by the harbor, a very clever girl named Cat, who speaks the Common Tongue and says she will find them the right ship for a fee. The name Cat brings her mother to mind and Sansa has asked to meet the girl but the men refuse saying the queen might have spies even here.

From her window, she waits and watches. What else is there to do? She cannot readily walk out among others, can she? Her hair is auburn once more. She’s so tired of waiting by windows like some princess locked in a tower though. She’s done more than her share of that in Kings Landing and later the Vale.

“We wait but now we’re only waiting to go to war. We can stand a bit more waiting, can’t we, my lady?” Myranda asks, her lilting tone raising Sansa’s spirits.

Sansa agrees, glad to have a friend by her side with what is to come, and returns to her watching.

There is only a gentle drizzle the evening when she first sees him.

A man of the Nights Watch, she would swear by his black cloak and clothes but surely not. Why would the Nights Watch send a sworn brother here? And isn’t his cloak quite tattered? It is only a black cloak like so many other common ones and he is just a man, no one to Sansa.

Still, she watches the stranger in the square beside the canal from her window seat as he makes his way through the sea of people. He seems to be seeking something or someone. His cloak hides part of his face but he is not an old man. His movements are too graceful and quick.

His eyes find hers, she’s nearly sure of it. His head tilts to the side and Sansa realizes that with night starting to fall and the lantern behind her, she is illuminated for him. Her hair must be quite noticeable if nothing else.

What prompts her to raise her hand and wave? She cannot say but she does.

He raises his hand as well and, by the light of the moon, she can just make out a sweetly puzzled smile. His eyes are still mostly in shadows but she decides then he is handsome.

But then, distracted by her, he bumps into another man and must beg pardon with a gesture. It will not do. The other man seems to be eager for a fight. The Braavosi love their swordplay, water dancing, they call it. Like dancing in the rain. No dance should be so deadly.

Shouts and drawn swords, the clash of steel from the other side of the glass has her covering her eyes. When the steel is silent once more, she looks. The man in black still stands while his opponent is being carried away by his friends.

He wipes off his sword with the hem of his tattered cloak, turns back to the window where Sansa sits…and bows to her.

Silly girl that she is, it makes her giddy when he does it, almost as if he was a knight fighting the other man for her favor. She nods in reply, thankful he cannot make out her blush in the meager lighting.

Six more nights, Sansa watches for the man from her window and every night he comes.

What is he looking for? Who does he seek? She makes up stories in her mind about it, about him.

And every night, when he spies her at her post, that wistful smile plays at his lips as she raises her hand to wave at him and he returns the gesture. Before he leaves the square, he always bows to her, a knight bowing to his lady. She sighs whenever he does it. She’s sure she could fall in love with her mysterious knight in black given half a chance.

But on the seventh night, he is not alone. She watches as a girl approaches him with dark hair. They clasp hands, speak and then embrace. They are clearly very dear to one another. It must be her he’s been seeking.

They are so busy holding on to one another that he never raises his eyes to find Sansa in her window. She’s left feeling most bereft over it and names herself a fool for wishing her knight would notice her. Of course, he is not her knight. She has knights waiting to ferry her across the Narrow Sea and back to her homeland and he is only a stranger.

If he loves that girl and is happy, Sansa will wish them well. She decides to close the curtains though. It hurts too much to make up stories of happy endings that can never be.

Word comes at last. A ship has been found. Cat of the Canals has come through with a trusted captain and her knights are all eager to sail off to Westeros and to war. Tomorrow, Sansa will leave her long watch of waiting behind.

“There’s a festival tonight, my lady,” Randa says, coming up with their supper from the kitchen.

“A festival?”

“Yes, down in the square there. People dancing, singing and drinking in the rain, the madness of it.”

Dancing in the rain.

She smiles at the thought until some sort of madness grips her, too.

Before anyone can stop her, Sansa slips out the door of her room, past her knights gaming in the tavern below and out into the square.

She draws a deep breath and expels it along with all the waiting she has done.

Couples in wet clothes dance and sing in the rain around her. They’re all so merry. The smell of spirits and bodies surrounds her but she does not care. She tilts her head back and tastes the rain on her tongue. She laughs and spins and wishes for a partner to dance with.

She is still laughing when someone touches her shoulder. She wonders if it might be her knight. Perhaps he was here dancing with his long, lost girl. Perhaps the girl would not begrudge him one dance with a stranger.

It is him but without his girl.

“You came down from your window.” His voice is gruff but sweet. He speaks the Common Tongue and sounds distinctly…Northern.

“I came down from my window,” she replies, too happy in this instant to think things through.

His hands find her waist. It’s very bold of him but she does not mind his touch. Carefully, she places her hands upon his shoulders. Do they dance now? Is he waiting for her to take the first step?

“I told Arya it couldn’t be you. I told Arya…it’s not that I’m not happy to see you. Of course, I am. I cannot believe it. I am so very happy. But I wanted you to be someone else because from the moment I first saw you, I…you’re so beautiful and I saw you there so many nights and…”

He ducks his chin as if he is embarrassed while her mind is busily catching up. Arya? Why is the stranger speaking of her long, lost sister? And he knows her! Is she in danger?! Is he one of the queen’s spies after all?!

Panicked, she starts to pull away. “I…please, don’t-”

“No, Sansa. Don’t be afraid.”

And it is then he pulls back the hood of his cloak to reveal himself. Her knight in black is none other than her half-brother, Jon Snow.

Joy explodes within her chest as they embrace. Jon is alive and here. Arya is alive and here somewhere. She is going home and they will come with her.

And yet…there is something inside her that feels like disappointment when she breathes in Jon’s scent and relishes the way his arms hold her so perfectly as they sway together in the rain in their happiness.

Why is that? she wonders...as if she does not know.

[black-rose-writings]

I read Ruin and Rising because I’m bored

And I also hate myself

Like with the last book, I have a vague idea of the plot and stuff from tumblr and fanfics. I will also be refering to Darkling as Sasha for most of this.

I am still Darklina trash and don’t particularly like Mal.

On a different note, I’ve finally moved for college, but the internet here is trash, so I’ll probably have a lot more reading time now, since most games I play are online and will crash without internet.

Before

Cool story. Let’s hope Alina stays a badass.

Who am I joking, I know how this ends.

Chapter 1

So far so good. I hate the Apparat, per usual. Alina’s there basically dying and that bitch can’t wait to see her do so.

Cult leader to the core this one. He probably hates that his figurehead is alive and also not brainwashed.

Cult leader doesn’t like swearing. How surprising.

My boy David is completely right. What kind of irresponsible dingus keeps centuries old books in a fucking wet-ass cave? (Or a tree for that matter *cough cough* The Last Jedi *cough, cough*).

Genya is fun to be around.

Oh, shit, let’s go.

Chapter 2

Jesus Christ, Alina, Zoya isn’t that bad.

This is one hell of a shitshow.

I live for this version of Alina. Badass. Scary. I want more of this Alina.

Chapter 3

Out of all the random little details from crappy smut fics, I did not expect Oncat to be from the books, lol.

Mal actually has a supernatural tracking ability. Like, literally, they put a bug into the pouch with gunpowder so he could make the shot. I guess this was kinda said before, but never this directly, right?

Alina’s merzost-skyping Sasha now, yay.

Alina is horny for Sasha boy. Yay.

Alina canonically has a praise kink. Nice.

I hate LB with all of my heart at this very moment. How dare she bait us Darklina people like this? How DARE she? (Shipbaiting is the worst, seriously.)

Yes, yes, yes. These two lines. That’s what their relationship is all about. They’re each others foils, the yin to the other’s yang and... ugh. I am Darklina trash to the core and this hurts.

Darklina: You have a terrible taste in men.

Alina: I liked you once.

My boy Sasha walked into that one.

Chapter 4

Alina is a Queen. And we love her.

David, my beloved, my spirit animal.

It’s surprising they can read it at all, given it’s been centuries. Have you ever tried reading medieval manuscripts?

Honestly, with a father that crazy, it’s no wonder Baghra’s a bitch. And I’ve seen it said somewhere that the books imply Ilya’s experiments are what caused Baghra to be a shadow summoner and you know what? I can see how you’d make that connection.

Why is there so few Tidemakers in the books? Waterbenders are useful. I want more waterbenders.

Alina picking up some habits from Baghra I see.

Ah, yes, we love an educated giant.

I’m starting to think Harshaw is a bit nuts.

Shut up, Hershey. Or at least share the weed with the class. I’m not here for this “He’s mean to you because he likes you”. I might believe that in like, elementary school, but yall are (more or less) adults. Jesus.

Well, that was a bombshell of a twist.

Chapter 5

Oh boy, we’ve got some trauma bonding for out merry band of misfits. Yay.

Adrik has a crush on Zoya. And she hates it, lol. Cut the kid some slack, he’s like 15 or something.

That reminds me, I have a four-leaf clover pressed in books from close to year and a half ago. Time flies.

They’re really diving into the Mal has supernatural powers, huh?

Ghosts, let’s go.

Alina “I’m so happy to be outside I start to shine like a fucking fairy” Starkov and Mal is entranced. He’s definitelly nicer now. I’m not forgiving him for all the shit he’s pulled before and for using the silent treatment way too much, but hey, at least he’s improving.

I am not a Zoyalina person, but like... gay? Please? Rivals to grudging allies to friends to lovers, 300k slowburn? Sounds more fun than whatever Mala dn Alina have going on, lol.

(I’m starting to realize I’m not as much a Darklina person as I am anti-Malina person, lol. Like, literally everyone has a more interesting dynamic with Alina than tracker boy over there. Malina is at best boring AF and at worst toxic, codependent and emotionally abusive, while also being boring AF at the same time. It has literally nothing going for it except God herself liking it).

I can see why Nadia is gay in the show. The book version of her definitelly has a crush on Tamar. Homegirl likes a woman, who can murder her with the flick of her wrist and honestly? Same.

Alina has some big “coming out of lockdown after a year” energy atm.

The cat is one of the most realistic characters in this thing, lol.

And since Tamar is also heavily queercoded, our lovely ladies make off into the night, flirting. Or maybe not. Let me dream, though.

At least Blade Boy is aware that his tattoo is stupid. To quote someone ranting about him on tumblr: He’s embracing his identity as a tool.

Oh, boy, this will be fun.

Evil soldier is horny for Mal. Saints, is there a woman in this book who isn’t horny for Blade Boy?

And here comes Niki to save the day.

Chapter 6

Niki saved the day.

Fiberglass? And David being David. Genya being in love with her nerd of a boyfriend.

Jesus Christ, this one crazy kid has moved the technology in this universe a whole century on his own. So, when is David going to propose to him?

Baghra hasn’t changed much I see.

Baghra’s about to drop some truthbombs, but no, we have to be rudely interupted because Genya’s rapist is throwing a fit.

Chapter 7

How does Mal sound? Is she gonna say the Blade boy sounds like her dad? I mean, I know voices are partially genetic, but it has been tens of generations between them, probably.

So, we’re finally taking Genya’s trauma seriously after all this time? Good. Better late than never, I guess.

I wish that regicide was already finished and I’m pretty sure that Genya does, too. Stop defending the fucking king, narrative.

David’s a nerd in all things I see.

Someone please just kill the king already. And the queen, too, for good measure.

Now that’s a romance.

Infodumping and listening to said infodumps is a legitimate love language, Alina. Let them nerd out over poisons.

Wait, has Alina never directly killed anyone before? I thought she did... hmmm.

And just like that, it should have been over. Ugh.

Somehow, Baghra is a better teacher now than she was before. She half feels like a completely different character.

Nevermind, she’s back at it.

Chapter 8

Holy shit, Nadia and Tamar are canon. They have canon gays here.

So, which one of them is gonna die?

Chapter 9

We arrive at that scene. The one, where they should have fucked.

Jeez, girl, get a hold of yourself. Life is short, fuck a villain.

In other news, Genya and David definitelly fucked.

Chapter 10

Poor David. He just wanted to know.

Damn... I never realized just how young Baghra was, when she killed her sister.

I’ve already made a post about this, but it really does strike me like Baghra has already decided to end her life at this point in the book.

Why is that whole “but what if we’re related” thing even in there?

Chapter 11

We love a suprise attack.

When did Sasha boy learn that trick?

Baghra really just did that. Oh boy.

Chapter 12

No, don’t kill the kid... ugh.

Emotiona support cat. She should be friends with Milo.

Porrige for brains. Oof.

So Nadia was the one, who got bees set on her in the book. Cool.

That’s a good question. Why was it never brought up to Alina, that other Grisha get blocks, too?

David already thinking of steampunk prosthetic for Adrik is honestly kinda sweet.

Chapter 13

Back home... kinda.

Is that really... you really care about Mal bonking the Grisha school mean girl over a year ago? Okay.

Chapter 14

Angst! Yay!

And more angst.

Chapter 15

Sasha really went “My mom killed herself to save you? Well, I’ll kill the closest thing to parents you have.”

Chapter 16

Nikolai’s alive. Kinda.

And these two have such a sibling energy, I can’t.

And then they fuck. Ew.

Chapter 17

Wait, wait wait... so Alina isn’t even the one to destroy the Fold?

Okay. That’s... weird.

Holy shit. That was...

So, Aleksander is dead. Mal isn’t. Someone else destroyed the Fold for Alina and now she has no powers.

Okay.

That’s a weird-ass ending.

Chapter 18

The gays survived, so that’s nice.

Genya made good on her promise of making Alina a ginger, lol.

After

What emotion is this supposed to give me? Cause all I feel is kinda sad.

[lesetoilesfous]

For @alienturnipp, from the angst prompt list for Nanders, “people who are okay don’t act like this”

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Anders

Characters: Anders, Nathaniel Howe

Tags: Awakening fun, canon-typical Circle abuse

Rating: Mature

*

Nathaniel is not, habitually, heavy footed. On more than one occasion, the commander’s Antivan lover had suggested he take up a career in dance, ( “so light are your dainty footsteps, mi amigo.”) He’s not sure whether Anders knows this. This is largely because after three incidents in which Nathaniel had caused the mage to fall into something alarmingly akin to a panic attack, Nate has made an effort to be heavy footed around him.

Still, Anders jumps when Nathaniel knocks on the door to his room. The door is open - Nathaniel has never known Anders to close it, and the mage himself is standing in fairly sparse surroundings looking...lost. The expression fades almost as soon as Nathaniel catches it, like a mirage, Instead Anders gives him a smile as bright and thin as cheap paint. 

“Howe! Wasn’t expecting you...here. How do you do that? You always seem to melt out of the blighted shadows.”

Anders laughs, but the sound rings hollow, and his long fingers shake a little even as he brushes them against his robe. Nathaniel frowns. “Are you alright?”

It’s been three weeks since he and the mage were conscripted by the warden commander. More has happened in those three weeks than most of the time Nathaniel spent soldiering in the marches, but Anders still acts as if he’s only just arrived. It’s...disconcerting.

The mage, for his part, smiles again, “Oh yes, don’t worry about me, I’m not going to go all demon on you.” He wiggles his fingers, as if to emphasise his point, and his light brown eyes flicker over Nathaniel’s shoulder, to the empty corridor beyond.

Nathaniel knows that no one is there - he makes it his business to know when he’s being watched - but he turns anyway, and cannot help but feel the pantomime must be painfully obvious as he makes a show of checking to see if anyone is there. In the low, rainy grey light of Amaranthine it’s hard to tell, but when he turns back he thinks he can see Anders flushing.

Anders claps, and seems to startle himself with the volume of the sound (outside, a few of the mabari start barking, and he stiffens almost imperceptibly.) “So! Does the commander need me? Has she finally realised she has no use for me after all? Time for me to get shipped back off to the Circle? Between you and me, I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know.”

Nathaniel’s frown deepens, and he moves to cross the threshold into Anders’ chamber, but hesitates. Something at the back of his head tells him that he needs to respect the mage’s space, and whether it’s old prejudice or gut instinct, Nate can’t quite force himself to disregard it. Instead he shakes his head, “Why would you think that?”

Anders laughs, and again, it rings hollow. “Oh, well, you know. It’s been a week and I haven’t been forced to risk my life again, so. I figured…”

Nathaniel cannot shake the irritating feeling that he’s missing something. “She cares about you a great deal. You knew each other in the Circle, didn’t you?”

Anders snorts, and it’s graceless enough that Nathaniel believes it’s honest. “As much as you could know anyone there. And she was younger than me. Mages aren’t allowed to mix with apprentices once we’ve passed our Harrowing.” Anders wrinkles his nose. “I suppose they want to stop us getting attached.”

“Why?” Nathaniel asks the question without meaning to and regrets it immediately. He’s certain he will not like the answer.

Anders shrugs, stiff and awkward in his tall frame. “Most of them die.”

Something of Nathaniel’s shock must show on his face, because Anders laughs - for real this time, though a little bitterly. His long hands flicker through the air like restless birds.

“Hate to break it to you Nate, but the Circle has a pretty high death rate.” Anders laughs again, higher pitched and a little manic. “Would you look at that? I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”

Nathaniel crosses the threshold. He catches Anders hands without thinking, arresting their ceaseless, anxious movement through the empty air. Beneath his hands, Anders’ wrists are too thin. Nathaniel still isn’t entirely convinced the templars who’d caught Anders were feeding him. The mage, for his part, falls into startled silence. Nathaniel watches his pulse racing through the thin skin of his throat as he swallows, and is reminded of nothing so much as a hare.

But then he looks up into Anders’ brown, golden eyes, and sees the fierce thread of rebellion there (“I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know”), and Nathaniel realises that Anders has never been anything other than a fox: wily and wild and refusing to be tamed. “What is the matter?”

Anders purses his lips. This close, he smells of the embrium and elfroot he carries with him on his belt. Nathaniel is half surprised he isn’t making poultices now. He usually was. He claimed it helped him think, but Nathaniel isn’t entirely sure it’s not just a habit he hasn’t shaken from making potions for the Circle. 

Anders pulls his arms back and Nathaniel lets him, not following as Anders backs up in the direction of one of the thin, hard pallet beds they used in the soldiers’ dormitories. The commander must have dragged it up here specially, though he couldn’t imagine why. Anders follows his gaze and coughs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, that. Sorry, couldn’t sleep on goosefeathers. Too damn soft. I mean what’s laying your head down at night if you don’t wake up in pain?”

Nathaniel decides that Anders doesn’t actually want an answer to that, and presses on to the subject that he’s avoiding. “People who are okay don’t act like this.”

Anders flashes him another sharp, crooked grin and again Nathaniel catches the fire of anger in his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nathaniel clenches his teeth. Delilah had never explained that being kind would take so much blighted work. (He can almost hear the commander in his head, laughing at him for that.) Anders is pacing back and forth in front of his thin, poorly appointed bed, and his hands have started moving again. Nathaniel speaks before Anders’ nervous energy manages to infect him too. 

“You have refused to acquire any material possessions other than that pillow, which you hide most of the time. You are stockpiling food beneath the floorboards,” Nathaniel nods at the one uneven plank which had often been the secret to his own childhood hiding places, “ for reasons I do not understand. You never close your door and yet you seem outright terrified whenever anyone enters a place you consider to be private. If you bathe I haven’t seen it, though I must assume that you do as you have not yet begun to smell. You are avoiding...everyone, but especially the commander, despite her efforts and obvious desire to get to know you better. For some reason you still think that she - or any of us - would turn you in to the Circle without a second thought.”

Anders frowns at that, stopping mid-step to look at him with something that is either curiosity or pain in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

Nathaniel stares at him - and feels, for a moment - his own foolish heart plummet like lead into his stomach. “I - no.” Mouth suddenly dry, Nathaniel wets his lips and tries to speak past the lump in his throat (past the voice in the back of his head, he’s afraid of you, everyone’s afraid of you, just like your father).

Anders’ expression softens, and his shoulders drop. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Nathaniel blinks, and tries to shake off the feeling of being rooted to the spot. “Of course.”

Anders’ mouth quirks upward at the corner. Outside there’s the gentle patter of the autumn rain against the muddy courtyard, bouncing off the mens’ new armour like a thousand soft, tiny bells. After a moment, Anders sits down, heavily, on the thin mattress, and gestures for Nathaniel to step forward.

Feeling as if he’s suddenly been freed of some strange, invisible spell, Nathaniel does so, almost toppling to sit on the floor in front of Anders as he looks at his hands. Anders breaks the new and sudden quiet, running the fingers of his left hand over the knuckles of his right. “They broke my hands.” The admission is so quiet and so unexpected that Nathaniel is almost unsure he heard it. But then Anders lets out a long, shaking breath and continues. “I was...half drunk with magebane so I didn’t...have you ever felt pain without emotion? It’s so hard to describe. Like shock, I guess. You register that something terrible has happened and that it hurts. But the grief, the anger, the fear. All that comes later. They let it heal naturally. So my hands are crooked now.” Anders splays his fingers in the air between them, and Nathaniel can see now, as he hadn’t before, the way his knuckles do stand a little crooked, the way a nose heals when it breaks. 

Nathaniel’s voice is rough when he speaks. “Why?”

Anders shrugs, and his expression is distant. “I don’t remember exactly. It was whilst I was in solitary. They were always doing…” His features shutter into a mask so impassive that even Nathaniel cannot read it, and he draws in a quick deep breath and exhales again. “It doesn’t matter.” He offers Nathaniel a small smile, and nods at the door. “I keep the door open because I haven’t had a door, ever. When I was a child I was too young and small to have my own room. In the Circle only templars and Senior Enchanters are granted the luxury of such privacy, and I was neither.” Anders nods at the floorboards. “I...One of the first punishments they’d go to was restricting rations.” Anders’ mouth curls into a thin  smile. “I think some of them just wanted to see how long I could go. Caught them making bets on it, once.” Anders shakes his head, as if he’s dislodging the memory from his mind like a cat shaking off water. He spreads his hands wide. “I don’t...know what to do with all this. Everything I’ve ever been told is that I can’t have it. Whatever it is.”

Nathaniel resists the urge to say freedom. He isn’t entirely sure that it’s true. Anders, on the bed, sighs and  slides down from the mattress to the floor, easily framing Nathaniel with his long legs, the tabard of his robe falling heavy and velvet between his legs. Nathaniel averts his eyes. Anders’ laugh is rough and low and warm, and then his (crooked) fingers catch Nathaniel’s head and turn it back to look at him.

“That I understand.” Anders leans forward, until his chest is pressing against his bent knees. He smiles at Nathaniel, sweet and a little shy, and this close Nate can see that his eyelashes are almost as golden as his hair. Anders’ other hand comes up to catch the other side of Nathaniel’s face, and Nate doesn’t resist when Anders draws him closer to brush a kiss against his lips. “Thank you for asking, though.”

For a moment they’re quiet. Far off, from downstairs, there’s the sound of Oghren bellowing and Sigrun cackling, followed by a clattering or armour as one or the other of them gives chase. Anders’ thumb runs over Nathaniel’s cheek, and Nathaniel reaches up to catch his wrist and press his hand closer. He waits until Anders meets his eyes to speak. “I would fight with you.” A shadow of a frown passes over Anders’ brow, and Nathaniel clarifies before he can ask, “ If they tried to take you away. Back to the Circle. I would fight by your side.”

Anders’ mouth twitches into a rueful smile, though the pad of his thumb keeps running softly over Nathaniel’s cheek. “Even against the commander? She’s the Hero of Ferelden, you know.”

Nathaniel shifts closer, letting go of Anders’ wrist to reach up and cup the back of his head, gently, firmly, pulling him closer until their foreheads are touching. “Even her. Against the wardens, the templars, chevaliers and darkspawn, Anders. I will not let them take you. Not whilst I am breathing.”

When Anders breathes out, Nathaniel feels the shudder of it where their bodies are touching. Anders doesn’t look at him when he replies. “Don’t say that. Someone might make you prove it.”

Nathaniel huffs, pulling back to look into Anders’ eyes. “Let them.” He catches one of Anders’ hands and pulls it between them, running his fingers over Anders’ crooked knuckles. “This is not Justice. I’ve met Justice.” He looks up, offering a smile which Anders returns, “He looks like a walking corpse. But, truly.” Nathaniel bends and presses a kiss to Anders’ palm, and watches pink flush through his cheeks like a sunrise. “This is not just. And I will not let them have you. I swear it.”

Anders shakes his head, shutting his eyes as his brow twists with a frown despite the smile on his lips. “I want to believe you.”

Nathaniel holds Anders’ hands tightly between his own, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Perhaps, one day, you will.”

[itsclydebitches]

Title: Mightier Than the Sword

Fandom: Witcher

Summary: A month after the events of "Rare Species," Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)

Pairing: Pre-slash Geralt and Jaskier 

Word Count: 2,568

Where to read it: Below or on AO3 

A/N: It’s a Christmas miracle! Look at me making an attempt at writing. I figured that if season one was going to leave us in that horrible place with Jaskier and Geralt’s relationship I’d just have to start fixing it myself 👍

The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters.

One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder.

“Witcher,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet.

Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall.

For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.

The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.

“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”

“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”

“Does this metal look fake to you?”

Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.

“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.

As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.

...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.

“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”

If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.

Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.

Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.

He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.

The woman smiled. “I know.”

Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.

The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.

“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.

Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”

“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”

But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.

Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.

A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.

Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.

“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”

He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.

“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”

Another sliver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.

“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”

Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.

He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.

“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”

Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”

“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”

If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vile of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.

He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.

The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.

It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.

Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.

Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.

Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him.

[flowersandskeletons526]

“Aftermath” - Glitra Fanfic Part 1

Hey everyone! This is my first time writing a fic and since season 4 was agonizing, I’m coping! This is part one of the fic, set after Glimmer and Catra are rescued from Horde Prime and the war ends. Sorta canon divergent. Hopefully on ao3 soon. Enjoy!

--------

It never occurred to Catra that it would storm in Brightmoon. 

The lightning flashes pale blue through the rain, nothing like the savage red of the black garnet the first time she tried to destroy the world. The memory makes her twist inside, dragged back to all every mistake she made during the war. It’s over now, and she reminds herself of that every day. The Horde is disbanded, Horde Prime is dead, and Etheria is safe. It brings her small comfort, but now she is in unfamiliar territory, living in the castle of Brightmoon and sitting by the queen while she changes her bandages. 

Glimmer’s hands still have the slightest tremble from their time as Horde Prime’s prisoners. Everyone has noticed, Catra is sure of that, just as everyone noticed the way her claws never retracted, but no one mentions anything. No one but the two of them, sitting in silence across from each other in their suddenly overabundant spare time. It’s the only time either of them get anything reminiscent of normalcy. Ever since the princesses rescued them from that ship, everyone has been tiptoeing through the tension to avoid upsetting their precious queen. Meanwhile, Catra has been busy tiptoeing around everyone else. 

Flexing her hand, Catra tries to control her breathing as her ear twitches. Glimmer keeps her eyes down as she dabs a wet rag across the stitched gashes on Catra’s arm. Her crown is set aside with Catra’s mask. She is covered with scuffs and scrapes, bandaged and bruised but still standing, for the most part. One eye is surrounded by a healing bruise from when she mouthed off to Horde Prime during their imprisonment. Facing the memory makes Catra’s hair stand on end. 

A sharp pain pulses through her arm. She bares her teeth and hisses, yanking away from Glimmer. The queen holds her hands up. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “Is it still that bad?” 

“It is when you press on it like that!” Catra snaps. 

“Well then stop moving your arm!” Glimmer shoots back. She takes a deep breath and grinds her teeth. “I won’t do it again. Just come back here already.” 

Catra purses her lips as Glimmer swipes the cloth across the healing wound again. She finds herself leaning into the silence of the moment, trying to ignore the gnawing in her guts as she watches the queen. She tilts her head.

“Why?” she bursts out. 

“Why what?” Glimmer asks without looking up. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Because this needs to be cleaned and you won’t let anyone else touch you.” Glimmer shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you bit the medic.” 

“Glimmer.” 

The queen whips her head up. She could count the times Catra has used her real name on one hand. The last time she did…  

Catra’s eyes are dull and heavy as she meets Glimmer’s stare. “Why are you helping me?” 

Glimmer grimaced and lowered her head. “You know why,” she whispered. She reached out to touch the edge of a cut showing from beneath the bandages on Catra’s face. “You nearly died getting us out of there. I’m just repaying that.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“What do you want me to say, Catra?” 

Catra lowers her head. “I don’t know.” 

They fall into silence as Glimmer wraps bandages around her arm. One side of her face is cast in shadow by the fire in the hearth. She has a fireplace in her room? Catra thought the first time Glimmer invited her in. After sharing a room with a dozen other cadets, even her officer’s quarters seemed massive, but the castle was ridiculous. 

Glimmer ties the bandages and lets go of Catra’s arm. “There. You’re going to have to let someone else come near you to take the stitches out.”

“I don’t like them,” Catra grumbles. 

“Why not?” 

“They treat me like I’m gonna break if they touch me.” 

“That’s called being gentle, Catra. They’re medics, it’s their job. What did medics do in the Horde, beat you more?”

“They bandaged you up, gave you a pill, and sent you back to training.” 

Glimmer frowns and stands, turning away. “Well, here you’ll actually have time to recover.” 

“Yay.” 

“Do you remember where your room is or do you want me to walk you back?” 

“Aw, done with me already, Sparkles?” 

Glimmer hesitates. “Do you want to stay?” 

Catra straightens. She hoped for a push back, a snap, something sharp like their relationship before everything happened, but now Glimmer’s just… trying. 

Trying to fix things. She tries to fix things with Adora, she tries to fix the damage the war left behind, and she tries to at least foster the odd bond they now share. She doesn’t try to fix Catra, though. Catra wonders where she would even begin if she could. 

She grits her teeth. “I remember where the room is. I can find it on my own.” 

“Okay. Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

It’s too cold alone in her room. She curls in on herself on the hard mattress - Adora suggested it when she couldn’t stand the mass of pillows and feathers the room came with - and buries herself in blankets. Staring out the window, she watches the storm rage. It started raining when they returned home, and it seemed like the clouds never left. 

She found Glimmer standing on a balcony one day while exploring the castle. It was sprinkling, and the wind bit through Catra’s clothes. The rain clung to Glimmer’s hair like little crystals and dripped over her skin, her simple tunic fluttering around her. It was the first time since she became queen that Catra had seen her without the cape and crown to mark her status, just the piercings in her ears and the shadows under her eyes. It startled her how young she looked with it. 

“You’re gonna catch something standing out there, Sparkles,” Catra called, shivering on the edge of the balcony. 

“I thought cats don't like water,” Glimmer replied without turning. 

“What are you even doing out there?” 

“Thinking.” 

“Think inside.” 

“Leave me alone, Catra.” 

“No.” 

It made Glimmer turn and relent, and they sat together in Glimmer’s room by the fire in silence until Adora came to get the queen. The warrior gave Catra an odd look. Catra simply turned away. 

And now she lies alone, watching the rain. 

She is too exhausted to fight sleep. It settles in her bones and drags her into twisted dreams that she can’t escape from. She sees blood and fire, Horde Prime’s wild green eyes as he claws his way towards her in the wreckage of his ship, dead clones littering the scene. Most of all, she sees Glimmer. She sees her covered in blood and bruises. She hears Glimmer screaming her name. 

On the worst nights, Glimmer’s blood is on Horde Prime’s talons and Catra is powerless to do anything. 

Shooting upright, she screams in terror, covered in a cold sweat. Her wounds ache as pain pulses through her body, and it takes her a few minutes before she is able to pry her claws out of the edge of the mattress. 

Someone knocks on her door. She jumps, her claws extending again before she calmed down. 

“What?” she snaps. 

“It’s me,” Glimmer calls through the door. Catra doesn’t respond. “Can I come in?” 

“Do what you want.” 

Glimmer closes the door behind her and leans her back against it. “You couldn’t sleep either?” 

“What does it look like?” 

Glimmer rolls her eyes, sitting beside Catra as she scoots to make room on the edge of the bed. She wanted to reach out and grab Glimmer, check her for new wounds in case not everything was in her imagination, but all she saw was blood when she looked at the queen. Instead, she stares at her feet and they sit in silence. 

Glimmer sighs and lifts her head. “I can’t sleep alone anymore,” she admits. 

“Is that why you look like that?” Catra teases, trying to force the lingering images from her mind. 

Mustering a smile, she nudges Catra with her shoulder. Catra pushes back. 

After a moment of hesitation, Glimmer corrects herself. “I can’t sleep without you there anymore.” 

The admission yanks Catra back to the ship. 

----

“If you touch me, you’re going straight to the floor,” Catra snapped, snarling at Glimmer over her shoulder. 

“The feeling’s mutual,” Glimmer shot back. She and Catra lied on the thin bunk in their cell back to back, and Glimmer shifted as far away from the other girl without falling to the ground. “I can’t believe that of all people on Etheria, I’m stuck in this tiny little hellhole with you.” 

“You’re the one that got us here, Sparkles.” 

“And you sent the first message to Horde Prime.” 

Catra growled and pressed herself to the wall. “Just shut up and sleep,” she grumbled. Glimmer kicked her leg. “Sparkles, I swear, you will be on the floor!” 

Glimmer sneered. “Whoops.” 

Catra woke up first the next morning. She shoved Glimmer off the bunk when she realized she had curled up against the queen in her sleep. 

----

“Catra?” Glimmer asks. 

She looks up. “What?” 

“Are you alright? I’ve been trying to get your attention and you were just staring into space.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I’m fine, I was just thinking.” She clenched her fist. “Do you… do you want to sleep in here tonight? Just back to back like on the ship. It might help.” 

Glimmer nods. Catra lies down on one side while Glimmer stretches out on the other, both seeking the warmth of the other pressed against them. The contact is calming, not that either would admit it. Catra grinds her teeth and screws her eyes shut. Even safe in her castle, Glimmer still shakes. Reaching behind her, she grabs Glimmer’s hand. It does little to quell the tremors, but it is something, at the very least. 

“I keep dreaming of you,” Catra says into the darkness. Glimmer squeezes her hand. “I think that Horde Prime got to you before I could after the ship went down.” 

“I’m still here,” Glimmer says.

“I know that.” 

Glimmer shifts, turning so she can see Catra out of the corner of her eye. “Have you talked to Adora? She learned how to deal with nightmares after she first got here.” 

“We tried talking. It’s not working.” 

She doesn’t say how their “talk” ended up as a screaming match, each blaming the other for everything that happened. She doesn’t tell her how Adora grabbed her arm and she nearly threw the warrior halfway across the room in sheer panic. Adora gathered her composure, sticking around just long enough to hear Catra’s apology before they parted ways. She shredded the curtains in her room and screamed and cried in frustration all night. 

The wounds are still too raw. It wasn’t like making up with Glimmer, where there wasn’t so much history behind it and they had no choice but to figure it out, isolated together as they were. 

“Scorpia and I are going to talk tomorrow,” she says. “I already talked to Entrapta. As far as I can tell, we’re okay enough, but it’s also Entrapta. She doesn’t hate me, I know that. I just have to get over my own thoughts about it.” 

“That’s good,” Glimmer replies. 

“Did you talk to Adora?” 

“Not yet. I talked to Bow, but I did more damage with Adora than I did with him.” 

“We’ve got that in common.”

“Pretty shit thing to have in common.” 

“No kidding.” 

They turn to face each other at the same time, lying on their backs with only a few inches between their faces, hands clasped. The heat coming off Glimmer cuts through the chill that froze over Catra when she found herself on Horde Prime’s ship. 

Although she wants to believe otherwise, Catra can’t shake the feeling that this will disappear once everything is back to normal. On Prime’s ship they were alone. Here, they might as well be. With all of their bridges burned, they find themselves stuck on an island with only their own mistakes and each other to lean on. Catra knows that eventually Glimmer will stop coming to her when she can’t sleep, and she will stop finding herself sitting in silence in the queen’s quarters. 

She won’t need a crutch forever, Catra thinks. 

“What are you thinking about?” Glimmer asks. 

Catra lets go of her hand and rolls over. “Nothing. Night, Sparkles.” 

“Goodnight, Catra.” 

[genotaurus-inactive]

Warrior Cats AU: Medicine Cat Brambleclaw

With the whole Bramblestar being possessed and now the main villain of the books' thing going on, I recently went back to the new prophecy and read it again, since Bramblestar always had a special but weird place in my heart. His concept was interesting, but he deserved a better execution, especially when it came to his behavior towards others, so I thought about it and eventually came to the conclusion “What if he never became a warrior to begin with?”

I’ve never really seen an AU like this before and I may be late to the party, but hey, why not share it? It won’t do much harm now, will it?

Let’s go back, far back to the first arc. Bramblekit and Tawnykit have been born and Tigerclaw just betrayed Thunderclan and almost managed to murder Bluestar. First the usual ensues, with Bramblekit and Tawnykit being judged and of course, even as kits, Bramblekit notices how people are acting around him (most notably Fireheart) and while his mother Goldenflower tries her best to make him feel better it often isn’t enough. So, to hide from the looks they give him, one day Bramblekit decides to go into the medicine den where Cinderpelt is, sorting her herbs.

She is surprised to see the young kit and while she wanted to first shoo him out, so she could concentrate on her work, she notices his depressed posture and how wet the fur under his eyes is, most likely from tears. Taking in a deep breath she tries cheering him up, no matter the father, she is dealing with a little kitten here.

Happy that she lets him stay for a while he watches her sort the herbs and curious as one is as a child asks questions about them. What are they called? What do they do? Cinderpelt appreciates it as it seems to cheer him up. It doesn’t take long though for Goldenflower to find him and drag him back out, having worried where he had gone. But the little tom didn’t just forget the peacefulness he felt in the medicine den and would continue to sometimes sneak in there to visit Cinderpelt, who grew accustomed to it after a while.

And then he and Tawnykit became apprentices.

Firestar, still feeling bad about how he thinks about and treats Bramblepaw from time to time assigns himself the mentor of the young tom, and any other cat would probably have felt honored to become the apprentice of the leader, but Bramblepaw wasn’t. He admired Firestar, but something in him told him that this was not the life meant for him, giving a longing look to the medicine den.

Time goes by and everything seems fine at first, Bramblepaw, while not entirely confident about it, wants to help his clan by becoming a strong warrior and proving he isn’t like his father, all until Tawnypaw leaves to join Shadowclan and Tigerstar.

This doesn’t stay low at all, the cats in Thunderclan talk about it all the time, how Tigerstar now had his daughter back, and all of them wonder, will Bramblepaw go to join him as well. They talk behind his back, and while they think he doesn’t really notice it as much, he does. He does and he feels horrible.

He feels anger towards Tawnypaw for leaving, and somehow still understands her decision, thinking about how Thunderclan now keeps treating him. Goldenflower tries her best to help her son through this hard times, she herself had been hit hard by it as well, but it is much for the apprentice to bear and the built-up anger and confusion he lets out in his training.

Firestar is impressed by this, how his apprentice is getting so good at different fighting techniques but it does scare him as well, still having Tigerstar’s image in his mind. So one day, he sends Bramblepaw out to hunt near sunning rocks and the young tom does as he is told, catching and killing prey while his mentor watches from a distance, hidden in the bushes and shadows, only to notice Bramblepaw stopping after some time.

With the river flowing near them, the apprentice goes to take a drink and his claws were still lightly blood stained from killing his prey, but he retracts them rather than washing it off, until he suddenly notices something.

Firestar sees how the brown tabby stiffens up and is confused by it, even more when Bramblepaw suddenly runs towards one of the large rocks and out of the leader’s sight. Firestar gets worried and leaves his hiding place as he starts hearing loud scratching against stone and seconds later a pained meowing. Running over he is met with a crying Bramblepaw, who has two of his claws lying broken off on the floor.

Bramblepaw is brought to Cinderpelt to have his bleeding paws looked after, with Firestar and Goldenflower questioning what he did and why, and the apprentice can’t take it anymore, vocalizing his frustration loudly. He told them how he felt after Tawnypaw left, how Thunderclan was seemingly against him and now, when he looked into the river, even he thought for a second to see Tigerstar, and when he tried retracting his claws, they had become long enough for them to still be seen, and he didn’t want something else to connect him further to his father.

Firestar listens in shock how much Bramblepaw had endured, realizing that training him to be a warrior might have even worsened it. But Cinderpelt then asks him to let Bramblepaw stay in the den for at least one night, so she could keep an eye on him. He agrees and leaves the medicine cat alone with Bramblepaw and Goldenflower.

The rest of the day and night goes by, with Firestar visiting his apprentice, and he finds him with Cinderpelt, the she-cat teaching him more about how spiderwebs are applied to wounds as she had done it to his paw, and for the first time in a long while, Firestar believes to see Bramblepaw being ... calm.

It doesn’t take long for Bramblepaw to go back to training but his mentor notices the dissonance in his feelings. Technically, he was a great hunter and fighter, there was no denying that, but even so, the young tabby always seemed a bit happier to work with the herbs, often asking of he could help to collect them, even with the trouble he had sometimes of not mixing them up.

Firestar, he knows not long after what he has to do, especially after speaking with Cinderpelt about him and Goldenflower coming to him with the same request.

And suddenly, as if Starclan had heard Bramblepaw’s quiet wish, he was made the medicine cat apprentice.

He was ecstatic, not even considered they would let him be one, and he ignored the little back talk about him, immediately throwing himself into studying under the gray she-cat.

And it goes along great, he loves it more and more every day, having gotten away of the constant fear of one day becoming like his father. His father never was a medicine cat before, nor did he want to be one or save lives for the greater good. It felt like he finally found his place, even at the final battle.

He had refused Tigerstar’s offer to join Tigerclan before, and he was not about to change it, he and Cinderpelt taking in positions to try and help their clan the best way they could. While the battle was going on and Cinderpelt was taking care of the injured cats, Bramblepaw had to break away from her at one point and act as a bodyguard, fighting the rogues since his claws, while two less, where still as sharp as ever, and he was ready to defend the people he promised to protect and care for.

And the battle is over, Firestar had killed Scourge and Bramblepaw helped the she-cat to treat as many of the wounded warriors as they could. The clans go back to their camps, their territory and home to rest after this clash, and they rest.

Except that there was still one thing to be done.

Bramblepaw was surprised to hear that Cinderpelt thought something special still needed to be done.

The brown tabby barely remembered how exactly it happened, his heart had hammered in his chest the entire time and made his ears barely pick up on what was happening around him. But by the next sunrise he was Bramblepaw no more:

He was Bramblelight, a shining light in the darkness.

Hey thanks for reading so far, again, I don’t think I really saw much of this kind of AU before and thought I’d give it a try and there are still so many ideas I have in mind for it, this is technically only part one, since we haven’t even begun to speak about the new new prophecy yet. And the name change: Brambleclaw I thought wouldn’t fit for a medicine cat name, and even if it was suggested this head canon version of him would have most likely objected to being named the same as his father. So, what do you guys think? Good? Bad? Should I post part 2 or not?

[shemakesmeforget]

Back when it was the bysotid drought, I had a dream and that became a fake bysotid verse fic. After that, I decided to write 20!!! fake fics (even though I can’t write) so yeah... a huge thanks to @diedraechin for existing and for helping me with #4 and #8

1 - 20 of 537 Works in Katsuki Yuuri

1.

Title: Hot Wet Japanese Summer

Author: shouriftw

Length: 3403 (Chapters: 1/1)

Rating: Explicit

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Nakagawa Shouta

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Nakagawa Shouta

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Swimmer! Yuuri, Explicit Sexual Content, they fuck in the pool okay?

After a long day of practice, Yuuri decides he wants to stay in the pool for a bit longer... only if Shouta stays with him.

2.

Title: BYSOTID the show

Author: skatinginreverse

Length: 36201 (6/?)

Rating: Mature

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov, Nakagawa Shouta/Tatsuno Shuji, Alexei Turov/Turov Riku

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov, Nakagawa Shouta, Tatsuno Shuji, Alexei Turov, Turov Riku, Yakov Feltsman, Katya Babicheva, Christophe Giacometti, everyone in FS

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - TV Show, Alternate Universe - Actors, Social Media, Mutual Pining, UST, Secret Dating, Fluff, Angst, Humor, Romantic Comedy

"I can't believe they haven't kissed already, I'd kiss you there and then" also known as Yuuri's freudian slip.

Viktor is all smiles "Oh really? How? You know, for science"

Or…

The successful Teen TV show AU following the life of Yuuri Katsuki, a 14-year-old figure skater moving to Russia to train with his idol and… they’re still not dating.

All the drama and diva moments from the actors and sweet romance for the masses.

3.

Title: Not as Sweet as You

Author: bellepelle

Length: 1402 (1/1)

Rating: General Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Reader

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Reader

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Compliant, Getting Together, Dating, Fluff

Yuuri was stressing about the competition so you take him out for ice cream. Under the sunset light you couldn't resist and ended up confessing your heart’s most intimate desire.

Translated from Russian, original by viktorkatsuki

Part 1 of My World

4.

Title: The Magic in You

Author: livelaughskate

Length: 208021 (14/14)

Rating: Mature

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov, Katya Babicheva/Nymphadora Tonks

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov, Katya Babicheva, Nymphadora Tonks, Albus Dumbledore, Yakov Feltsman, Alexei Turov, Minerva McGonagall, and a lot more

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Howarts, Magic, Enemies to Lovers, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Some Fluff, Angst, Angst with a happy ending

Viktor never liked being in someone else's shadow. And just when he thought he'd broken out of Lyosha Turov's shadow, Dumbledore tells everyone that Turov's (the pride and joy of Gryffindor post Maurauder Era) protégé was transferring from Japan to Hogwarts! A fact that Katya and her girlfriend Tonks find neverendlessly amusing. But when Turov's protégé turns out to be a fan of Viktor's, he doesn't know what to do!

5.

Title: IDOL

Author: EXCITEhime

Length: 9813 (3/?)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Tatsuno Shuji

Characters: Tatsuno Shuji, Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov, Nakawaga Shouta, Noda Haruka, other idols, lots of OCs

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Guitarist Yuuri, Singer Shuji, Stalker Viktor, Fandom, Social Media, Fake Dating, Mutual Pining, Drama, Angst with a happy ending, so much drama

“Nobody is gonna hurt you… I won’t let them” Shuji said between tears.

“So... are we really doing this?” Yuuri asked, still very agitated.

“It’s the only option! the police won’t do anything about it” distressed, Shuji held Yuuri close to him.

“Okay” he whispered, holding him back.

AKA

Shuji and Yuuri have been bandmates for 3 years and when Viktor tries to kidnap Yuuri they decide that fake dating might keep him away… little did they know.

6.

Title: Dream a little dream

Author: bellepelle

Length: 1225 (1/1)

Rating: General Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Reader

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Reader

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Compliant, Wedding, Fluff, Humor, you’ll die of a sugar overdose

All your wildest dreams are about to come true, you were actually getting married to Yuuri Katsuki and happiness forever is waiting.

Translated from Russian, original by viktorkatsuki

Part 2 of My World

7.

Title: tango for three

Author: katsukiaddict

Length: 4051 (1/1)

Rating: Explicit

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Nakagawa Shouta/Tatsuno Shuji

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M/M, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Blow jobs, Porn without Plot/Porn what Plot, Katsuki Yuuri’s famous stamina, set after high school so shut it, highly self indulgent

In their high school reunion, dancing the night away could have been amazing but what they did instead was way better.

8.

Title: All you need is love… and cats!

Author: rawmechris

Length: 4953 (1/1)

Rating: Explicit

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Christophe Giacometti/Katsuki Yuuri

Characters: Christophe Giacometti, Katsuki Yuuri

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Meet Cute, Getting Together, Cats, Chrischan the cat, Explicit Sexual Content

"OH? You have a rag doll cat too? Aren't they adorable? And they just love being petted.” Chris purrs and Yuuri finds his face heating even more, but he doesn't get a chance to say anything because Chris starts talking again. “There really is nothing as enjoyable as getting petted. Has anyone ever stroked you, Yuuri?”

(or… Yuuri and Chris bond over cats, Chris gets to pet Yuuri’s cat and something else wink wink).

9.

Title: Music with your body

Author: katsukidon

Length: 472 (Chapters: 1/1)

Rating: General Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri

Tags: Music, Lyrics, Song Fic, kinda, Program analysis, Drabble, Under: 500 words, who is he skating for???

An interpretation of Yuuri’s FS program

(in which the author writes lyrics for Yuuri’s FS music)

10.

Title: Pas de quatre

Author: undertheice

Length: 32152 (7/?)

Rating: Explicit

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Phichit Chulanont, Phichit Chulanont/Christophe Giacometti, Christophe Giacometti/Viktor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov, Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Phichit Chulanont, Christophe Giacometti, Viktor Nikiforov, Otabek Altin, Lee Seung Gil, Sara Crispino, Mila Babicheva

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College, Alternate Universe - Roommates, they all live together in a frat house, Drama, Angst, Romance, Fluff, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, kinda, Explicit Sexual Content, Endgame Viktuuri, Endgame Phichimetti, or maybe… endgame polyamory

Yuuri Katsuki and Phichit Chulanont are high school sweethearts that got in the same frat house, add some hot boys and trouble in paradise… Will their love survive? Is it strong enough? Things aren’t always what they seem and you’re about to find out.

11.

Title: let’s keep it coming

Author: katsudamn

Length: 9265 (1/1)

Rating: Explicit

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Phichit Chulanont, Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov, Christophe Giacometti/Katsuki Yuuri, Katsuki Yuuri/Lee Seung Gil, Katsuki Yuuri/Michele Crispino, Katsuki Yuuri/everyone

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Phichit Chulanont, Viktor Nikiforov, Christophe Giacometti, Lee Seung Gil, Michele Crispino, everyone in fs

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Olympic games, Yuuri wins the olympics and fucks everyone, Explicit Sexual Content

Still ecstatic about winning olympic gold, Yuuri sets his mind for other prizes and he is determined to get gold with each one of them.

12.

Title: je t'aime mon amour

Author: viknik1

Length: 9153 (1/1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Christophe Giacometti/Viktor Nikiforov

Characters: Christophe Giacometti, Viktor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri, Alexei Turov, Turov Riku, Yakov Feltsman, Stéphane Lambiel, Katya Babicheva, Josef Karpisek

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Wedding, Fluff, Romance, Pets

It’s summer time in Geneva, the perfect time for a wedding. Chris and Viktor are finally saying yes forever, featuring Yuuri and Stéphane as the best men and Makkachin as the ring bearer.

13.

Title: 雅

Author: nakatsuki

Length: 12158 (1/1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Nakagawa Shouta

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Nakagawa Shouta, Tatsuno Shuji, Noda Haruka, all the idols

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Compliant, Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Getting Together, Slow Burn, Secret Dating

When Shouta saw Yuuri for the first time he fell, literally he fell on slippery hallway floor. And Yuuri? he fainted because of the hot weather… or the hot boy.

--

Please follow for more fun and silly romance!!

14.

Title: At last

Author: skateprincess

Length: 2053 (1/1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Takagi Keiko

Characters: Takagi Keiko, Katsuki Yuuri, Aaron Reyes, Aida Masao, other skaters at 4CC

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Compliant, 4CC, Fluff, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Romance, this is so cute y’all

After being rinkmates and friends for a long time, Yuuri and Keiko want to take their relationship one step further, but who’s gonna make the first move?

15.

Title: Champion

Author: katsukidon

Length: 7053 (1/1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov, Stéphane Lambiel, Aida Masao, Katya Babicheva, Takagi Keiko, Nobunari Oda

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Olympics, Figure Skating, Pole Dancing, Romance, they’re clearly gay for each other, highly self indulgent, I just want my boy to win everything

#shouldhaveorderedthekatsudon

or

Yuuri Katsuki goes to the Olympics, wins the gold medal and wins the boy.

16.

Title: Stammi Vicino High

Author: binktop

Length: 7123 (1/1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov, Katya Babicheva, Mila Babicheva, Georgi Popovich, Yakov Feltsman, Lilia Baranovskaya, Alexei Turov, Turov Riku, Christophe Giacometti, Aaron Reyes

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School, no age difference, set nowhere because I can, Ice Skating, Soccer, Dogs, Anxiety, Fluff, Humor, Slow Burn, Angst, Light Angst, Rivalry, sort of, Viktor is a diva, Yuuri is precious but bites back

Yuuri transfers to Stammi Vicino High and falls in love with Viktor Nikiforov, the most popular guy. He doesn’t even dare to dream about confessing because this is Viktor’s senior year. In the meantime, Viktor is oblivious to shy Yuuri, but he is very aware of the new midfielder in the soccer team.

17.

Title: We found love in a hopeless place

Author: puripuri

Length: 37087 (5/?)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Nakagawa Shouta, Christophe Giacometti/Viktor Nikiforov, Tatsuno Shuji/Noda Haruka

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Nakagawa Shouta, Tatsuno Shuji, Noda Haruka, Christophe Giacometti, Viktor Nikiforov, all the idols and all the skaters

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Romance, Fluff, Humor, Getting Together, Slow Burn, Pet Date, look… it makes sense pls trust me

The first people that came to see if they were a match were the famous figure skaters Viktor and Chris. That was the first match Yuuri made and he was very happy. After trying the matching coffee himself, Yuuri realized he didn’t have a soulmate but at least the new barista was in the same position.

18.

Title: Skating Fam

Author: allforkatsudon

Length: 8120 (1/1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Alexei Turov, Katsuki Yuuri & Turov Riku, Alexei Turov/Turov Riku, Alexei Turov, Turov Riku

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Alexei Turov, Turov Riku

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Tragedy, Yuuri is an orphan, Adoption, Skate fam is actually a real fam, Light Angst, as light as it can be, Fluff, you’re gonna cry

After a tragic accident, Yuuri is left alone with no family… or that’s what he thought. He already knew the Turovs are kind people but not to this extent.

19.

Title: Shooting stars!!!

Author: knifeshoes

Length: 7053 (1/1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: The Russian Fam, Viktor Nikiforov & Yakov Feltsman, Katya Babicheva & Yakov Feltsman, Katsuki Yuuri & Viktor Nikiforov, Katya Babicheva & Viktor Nikiforov,

Characters: Yakov Felstman, Viktor Nikiforov, Stéphane Lambiel, Katsuki Yuuri, Christophe Giacometti, Aida Masao, Katya Babicheva, Takagi Keiko, Nobunari Oda, Alexei Turov, Turov Riku

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hockey, instead of an ice show they play a hockey game, humor, crack

It was all Yakov Feltsman’s idea, after a tiring season, he decided his skaters needed something different and well… hockey happened. And yes, they’re using the right skates and all!

20.

Title: The Three Muskeeters

Author: viknik1

Length: 22153 (5/11)

Rating: Mature

No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Christophe Giacometti/Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov

Characters: Christophe Giacometti, Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov, Alexei Turov, Turov Riku, Yakov Feltsman, Stéphane Lambiel, Katya Babicheva, Seung Gil Lee, Phichit Chulanont

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Roommates, Polyamory, M/M/M, Fluff, Humor, bad puns

After living together for many years, Yuuri, Chris and Viktor realized that what they've been looking for was right there in front of them.

*

Yuuri, Chris and Viktor decide that they work better as lovers than friends. ANGST FREE!

[areax]

marlene + 10, 16, 19

10. fears / phobias

large open spaces. when she first exits the vault it’s pretty much any kind of open space but as time goes on it gets a bit better. something like a football field or a airplane tarmac doesn’t unsettle her, but once you get into a desert or any kind of very flat, open field without any distinguishing markers she gets uncomfortable. usually she combats this by curling up under a blanket until she can calm herself down.

the sea, for reasons related to the above. she also can’t swim initially (what’s up everybody, my name’s marlene, i’m 19, and i never fucking learned how to swim) as she had no reason to learn how to do so in the vault, so that’s a legitimate fear. she does learn eventually but does not enjoy it at all (picture a wet, forlorn cat). ironic in that she lives on a boat for a few years. also she doesn’t trust crabs, even the non-giant ones.

being constrained. she doesn’t mind tight spaces (and in fact prefers them) but constrained in the sense of not allowed to do what she wants when she wants with her own body or self. or not being able to act to save a loved one. so feeling powerless more generally. 

16. dark secrets / skeletons in the closet

as much as she denies it marlene really is more of an open book than she’d like to be so she doesn’t have that many. she tries her best to keep herself contained but everything’s always written all over her face and she’s very expressive so she’s not as good of a liar as she thinks she is. but she makes up for it with earnestness.

anyway most of her dark secrets come from her own feelings about events that she thinks she should feel differently about if that makes sense? for example:

doesn’t regret killing the overseer / amata’s father as much as she feels she should. she feels a kind of secret pride for getting revenge on someone who had made life hell for her for so long

despite this she does regret what she views as disproportionate vengeance (against someone who couldn’t defend themselves). at one point, to get back at him, she kills col autumn’s wife, and while she was also as insidious and cruel and evil as he was (more of a man behind the curtain manipulator), marlene killed her when she was unarmed, so she doesn’t view it as a fair fight. and also to drag someone else into her vendetta (no matter how much his wife deserved it for the stuff she did) doesn’t sit well with marlene

suicide attempts or suicidal behavior after she’s brought back at the beginning of broken steel. she doesn’t talk about these to anyone.

20. what-ifs / alternate timelines

MANY! the most fleshed out ones include:

enclave au — in which james & co were captured by the enclave and marlene grew up in their fold and gradually killed her way up to the top of the heap where she coasted on her bloodthirsty reputation until she was killed at around 50 or so

modern — fairly self explanatory from the name; her father worked for a governmental clean water initiative and she grew up in dc, joined the military but had a mental breakdown and was discharged, now works as mechanic with her dog and her husband

may or may not intersect with summer camp au which is just like every summer camp movie except marlene is there and she’s way too enthusiastic about beating the rival camp at softball

cultist origin — was abducted by an apocalypse cult called 101 when she was a child and lived with them for fourteen years before they were finally taken down, believed for a very long time that the rest of the world had ended and she and the cult were the only survivors, is selectively mute as a result of a lot of childhood trauma, shunted around to various foster homes in her teens, still doesn’t quite understand the concept of exchanging money for goods and services

trash kid / neo noir — fitting with @hoopsamari’s nighthawks au, in which marlene grows up without adult supervision and generally causes a ruckus as a teenager. neo noir is an evolution of this when she’s older and it’s much darker in general, marlene beats her gf’s abusive dad to death with a baseball bat in homage to the elevator scene in drive, works as an enforcer for another oc of mine (lilith), has a cool dragon tattoo, maybe does cocaine? definitely does cocaine.

escape from new york dc — “i’m back at the sewers again guys” / im living off the grid in the tunnel system under new york city, together with the hobos and mole-men the shadow people and the cia are hunting me but they will never catch me alive / essentially a rehash of efny with marlene in the starring role to illustrate my dedication to replacing her as the protagonist of every 80s movie, also fits w marlene’s canonical time as a gladiatorial fighter in the pitt, at least she gets a dog out of her whole experience even though this is where she gets her dashing cheek scar

blade runner 2277 — joi play freysa’s speech bass boosted; so important that it has its own tag; based on 2049 but with significant differences yet a similar revelation. marlene gets to hold That Gun and cry in the rain. deñis stole my ideas for 2049 and put Roy Harkness In The Movie so it’s only fair that i take his creation for my own

ladyhawke — matrb (marlene/harkness) au, rutger is there and im still not over it, tentatively set in medieval china except i know jack shit about any country or area in the medieval period

pride and prejudice — marmot (marlene/amata) au. exactly what it says on the tin. either set in Ye Olde England or in fallout’s timeline but the basics are the same

twin peaks au — not a genuine one but more because of the fact that josie and marlene share a fc, in which marlene is josie’s doppelganger from the black lodge who has developed a personality of her own, bob sees her and instantly winks out of existence because if she’s real then what is he?

i’ve thought a lot (not seriously) about making a big like explanation post w all these but this will have to suffice for now

[codename-bewareofthefangirl]

Can I have angst future AoKuro where Aomine dreams of their past in Teiko when he abandoned Kuroko, and then Kuroko comforts and reassures him. Fluff in the end, thanks!

Hi dear!Finally some AoKuro! It was really a pleasure to write it, Aomine being my favoritecharacter, and I hope you’re going to enjoy it too. I’d imagined this situateda bit further in time; maybe first year of uni or something like that, and I’vebalanced angst and fluff! Yes, I used and reinterpreted the anime’ scene (waitnot being a bit canon) that I believe signed the turning point and that hypotheticallyin the future would hurt Aomine the most when thinking back.

Have a good read!

 Nightmare

 Aomine blinked annoyed by something and tiredly liftedhis eyelids, his body lying in the wet grass. Above him, in the sky rolled darkclouds like waves of a stormy sea. Cold, heavy rain dropped down drenching him ‘tillthe bones.

I don’t like thistype of sky.

Where am I?

A sudden, worried voice called him. He recognized it immediately;he could have recognized it in an excited crowd, wearing earphones.

“Aomine-kun, let’s go back to practice.”

He straightened up and turned slowly. A young Kurokowas looking at him from the path over him, while Aomine just remained still onthe bank.

He felt the urgency to raise a hand and show a smirk,but his body remained frozen. He wanted to call Kuroko’s name, to answer his call,but his lips moved on their own.

 “Why should I? For what purpose do I need topractice?” he heared himself asking with cold and cynic amusement “You realizedI already win even if I don’t want to?” added walking towards him.

Oh no.

Not again. Notagain. Not again.

He saw Kuroko taking a step back, hurt by his sarcasm.He felt dying inside and wished to close his eyes, but he wasn’t allowed to. Hehad to watch and regret all his acts and words, he had to scar himself withthat memory.

“You want meto crush down my opponents who have lost the will to fight even further?”rhetorically asked again, stopping in front of him.

Just stop.Stop talking. Don’t hurt him any more than this.

“I understandhow you feel but…” Kuroko started to comfort him, eyes filled with worry andhope; he wanted to help him, he wanted to bring back his smile and theirfriendship.

“Understand?Hah! What part of it for you understand?” Aomine interrupted him angry and skeptical,desiring to hurt him, to let him feel the pain he was feeling.

Fucking stop.He doesn’t deserve this.

But his body ignored his own prays and continued totalk.

“Tell me! Howcould someone who can’t do anything by himself understand this?” spittedunamused.

It’s false. Iknow now, you have always been the one pushing me forward. You were the choreof our team, you were my motivation all along. Please don’t speak anymore, don’thurt him anymore. This is not what I want.

“There are timeeven I get jealous of everyone, including you, Aomine-kun. It’s useless to feelgrief over the impossible!” The honesty in his eyes was killing Aomine, helooked at him in that caring way of his that always made him stumble.

Don’t say thosewords. You’re going to regret them. Don’t shatter him again. You’re going tolose him. Don’t ruin everything.

But he was caged in himself.

“That’s why,so that I can pass with all my strength-” Kuroko continued with a faint,hopeful smile.

“And who isthat pass for? You realize I can win against anyone by myself now, even withoutyour passes?” Aomine stabbed him in a low, emotionless tone.

That’s not true.I’m wrong. Testu don’t listen to him. Don’t trust his words.

Kuroko instead listened, Aomine could see the memoriesof the fatal match, during which he had abandoned him, passing in front of hiseyes. He could see him remembering his refusal, the moment their fists didn’t connect.The moment he severed the first of their red strings.

“From that dayI haven’t gotten a pass from you. It was so recent but it feels like thedistant past already. I’ve…I’ve already forgotten even how to receive yourpasses.” Aomine concluded, letting his desperation surface.

False! Don’tbelieve it! Nothing, nothing could make me forget the feeling of your passes.Basketball is what brought us together, don’t believe in my words. I need you,I don’t want to drift from you.

Kuroko widened his eyes in shock and pain, Aominecould hear the sound of his heart shattering.

He had broken their friendship like that.

I didn’t wantto say it. Please don’t leave me. I didn’t want to be left alone for real. Iwas stupid. Don’t abandon me. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

But Kuroko turned his back to Aomine and ran away withshaking shoulders.

Aomine felt an electrifying adrenaline rush that pushedhim forwards, to stop him before it was too late, and finally his body moved.He stumbled stretching out his hand, but found himself suddenly falling into darkness.

“TESTU!” he screamed looking around, but he was alone,”Testu!”called wobbling up and looking around helplessly.

From afar, Kuroko appeared in his Seirin’s uniform.

“Tetsu! I’m here” exclaimed relieved, a hopeful smile startingto spread on his lips, but it died immediately, seeing the way Kuroko washolding someone else’s hand.

“I’m sorry Aomine-kun. You’re not my light anymore. I’vefound someone better.” Kuroko stated deadpanned and his eyes were completelyempty. Not a single emotion directed to Aomine. “And it’s all your fault.” Accusedhim.

Then, shadows engulfed them.

“TESTU!”

 Aomine jumped seated on the bed, his scream stillechoing in the dark room, and he gripped the sheets so tightly his knuckleswere completely white. He panted without recognizing anything, Kuroko’s dead expressionstill impressed in his eyes.

“Aomine-kun, please calm down. I’m here.” A warm voicestartled him and he turned his head to the right with hallucinated eyes. He foundKuroko’s face in the semi-darkness, the real one, and instinctively grabbed hist-shirt to pull him closer into a rough hug.

“Testu!” moaned sinking his head in the crook of theboy’s neck, passing his fingers through Kuroko’s hair and down his body as to verifyhe was the real thing. Aomine’s heart was still beating like a crazy drum.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Kuroko chanted softly, rubbingcircles on his back and waiting for him to calm down.

“I’m sorry.” Aomine muttered against his shoulder, hischapped lips brushing against the bare skin.

Kuroko shivered but managed to pull a lock of his hairhard enough to make him hiss.

“Stop apologizing.” Scolded him quietly, “I’ve alreadyforgiven you a long time ago.” He didn’t need Aomine to explain his dream tounderstand; it wasn’t the first time it happened and it wasn’t going to be lastone, for now. Aomine was still letting his past and regrets haunting him andtorturing him for what he’d done to him, however Kuroko had decided to heal hiswounds slowly, with time. He looked forward the day he could sleep an entirenight knowing Aomine wasn’t going to wake up screaming his name and gazing athis face like he was a ghost ready to disappear.

“Yeah, sorry.” Aomine mumbled, beginning to regain controlover himself. The warmth of his boyfriend’s body was calming him down. It wasokay, he was there in their shared room.

“Are you trying to making me mad?” Kuroko huffedpinching his skin and Aomine finally let out an amused snort.

“Tomorrow I’m gonna punch Kagami.” Growled nuzzlingagainst Kuroko’s neck like a cat, thinking back at his dream,

“Please don’t.” he replied deadpanned, trying to putsome distance between them, but Aomine’s grip around the waist was top strong.The oblivious Kagami had never done anything to deserve it.

“Then I’m gonna beat him one-on-one.”

“You already do.” Kuroko rolled his eyes and Aominechuckled against him, knowing well that lately his victory against the otherboy wasn’t as sure as it was in the past.

They stayed hugged to each other for some seconds insilent.

“Testu.” Aomine suddenly called just to hear the soundof it, fatiguing to keep his eyes open.

“Yes?” he replied, sensing tiredness in his voice.

“I love you.” Stated firmly, a fond smirk on his face.

Kuroko quieted down and Aomine felt him clinging tohis shirt, he sensed his heart missing a heartbeat and felt the cheek that wasresting against Aomine’s temple becoming hotter.

“Yeah, I know.” he replied with the usual monotonevoice, “You made it pretty clear some hours ago. Even though tomorrow I’ve towake up early.”

At his reply, Aomine burst into laughter and fellbackwards on the bed, dragging the boy with him. He positioned Kuroko on his chestand caged him in his arms, intertwining their legs.

“Aomine-kun, I’m not breathing.” Kuroko tried to arguefeeling squeezed, but the other didn’t pay attention to him.

“Uh-hu…” he just hummed, drifting off with a smirk onhis lips.

Kuroko sighed, failing to restrain a smile, and triedto find a comfortable position against his chest; after Aomine had been fallendeeply asleep, he was going to roll away from his deathly grip as usual. Butfor now, he was just going to stay there counting his heartbeats.

[4jimin]

well since you so kindly asked for prompts: jikook+12 (bc necessary lol) and yoonseok+7

jikook; "why the heck aren't we making out?" canon compliant | bickering“Hyung, can you take the big pot for me?” Jungkook asked while washing the dishes, a grin playing on his lips along with a crinkling nose. Jimin would think it was cute if he wasn’t wanting to punch it. The little shit had chosen that day specifically to piss his hyung off with jokes about his height. Said big pot he was asking for Jimin to take for him was in the highest shelf of their kitchen's cabinet – Jimin could only reach it using a chair and he was mostly definitely not doing that. Not in a million years, not in front of that brat they called their maknae. “Jeon Jungkook, I swear to god.” Jimin deeply breathed, trying to focus on cutting the vegetables the way Jin had asked before leaving for buying groceries. “I'll deck you in the face if you don’t stop this shit.” Jungkook turned to look at him, giggling and cleaning his wet hands on the apron he was using. Jimin could think it was funny if he – again – wasn't wanting to punch him.“Oh? But can you even reach my neck?” The older hand's stopped, knife midway the cucumber, eyes dragging up to meet the younger's. Jungkook gulped, wondering if he had gone too far, Jimin's gaze a little too intense – enough for a shiver to run down his spine like lightning. He took his apron off, nervously trying to find an empty drawer to put it in. He heard his hyung getting off his seat, the chair scratching the ground in a high pitched sound, Jungkook's shoulders shrinking involuntarily in response, as if it'd stop the sound from hurting his ears. His heart may have stopped when he saw Jimin's hands in front of him, flying to hold on the counter's border by his side, caging Jungkook in between his arms. He felt that familiar warmth by the side of his body – Jimin's loose tshirt brushing against his bare arm. Jungkook sucked as much oxygen as he could into his lungs, before turning his torso to fully face the boy, who instantly pressed their hips together to get Jungkook's lower back hitting the border of the sink. His breath hitched, locked in his closed throat, and his eyes fell closed, Jimin's body pressing him too tightly for his sanity. Jungkook didn’t need to open his eyes to know Jimin's face was inches apart from him, his hot breathing warming Jungkook's dry lips and flushed cheeks. “Wanna find out?” Jimin whispered low and Jungkook was desperate. He knew Jimin could actually reach his neck, but what did he intend to do if Jungkook said yes? Choke him to death?Well, maybe that was a good option, considering Jungkook could pass out at any given moment from a heart attack anyway.“Ahm– I– I'm sorry.”“I asked,” Jimin pressed harder, his nose touching Jungkook’s and his knees failed, Jimin's body being the only thing holding him in place, “if you wanna find out.” His tone was low and dangerous. Jungkook knew he should stutter a rushed 'no' and end all that shit for once, but he couldn’t bring his body to obbey him, mouth remaining shut as he ordered it to deny Jimin's question. Maybe because his heart couldn’t stop thundering loud yes'es against his chest. “Seems cat got your tongue now, huh...” Jimin murmured, and Jungkook was so intoxicated he couldn’t even open his eyes – he knew if he did he'd fall into Jimin's orbs so hardly and so deeply he wouldn’t find a way back after. “Think I'mma have make you speak...”And just like that Jungkook felt Jimin's breath moving from lips to his chin, then down his jawline. He had to hold back on the counter to stop his body from giving in to the gravity's will when Jimin closed his hot mouth on the muscle where the his neck curved into his shoulder, roughly catching the flesh with his teeth just so he could lick it a second later to soothe the bruise. He dragged his plump lips up the younger's skin, stopping right below his jawline to suck sweet and slow. Jungkook was going to go crazy. His breath was a mess, rhythm meaning nothing more than a substantive to his nostrils. He whined, hands tightening its grip on the marble behind him. “Oh?” Jimin pulled back to look at Jungkook – his heart forcing himself to open his eyes. The boy in front of him, darkly staring at his face with lust, lips wet with saliva, shining the reddest red Jungkook had ever remembered seeing. “Maybe cat didn’t didn’t get your tongue at all...” he whispered, and his lips were so close Jungkook felt it briefly brushing against his own. He squeezed his eyes shut, heart beating on his throat, knuckles white holding the counter. “Will you me let hear your voice, Jungkook-ah?” Jungkook shivered. Much for Jimin pronouncing his name that way, but more for his hands invading his tshirt, cold fingers sliding through his hipbones to his waist, pressuring it hard enough for his breath to fail. “H...Hyung...” he breathed, the only word he remembered in that moment.“Mhm?” Jimin asked, but his lips were already back on Jungkook's neck and – Jungkook was losing it. His hands flew to Jimin's waist faster than he could've imagined, firmly holding on the thin curve of his torso for, in a second of overwhelming recklessness, switch their positions, pinning Jimin against the sink and pressuring their bodies closer than before. Jimin gasped against his skin, hot breath hitting his wet neck, and Jungkook groaned, stomach tingling so much with anticipation he wanted to cry. He closed his eyes, drowning in the sensation of Jimin's lips kissing and sucking his skin, until he felt the older's fingers being brought up to slide into his hair, a shudder spreading on his spine thanks to it. Jungkook dragged his hands down Jimin's body, unable to bold back anymore. He grabbed his thighs hard, pulling him up to sit in the counter behind them, Jimin's legs instantly wrapping around his waist, his hard member pressing below Jungkook's bellybutton. He partially cried, partially moaned on Jimin's ears, a little bit louder this time – when he remembered.“Hyung.” He called breathless, halfheartedly holding on Jimin's waist to pull him away. “Hobi-hyung and Yoongi-hyung are home.” Jungkook forced his eyes to stay open, glued on the floor of the hall, scared a shadow would suddenly grow in there before someone appeared in the kitchen.Jimin didn’t give him any attention, stubborn as he was, one hand on Jungkook's hair and another on the back of his shoulder, pushing his tshirt aside so he could kiss the skin in there too. Jungkook was barely breathing, Jimin's soft lips being too fucking much for him to remain in control. “Hyung... they–” “You taste so good, Jungkook-ah.” Jimin cut him off and Jungkook suddenly unlearned all the existing words, mind going blank as Jimin's breath followed up his neck until his hot mouth was pressed against his ear, “So fucking good.” He growled, “You're gonna get me addicted.”Jungkook pulled back to meet his eyes, a question – the only question hovering his mind. “Then why are we not making out yet?”Jimin fisted his hair harder and pulled him closer – eyes darker than ever, before falling closed. He stopped an inch away from Jungkook's mouth, breaths mingling and lips brushing as Jimin whispered, “Because I like to tease.”And it was all it took for Jungkook to lose it. He moved his chin forward, catching Jimin’s lower lip on his mouth and sucking, all oxygen being knocked out of his lungs as the older whimpered and melted under his touch. He held Jimin by the waist, arms wrapped around his back, not a centimeter of air between their bodies. Jungkook swiped his tongue over Jimin's lip inside his hot mouth, feeling too fucking inebriated, Jimin's lips too fucking soft to be real. They parted lips open together, tongues meeting in a dazed thirst for each other. He moaned into Jimin's mouth, his erection feeling too hard for his own good. It was when they heard a door opening, their bodies separating from each other in a heartbeat. Yoongi and Hoseok appeared on the kitchen's doorframe before the boys could even think of recovering – Jimin having jumped to the ground, but still panting breathless in front of the counter, Jungkook sitting in one of the chairs wondering if he was going to faint from a too racing heart.“Hyung and I are going out to eat something, so you two take care. Don’t burn the house down.” They barely made Hoseok's words out, the two hyungs having hurriedly left before the youngers could see their fingers interlaced together. The house was suddenly silent, Jimin staring at him after they heard the front door closing – lips swollen and cheeks flushed. “Bedroom.” His voice failed, breath still trying to settle in his lungs. “Please.” He didn’t have to ask twice.yoonseok; "we're made for each other"canon compliant | just fluff really The sun was shining bright up in the sky, its warm rays washing their skin through the open window and – Yoongi honestly couldn’t care less, Hoseok's smile being such a better source of light for his thundering heart. It was always like this, it would never settle on his chest when Hoseok was close to him. Even almost a year after they've started officially dating. Even after so many kisses and intimate moments shared. Hoseok was a magnet, and Yoongi's heart was another, beating frantically whenever he was around, wanting to break free from from its cage to reach him. “No, but there's some really funny, for real. Listen.” Hoseok managed out, trying to contain his laugh while his eyes kept glued on the screen of his phone. He had found some posts on Pinterest of people rambling about supposed realities where soulmates existed. Yoongi thought it sounded pretty lame, but Hoseok was having fun with it for the past twenty minutes. “So, if the very first words your soulmate ever says to you are tattooed somewhere in your body since the day you were born,” he started reading, “Imagine having something like 'man, I can’t believe dumbledore died' tattooed on you.” he paused to laugh, not being able to contain it throughout the whole story, having made a funny voice to impersonate the tattoo's words. Yoongi allowed his lips to smirk the slightest bit up too, not knowing if the giggle growing on his throat was due to Hoseok's enjoyment or the story itself. Probably the first one. “Imagine being spoiled for a book series that doesn’t even exist yet. Imagine worrying about this dumbledore guy dying for your whole childhood not even knowing who he is.” They laughed together at this part, picturing the scenario. “Imagine knowing dumbledore dies before J.K Rowling even thinks about it.” “Okay, I admit.” Yoongi let out, a smile still playing on his lips, “They're not all lame. This one's lamely funny.”“Hyung!” Hoseok complained, letting his phone fall on the bed and sitting straight to look at Yoongi. “They're cute, you have to admit that!”“They're not cute, it seems like they have been taken out of a cheesy drama or something.” Yoongi judged, knowing Hoseok would pretend offended, his soft spot for cheesy dramas showing. “How can you be so cold-hearted?” he got up, hands on his hips while walking till where Yoongi was seating in front of the computer. “I bet you'd melt if we had–“ he started, but then stopped, a sudden thought hitting him and making his eyes shine. “Hyung!” his smile was brighter than it ever had been. Yoongi knew what was to come.“No.”“Hyuuung...” Hoseok whined, brows furrowed, frustrated by Yoongi's instant denial. “Please, let me search your body... I bet we have at least one soulmate mark!” he was so excited Yoongi almost gave in, but he knew that was a bad idea.“Hoseok, this is stupid, if we don’t have one – which is completely normal, to be very clear – you'll be sulking for the rest of the day.” “I won’t!”He did. Twenty minutes later after finishing a complete research on Yoongi's bare: chest, thighs, legs, arms and neck. “See, you're sulking.” He had to confirm his point, even though it only made the boy's pout grow bigger. Hoseok was sitting on the bed again, arms crossed over his chest, a frown on his face and his lips dangling down in that adorable way it always did whenever he was mad. Yoongi fought with all his force against the urge to coo. “I'm not.” He sounded like a 5 yeard old, voice managing its way out through his pout. “It's stupid, you're right.” “See?” Yoongi pulled his tshirt down – which was still resting above his chest thanks to Hoseok –, and scooted closer, crouching down in front of his boyfriend’s body, a hand going up his neck to caress his hair and comfort him. “I don’t need any mark on my body to know I belong to you for the rest of my life.”Hoseok softened a little, his arms uncrossing along with a hint of a tiny smile playing in the corner of his mouth. Yoongi got up on his knees to kiss it. It was just a peck, but it bloomed Hoseok's smile, the older's heart tugging in his chest with the sight. “I know we were made for each other, I don't need to have a random mark on my body to reassure that.” He pinched the tip of Hoseok's nose, watching him crinkle it afterwards. Too cute. “So don’t do that sad face again. Okay?”“Okay...” the younger murmured, eyes down, cheeks slightly blushing.“I mean, seriously, we're like yin-yang. You're the day and I'm the night.” Hoseok loudly laughed at this, satisfying Yoongi's ears and need of constantly hearing his voice laughing.“Hyung, you're so cheesy.”“I'm serious! Even olives!” The black haired boy exclaimed out of nowhere, providing a confused expression to Hoseok’s features, “They were made for you to love and for me to hate so we can complete each other, you stealing all the olives from my food and being... happy about it. Okay, this part specifically is gross, because who likes olives, but I'm not judging.” He completed, Hoseok's smile getting wider with each word, irradiating warmth everywhere, including into Yoongi's chest. He was so deep down in love it was embarrassing.“Can I be cheesier than you?” Hoseok asked, a hand resting on the nape of Yoongi's neck to pull him closer, getting both their hearts to race in sync. “I think you're my whole universe. I look at you and I know it.” Yoongi might have just melted inside, but no one needed to know that. He held on Hoseok's shoulders, who pulled him up to his lap, not breaking eye contact for a second. “I love you so much I think I can explode sometimes.”Yoongi couldn’t stop looking at his eyes, stunned, lost in thoughts of how he had never felt so happy like that before. “I love you.” It was all he could say. “I love you.” He repeated, before Hoseok closed the distance between them, their lips meeting in the sweetest touch, fitting perfectly on each other's mouth. When their lips simultaneously parted, Hoseok couldn’t tell from whom was the butterflies on his belly – his or Yoongi's. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because in that moment Min Yoongi was his and his alone – and that was the only thing he could think about.

[presidentsclubkrp]

Our crime tale begins with DO JINIL, a TWENTY-SIX year old member of THE PRESIDENT’S CLUB. HE works as their SPY,  but he’s better known as the infamous GHOST. JOIN THE HEIST? 

PART ONE; the basics

Name: do jinil

Alias: none

Code name: ghost / yuryong 

Faceclaim: lee taemin

Gender/Pronouns: he/him

Date of Birth: oct 31, 1993

Age: 26

Hometown: incheon, sk

Occupation: stock trader

Canon: the spy

PART TWO; about

Biography: ( tw: n/a )

whatever happened to that serpent locked up in eden? who whispered wicked truths into eve’s ear, the kind of truths that made things happen, the kind of truths that led to an essential collapse. god took its legs, left it to crawl and creep through the shadows. left it to collect more of those wicked truths. jinil finds he resonates with the concept. not his parents intention when they’d started taking him to church.

december, 1993–

“i feel like he sees too much, sometimes.”

“it’s the post-partum.” sanghoon leaves off the word depression, fears it’ll stick like residue to his tongue.

a wary twist of lips, and a mother’s cold embrace when she reluctantly plucks jinil from his cradle and wanders him around the room with an detachment not often reserved for moments like these. he’d been fitful when they first brought him back from the hospital. collicy with a wet-cough-cry that  was impossible to ignore, shrill and grating. would worm its way into eardrums past the barriers of overstuffed pillows and wadded up blankets held tight to ears. it was the kind of sound that could make you resent.

“it’s miserable.”

what she really means is he’s miserable. or she is. jinil’s mother. she liked to take distance from him, but only after he was brought into the world. in the before, when he was still an idea buried in her stomach, she’d been excited. building names and decorating a nursery. the curtains hang like a sheer, blue reminder of excitement lost. one day his father comes home and finds them ripped down and stuffed in the garbage, buried under the dregs of old kimchi. unsalvageable.

“it’s the post-partum. that’s what the doctor said.”

he says it again, but they don’t find a solution. therapists are regarded with a peculiarity still. hard to come by and expensive on top of it; who’s willing to pay so much for a branding of shame if word gets out?

“and he’s just a baby anyway, sunyoung. he can’t see too much.”

jinil’s placed back in the cradle, and her relief is visible before she resumes her frowning. harsher, this time. a shade of angry.

“he just stares and stares. i’m going crazy. and you’re just off at work all the time, ignoring me, and i’m–”

“he’s a baby.”

the word doesn’t sound pleading, it’s raised, like a marker of finality. jinil picks up on the tense tremble of a palpable moment, and there’s a quiet beat before his face screws up and he starts crying again. sanghoon watches his wife ball her hands up over her ears and walk out of the nursery. he follows after her, shoulders braced like he’s readying to finish their argument.

the door’s snapped shut on jinil, to muffle the noise. he’ll tire himself out eventually.

may, 1999–

they’re a god-fearing house. the kind were they wrangle a five-year-old into a blazer that pinches at his shoulders and makes him sit still for a good hour on sundays. in may it starts to swelter, that thick wool. jinil is likely to complain and kick his heels at the pew, his parents are likely to scold him in hushed whispers with fingers fit tight around his wrist. like a kid should have a greater comprehension of manners in the face of a god.

jinil keeps himself busy by thinking of the chocolate bread he’d been promised on the car ride over. bribery goes a long way when it comes to making kids believe in god, the other half’s usually left up to soul-trembling dread of a potential hellfire. but jinil’s not old enough to make it there yet.

he doesn’t often remember sermons. he’ll sit in the middle of his living room afterward, licking melted chocolate off his fingers, the boring drone of words gone from his head. lets his parents’ conversation drift in and out like the weak waves of a lost radio station as they discuss it. his own attention flickering from missed crumbs to a small heap of hard-plastic toys.

when his mother bends to wipe at smudges of sugar ringing his lips, jinsil leans into it in the desperate way an abandoned cat might. she pulls her hand back with a tsk and and he clings to her skirts for the rest of the night.

august, 2007–

“he likes making up stories.” the disapproving voice of his teacher to his mother. jinil has enough common sense to look cowed in the moment, even if his insides don’t match. maybe it’s lucky for him that his mother’s attention has a habit of wavering. sometimes she cares about these meet-ups and sometimes she doesn’t.

jinil does like it though, making up stories. he likes talking, he likes making his friends believe in something wild and wonderful. the problem of it is that jinil hardly ever does anything wild and wonderful, so he fabricates instead. pushes rumors and embellishes the mundane.

“and i think his emotional maturity isn’t as caught up as the others.”

a roundabout way of saying that jinil doesn’t seem guilty enough when faced with the reality of his actions. roundabout because they’re all in middle school and hardly anyone’s developed a real sense of empathy yet anyway. jinil wants to tell her it’s bullshit – and he’s had that token vocab word on the backburner now for months – but he’s smart enough to swallow it down.

he settles on staring instead, that’s what jinil does when he has nothing to say. or if what he’ll say will get him in a good deal of trouble. his stare isn’t a wide-eyed thing, it settles on someone weighty and with judgement. a disinterested drift, and the downturned flicker of his lips. he’d learned that one from his mother. if she were liable to cuff him for anything, it’d be that stare – she’s always hated it. but right now they’re sitting side-by-side and it’s trained on his teacher.

his teacher frowns back, but jinil’s face remains mostly unchanged. too brazen for a thirteen-year-old.

“well. i don’t know, i mean. he’s had detention right?” sunyoung’s frazzled voice, punched through like static. she can get this way, in transparent moods. jinil wants to reach out, trace his fingers over the curve of her elbow, a desire to provide comfort. but he knows it won’t help, in the same way he knows his mother doesn’t care enough about this moment in time to decide he’s in trouble.

“yes, i just think maybe he needs more boundaries at home.” the wrong sorts of words. now jinil’s mother’s reflecting the same expression jinil has on; they look like spitting images of each other in a way that’s a little disconcerting.

“well. i’ll take stock of it.” she won’t. jinil spares a wicked looking smile at his teacher before he plucks himself up and trips off after her, a lot of pompous bravado for a lonely little boy. it’s a wonder they manage to find anyone to teach middle school.

november, 2009–

his parents never divorce. even in the present, and they’re probably still together. not that jinil can ever be sure of it, he cut off contact somewhere in his early-twenties. it could be their religion keeping them together, or their paranoia of starting rumors. whatever it is though, they refuse to separate, like barnacles to the hull of an old iron ship, rusting and rotting and bad for each other.

she drifts listlessly through the house, and he works too much, drinks with his boss until early dawn. they both fill the quiet of their unhappiness on the weekends with tv shows. raucous variety hours and they can pretend like there might still be some humor left between them.

jinil watches it it happen, it’s patterned and predictable. their life, and his too, by extension. he grows to hate it, and hate him, his father.

and he’d ben the one dealing with his mother’s moods. some days she’d be screaming red-faced and furious, his father gone and her suspecting him of having an affair. hell, she’d probably been right. and jinil had learned to pad out from his room and tell her that–

“dad called. he said he’d be back later. called straight from the office.”

and then she’d quiet. a flimsy sort of lie, like the rubbery plastic of a cheap band-aid, likely to peel off in a few hours. leave everything exposed and liable to screaming again later. but it was how jinil learned that lies could placate if you knew where to apply them. taught him that emotions take a tight, unrealized reign in guiding people through life.

with his mother, it’s always been complicated. she’d never gotten over that detachment, and jinil had never gotten over trying to beg scraps of affection out of her.

march, 2011–

some stories from the bible are interesting, jinil’s picked through it enough times that he’s decided that. his parents like catholicism, he likes reading. it was inevitable. some stories everyone knows, and most of them he finds boring. noah and his arc full or animals, or a travelling wave of sycophants toward a manger. but he likes the story of eden, he likes that serpent. he likes the gory in-betweens too, that nobody bothers to focus on anymore.

jinil likes some things about the church – he likes the concept of absolution. not in the way of relief, but just in general. like you could do near anything in the eyes of god and it could be wiped clean, just like that. it makes it all feel a bit like a joke, but it’s not one he catches onto until later, when he’s older and has walked right out of the indoctrination his parents raised him under.

that thought, that anything can be erased or reimagined, resonates with him. it feels to jinil like he doesn’t have to ask for permission. a loophole found in the concept of faith. the reality of it is that jinil isn’t really religious, but that’s lost on him entirely.

so he sins and absolves in a neverending spin-cycle, like he hopes it’ll wash his soul clean. but it doesn’t. as he gets older, it’s hard to live with all those memories. guilt that bleeds into a soul can’t be prayed away, but people don’t usually realize that until it’s too late. and then they’re left to pretend like it doesn’t matter, like they’re fine.

jinil likes to read other things too. he likes reading more than he does studying. has too many quotes memorized and filed haphazard in his head, no room left for biology. his father frowns at his marks when he gets them, and nobody’s impressed with jinil’s ability to recant the words of his favorite poet. that’s not the sorts of things he should be memorizing. a wasted talent, that’s what his teacher says next.

“jinil’s smart, but the way he applies himself…” a trailed off non-ending. jinil hates those, fill-in-the-blank moments and everyone always dives right to the worst option. human nature, maybe. it’s sort of true, he applies himself to his interest of the day, to school politics. not in that stand-up student council sort of way, but the bickering politics of bored teenagers.

people run high on emotions, they let them take charge and sway them. jinil learned that to prod someone in the direction he wanted, all he really had to do was learn them. pretend to empathize with them. the reality of it is that people hate advice when it goes against what they want. instead, jinil’s decided, what works better is carefully guiding them there. dropped hints, catty comments, lies. or better yet, thick unavoidable truths – those are always the best. the kind of truths that cut, the kind of truths that change people, that make them do what you want them to.

find enough trust, and people will tell you near anything. jinil adopts a chameleonic nature, making people like him means disregarding whoever it is he might be. he doesn’t find it to be a real loss, his mother never seemed to want him, so what’s it matter that he guts his person and hangs it out to dry?

he likes it better this way. and jinil’s always taken a sadistic sort of joy in treating people like his puppets.

october, 2016–

jinil’s a legal sort of swindler. legal as loosely defined as one would presume jinil to do. the army behind him, and jinil figures out that paying the right people to give him answers for his college tests leaves him with a lot of free time open to do bigger and better things. blackmail does alright, too.

he likes seeking out the soft spots in people, same as the way you might with a piece of overripe fruit. finding that spot and bearing down on it, like a thumb to thick skin, until the meat of it meals and bruises. leaves people softer than before, only not in the nice way. in the way that makes them weak, in the way that makes them expendable. ready to be tossed out into the bin.

that’s how jinil likes to deal with others. it’s like a character study, on a quest to understand, and understanding is more complicated that most might think. the interesting parts are what will make people break. what will make them do what they ordinarily wouldn’t otherwise.

people imagine power as this lording and brutal thing, but jinil’s always had better luck in talking it out of people. what’s a king when poised in front of the quivering idea of a revolution? enough people stacked liked waves with the words of a dissenter swimming around in their skulls? that’s real power.

power comes in information, in the right sorts of answers. like knowing when a stock might dip, and selling it all off at the last minute – insider trading, and it’s where jinil had made most of his money. in that hushed, underhanded sort of way where everyone knows it’s wrong.

like figuring out the right secret on a politician after befriending and goading stories out of his day-workers, using it to leverage himself into a job title jinil doesn’t deserve. bluffing his way through a degree he barely studied for because he colluded with a dean who cared more about money than academics.

everyone’s more than a little dirty if they matter. and not that romanticised sense of matter, where everyone does. jinil doesn’t really buy into that. without his lies and manipulative compulsions, he wouldn’t matter much either.

june, 2018–

he’s good with the stocks, he’s got a mind for it. that’s how jinil’s been described, once or twice. but that’s just because stocks ride the up-and-down tides of business deals, and by now jinil’s managed to sniff out more connections than one person really has a right to have.

the trick of it is being able to bench enough of his pride that he’s still mostly a nobody, a face unrecognized, his standing in the business world nebulous.

it’s a hard thing to let go of, but it makes it all easier. makes it so you can pick up a mask and wear it for a day. social-engineering, that’s the hard name of it, but jinil’s never sat down and studied the intricacies. just uses it to get what he wants. to slip into places he doesn’t belong, be that fly-on-the wall inside a party where things terrible and transactional are being discussed. so he says he’s an intern, sometimes, or he makes friends with a lie of a smile.

jinil’s always loved telling stories, so he creates. creates enough to get his way, creates enough to seek out trust, to try and pull free information that benefits him. or else, how he’s able to exploit. you’d call him cunning, but only if you were a particularly nice person.

february, 2020–

it’s not all above the books, it hardly ever is – the president’s club, and it sounds like something official. jinil’s in it the same reason he figures most everyone else is, monetary greed. he doesn’t mind it, that extra payout.

the years he’s spent spent with them run like sand through his fingers, trapped up in an hourglass. eventually it’ll run its course. but what else does jinil have to live for other than seeing just how many zeros he can fill up his bank account with, that promised gut-rush of an adrenaline kick?

[imakeficrequestsandthendisappear]

When You Say My Name CH9

Author: YoungDumbandFullofHeadcanons /https://imakeficrequestsandthendisappear.tumblr.com/

Summary: Being an Army brat means that every new town is a chance to start over. When the Criss family moves to Derry, Vicky Criss dies so Vic can start living.

Pre-IT (2017), AU: Trans!Vic Centric, Henry/Vic Slow burn

Angst  Fluff  More Angst  Smut  Even More Angst Playing fast and loose with the canon

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Major Character Death Rape/Non-Con Underage

Category: M/M

Fandoms: IT (2017) IT - Stephen King

Relationship: Henry Bowers/Victor Criss

Characters: Henry Bowers Victor Criss Patrick Hockstetter Reginald “Belch” Huggins Henry Bowers’s Gang (IT) Oscar “Butch” BowersThe Losers Club (IT) Pennywise (IT)

Language:English

Chapter 9: Don’t Tell Part 1

Summary:  Hot breaths puff into each other’s mouths as they pant from the fight. Sweat runs down Henry’s brow and onto Vic’s. They are looking at each other and going cross-eyed from the close proximity. The air is silent except for the chirping of crickets by the quarry. And their lips are still connected because Henry still doesn’t move.

July, 1986

Summer proceeds with binding sunlight and humid weather, days lengthening and stretching out the time Vic and Henry spend together.

Henry’s birthday came in May, but Vic didn’t know about it until the day of, when Belch and Patrick mentioned it at school.

“Henry,” Vic says softly.

Shoving his backpack in his locker, Henry just hums back and seems a little more guarded than usual. Vic stands dutifully by his side, leaned up against the wall and waiting for the other boy.

Vic treads carefully before proceeding, seeing the way Henry’s jaw is locked and there is a deep furrow in his brow.

“Why didn’t you tell me?

“Tell you what?” Henry says with cold malice, slamming the locker door shut too hard.

The bang makes Vic flinch back a little, and immediately Henry regrets it. He doesn’t say sorry out loud, but Vic can see it in the way his eyes drop and he leans in a little closer, softening his voice.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” Henry whispers with repressed disappointment in his tone.

But of course Vic does worry about it, because it’s Henry’s twelfth birthday and he deserves something better than waiting for the beating he’s going to get tonight for being born at all. So Vic, Belch, and Patrick agree to take Henry to the arcade all afternoon (Patrick first suggested they put firecrackers in people’s mailboxes, but finally agreed to save that for another day). And then they go get ice cream and Henry spends the night at Vic’s house.

So maybe they didn’t have cake, and no one actually says “happy birthday”, but as the boys lay out on the floor in their nest of pillows and blankets Henry seems happier than when the day began.

“G’night,” Vic whispers into the dark.

“Thank you,” Henry whispers back, so quietly that Vic almost doesn’t hear it.

June brought Vic’s birthday, just a week before school got out for summer break.

The night before, Vic lies awake on the floor, without Henry because he couldn’t sneak out. And he tries to prepare himself to not be too crushed by disappointment the next day. He’s been forgotten in the past, he’s the youngest and the quietest of course, but this year feels different in an aching kind of way. No matter how much he’d been left out before, Mom at least tried, but now the family dynamic is so shifted, he’s not been forgotten, he has been excommunicated.

So in the morning he doesn’t even give Mom the chance to ignore him. He meets up with the guys and they waste the day away at the arcade and roaming the streets, until Belch and Patrick have to go home in the evening (Well, Belch has to go home, Patrick just kind of wanders off when he spies a stray cat in an alleyway). Instead of heading home themselves, Henry sneaks them into a horror movie at the theater. And afterwards boys will say it wasn’t scary, but there were certain scenes that made them jump and mutually reach for the other’s hand.

They both climb into their room at Vic’s house through the back window, and Henry stays the night for no reason other than they both want him too. Waking the next morning, a Sunday, Vic and Henry go into the kitchen and sit at the table as they eat bowls of sugary cereal. They don’t say much, but the quiet is soft and comfortable. Until Mom comes down the stairs.

She’s gotten so adept to the Victoria-died-and-will-never-come-back charade, that she can now effectively ignore Vic and however many friends he brings home without even batting an eye. But when she walks down the stairs, on her the way to the kitchen, she sees the two boys eating at the table and freezes, just staring at them for a full minute.

Henry notices first and almost chokes on his next bite of cereal, because Henry is always a bit unnerved by being looked at or spoken to by adults. So he drops his gaze to the table top and, as subtly as he can, alerts Vic that she is there.

Vic looks up, and for a second wonders if he had stumbled back in time, because Mom suddenly is looking at him like she used to. Like a mother who wants to love her children as much as they deserved, but just never really knows how to do so.

“Mom?”

She pauses in her trance, and then blinks rapidly like she’s thinking.

“Was… was yesterday the eleventh?” She asks softly, like she wants him to say no.

There’s a rising, pulsing clog in his throat, choking up his voice and burning his eyes, but he pushes through and speaks anyway.

“Yeah, it was.” Vic feels less hatred and more sadness.

And for the first time in quite a while, Mom seems to wake up, to see outside herself and the preconceived images she had of her life, her family, and her youngest child.

“Oh- Oh, I can’t believe, I didn’t mean to- honey I’m sorr-”

She’s talking too fast, and it sounds like she really is sorry and Vic can’t handle it.

“We’re going somewhere” Vic cuts her off, grabbing Henry’s sleeve and leaving through the back door as fast as they can.

They left their bowls on the table and the screen door swinging behind him. As Vic charges through the backyard his steps start to falter and the tears start to fall. He loses his sense of time and space for a moment, and when he comes back to himself, Henry has led him into the shade behind the garage.

His chest hiccups with squeaking sobs, and his knees are so unsteady that when Henry pulls him into his chest he just collapses forward. Tears soak into Henry’s shirt as Vic presses his face into his shoulder and Henry wraps his arms around Vic’s back.

The boys don’t speak, don’t move except Vic shuddering sobs, they just stay in the shadows as Henry holds him through the tears. Because when they’re alone this is okay, it’s not weak, it’s not girly, it’s just something that they need from one another.

And they don’t talk about it again, but Vic considers that birthday to be one of the worst and best he’s ever had.

So now midsummer has peaked and the twelve year-olds have gotten bored of spending day in and day out at the arcade and the comic book store, so Henry decides that they’re going down to the barrens outside of town.

Belch can’t come because his Mom made plans he can’t be let out of. Patrick has Sunday school, which his parents think will help his behavior, but is really just fueling his desire to set the church on fire. So Vic and Henry go alone to fields of dead grass, walking along streams of muddy waters and tall reeds.

They revert to their usual form of showing affection, pushing shoving, tripping, they tease each other, Henry grabs a lock of Vic’s bangs and pulls on it, Vic digs his nails into Henry’s wrist and sticks his tongue out at him, until they end up sprawled out on the dry grass wrestling. Pollen and dust string their eyes, but they’re laughing because the hits and jabs tickle more than hurt, trying to pin each other to the ground to win the playful battle.

Henry rolls them over to straddle one of Vic’s legs and hold one wrist to the ground. Vic is digging his other knee Henry’s stomach and using his free hand to fist in Henry’s hair and pull him back. Leaning into his superior size and weight, Henry presses Vic harder into the dirt and finally pries the grasping hand from his hair. Fighting Vic’s resistance, Henry finally gets the other arm to the ground and bares down to hold it there.

And usually this is where the game ends, Henry often wins but Vic’s getting better, but this time as Henry pushes Vic’s arm down, the force drives his face down against the other boy’s. They’re foreheads hit painfully, their noses bump, their teeth clack because they’re grinning so hard, and their lips press together in the collision. It’s not a kiss, it’s just the soft, meaty flesh of their mouths meeting by accident, and Vic wouldn’t think anything of it, except Henry just stays there.

Hot breaths puff into each other’s mouths as they pant from the fight. Sweat runs down Henry’s brow and onto Vic’s. They are looking at each other and going cross-eyed from the close proximity. The air is silent except for the chirping of crickets by the quarry. And their lips are still connected because Henry still doesn’t move.

They blink, so close they can feel the flutter of each other’s lashes. Henry’s grip loosens on Vic’s wrists but doesn’t let go. Vic doesn’t try to escape. After another shuttering breath, Vic feels Henry’s tongue sweep across their bottom lips, wet and warm as it dampens the plump skin, and then Henry is actually pressing his lips down and this is really a kiss.

It’s a child’s kiss. They hold their breath, their lips don’t move, they don’t close their eyes, and it makes the driest little squelching noise as they press together. Vic can’t say it feels particularly good, but also not bad either, it’s just wet and sticky and a little too warm and way too close. But there is something about the closeness that makes his insides shiver, like his blood is rushing faster and his bones are vibrating and his stomach is fluttering, but he doesn’t know if this feels good or bad either.

As soon as it really starts, it seems to end. Henry pulls back a little too quickly, so the damp skin clings together before breaking apart, and their lips stay pouted and slightly puckered for a moment.

Vic can see the storm clouds gathering in Henry’s mind, just like he can feel the turbulent ocean in his own stomach, because both boys know that this changes something. Up until now, the comforting, the wound treating, the crying, the hugging, was all within the bounds of what they could offer one another, but kissing seems to cross a line they weren't aware of. Henry’s eyes are changing rapidly, going from surprised to confused to longing? to afraid to tragic, heartbreaking, melancholy.

As Henry looks down at him with that somber gaze, Vic wonders if he too has that haunted look in his eyes, if that is what they both see in each other’s dark irises. Is this the meaning of this look what binds them together? Is it because they both know what it feels like to have adults fists connect with their bodies? Is it because they both know how to put their heads down to hide bruises in plain sight? Or is it because they both have something hidden just beneath the surface, something that they both are terrified to let anyone see?

Vic knows the words Henry repeats through choking tears, on those day when the pain and the fear overcome him, and he has to open up a crack before the whole dam explodes. “Weak.” “Coward.” “Bitch.” “Queer.” “Faggot.” The list goes on, but Vic has never thought about them as any more than words used as ammo by Henry’s father. But maybe those words mean more to Henry than the punches and kicks to his body.

“Don’t tell,” Henry says, with heat but no force, and his voice cracks like a painful sob is trying to rise up through his throat. “Don’t tell or else,” He tries to reaffirm his grip on Vic’s wrists to pin them back to the ground, but his hands are weak and shaking.

Vic lets himself be held down though, because if he moves he’s sure Henry will either punch him in the face or take off like a skittish deer. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, and licking off the sticky residue of Henry’s saliva on his lips, Vic gets up is nerve to speak.

“I- I won’t tell,” he croaks out, voice crackling with fear.

“Promise!” Henry yelled at him, fire burning in his teary eyes.

Vic flinches, because as similar they seem to be, Henry is still loud when Vic is quiet, strong where he is weak, and powerful in all the ways he is not. So sometimes he can’t help but to be afraid of his volatile best friend.

“I promise Henry. I won’t ever tell anybody,” He wants to shout back, but all he can muster is a loud whine that breaks at the end.

Henry stays leaning over him, still holding him down in a light grasp. A few tears overflow and Vic watches one roll down from the corner of his eye, over the bridge of his nose and leave a damp trail over his freckles. Henry is huffing angrily, but then his eyes drift down at Vic’s mouth, with his own lips parted gently, and Vic wonders if he’s going to kiss him again.

Oh no.

But instead Henry jumps off of him like he’s been burned on the places where their skin has touched. Turning away, Henry sits with his knees to his chest and wipes the stray tears with his sweatshirt sleeve. Vic sits up slowly, gathering all his limbs towards himself like they aren’t really connected to him. Waiting behind Henry, he wonders if he should say something and then can’t think of anything. Fortunately or unfortunately, Vic finds he can’t speak at all anyway, because his throat has closed up again. So he just sits and waits for Henry to recover.

Henry gets worse instead of better as the silent minutes pass, and soon Vic can hear the tell-tale sounds of repressed sobs, quiet as though they may be. Vic listens and thinks they could have a competition, to see who can cry the quietest into their pillow at night. Who can bury the most into the holes in their hearts and lock all the pain away? Who can make it through the night without being heard? First one to get caught by their father loses.

Unable to stand it anymore, Vic reaches out with the caution someone would approach an injured dog with. Instead of touching Henry’s back, or side, or arm, or anywhere else he’s seen bruises litter his skin, Vic curls his fingers around the sleeve of Henry’s sweatshirt, which has been dampened by tears, and gently pries Henry’s fist away from his face.

Henry looks back at him, breath hiccuping every few seconds and face red with shame. Holding the sleeve as tightly as he can, with just the barest hint of his fingers brushing against Henry’s wrist, Vic looks up at him and tries to impart all the things he can’t say into the look they share.

I’ll never tell.

The message seems to get across, because soon after Henry is pulling himself together, standing up, and leading Vic through the barrens once again. They don’t talk about it now, maybe they never will, but as they trek forward, Vic’s fist is still curled around his sleeve to tether them together.

Vic hopes the other half of his message has also gotten to Henry.

Nothing has changed.

Notes: Link to AO3     http://archiveofourown.org/works/12399036/chapters/28809909

It has begun. For real tho, i hope this one was okay I have a lot of homework that I am trying to do while i write. It's a little shorter but I hope it was cute&fluffy ://)

Me: Isn't it cute their first kiss was on accident Me to Me: Bitch you know that wasn't an accident

Let it also be know that this chapter is the first one with a death count=1, because that cat Patrick found is not okay.

Ummmm Im running out of ways to tell you guys how much I love your comments and appreciate you all, but plz know that y'all are the great big universe turtle of my life and I only want to make you happy.