#will I -get offended- by words uttered in the heat of the moment / or will I trust my eyes/ears and -benevolent impulses-? ~

[gf2bellamy]

movie — spencer reid

pairing : spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer accidentally uses the word "we" content warnings: secret relationship , rossi playfully getting mad at reader , mention of closed case a/n: me and emily share the same opinion

The weight of the case you had just wrapped up still lingered, but for once, it wasn’t suffocating. You had saved the victim—just in time. It was the kind of win that made the exhaustion a little easier to bear, the long hours and dark realities a little more worth it. 

You sat across from Spencer in the jet, your legs subtly interlocked with his beneath the table—not obvious but enough to feel content.

He held a book in his hands, fingers resting against the worn spine, but his eyes weren’t on the pages. Instead, he was listening as the team engaged in a heated debate over movies. 

"The Thing is a must-watch movie,” Rossi declared, leaning back in his seat with the confidence of a man who had lived long enough to know a classic when he saw one. “I mean, come on—it’s a masterpiece.” 

Emily scoffed, arms crossed. “It’s just a bunch of paranoid guys stuck in the snow. Half of them barely have personalities.” 

“That’s what makes it brilliant,” Spencer interjected, his voice slipping into the conversation as easily as he slipped into statistics. “The isolation, the uncertainty of who’s human and who’s not—it’s a perfect study of paranoia.The ambiguity of the ending only adds to the tension.” 

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. That was Spencer—effortlessly brilliant, unknowingly endearing. 

Derek chuckled. “And here we go with the movie analytics.” 

Spencer smiled apologetically but didn’t say anything, instead he shifted slightly in his seat. His knee pressed a little more firmly against yours. You smiled softly at your boyfriend.

As the conversation continued, you watched Spencer’s fingers absently trace the edges of his book.

“What’s your opinion on it?” Derek asked, nodding at you. You had been quiet throughout the discussion, content to listen rather than participate. 

You shrugged, feeling everyone’s attention shifting to you. “Don’t have one,” you admitted casually. 

Derek raised a brow. “How do you not have an opinion?” 

“I’ve never watched it.” 

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt the entire mood in the jet shift. Rossi let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head in what could only be described as theatrical disappointment.

“This generation,” Rossi muttered under his breath, exasperated. 

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Is it really that big of a deal?” 

Spencer, who had been quiet until now, suddenly shifted his leg against yours—just a small movement, but enough to catch your attention. When you glanced at him, he met your gaze with a look of utter disbelief. 

“Yes,” he said simply, siding with the rest of the team without hesitation. 

Even Emily, who had just been trashing the movie moments ago, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you kind of have to watch it at least once. It’s a cultural milestone.” 

“I just don’t see the appeal,” you said, shrugging. 

Rossi let out another dramatic sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as if you had personally offended him. “Young lady, I expect you to watch this movie in the next three days—at the very least. And if you don’t—” He turned to Hotch, completely serious. “Aaron, I want you to fire her.” 

You laughed quietly, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, glancing around at your teammates, who still looked thoroughly scandalized. 

Before you could protest further, Spencer spoke up, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “We can watch it tomorrow if you want.” 

The second the words left his mouth, you felt your entire body freeze. Slowly, you turned to look at him, eyes wide. 

Spencer, who had seemed completely unaware of his slip-up, only realized what he had just said when he saw your expression. His lips parted slightly as if he was about to backtrack, but then he clamped his mouth shut, looking like he wanted to disappear into his chair. 

For a split second, there was silence—thick, heavy, and dangerous. 

And then— 

“What?” Derek’s voice cut through the air, loud and full of suspicion. 

Without thinking, you kicked Spencer lightly under the table, your foot making solid but harmless contact with his shin. He flinched slightly, but to his credit, he barely reacted otherwise, keeping his face neutral even as you shot him a look that screamed really? 

Morgan narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze between the two of you. “We?” he echoed, emphasizing the word.

Emily leaned forward, suddenly interested. “Yeah, Reid. We?” 

Spencer cleared his throat, clearly trying to recover. “I—I just meant—hypothetically, if she wanted someone to watch it with, I—” 

“You’d volunteer as tribute?” Emily teased, smirking. 

“I mean—statistically speaking, it’s more enjoyable to experience a film with someone rather than alone,” Spencer rushed out, his voice just a little too high, a little too fast. 

You resisted the urge to groan. He was not helping. 

Rossi, who had been watching the exchange like it was an unfolding plot twist in one of his own novels, suddenly smirked. “Interesting.” 

Hotch, the only one who hadn’t reacted much, simply raised an eyebrow before going back to his paperwork. Which, honestly, was more terrifying than if he had said something. 

You exhaled, shaking your head, trying to brush it off. “Alright, movie night it is,” you said, forcing a casual tone. 

The team was still watching the two of you suspiciously, but after a few moments, they slowly let it go—well, for now. 

Under the table, Spencer nudged your foot in silent apology. You sighed, nudging him back. 

This was not going to be the last you heard about it. 

[aoitakumi8148]

[Left behind] 𝟚 of 𝟚.

𝓛𝓪𝔂 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 Ꮼ 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓜𝔂 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓜𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓮, 𝓘 𝓦𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓤𝓼𝓮 𝓘𝓽 𝓣𝓸 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓕𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓜𝓮...

‘I get why you are doing this, but I know that together we can create something mighty magnificent. I'll give you what not a single ‹version› of your ‹real› son ever would... I do not dare to be judgmental of the emotions you are driven by... 'cause they are mutual... No tribulation is tougher than a future that is not there.’

[partycatty]

older!johnny cage > listen up

you just can't seem to follow orders, so johnny explains them loud and clear... :3

warnings: you're a dilf obsessed freak and you get yelled at idk, he's meaner than usual, idk how the military works

[ masterlist ]

• lieutenant cage was, at the best of times, a strong advisor and wise man.

• at his worst of times, he's barking orders at the squad like a pack of dogs, not that you'd complain if he forced you to all fours, if we're all being honest here.

• some bat out of netherrealm must've pissed in his coffee this morning, and johnny was making it everyone's problem by forcibly refreshing everyone on basic commands. you wonder if it was just an excuse for him to yell his frustration away.

• "fall in!" his booming voice startles you from your trance and you're snapped back to your position, you and other recruits standing in front of johnny in dead-still positions.

• "ten-hut!" he calls, and your back snaps straight. you groan to yourself at the sudden movement, and lieutenant cage catches the sound. his head snaps toward you with a scowl. "no complaining or we're here til sundown, is that clear?!"

• "yes, sir!" your voice can only boom as much, far less trained in the art of... yelling at people.

• cage rattles on about something regarding everyone not knowing their lefts and rights, and decides everyone is deserving of a refresher. so, he stands with his hands behind his back.

• "left face!" you pivot instantly, the choir of shuffling around you moves with you like a strict ocean. "right face!" you return to your previous position with your stick-up-your-ass military posture.

• he barks the directions out in rapid succession, the crowd following it seamlessly... except for you. maybe you didn't get enough sleep, or maybe johnny's cruel voice was making you dizzier than the pivoting was. you stumbled over yourself, a beat behind the rest.

• you stood out like a sore thumb as much as you wished to blend in out of embarrassment. your wonky timing was painfully obvious against the crowd, and johnny let out a loud groan, ripping his sunglasses from his face.

• "christ on a bike," he grumbles, uttering your last name. "are you gonna follow orders or sit there like an idiot?"

• your lips shut tight, eyes forward as johnny stomps up, nearly brushing his chest in your face. his breathing stutters, and you fight every urge to not look up into his eyes.

• "you don't know how to listen, do you?" he growls, nearly speaking into the top of your head. "wasting my god damn time."

• "sorry, sir," your voice shrinks in your throat, which apparently deeply offends johnny today.

• his hand flies to your jaw, holding somewhere between your neck and your jaw as he tilts your head up, applying pressure as the sides of your vision blur out.

• "you're gonna speak loud and clear to me when you answer me, is that clear?" his voice teeters between a whisper and growl, eyes darting between yours.

• you wanted to be scared, you wanted to be compliant and listen to his order, but his hand was literally on your neck. this flustered you, embarrassingly easy and words were almost impossible. your vision spaces out, eyes wandering as you try to ground yourself.

• johnny tugs at your face, drawing your attention back. "look at me when i speak to you."

• "yes, sir," you choke out, a little clearer this time.

• his brows furrow for a moment, lip twitching in a dubious expression you'd never seen on his aged face before. "you're gonna be the death of me."

• you don't even get a moment to contemplate his curious choice of words, as his hand pulls away from your face and he spins on his heel, retreating to his previous position.

• he barks that everyone is starting over because of you and a quiet wave of sighs and shuffles heat your face. it was already mortifying to be humiliated in front of your squad, but you were berated by none other than your dilfy work crush... your boss. maybe you could curl up into a ball and die here and now.

• after a few hours of stupid, repetitive training you want to do nothing more than rot in your bed, ignoring the pissed looks of your colleagues. just as you're about the exit the room, a hand shoots out to squeeze at your wrist, nearly dragging you backward from the unexpected force.

• a firm voice states your last name, and you instantly recognize it as your very upset boss. you swallow thickly and try to put on your best neutral expression as you turn to face him.

• "my office," he says, though it doesn't sound like a request and more like a command. "now."

[sink-me-in-your-ocean]

Just a Quick(ie) Change

Papa Copia x gn!Reader smut

WC: 3100

A/N: I think I blacked out when I wrote this at 2am. This one is for @endhisbloodlineinmyesophagus - thank you for spamming me with pics of Copia’s amazing thighs.

Content warnings: oral sex m!receiving. 18+ only. Minors DNI.

NSFW below the cut.

Hired as a quick-change assistant, you didn’t expect much from the job backstage for Papa Emeritus IV.

You never expected, one, that you’d actually enjoy your job, and two, that the two other assistants would quit right before a tour. 

It was much too close to the start of the ritual tour to hire someone on the spot. Sister Imperator always had the last word, and since the clergy was thousands of miles away from her at the moment, it was an inopportune time to be short-staffed. Papa required many, many intricate costume changes during rituals. Usually, these changes required at least six additional hands, but at least for the next several shows you’d have to make do with just your two.

It was down to you and him when he’d come backstage. Sometimes another member of the crew would bring him refreshments while the nameless ghouls stalled on stage, riffing and whatnot, but mostly it was just the two of you. This led to witty banter, goofy little mishaps, and the like. Some accidents even led to flirtatious jokes between you two as you quickly warmed to each other.

Papa rushed offstage, clutching the front of his trousers. Holding back a laugh, you couldn’t resist asking, “Are your pants falling off or are you just eager to see me?”

He put his hand to his heart, exclaiming a word in Italian before inhaling in a dramatic gasp. “My button popped off.”

You knew his button came off while he was performing - you had a small live monitor in your closet - coloring you thoroughly impressed by the movements of his hips. You had the cheesy line and a needle, thread, and replacement for the offending button prepared as soon as you saw it happen. 

The laugh you shared together wasn’t the first, and certainly would not be the last of the evening. You couldn’t place why it brought you so much joy to just make him smile in between sets. It was a moment of complete and utter glee in the midst of the madness that went into each ritual.

Zippers got caught, shoes were left untied, robes were wrinkled, the whole nine. It was like Murphy’s Law backstage sometimes… anything that could go wrong, would go wrong. 

On the second night of your solo adventure, in the middle of a particularly intricate change involving his Dracopia bat wings, Papa said something to you that would keep your mind stirring the entire night. He was on a high from the opening of the show, beaming at you from the moment he saw you, but this… this was different.

“I enjoy our time together, you know.”

“What?” Your focus was on the second, most stubborn, buckle as you stood in front of him. The harness couldn’t lace itself up so you kept working, your fingers nimbly adjusting as he kept speaking.

“Well, it’s just that I’m used to so many people poking and prodding me, shoving me this way and that, just going through the motions.” He paused, tilting his head to listen for his cue coming up before he continued, “But with you this is different, I feel like I’m actually getting a break instead of just being rushed around like a…how do they say... chicken with its head cut off.”

You finished the last buckle, securing it in place and patting his arm as you were utterly lost for words. His sentiment cut through you like a blade, but was as soft as a feather pillow. 

He turned on his heel as he walked away, but paused and looked over his shoulder, winking at you before walking back on stage. The crowd of devotees screamed and you stood alone in the dark, accompanied only by the mass of butterflies in your stomach. 

The rest of the night went by as usual, but somehow smoother than expected. The stolen glances between you and Papa were more heated, and held more weight than before. Neither one of you crossed that threshold that night though; You refused to be the first one to take this - whatever this is - to the next level.

The next show you were alone, yet once more. Sister Imperator unsurprisingly didn’t like any of the candidates that had applied for the position, not deeming them ‘good enough’ to work with Copia. She never called him Papa, you noticed. 

Sister was doing her best to assuage you while simultaneously making your head hurt. She was always kind to you for some unknown reason, but tonight she was truly laying it on thick, “… but you, my dear, are a diamond in the rough. You’ll have to shine on your own just a little longer.”

The video call glitched, her word’s temporarily interrupted by a bad connection as she said something else.

“I’m sorry, would you repeat that? It sounded like you said it’s just going to be me for the rest of the week.”

“Oh no, I didn’t say that.” The video finally stabilized. You sighed in relief before she continued. “I said you’ll be on your own for the rest of the tour.”

Your face fell. It felt like a two-ton weight was placed on your chest, or that you were shoved in a truck, locked in, and the key was thrown away. 

No help? Seriously?

She noted your facial expression before you could reel yourself in. “Don’t worry my dear, we will compensate you more for the lack of help you have, but at least I know that my - cough - er, the Cardinal, will be happy in your capable hands.”

You tried to hide your dismay, “O-Kay.”

“I’ve got to run off now little one, try to make the best out of it, alright?”

“I promise, Sister, thank you.”

You sighed again, to no one this time and not out of relief. To be on your own the rest of the tour seemed, in practice, too much. You had only done two shows solo and the limited sanity you had was already wearing thin. Suddenly, you had a strange thought that warmed your body: if you’re the only one then that means more time for you and Papa to get to know each other. 

Your traitorous heart gave a squeeze. More time alone with him couldn’t possibly be a bad thing… could it?

Perhaps? Perhaps not. But you could certainly think of many, many bad things to do.

One week later 

Your heart was pounding as you did your final checks. Everything tonight was going to run perfectly. 

The first change went to plan, then the next. Every second that passed with the two of you in each other's vicinity felt like an eternity. Your own personal hell of stolen glances and small comments. Of shallow breaths and lingering touches. 

“Is this new?” He nodded to your night-black long-sleeved dress. All-black was the dress code for backstage crew so tonight you’d opted for a racy mini dress and long black stockings to cover your legs up to the thigh. Only a salacious inch of skin showed between the garments, and Papa couldn’t resist peeking. 

Flattered that he noticed, you blushed, “Yes, it is.” You straightened his robes, ensuring the easily-wrinkled fabric lay perfectly in its place. 

“I’d like to see it off you later.” He reached with one gloved hand and ran two fingers along the visible skin of your thigh, making you tremble with want. It felt like the little room turned into a furnace, just from that.

Quick as a flash he grabbed his prop from your open palm before you could react and darted back out to the stage, leaving you in shock with the realization that he wants you just as badly as you want him. 

You pace back and forth, setting everything out for the next change. At one point the stage manager pops in, asks you if you need anything and you assure them that you’re good. 

There’s only one person who can give you what you need.

As soon as the cue hits for him to exit your palms tingle in anticipation. Your eyes lit up as you saw him, stripping him out of the floor-length robe immediately to get started on the next change. But Papa had other ideas.

His gloved hands grabbed you firmly, one on your jaw and the other at your waist to pull you into a deep and sensuous kiss. You felt the electricity between you buzz from your lips down to your toes. Your body responded before you truly realized what was happening, and you kissed him back with equivalent enthusiasm. 

He growled as you parted your lips to dart your tongue out, grazing his teeth once before going back on the next kiss to taste his tongue. You moaned, greedily, taking in a deep breath through your nose to inhale his bouquet of fragrant cologne and hair products. It felt like the two of you were kissing with the need of long-lost lovers, reunited after a decade of time. He grabbed and groped at your body, pulling you closer as though he never wanted to let you go.

You did your best not to be too handsy with him in return, as you didn’t want to fuck up his costume.

Fuck! His costume!

The head-spinning thrill of the kiss made him miss his cue to go back on stage, both of you too caught up in the passion of the moment to feel the world around you. You broke the kiss and violently threw items at him to put on. Luckily this change was one of the easier ones, but it never looked good for Papa to delay his return to the stage.

The stage manager came in again, “Everything alright in there?”

“Yes! Just a stubborn zipper again!” You laughed breathily to cover up your anxious flitting about while Papa stayed silent. 

“Alright, well, hurry it along, the ghouls are going to start eating each other out there if not.” They sounded less than pleased before cutting back out of the tiny room.

“Heard.” You replied curtly, not in the mood to have your moment ruined any further. 

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dickhead,” your breath caught in your chest. Did he regret the kiss? “You have a little, er, smudge.” He motioned towards his lip.

You looked in the mirror beside you, hells below, he was right! You had black makeup from him smudged all over. 

He giggled his way back out, leaving you furiously rubbing at your lips and chin, your face fully flushed with embarrassment.

By the next quick change, you two had a pattern working perfectly. 

First, change out of the previous costume.

Second, put the next one on.

Third, and most importantly, spend any and all remaining seconds kissing each other like giddy teenagers.

You both became a desperate mess of hands, lips, and teeth. You even picked up a few new tricks: one of which being that you could tie his tie exceedingly well while he had his tongue in your mouth. You got a little too handsy now, stroking him through his pants as his hands gripped your rear. Feeling him growing with every motion was spurring you on, making you almost delirious with need.

“I’ll see you shortly.” He exhaled heavily, palming the front of his pants to adjust the placement of his dick. It was adorable how he was going to go out there like this, pantomiming that nothing had transpired, but you were fine with it, it was a little game.

“I’ll be waiting.” You called after him.

The longest break in the show was up next, and you already knew what to do. You were on your knees before he finished the song, his cue to move backstage for his change came and when he saw you he stopped in his tracks. 

“Don’t just stand there now, come over here and let me taste you.” Your bold words seemed to almost miss him, as he looked to be in a trance. He soon snapped out of it, taking a few steps to you and closing the distance. 

He stroked your hair, “You don’t have to do this right now, we can wait until later.”

His suggestion was tempting but unnecessary, you were committed to this. “I gave you a problem, and I want to take care of it for you. May I?” You pleaded up at him and his mouth dropped open.

“Yes. Fuck, please.”

With his explicit permission you went to work. It was well-known that Papa went commando on stage. However, this didn’t make it any less difficult for you to peel the “rat-eaten” black pants off of him. His sweat combined with the stiff, unforgiving tightness of the trousers and made it quite difficult for you to wrench him from the tight fabric. 

You wrestled the fabric down, exposing the very tops of his delicious thighs and in the middle, his magnificent thick cock sprung forth. Your mouth watered at the sight, so long and hard, how you wanted - no - needed to taste him. 

You wet your lips, looking up at him and not wanting to waste any more time as you pressed your tongue lightly to the underside of the hot tip. You flicked your tongue to the very end, where a bead of pre-cum was leaking out. 

Tasting him stirred something within you that made your insides clench. You wanted so much more than just to give him a sloppy blow job in the stage right closet at a ritual. But this would have to do for now. 

The salt of his sweat on your tongue was like a drug to you, and you needed more of everything. You impaled yourself on his length, gagging obscenely as you took as much of him into your mouth as possible. 

He groaned as you sucked at him, your tongue working to massage the underside of his shaft. You bobbed your head back and forth, one of your hands coming up to follow the motion of your mouth. It slid back and forth easily, the copious amount of spit already coating his length made for ideal lubrication.

Your other hand steadied yourself by gripping his exposed thigh, squeezing the flesh lightly, your fingertips satisfied just by touching his bare skin. You felt your arousal again, a pulse at the apex of your legs thrumming to almost fierce levels. Fuck, you wanted to put one of your hands between your own legs, but right now, your focus was solely on Papas pleasure.

He exhaled with a ‘ha’ sound, another groan making its way out through his clenched teeth. You felt one of his hands curl itself through your hair, pulling slightly to get your attention.

You looked up at him, and you were so turned on by the sight. Papa’s face was contorted in lustful indulgence. Some of his hair plastered itself to his forehead while other pieces stuck out at the sides as though he had been running his fingers through the salt-and-pepper strands. You made a quick mental note to fix it before he went back on stage. 

He pulled again at your hair and you removed your mouth from him, although your hand continued to work, stroking up and down his entire shaft. 

“Fuck my mouth Papa.” The words in your desire-filled heart spoke themselves aloud.

He growled, “Open up.”

You did exactly as you were told, moving both hands now to his thighs as he readjusted his grip on your hair. The music was changing, the instrumental interlude was almost to an end. Your mouth opened wide and you got your wish.

Papa fucked your mouth as though the success of the ritual depended on it. He wasted no time pressing his impressive length into your mouth and throat as far as it could go. Your gag reflex was being obliterated with each thrust of his hips forwards. After several quick, punishing blows to your throat it finally relaxed. You were at his mercy, and mercy, he was not pulling any punches.

Tears stained your cheeks, an ache started in your jaw, and your facial muscles tensed. The pressure, the pain was all made worth it as you looked up through bleary eyes to see Papa. His chest shuddered with every breath. His heterochromatic eyes watched you and his eyebrows were knit together. Papa's mouth hung open and dirty remarks, expletives, and guttural sounds of pleasure sputtered out. 

“Look at you, so wanton, so needy for my cock that you’ll kneel before me.”

You hummed in response, pressing your thighs together to try to gain even a slight bit of friction between them. 

It could have been the vibrations from your hum that put him over the edge, or maybe it was that he knew he had to get back out there, but his grasp in your hair tightened. Your scalp flashed in white hot pain as he cried out in one final thrust and painted the back of your throat with hot, heavy spurts of his release.

You swallowed greedily, not wanting a single drop to be missed as he pulled out of your mouth and moved to quickly pull his pants back up. He knelt down unexpectedly, and you met his gaze. His gloved hands wiped the tears from your cheeks as he leaned forward and kissed you on your swollen lips.

“Grazie, mi amore, I shall return the favor after the show.”

With one final caress to your cheek with his hand, he stood, pulling his bright, glittering jacket on one arm at a time. You watched, rosy-cheeked and soft-eyed as he straightened his clothes, checking himself out in the mirror. Of course he looked over everything except his hair.

You snapped out of your lightheaded stupor with a second of time to remain, shooting to your feet, “Wait!”

He turned towards you and you wiped your damp hands on your thigh-highs before reaching up to smooth his soft hair back into place. You covered his eyes and with your dominant hand snagged the miniature can of hairspray out of your stash of supplies to fix everything back in place. 

You’d be damned if you didn’t do your job. 

Papa grabbed you by your collar once you dropped your hands, kissing you once more before heading back on stage. The scent of hairspray, his cologne, and sweat created a haze for you to dream in, thinking of the implications of his words from earlier.

You couldn’t wait for him to return the favor.

[gremlin-girly]

Flufftober Day 7

@flufftober

Prompt: Hoodie Weather

Pairing: Jake Jensen x gn!reader

Warnings/tags: FLUFF, established relationship, petnames (baby, my love), suggestive/innuendo (only bc it's Jake)

Summary: You get caught in the rain on your way home and can't wait to put your favourite gigantic, fluffy hoodie on. Fortunately for you, it's already pre-heated. Unfortunately, for your boyfriend that means he he has to share. Word Count: 725

I hope you enjoy! Likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated 💜

Prev | Next | Masterlist

A/N: I'm specifically referring to Oodies (if you haven't seen one, I'd recommend googling it) and this may or may not have been inspired by my partner... who was less than thrilled about me sticking icy hands on him ☺️ - Love, Grem x

Big, fluffy, soft, cosy, cuddly and warm.

All great adjectives to describe your favourite pink, brushed cotton fleece, over-sized hoodie. You’d thought about it when you’d gotten into work on a strangely chilly morning and you’d thought, nay daydreamed, about it when you’d gotten soaked to the bone on your way home from work.

The only four words on repeat in your brain were hot shower and hoodie.

You sped up the stairs to your apartment, throwing open the door with the intention of giving your boyfriend Jake a quick kiss before make your little dream come true, when you are met with utter, heart-shattering betrayal.

On the sofa lay your boyfriend, who up until five seconds ago you loved with all of your heart, cuddled into a cushion playing a video game. In. Your. Hoodie.

You take a deep breath and stalk over to him quietly.

“Jake.”

“Oh, hey baby I-“ he pauses the game to look over at you and looks a little sheepish when he sees that your frowning at him.

“You're wet,” he chuckles, giving you a cheeky grin and you smile slyly.

“And cold.” You point out, walking around the sofa to stand before him in frustrated, cold glory. “But you look like you're positively toasty.”

Jake doesn’t realise what’s about to happen until it’s too late. You shove your icy hands up the oversized hoodie, pressing them firmly against his warm skin making him squeal with shock. Using his surprise to you advantage, you burrow into the hoodie – following your hands, wrapping your body to his in a tight bear hug ; sapping the warmth from his body onto yours.

Silence fills your apartment as Jake remembers how to breathe again, shivering slightly now that there’s no heat left in him. After a few more moments, you sigh, feeling cosy; surrounded by your boyfriend’s scent in your Big, fluffy, soft, cosy, cuddly hoodie.

Jake sticks his head through the neck hole, glasses askew, to grin at you.

“Was that really necessary?” he says, pretending to be offended.

“It’s the tax for stealing my hoodie.” You quip, smiling up at him. “I knew you liked cuddling me in it –but I didn’t think you’d want one.”

Jake’s cheeks tinge a little pink. “I like cuddling you in it and I’ll admit, the idea of having one is growing one me.” He pauses, looking sheepish again. “But this one smells like you.”

Your smile gets wider and you chuckle. “I guess if I have to share it with you for now.... I can do that. Especially if we can share it like this.”

You settle against him relaxing fully and being the great boyfriend he is, Jake wraps his arms around you and places a sweet kiss to the tip of your damp hair. You sigh contentedly and snuggle closer in response.

“Baby, you can’t get any closer if you tried.” Jake chuckles. “Besides, don’t you want a nice hot drink and a shower?”

Your narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, only to be met with those big, blue puppy eyes he does so well.

“Sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me to keep the hoodie to yourself...” You watch Jake’s expression falter as he tries to keep the sweet innocent look plaster in place. Your lips twitch desperately too, trying to sound serious. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m your boyfriend you loves you,” Jake says matter of factly, smiling at you. “And I totally have your best interests at heart.”

“Uh huh?”

“Yuh huh.”

There’s a mini-standoff as you stare at eachother but you unfortunately break first. With a short snort of laughter, you begin to crawl out under the hoodie. Once free, you point your finger at him teasingly.

“I’ll be back when I’m warmer.” You faux-threaten, heading to the shower for the warm, warm water.

Jake sighs theatrically, getting to his feet. “Your cocoa will be waiting for you upon your return too, my love.”

You feel positively giddy, flashing Jake a grin before you disappear into the bathroom; leaving Jake to smile to himself as he makes you your favourite cocoa. He makes a mental note to tell you how cute you are again when you finish showering, and for probably the umpteenth time, how much he loves you coming home to him.

[beauiestars]

Cherik x Good Omens AU

Angel!Charles Xavier/Demon!Erik Lehnsherr

Word count: 1610

Warnings: Angst, Fluff (if you squint), Religious elements/imagery (Good Omens style, duh), Forbidden romance

After several million years in Charles' company, Erik thought he knew the angel's moods like the back of his hand. However, that couldn't have been further from the truth. As Charles strode up and down the bookshop with an unreadable expression—and responded to Erik's questioning with nonsensical monosyllabic answers—the demon was left perplexed.

Less than a moment ago, they had been engaging in amiable conversation near the fireplace, which was gradually becoming less out of character for the two men. Yet, Charles' demeanour had flipped like a switch and he hadn't uttered a coherent word since.

"Charles, your tea is getting cold," Erik said in a poor attempt to coax the angel back to his side. Of course, Charles didn't spare him a glance. He was offended for only a moment before reminding himself that he hadn't done anything wrong and that Charles was the one behaving peculiarly. With a flick of his wrist, the tea steamed in the mug once again.

Erik watched Charles' erratic movements, only growing more bewildered each time the angel passed by with another stack of books. There was no rhyme or reason to anything Charles was doing; he moved piles of books from one spot to another, and then back again, all whilst muttering incoherently under his breath.

When Charles tried to move a bookshelf using brute strength—unsuccessfully—Erik had to step in. "Stop that. What on earth are you doing?" Erik planted himself between a red-faced Charles and the bookshelf. For the first time in almost an hour, Charles finally looked up at Erik. A huff escaped his pouted lips, and his blue eyes filled with determination.

"If you'd excuse me," Charles said, trying to budge past Erik to resume his secret agenda. Erik planted his feet firmly on the ground, a solid force against the interminable stubbornness of Charles Xavier. Exasperated, and unwilling to fight a losing battle on this occasion, Charles resigned himself to the armchair beside the fireplace, crossing his arms firmly against his chest. "I'll do that later."

"Do what, Charles?" Erik raked his hands through his hair. For reasons he couldn't quite discern, not knowing exactly what went on inside Charles' head unsettled him. Reading people—especially Erik—was always Charles's strong suit. Much to Erik's dismay, it rarely worked the other way around. "You're making no sense."

"To you, maybe," Charles scowled from his spot on the armchair. As far as Erik knew, he was an innocent man—though not really, but in the current situation, he certainly believed it—and Charles' attitude toward him was unwarranted. If Erik hadn't been offended before, he certainly was now.

"Charles," Erik's tone held a promise of dispute. Charles' name had never been uttered from Erik's lips so harshly, and it appeared to rattle him. He sat up straighter, and his hands fell into his lap. The demon approached him in long strides, planting his palms on either arm of Charles' armchair, trapping the angel in place. "If you don't tell me what I've done, I can't fix it. Can I?"

"I suppose not," Charles said at a hushed volume, preferring to keep his eyes trained on Erik's chest rather than his face. He bit down on his lip, continuing to shy away from eye contact. An inkling of hurt bloomed in Erik's heart. Opting to worry about the implications later, he hooked his thumb and index fingers under Charles's chin and turned his face up to meet Erik's softened gaze.

"Tell me what I've done, liebling." The term of endearment rolled off Erik's tongue before he could stop it—not that he would have. Charles sighed, his blue eyes finally meeting Erik's. The angel couldn't resist these moments of softness from the demon, no matter how fleeting. Charles' freckled cheeks grew redder, but Erik dismissed it as the heat from the hearth.

"When we were talking just now," Charles began, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. He'd been so shy to make eye contact a minute ago, but now his gaze was impenetrable. "Or a while ago—my fault—the way you spoke so passionately. I just..." Charles' voice trailed off, and he bit into his bottom lip.

Erik, overflowing with burning anticipation, urged him to continue. "Did I upset you? Was it something I said?" His overt impatience came across more intensely than he'd intended. Charles leaned back in his seat, creating distance as Erik's fingers dropped from his jaw.

"Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact," Charles laughed. It was a short and intrusive sound, but innocuous. Erik knew Charles wasn't laughing at him, per se. Even so, Charles didn't elaborate. The burgeoning expectation was driving Erik mad, and it must have shown on his face. "You captivated me."

Erik felt the tension ease in his shoulders, and he released his bated breath. "In that case, I can't possibly fathom why you've been pacing around the bookshop and avoiding me for the last half hour." The more Charles tried to answer Erik's questions, the more arose in their place.

"I was afraid of what it might mean," Charles said. Erik silently cursed Charles' prudence—which now seemed to be the basis for Charles' caprice. Keeping his mouth shut and his agitation restrained, Erik urged Charles to continue. "I was afraid of what I would have to admit and how it would affect us."

"Us?" Erik hoped that Charles would stop being so vague and verbose for one moment to get his point across. "What about us?" His confusion seeped into every syllable, his frustration palpable.

"For goodness' sake, Erik. I'm bloody in love with you," Charles finally confessed, his chest heaving and his eyes scanning frantically over Erik's expression. Suddenly, Charles' hesitance was warranted. The words lingered, suspended in the air like the beginning winds of a storm, heavy with the threat of something that could tear them apart.

Something forbidden—unheard of—had burgeoned  between the two men. Anything more than a reluctant cooperation between an angel and a demon was unprecedented. Their bond defied all realms of natural law regarding their kind. The punishment for such a crime, if there was even a concept for it, could be detrimental.

To say Erik didn't feel the same would be a sordid mistruth. Getting to know someone over the span of eternity leaves little to be uncovered, and although Erik couldn't predict Charles' moods, he knew everything that truly mattered. All of the good and bad—though the latter was negligible. Erik loved it all. He loved Charles.

The aphotic depths of this new territory offered no guarantees of punishment or forgiveness. Perhaps they would be pardoned, but one could never make such an optimistic assumption. Erik knew the wrath of God. Would she punish their kindred spirits and bleeding hearts?

"Erik?" Charles' anxious voice anchored Erik to the present. The contrite look the angel's face filled Erik with shame. Unaware of how long he had remained silent, he had left Charles to draw his own conclusions and assume the worst.

A fire lit behind Charles' lustrous eyes, catching Erik off guard. "I'm not sorry," Charles said. His tone tremendously assured, as if his attitude had changed with the flip of a switch.

"Pardon?" Erik shook his head, mystified by the other man's sudden impertinent countenance. Charles' stare was unrelenting, and Erik recognised the tacit agreement that Charles would not repeat himself.

Erik, at a loss for words, dropped to his knees in front of Charles. For the first time, Charles looked down at Erik, his blue eyes swimming with expectation. Erik had always been a man of few words, but he invariably made his intentions clear. "Charles, I worship you."

Charles' eyes widened, and an incredulous gasp escaped his perfect lips. He was unaccustomed to the way Erik unflinchingly uttered blasphemy. Once, the fallen angel had questioned the iniquitous rules of God, and she had struck him from the Heavens. But his angel could never be so cruel. "My devotion belongs to you. And you alone."

"Oh, Erik," Charles said longingly. Erik's beliefs scarcely aligned with those Charles had held since the beginning of time, but Erik selfishly hoped the angel might indulge him and embrace the forbidden moment. The thrill of defiance filled Erik with a desperate hope that they could make this work.

"I love you," Erik said like a prayer. Charles wordlessly sank onto the floor in front of him. His hand found its way to Erik's jaw, four fingers grazing the side of his face and his thumb brushing the apple of Erik's cheek. The demon leaned into the angel's touch like it was a sweet reprieve.

Charles leaned in carefully. His free hand trailed into Erik's hair at the back of his neck, and flames erupted within him. Their noses touched for a second before their mouths met, already soft and open. They fit together like puzzle pieces or missing ribs.

Erik kissed Charles as if he were desperate to memorise the feel of his lips and the taste of his sweet, warm mouth. Charles' lips were softer than anything Erik had ever known, and his kisses were all-consuming. Erik couldn't think or do anything but drink Charles in, savouring the movements of his lips and each breath as it came.

When the time arrived—if it arrived—that they would face trial for their crime, Erik would take all the blame. He'd lie to any jury, and say he coerced Charles; the possibility of Charles paying the price of their love was inconceivable. If loving Charles meant death, Erik would choose death every time.

Thankyou for reading my short lil oneshot! The idea was given to me by my good friend Dani when I was struggling to write for my main fic. This is my first time publishing any of my work since around 2020, so please be nice :.)

28th August 2024

TAGS:

[minleeeknow]

‘it hurts’

‘pairing’ - idol!이민호 (lee minho/lee know) x ninth member!fem!reader

‘genre’ - hurt, comfort, angst, ninth member au

‘tw’ - hurt, angst, stressed/toxic lee know, kissing, established relationship, a fight

‘word count’ - 0.9 k

‘to get tagged’ - pls reply to the taglist post, this post, or just ask me

‘lee’s notes’ - lowercase intended, not proofread

pls note, reblog, anything

~

“stop! you’re doing it all wrong,” minho snaps for the millionth time in that one hour of dance practice. you clench your teeth as he runs his hands over your body. usually his touch sets you on fire, but not this time.

“you’re too stiff here,” lee know comments dryly. “why are you so uptight?” he pokes you in the ribs, a gesture that would have been taken as a teasing motions if he wasn’t yelling at you.

“how am i supposed to relax with you screaming at my every move?” you shoot back, slapping his hands away. hurt flashes in your boyfriend’s eyes for a split second and gets replaced immediately by hardness. 

“usually i would let all of your flaws pass, but we have a tour coming up in a week,” minho spits out angrily. he cracks his knuckles, a frequent habit he does.

“my flaws?” you echo. “my flaws?”

“yeah, what about them?” lee know demands sharply, crossing his arms over his chest.

“are you implying i mess up all the time?” you say calmly even though strings are snapping inside of your brain. as stray kids’ second main dancer, you feel slightly offended.

“that’s enough,” minho utters stiffly, his muscles tensing uncomfortably. he doesn’t meet your eyes as you stare at him.

“no, it’s not enough. you don’t get to have the last word when we’re talking about my mistakes here,” you say slowly, heat rising up to your cheeks. “what is wrong with you today? have i done something that my presence keeps rubbing you the wrong way?” your voice cracks at the end and you wince, hating the way you sound.

“no.” lee know mutters, almost unintelligibly. 

“what?”

“no!” your boyfriend yells, raising one of his hands. “but now you’re starting to get on my nerves!” a look of regret washes over him the moment the words leave his mouth. instead of wearing another mask of no regrets, his eyes widen and he takes a step towards you.

“yn–” he reaches out to touch you and hold you but you move away. “i didn’t mean it,” minho pleads, guilt seeping into his voice.

“no. you meant it. you meant it all,” you say flatly, feeling numb. yes, sometimes lee know was a little harsh and mean, but inside he always cared about you. but he never, ever, tried to hit you before.

“jagiya,” minho utters quietly, trying to reach for your hand again. you pull away fiercely. the image of him raising his hand still glares at you in your mind. seeing it again makes you snap. you turn away from lee know and run out of the dance practice room, hot tears stinging your eyes viciously.

“yn!” lee know calls desperately, running after you.

you decide to hide in the most obvious place ever: minho and your shared office. pictures, polaroids, and handwritten notes litter the bulletin board above your and his desks. as your desk is messy with papers scattered all over, pens everywhere and your computer dumped on top, minho’s is neat and organized. simple stacks are sitting on the corner of his desk, his pens in a glass jar with your picture and his cats’ taped to it. his computer is equally as decorated with cat stickers and a stray kids sticker.

you stare at the pictures on the bulletin board, a small peek at what the walls of your rooms look like at home.

your vision gets blurry as you feel tears flow again. photos of you leaning on minho’s shoulder, selfies of minho teasing you and you covering your smile, and pictures of minho hugging you haunt your vision. you crumble onto the chair, burying your face into the palms of your hands.

“yn, baby?” lee know’s soft voice comes from the doorway. you sniff and stifle a sob as you look up and see minho’s sorry eyes and his pouty lips. he hugs you, his strong arms wrapping around you and you melt into his embrace. the sobs you’d been keeping rack your body.

“it’s okay, it’s okay,” minho murmurs into the top of you head as you cry into his neck. “i’m sorry, jagi. i’m so sorry. i love you so much, you know? i love you more than anything. i’m so sorry.”

“it’s okay,” you choke out, wiping your eyes. “i’m being stupid.”

“no, you’re not,” lee know says sternly. he brushes hair out of your eyes and kisses you, long and hard. his hands wrap around your body as you lean into him gently.

“i was just stressed. i’m so sorry i took it out on you,” minho mumbles into your neck. 

“it hurts when you do that,” you say softly, running your fingers through his soft hair. you sniff quietly and he kisses your neck slowly.

“can i make it up to you, yn?” lee know asks, looking up at you with big eyes. he hugs you again, kissing you once more.

“it’s okay to be hurting. i will help it not hurt anymore. i promise.”

~

‘taglist open!’

@goldenjupiterz networks ! @k-labels

[plasma-studios]

On Mercy (ao3: x)

The Council has been at war with the Emperor (more colloquially known as the King of Nightmares) for a long, long time. After defeat after defeat, they find themselves with no option but to request help from his fabled twin.

However, Dream will not help them for free; he locks eyes with Cross, and decides he wants him in exchange for the war victory. It is an easy choice to make.

But Cross is terribly apprehensive, because he his loyalty is not to the Council, but to Nightmare as a spy, and Dream is Nightmare's mortal enemy. Moreover he suspects Dream chose him knowing this, wanting information about his twin; and the issue is, Nightmare is absolutely unforgiving of traitors.

But he cannot offend Dream, for he too is an Immortal and God. He cannot forget that both Dream and Nightmare is dangerous, that any wrong move will end in his demise or worse.

(He forgets, however, that he himself is mortal.)

[OR: A Empire/Kingdoms UTMV AU, where Cross is caught between the crossfire of Immortal/Gods! Dreamtale Twins and some involvement with God!Errorink too.]

Inspired by love, in fire and blood by cicer

Chapter 1-11: (x)

Chapter 12: FLASHBACK II - THE IMMUTABILITY OF FATE

the errorink flashback chapter! w/ dreamtale twins ofc <3

Daydream awoke to the smell of beeswax. The warm, honeyed scent clung to his breath, strong enough that he could almost taste it, but light enough that he awoke gently. Could it be? As he clambered out of bed, Ink’s clear laughter sounded out. 

“I see you’re awake.”

Ink was leaning against his desk, right next to the burning candle. His smile was amused and light.  

“Why do you always light a candle to wake me?” Daydream’s voice was still heavy with sleep. He let out a yawn, and Ink made an amused noise as he stretched.

“Would you rather me shake you awake, little star?” He stepped closer to playfully poke him in the ribs. It didn’t actually hurt, but he fake-winced. Ink had definitely caught onto the act and gave him another curt, amused smile. “I thought this was a gentler way to rouse you.”

“You never do it to Nightmare,” He complained without any real heat. Before Ink could interject, he got to his feet and made his way to the armoire.

“Well, he wakes up on time. You, on the other hand…” Ink shook his head, but his expression betrayed the laughter he was keeping at bay. Daydream’s own face probably was doing the same. “Have a penchant for sleeping in. Shall I help you dress, my Prince?” 

His tone was coy, and Daydream had to bite back his own laughter. 

Ink’s smile widened. “Don’t worry, I promise not to make a fuss.”

Even as Daydream began selecting his attire, Ink continued with his playful banter until he was torn between exasperation and laughter. “What’s the occasion?” Daydream randomly selected his attire after a few glances over. “You’re awfully… accommodating, today.”

“Big word. I should reward your language tutor.”

“Which just so happens to be you,” He said, deadpan.

“Hey, it’s not my fault your old language tutor sucked. I’m a great replacement. And don’t forget that today’s a very special day, Your Highness.”

Daydream paused. What was important about today? He was quiet for a few moments, thinking and contemplating, before drawing up an utter blank.

“And why is it special?” He finally asked. Ink smiled gently.

“It’s your birthday, remember? Now, shall we proceed to breakfast once you’re dressed, or do you have any more complaints about my morning rituals?”

Daydream laughed, shaking his head. “No more complaints. I’ll get dressed.” ***

Daydream was the last to enter the banquet hall.

“Could’ve sworn that tardiness was a cardinal sin.” Nightmare’s dry humour was rewarded with Daydream letting out a sigh, and Ink shaking his head with amusement. 

“At least one of us goes to bed at a reasonable hour,” Daydream countered. The coy smile on Nightmare’s face quickly fell away as Ink turned his gaze on him.

“You caught me reading in the night one time—”

“And I’m sure that was the outlier.” Ink’s gaze was knowing, and Nightmare grimaced slightly. 

“Yes, well, I suppose I am rather fond of staying up late when there’s something interesting at hand.”

Daydream raised his eyebrows, but Ink beat him to it. “I can tell, from the cadences in your speech.”

He raised his hands up in mock-surrender. “Guilty as charged.” A pause. “Is it, uh, bad ? Do I sound pretentious?” 

Ink's eyes softened as he shook his head. “Not at all. Besides, a bit of eloquence never hurt anyone.”

Daydream slowly closed his mouth. 

Ink looked at him no less softly. “Not that you aren’t well-spoken, Daydream. You’re refreshingly direct; take it as a different kind of eloquence.”

“You should read more, though,” Nightmare added. Dream let out a huff. 

Ink chimed in, “Speaking as your tutor, yes.”

Daydream raised his arms up, not too dissimilar from what Nightmare had done a moment ago. “It’s not my fault the texts are so boring!”

“Hey, I teach you those texts.” Ink’s voice held not even a note of offence. “As a Prince, you have to know more literature than bedtime stories.”

“Nightmare’s good enough for both of us. And your stories are good!” He protested. 

“Seconded.”

Ink let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I’ll tell you both more stories later. But, on that note,” And it was when he picked up his fork that both Daydream and Nightmare remembered the spread before them. “You two should probably start eating before the food gets cold.”

Daydream blinked, then glanced at the table laden with an array of breakfast delicacies: freshly baked pastries, ripe fruit, and an assortment of cheeses and loaves of bread. His stomach rumbled in agreement.

“You’re right,” Daydream said a moment after, both amused and slightly sheepish. 

“It would be a shame to let all this go to waste,” Nightmare admitted. He reached over to serve himself a generous portion of fruit, paused, and sent Daydream a mischievous look. 

“I know that look,” He breathed. “Don’t you dare finish that by yourself—”

Ink chuckled while spreading some butter on a warm roll. “Well, it’s both your birthdays, so I expect you to share.” 

“I was going to. Obviously.” Nightmare huffed as Daydream snatched an orange slice from his plate. “Childish.”

“We’re the same age,” He retorted. Ink shook his head with amusement and said nothing more of it. He watched the two fill their plates with food, then consume them with enough frenzy that made him remind them that they would choke. He let out an amused sigh. The two were still children, after all. It was good that their birthday was starting off on a high note.

“Ink?” Daydream’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Hm? Yes?”

He was looking at him, as if he was confused. “Why aren’t you eating?” Ink blinked.

“Oh, I ate earlier. You know, while waiting for you to wake up.”

Nightmare let out a sound of amusement, but he noticed his gaze lingering on Ink for a moment longer: as if he too was realising it.

“Come on, it’s your birthday, I wouldn’t want to take away from your birthday feast—”

“Are you sure you’re—” Daydream’s voice was cut off by the doors to the banquet hall swinging open. 

The attendant that stepped into the room was unassuming. Dressed in a simple, yet elegant livery of muted green and gold, the attendant’s attire was understated but well maintained. Their hair was neatly tied back, and they bowed before they spoke. “Sir, there’s a visitor for you.”

“Oh?” Ink rose to his feet. “For who?”

The attendant lifted their head, and responded, “For you, sir.”

“Ah. Well, seeing as we’re in the company of His Highnesses, it would have been best for you to address them first.” 

The attendant’s expression shifted slightly, their composure faltering. Daydream frowned. He glanced at Nightmare, who shook his head, as if to say: don’t interfere.

“Please abide by proper protocol in future. Is the visitor urgent?” 

“Well—” The attendant swallowed. “He demanded an audience with you, and mentioned something about an important matter that couldn’t wait.”

Ink made a considering noise. “Conveniently vague. I don’t suppose you have any other details about him?”

The attendant blinked. “Well, he was… also dressed somewhat casually. Inappropriately for Palace etiquette, if I may.”

Ink blinked. 

“Is that so?”

“Do you know him?” Nightmare asked, putting down his fork. 

Ink didn’t glance at him. He scanned the attendant again. “I might.”

“You should go, then,” Daydream suggested. “Don’t keep someone you might know waiting.”

Nightmare glanced at him, but didn’t respond.

Ink eventually let out a sigh. “I’ll have to attend to the visitor, then. Don’t wait on the food on my behalf.”

“We won’t.” Nightmare’s voice was dry, but there wasn’t really any mocking in it. 

The moment the doors closed on the two, Daydream turned to him. “What was that?” 

Nightmare shook his head. “I don’t know, either.”

“I feel kind of bad for the attendant. Why did Ink want him to stick to protocol? It’s not like we ourselves follow it perfectly.”

Nightmare hesitated. “Well— protocol isn’t just protocol. There’s a lot of things that play into it. Him choosing to address Ink before us was sort of implicitly saying that Ink was more important than us. It was basically saying something like, ‘oh, the Princes do everything he tells them to, anyway. Might as well speak to him directly’, y’know?”

Daydream’s eyebrows drew together. “We do do what he wants us to, though.”

“Yeah, but it’s more of a respect thing?” Nightmare sighed. “Don’t let it spoil the day. I don’t think the attendant was doing it on purpose, but things set precedents, you know?”

“Mhm.” Daydream was still slightly uncomfortable with the whole affair. “Hope he returns soon.”

“Me too.” He sighed, then turned his attention back to the food. “Better not let it get cold.”  ***

Ink found Error waiting in the parlour. Once he stepped into the room, Error’s gaze landed squarely on him, and his pacing came to a stop. His mismatched pupils were glitching so much they lingered on any colour for less than a fraction of a second, but even as his fingers were twitching, he did nothing else; as if he was waiting for Ink to speak first.

Ink gazed back at him. Ink didn’t.

Minutes of just silence must have passed when Error finally opened his mouth.

“So,” He said. “This is where you’ve been?” ***

Before this, Error must have had some other life. A family, perhaps. On quieter days his mind wandered too much; on those days there was little noise to take the edge off envy when he took the lives of fearful families clustered together, begging for mercy, like a child stomping on tiny ants. The envy would come, nestled in some deep pit within himself, but it was a small price to pay for the calm of the quiet. 

On worse days, noisier days, he often could not think at all. It was only after, when his clothes were entirely dipped in blood and his fingers caked in dust, that he’d finally remember himself and feel no envy, but regret. Just a sliver.

His oldest memory was shrouded in fear and mystery; even now, he suspected him forgetting it was intentional on his part. All he could remember of it was sharp, debilitating pain: pain so agonising it was worse than death. He never dwelled on the memory for long. The rest of his memories were splintered, fractured enough, that he was never tempted to search them anyway.

Perhaps it was just a dream. Perhaps he never had a life before this. It had been a long, long time since the first time he’d crushed a soul into dust, and certainly not the last. It had been a long, long time for any existence beyond destruction. 

Stories inevitably began to arise, speaking of a creature with the body of a man, the mind of an animal, and the power of a God. They began calling him the Harbinger. God of Slaughter. Then they began calling him the Destruction God, in tales of a merciless monster to be feared and to be reviled. 

He never cared much for stories, anyway. 

There was no reason for his destruction, none at all. But he still did it. Why? Even he understood almost nothing about himself. What was he looking for? His body and mind craved violence and blood, but no joy ever came of it. But if he tried to restrain himself, his own soul would rebel against him until his mind was screaming in his ear: Blood! Blood!

He’d shredded his eardrums into dust, before. Perhaps if he ridded himself of all noise, there would be peace. He tried with his eyes, too. The peace never lasted.

People had tried to offer him things in exchange for his mercy. Coin. Land. Crown. In the beginning, he’d accepted and went away for a time, hoping he would finally be satisfied.

He never was.

Error stopped accepting the offers. There was only ever one thing that could put his mind at ease, even for just a while, and that was blood. 

In the brief bouts of peace on the worse days, he prayed. To any God, really, but himself. Let me die soon enough. How long had this existence gone on? His very being brought ruin to all, even himself. Had he committed some sin, that this was his punishment? Hadn’t this all been punishment enough?

Vaguely, he knew that he should not have lived this long. He’d claimed the lives of armoured Guards, silver-haired wise women, demure Princesses and arrogant Kings, generation after generation. He claimed mothers, then their sons, then the children of those sons.

It became a game, to see just what it would take for a moment of peace. Some days it was a life. Some days it was thousands of.

And then there was the Artist. There were so many stories about him, though they spoke of beautiful watercolours and enigmatic sightings rather than bloodshed. 

The first time they met, it was just another day of ruin. Or it was going to be. Error had caught the first unsuspecting soul in his strings and was ready to crush it to dust when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hello, friend!” And he would grin, but there would be something in his eyes that made Error’s head whisper: Danger! “I wouldn’t advise on doing that.”

Error had jerked back from the touch. “Doing what?” And his voice had been glitching so severely. 

His smile had been gentle, but not kind.

“I know who you are. I know of the devastation you bring. Just because I’ve never hunted you down, doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to bring about your pathetic ruin in my presence.”

Error had blinked squarely. He released the still unaware soul.

Perhaps he should’ve spoken more then, but what did he have to say? Error understood the threat with crystal clarity. He had never run from anyone because his mind had never understood anything beyond its want for blood, but in that moment he had felt something he hadn’t in a long time: fear. It seemed only wise to act upon it. 

He let him leave without much other fuss. Decades had passed the next time he met the strange person. It was a circumstance that could not have been more different: he’d gone to his then spot that could bring him some comfort. It was near the river, where the loud rush of the flowing riverwater drowning out his own thoughts was the rare instance where noise brought him some peace. 

He’d found the Artist there, focused on capturing the river with paint on a canvas. 

And he’d remember, decades ago, when it had been this Artist that made him know fear for the first time.

And, as he realised neither of them had aged, he heard his own voice think: Is he like me?

It was him that spoke first, asking the Artist for his name. He gave it: Ink. Fitting of an Artist. He sat beside him, the soft rustle of the paintbrush filtering into the noise of the running river, and watched him paint.

Ink asked him for his name. He had been the first to.

Probably because he’d been the first to survive Error’s company for long enough to get to his name.

The moment was respite. Ink painted beautifully.

“Why do you do what you do?” He had asked him. He’d done so casually, not looking up from his painting, as if he was discussing anything less complex and contradictory than Error’s head.

“I don’t know,” He admitted. “It’s the only thing that brings me calm?”

“Calm?” His tone had been curious, not fearful. Though, perhaps the curiosity had been a mere farce so not as to scare him off as the first time had.

“I hear everything loudly.” He paused. “Everything is too much to me. When I break things, they go silent. It’s peaceful. I—” Once he started, he couldn’t stop. “I tried to keep away from everything. I made it so I couldn’t hear. But if I don’t spill blood, my mind runs away from me. And everything healed in the end.”

There was quiet.

“I won’t say I understand you.” Ink’s voice had been free of fear, free of emotion. But as he looked his way, there was something in his gaze that Error would later learn to love. “But thank you, for telling me.”

Error had let out a breath. 

“Will you kill me?”

Silence.

The memories of children clambering to their feet only to die, of mothers bent over their children with silent weeping when it meant nothing in the end, they both still died, suddenly came to mind. They had all begged to live. And here he was, asking to die.

“It would be mercy,” He murmured. “Please. I don’t know why, but I don’t age. I cannot die. It would be a mercy, for both the world and I.”

Ink smiled, not gently, but kindly. Somewhat, anyway.

Or was it pity when he looked upon him?

“Error,” He spoke gently, with pity, with sadness. “I cannot.”

Desperation seized him like nothing had ever before. “Please.”

“It’s not that I’m unwilling. It’s that, well… you cannot die, Error.”

He blinked. What?

“You cannot die. Your soul, it’s—” And this was where he paused. Error felt the soul in his chest beating erratically, as it always did, and felt nothing but confusion. 

“Error, your soul cannot die. It’s hardly a soul, at this point. It’s been put through hell, held together by— you should be dead, basically. It’s seriously fucked up. But it’s so fucked up, it doesn’t even know it’s supposed to be dead.” There was kindness, but there was no mercy in those words.

And, in some moment, he understood. He would never die. This was not hell. This was limbo. And that was worse.

“I can’t die, either,” He said quietly. “If that makes it better.”

The surprise took the edge of the grief, if only for a moment. 

“What?”

“I’m a God,” He said simply. “I’m immortal.”

“An actual God?” He stopped. What did the stories call him? The Slaughter God? The Destruction God? But those were just stories, he wasn’t an actual God.

He believed Ink was a God even before he nodded to confirm it.

“I’m not a God,” He uttered before he could stop himself. 

Ink let out a laugh. 

“I know. We would’ve met long before if you were. This world isn't so big if you spend eternity with it.”

He paused. “How old are you?”

“Much, much older than you,” He said plainly. So plainly, it made Error almost laugh. Wasn’t that a miracle? 

So he wasn’t always immortal. Had he had a life before this, a family, a home? 

“Are there other Gods?”

A shorter pause. “Yes.”

“Tell me more.” Please?

Ink let out a light chuckle. “Not about Gods. But sure.” And he told him about meadows, about oil lamps, about flowers, about the mistakes he’d made, the lessons he’d learnt, and so much more.

For a time, Ink brought respite. Peace.

As if in fear of him, his head didn’t dare demand destruction for days after.

His head couldn’t be kept at bay for very long, of course, and soon he had to spill more blood for more peace. By then, he was no longer with Ink, but now he knew where to find him. More or less. It was mostly Ink that came and found him. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He did leave a trail of destruction everywhere he went. 

His head soon adapted to Ink’s presence. If you cannot kill him, because that was unthinkable, his head still feared Ink, make him join you. Spill blood together. It will be peace, twofold. 

Obviously, Error never tried to convince Ink. There was no world where he’d succeed, anyway.

The company with Ink never brought to him again the same amount of peace it had the first time, now that his head had adjusted. But it was still something, and any peace was respite enough. Home became him and his first and only friend: Ink, the Artist, the God, and his dearest friend.

Then one day, he realised he had not talked to Ink in decades. Centuries? Weeks? His only measure of the passage of time had become the days with Ink. And, indeed, he could no longer remember the last time they’d spoken.

Error searched for him, through empty meadows and bustling (hellish) villages, through wastelands and through battlefields, but he found merely air in place of his old friend. He destroyed, was cruel in it, in hopes his friend would arrive and terrorise his mind back into submission (his mind was no more louder than it usually was, this was all him) but he never did.

What did he know, anyway, about Gods? 

He’d begun to lose hope, when he heard of it from stories. It was a tale lacking some immortal monster like himself, or some enigmatic God like his friend. It was a simple tragedy of mortals and misfortune: a Queen that perished in childbirth, leaving behind two twin brothers as mere babes. 

Poor children, someone had spoken. They must have become pawns in the power struggle. 

Someone interjected: Surprisingly, no. I heard many people wanted to take advantage of them, but this new tutor arrived out of nowhere and’s been defending them tooth and nail. 

He was named directly by the Queen as their caretaker, too, so there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Oh? I guess there’s some luck in every misfortune. And he had stopped listening shortly after.

Some part of him began to quiver. Some part of him, not his bloodthirsty mind, some other part of him, began to whisper: Could it be? He’d imagined it to have been centuries, but had it really been that long? Maybe his head had just twisted it into a time longer than it actually had been, just to torment Error more than it already was.

He found his way to the Kingdom in question, marched into the Palace and demanded an audience with ‘Ink’, and now he was staring his old friend in the face.

But his friend was looking at him as if he was a stranger. He waited for him to speak, as he always did. Tell me why, he begged silently. Tell me why you left. You must have had a reason, right? You always do. He waited. 

Ink just gazed back at him.

It must have been years of silence between them when Error finally broke the ice. 

“So,” He said, the breath in his throat slowing down his words, as if he did not want to utter a word. “This is where you’ve been?”

“Why are you here, Error?” Ink’s tone was flat. Cold. 

Error did not physically flinch. There it was, his mind, clambering to whisper cruel things in his ear.

“You were gone,” He tried. He could not quite explain the tight fury-grief-relief in him, least of all with words.

“I am here,” He said simply.

“To care for two fledgling Princes?” There it was, bitter laughter bubbling up his throat and threatening to spill over. His fingers twitched again. The glitches in his body were fierce, but they burned painlessly in comparison to the bitterness in his throat.

“Their mother is dead.” His tone was flat. 

“So?” It was cruel of him, he knew. It was nothing compared to the words his mind was feeding him. But it was true. They’d seen death. Hell, he’d been the harbinger of it for thousands of souls, if not more.

Then, as if everything had collapsed in on his old friend, all the tension left him.

“She had been my friend.” His tone was flat. No, not flat. Tired.

Error realised it, and his head went silent. His friend was tired.

And, in that moment, he did not care why Ink had left him. He did not care about any of it.

“Can I do anything to help?” ***

“Can I do anything to help?”

Ink’s first instinct was a no, even though it would hurt to reject his friend. But Error, though he had been getting better, was too much of a risk to Nim’s children. Nim had left them to him. He would never forgive himself if they were hurt. He cared about his friend dearly, but—

Nightmare might need him.

He stilled.

Nim had spoken of what she hoped Nightmare would become, and what she prayed he would not, in that last letter. Ink tried, but he was not one with life. He did not love or fear as the living did, and true to Nim’s wish, Daydream and Nightmare were so much less God than the two of them were.

He could only theorise about the way Daydream slept for longer and longer, as if his dreams kept him entranced and enraptured enough that it was harder for him to wake up than stay living, or about Nightmare’s night terrors, or the way he could find fear in everything if he thought long enough about it, the way he fretted over tomorrows, the way he wanted power for the assurance he gave him, the way he constantly sought to know more just in case he needed to, just in case, just in case.

He looked at his friend, and thought, Would you understand them, old friend? ***

Ink should’ve rejected him. Error was too unstable, too cruel— but perhaps he saw something in him, or someone, because he shrugged.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

A pause.

“Will you stay?”

The same laughter bubbled up in his throat, but it was not bitter. 

And there was humour in Ink’s gaze, too, tired as he was. He was still his friend, after all this time.

“Believe me, you’re never getting rid of me again. Tell me everything.”

Ink’s laugh was mudded by the fatigue bleeding through. 

“Oh, you won’t believe the century I’ve had, old friend.”

[depressedhatakekakashi]

Sensei's Scars

Words: 1,629

Prompt: Scars

Today was supposed to go differently.

Gai had written out a training plan perfectly curated to each of his students. He’d hunched over his desk for hours working on the training plan, wanting it to be perfect for his students.

They were meant to be training, but instead Gai was sitting cross legged on the ground while his three precious students huddled together behind him.

All because he’d dared to remove the top portion of his jumpsuit so his body could breathe under the glaring heat of the sun.

“This one!” Tenten jabbed her finger into his shoulder excitedly. “This one has to be from a Kunai!”

“A well-placed attack,” Neji agreed. He stood further back, giving Tenten and Lee the freedom to explore the scars that littered their Sensei’s body. “Cut deep enough and you could take out the opponents arm, making it easier to beat them. Obviously, that’s not what happened here.”

“How can you tell?” Lee asked, eyes glued on the scar in question.

“Sensei’s alive.”

“It would take more than immobilizing one of Sensei’s arms to defeat him.”

“True. Even taking out both of his arms wouldn’t guarantee a win.”

“So, what is it?” Tenten jabbed his shoulder again, this time seeking an answer direct from her Sensei. “Was I right? It was a Kunai wasn’t it?”

“A shuriken, actually,” memories of that fight were difficult to pull up. It had been one of the less eventful fights he’d taken part in, and other than the shuriken that had found its way into his shoulder he’d sustained zero damage.

The shuiken, as he saw it, was a lucky hit. It didn’t provide his enemy with any advantages, but it was still impressive that they’d managed to land any sort of it.

“I’m going to get one of these rights,” Tenten grumble under her breath. Her finger continued to trace its way along Gai’s back, searching out the next scar for her to scrutinize.

“What about this one?” Lee barely touched a scar on his left bicep. “Could this have been a Kunai?”

Leaning in close, Tenten examined it. “Looks more like a burn mark,” she decided, prodding at the scar. “It must not have been a very big fire though, because it didn’t leave much of a mark. I’d say a chunin level shinobi at best.”

Holding back his laughter, Gai imagined the expression on his rival’s face when he found out Tenten had declared him ‘chunin level at best’. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that his eternal rival was going to love Tenten above all others.

Only she showed a natural ability for being a judgemental brat that rivaled Kakashi’s judgmental personality.

“Sensei?” her finger pressed into his skin, calling his attention back to her. “Am I right on this one? Burn mark from a fire jutsu.”

“You are correct,” he confirmed, holding up a hand to silence her when she began to cheer. “But I would like to point out, my opponent was already a Jonin when I sustained this injury.”

“A Jonin?” he didn’t need to look at her to know what kind of face she was making. The sound of utter disgust in her voice gave away her thoughts on the matter. “If it was a Jonin they must be a weak one.”

“Or they were holding back,” Neji sighed when all three of them turned to look at him. “Sensei said it was a Jonin, and the way he said it he sounded a little offended that you’d suggest they were anything less.”

“Why would Sensei be offended about that? It’s not like I was insulting him.”

“but you may have insulted someone he cares about.”

“like one of his friends,” Lee nodded along, stepping out of the way at just the right moment to avoid taking a punch to the arm from Tenten. “Sensei hates it when people insult his friends.”

“None of his friends are fire style users though, remember? There’s Genma, the weirdo with a senbon in his mouth who thinks he’s funny.”

“He is funny,” Gai protested.

“and let’s not talk about the other guy you introduced us to. Ebisu was it? I think Neji could beat him as he is right now, and he’s still a genin.”

“that’s…not the point”

“Ahha! You can’t even deny it!”

“Which means it wasn’t Ebisu he was defending,” Neji continued. “Kurenai-Sensei is a genjutsu user, and Asuma-Sensei is a wind style user, correct?”

Gai stared at his student with utter confusion. “How do you know any of that?”

“I did my research. It’s important to know who your sensei is hanging out with,” drumming a finger against his chin, Neji continued. “The only one I can think of who knows Fire style jutsu’s and who you’d be willing to defend to the grave, is Kakashi-Sensei.”

“Ohhhh,” a smirk greeted him when he looked back at Tenten. “Sensei always has to defend his boyfriend.”

“That’s not it!”

“Then what is it?” She prodded “Was Kakashi-sensei still working on the jutsu? Did he make a mistake with it? why would he even use it against you unless…were you two fighting?”

“No!”

“It was most likely a spar,” Lee spoke up, grinning when everyone looked his way. “Kakashi-Sensei might have been trying to hold back.”

“He would never!” Gai insisted, though he knew that was a bit of a lie. There were times in their lives when Kakashi had held back in a fight, either because he didn’t want to hurt Gai or because they were having a relaxing spar rather than a proper fight that would count towards their overall total for competition points.

That just wasn’t the case with this particular scar.

“Then what was it?” Tenten continued to push, insisting on an answer. “Why does an attack from Kakashi-Sensei, one of Konoha’s top two shinobi, look like a pitiful scar?”

“Can’t we just move on to another scar?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Tenten huffed. “Not until I get my answer.”

Weighing his options, Gai sighed. If he didn’t give an adequate answer Tenten would only become more determined to wrestle it from him, and she might even approach Kakashi about it which was the last thing he needed to happen.

Kakashi already felt bad about the scars that littered Gai’s body because of him. He didn’t need to be reminded about them from one of Gai’s precious students.

There was only one way to avoid this situation from escalating to that point.

“The attack was meant to hit someone else,” he grumbled under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Tenten leaned in closer. “What was that, Sensei?”

Sighing, he turned his full attention to her and repeated himself. “The attack was meant to hit someone else. I got in the way, and only part of it hit me.”

“Why would you get in the way?”

“Because I didn’t want the attack to hit that person.”

“Why not”

“Because…” sifting through all the possible explanations he had, he sighed. “Ebisu said something that upset Kakashi, and Kakashi wasn’t exactly in the best mental state at the time so…”

“Kakashi-Sensei attacked Ebisu?” Neji raised an eyebrow. “What could he have possibly said to earn a fire jutsu from a shinobi twenty times stronger than him.”

“Twenty times is a bit kind. Kakashi’s more like…two-hundred times stronger than Ebisu,” Hearing that, Lee slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter while Tenten wrapped both arms around her waist and fell onto the ground in a fit of laughter so strong Gai was worried she’d break a rib.

“Nice to see who your favorite friends are, Sensei.” There was a hint of amusement in Neji’s voice, but unlike his teammates he managed to keep himself from showing any more than that.

Ignoring the comment, he continued. “Ebisu was being himself,” he explained. “Judgmental, rude, full of the belief that only those who were born into the right families could truly succeed. It’s something he used to insult me all the time. Being on his team, I learned to ignore it.”

“But Kakashi-sensei didn’t?”

“Kakashi was…sort of like that when he was younger,” he continued. “But then something changed. He faced a horrible loss that came with the realization that status meant very little at the end of the day. He came to hate that belief more than anyone else I know. So, when Ebisu insulted me in front of him using that logic he sort of lost it.”

“Lost it,” Tenten wheezed before falling back into another fit of laughter.

“Kakashi-sensei angry seems - very out of character,” still trying to control his own laughter, Lee snorted in the middle of his sentence.

“Yes well, one thing you three will learn down the road is that those with their emotions under their control are not emotionless. Even they have a breaking point.”

“And Kakashi-sensei’s is you?” looking straight at Neji, Gai raised an eyebrow. “No, no that makes perfect sense actually.”

“He attacked- and you- this is-“nothing Tenten made sense between her fits of laughter. She just continued rolling on the ground, arms clutched around her belly as her laughter rang through the air.

“Anyways,” Slapping his hands down on his knees, Gai pushed himself up to his feet in one fluid motion and turned toward his students. “Let’s focus on what’s important. Training.”

At the mention of training Lee jumped into action. In fact, Gai had barely gotten the word out before his student was standing directly in front of him with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen in his life waiting for instructions.

Behind him Tenten struggled to get herself off the ground while Neji stayed still waiting for instructions.

[quirkle2]

hi who wants excerpts from my wip fic recondite. don't answer that ur getting them anyway

Tome tuts, juts her lip out a bit into a pout as she stares at the rusted ceiling, arms crossed over her chest. Shigeo watches her watch the leaves sway there, hanging onto vines with skinny stems that the breeze pecks at. “Of course I’m a genius, I know this. It’s just… frustrating. It’s like I don’t even know what I don’t know.” Shigeo feels something in him pause, and he finds himself understanding those words in a visceral, molecular way, but he feels he’s linking them to unrelated things. Things that have nothing to do with math.

-

The energy in the room coils and bursts out like a water balloon, hard-hitting and sharp. Reigen yelps from behind him over the ear-splitting whine. Shigeo can feel an odd prickling of static along his skin in little dots, like acid spraying out from the fissures in the spirit’s bloated soulskin. Somehow he tastes every splatter even when none of it reaches his tongue—it’s a motley of sparkling water and freon, cold against his skin until the aftertaste gets uncomfortably warm and sweltering in his joints. His palms feel like dry ice. He hears Reigen make an odd noise, something between a whine and a gasp, as the rustling of clothing spells out one of his strange, quick squirms. “Holy hell, Mob—you didn’t have to go that hard!” One of the cardboard boxes in front of him sizzle and crack at the edges, some unknown chemical interaction between corrugate and psychic mana. A flap along the top falls off and hits the ground pathetically, smoking from pure heat and making a low crumble sound in his ears that sounds quite alien. He didn’t. And judging by the ever-so-slight tremor of the building, he’d say he shouldn’t have. He hadn’t even meant to, is the concerning thing.

-

“I just mean my powers… I didn’t mean for that to… ya’know,” Shigeo explains, and Teruki’s goofy persona softens into something more genuine, “They’ve been kinda weird today. I don’t know why.” His partner hums, sitting in the quiet music for a while. His fingers drum against Shigeo’s knee to the beat. “You have seemed… preoccupied, lately.” Shigeo cannot help but notice that he says it carefully. Like he’s afraid of using the wrong word. He can’t think of a synonym for preoccupied that could possibly offend him—he’s heard it all before, anyway, from other people. From people who didn’t care nearly as much as Teruki. No, Teruki isn’t like that. Teruki doesn’t think he’s oblivious. Something ugly pierces his gut there, at the thought, at the idea that Shigeo could think so lowly of his partner like that. Not everyone is out to get you.

-

“Are you doin’ alright?” Ritsu utters slowly, softly, and Shigeo thinks back to a few weeks ago, on Teruki’s (Reigen’s) couch, and how the answer he’d given to a very similar question had apparently been the wrong one. Ritsu asks this question a lot, though. And Shigeo never answers with anything but affirmatives. “Yeah,” he gives, because it feels impossible to say anything else. This feels like a ritual to him—Ritsu asks, Shigeo lies, they part ways. He doesn’t have it in him today to disturb the peace. “I’m fine.” He lets the answer hang in the air between them for a moment, lets it settle atop their shoulders like it always does, because the answer is light and made of helium and Shigeo wants it to retain that nothingness. It’s a nothing answer. It’s a nothing answer to a question about a nothing problem. Simple, really. He counts the seconds it takes Ritsu to say it. He makes it to seven and a half before his brother opens his mouth. “If you’re sure… but I’m always h—” —ere if you need me, Shigeo finishes in his head, recites it by heart. He knows. He knows Ritsu is here if he needs him. He appreciates it, he really does. But it’s a nothing problem, and it therefore needs a nothing solution.

[umbralsound-xiv]

Thanalan is... It’s so hot...

I’d helped out fighting off some of the littler creatures... Not sure what they’re called, i’ve forgotten, but they’re covered in spikes, and i somehow managed to not get any in me!

But i needed a break... It’s too warm...

A small rock tumbles down the smaller cliffside ahead, clicking across the rock before landing in the dirt. The object is shortly followed by S’vexrha, who jumps down it with all the grace of a cat and approaches the rock, a foot being flung forward to kick it across the soil before her crimson gaze rises enough to note the Keeper in the shade, her ears pinning back ever so slightly as she eyes him with caution - abandoning the rock she had been kicking in favour of an attempt to simply wander on by.

Vhal'ra Ansahk blearily blinks, as beads of sweat trail down his forehead. Thanalan was warm the last he visited, but the heat seemed almost inescapable now. Pinned beneath the shade of rock and tree, he'd simply opted to wait for the worst to pass, or at least catch his breath before making the final push onwards to the Shroud. Somewhat numbed by the blistering heat, the sound of a passing rock and following footfalls steal his attention, ears flicking forth as he squints of better make out the shape... Another Miqo'te, undoubtedly, but more noticable was the weapon on her back. Vhal'ra immediately brightens, daring not to leave his beloved shade, but calling out instead. "Hey miss! That's a cool weapon!" He greets, offering a friendly wave.

...I’ve never seen a weapon like that before! It was like a stick, almost... With a long, bladed point that curled in. I wonder how it’s used!

...Or... If it even is a weapon, after all...

S'vexrha Tchuma's lips tugged into a thin line as she eyed the Keeper once more, studying his features a little better. Noting the lack of a mark, the tension in her body eases slightly. ".. Thanks." Her word was uttered rather hurriedly, gaze averting a touch.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Wait... Uh..." He catches her tone, ears wilting a moment, and daring to make a few steps forth for the sake of curiosity. "It... Is a weapon, right? I wasn't sure if it was for farming, or anything! I didn't mean to offend!"

S'vexrha Tchuma came to a halt as he stepped closer, tail swatting lightly against her own leg. ".. No-- you're right. It is a weapon.."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "That's so cool! Where'd you get it? I've never seen a weapon like that before! How long have you been fighting... Are you an adventurer?" His barrage of questions is given with little care as he moves closer, ears wilting as he steps into the blazing sun.

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. It was given to me." She paused, eyeing Vhal'ra cautiously once again. ".. There's no direct answer to that question.. and no, I am not." Her ears flicker at some unheard sound, her lips tugging slightly thinner for the briefest of moments.

Vhal'ra Ansahk blinks in some confusion at the vagueness of it all, clearly a little puzzled but no less curious. "You're... Not?" He looks over her, then. "...What d'you do, with a weapon like that, then?" His gaze casts outwards, to the various sheep that peppered the mountains. "...Are y'like... A shepardess, or something?"

...It’s the only thing i could think of! The... Sheep here are kinda big.

...They are sheep, right?

S'vexrha Tchuma grimaces. ".. I'm not an adventurer, but I still fight. The answer to how long I've fought is just.." She pauses, raising a hand up to the back of her neck - cramming a finger underneath her collar to scratch at her skin in thought for her choice of words. "..Depends if you count with a weapon, or without one." Her hand dropped down, head shaking slightly.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Both, i guess! Some people know more'n one weapon, which is really neat! How many do you know?" He tilts his head in curiousity, the mop of pale blue hair dropping to one side. "I'm Vhal'ra!"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. With, since I was fourteen. Without.. Five." She gave a small shrug. ".. One." A longer exhale left through her nose, gaze shifting in a random direction before settling atop Vhal'ra anew. ".. Vex."

Like...

To make people angry? Vex?

It’s gotta be short for something, right?

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Well, it's nice to meet you, Vex! That's... An interesting name. Huh!" His ears give a short wag as he looks to her again. "Do you live out here? In Thanalan?"

S'vexrha Tchuma offered another faint shrug. "..Not really. It is my name, but shortened." Her gaze directed to the ground, where she slowly prodded a foot against the soil before letting her gaze lift once more. ".. I do. I assume you do not, as you are.. not familiar, and while Keepers are not completely unheard of.." She gestured towards him lightly. ".. You tend to suffer a little more in the sun than Seekers."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Hah, yeah, it's..." He trails, giving a wry little smile as his gaze drops into the reddened dirt. "...It's only my second ever time here! I'm from the Shroud, but i wanted to go a little further! Mostly i help out with little things here and there. It's... Kinda hard fighting in the sun, though..." Regardless, his attention doesn't divert for long. "---Uh, i didn't mean to distract you! You... Looked like y'were going somewhere!"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Explains why you call out to a random stranger." She paused, ears flickering. "Many here are.. unkind." Another pause, before she corrects herself. ".. Horrible." She huffs. "..It is hard for many, the Shroud may be preferable." Her gaze shifted, one hand lofting to motion towards the spring beyond the bushes. ".. Water."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "They... Are?" He blinks. "I haven't met anyone horrible, everyone i've met so far has been pretty nice! Though... I have heard how dangerous Ul'dah has been. I've not been to the city proper, yet!" Despite the warning, he sounded just as enthusiastic at the prospect of a visit. "---Oh! I mean, yeah, i suppose water's good for coolin' off. Wasn't sure if was safe to drink, so..." He pats the waterskin on his belt. "...Have... You met these... Unkind folk, Vex?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Ul'dah is.. less. Crap city, though. Merchants are more akin to swindlers, the supposed guards reek of corruption." Again, she kicked at the dirt. "Probably too dirty to drink directly, but boiling it beforehand works." Her ears twitch at another unheard sound, prompting S'vexrha's eyes to narrow briefly before lightly shaking her head, then peering at Vhal'ra once more. ".. Yes."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Oh.. I... I didn't know. That... Doesn't sound so nice. Though i'll be sure to be careful if i go!" He nods a small handful of times, a serious expression taking his features. "...Well, that's... Good to know. Though i don't really have the means to boil anything, so..." He slowly rolls a shoulder. "...I never fought a person. Hope i never have to, at least... Maybe... Maybe not for a while." For the first time since their meeting, he shows true hesitance. "...Have... You?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Best not, to be honest." S'vexrha grimaced, then lofted a brow. ".. Plenty of sticks around. Shouldn't be too hard to start a fire by normal means if you lack the magical ones." Her lips tug once again. ".. I have."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Well, maybe one sun i'll have to! I'm an adventurer... Mercenary?" He sounded almost unsure. "I help people that need it, more than anything. I..." For once, there's a question he decides against asking, offering a smile that doesn't look as genuine as the rest. "I don't think i can use magic! At least... Probably not?" He pauses. "I never really tried seriously... But starting a fire isn't too hard without it! I just... Uh... Don't have anything to boil anything. But that's okay! I have enough to get me home, it was just... Warm, so i figured i'd stay here until it was..." A flat pause, then. "Less."

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. I see." S'vexrha shifted on her feet, offering a small nod. ".. It has a tendancy to make itself known if you can, whether you want it to or not." She paused, a slight grimace gracing her features for a mere moment before fading. ".. That's.. fair."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...Can you use magic?" Vhal'ra asked, looking over her again as though that would somehow allow him to learn all the more quickly.

S'vexrha Tchuma raised a hand and held her palm upwards - a flicker of flame springing forth to sway in whatever wind existed before she closed her hand into a fist and allowed it  to die out. "Yes."

Fire! She made fire! That’s so cool! It just appeared out of nowhere!

...I wish i could do that!

Vhal'ra Ansahk almost bounds towards her, wide-eyed. "THAT'S SO COOL!" He calls out just a hair short of a shout, staring at her palm and almost frowning when it vanishes. "---And you can fight? You must be super strong, Vex!"

S'vexrha Tchuma's ears pin back, instinctively fleeing backwards a step - a new spark of fire temporarily shooting across her arms from the sudden movement, flickering into nothingness. A small cough leaves her, before she shrugs slightly. ".. Not.. really."

Vhal'ra Ansahk catches the pin of her ears, mirroring his own. "A-ah, sorry! I... I didn't mean to spook you... I..." It's only now he's considered that the whopping greatsword looming over his shoulder might paint him somewhat of a threat. "I'm not one of those horrible people! I... I just wanted to see!" His words rang with apology, but he gives her space regardless. "---But you got that--- Whatever it is! On your back! And you have magic, too! How -couldn't- you be strong?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. I'd know if you were." She uttered her words quietly, one ear rising just a touch. ".. A scythe." She rolls her shoulders, then shakes her head. "I'm just.. not."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...But you got scars!" He'd noted them quietly, gesturing to her shoulders. "Scars mean you're strong! Right?"

...That’s what ‘to always told me! Scars mean you’ve fought for something, and you won!

...I have a scar now, too! It... Kinda hurt, but at least i’m still here to talk about it!

Of course she’s strong, i can see at least a few!

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Scars can also mean you got the shit kicked out of you but survived."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...Which means you're strong enough to! Not..." He suddenly adds two and two together, then. "You... Someone..." It's almost panic, as he struggles to grasp that which he assumes is the truth. "...Why would they...?"

S'vexrha Tchuma lofts her brow. ".. I do not know what you mean."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Is... Is that what happened to you, Vex...?" He's almost afraid to ask. "...Someone was... Horrible to you?" His eyes settle on the scar at her shoulder, frowning.

Why... Would someone do that to her?

She seems so nice...?

I know there’s awful people in the world somewhere. That people do terrible things sometimes...

But... Why to her? For what reason...?

S'vexrha Tchuma paused, considering her next words, or actions.. opting to merely sink her head into a nod.

Vhal'ra Ansahk stares, and slowly hangs his head. For once, he's without words for a time, before a defiant wrinkles pushes it's way onto his forehead. "Well, the whole world isn't like that. I'm not like that." He stares at Vex for a long, long time... Before extending a hand. "---Do you want to be friends?"

S'vexrha Tchuma blinked, clearly surprised by his question. Her ears flatten and she spends a prolonged time merely staring at Vhal'ra. "Friends..?" She paused, shoulders slouching. ".. I-.. would not be a good friend to have.." A small frown graced her features as her gaze lowered.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Why not? Of course you would! Being friends is easy!" The hand is still stuck out towards her. "You just... Decide you're friends, and that's that!"

S'vexrha Tchuma's own hand slowly raises, before she balls her hand into a fist and pushes it back down. "..Some people are better friends than others." She exhaled. ".. You, I can imagine.. are a good one. Me.. Not.. so much.."

Vhal'ra Ansahk slowly lowers his hand, flexing it a little before it relaxes at his side with an awkward quiet that follows. "...I try to be..." Something just doesn't let it drop. "Why wouldn't you be a good friend, Vex?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. I do not know how to be one. I do not know what you expect of me, but chances are I am incapable of fulfilling it."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "You..." He pauses, a little slack-jawed. "...You don't know how to be a friend?" A frown. "You've never had a friend before?"

Of course she’d be a good friend! It’s easy to be a good friend, you just hang out, and you’re there for them when you need them, and...

...I don’t... Understand...

...Doesn’t she want to be my friend...?

...

I... I mean, i guess... Not everyone does.

But if she’s never had one before...?

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. No."

Vhal'ra Ansahk immediately pulls the hand back up to her again. "I'll be your friend. We can hang out, and talk about all kinds of things, and maybe even go on errands together! It... It isn't hard! I don't expect anything, really! It's... It's just... Nice."

S'vexrha Tchuma eyed his hand, ears drooping once more. She draws a deeper breath as if in preparation to speak, yet linger a touch prolongedly at any words she may or may not utter. ".. Harder for me.. than you think.." She frowns, a saddened expression to be sure as her gaze remains on his hand, the tiniest twitch of her fingers suggesting she may wish to grab his hand.. yet clearly prevents herself from doing so.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "But... Why?" Sadness mirrored, then. "I don't... Understand..." Again, it draws away, and he edges back, a fear he'd made her uncomfortable somehow. Silence settles, and he slowly pulls his lips into a frown. "...Is it m'questions? Mum always said i asked way too many questions..."

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. No, no. It's nothing to do with you. It's--.." She swallows harshly, letting her ears flatten. Sparks of flame flicker across her arms but swiftly fade away once more, before she raises a hand up to lightly trace her fingertips along the red mark upon her cheek.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Wh...?" He watches as the flames race over her arms, distracted but attention slowly settling on her face. "...Is that... Facepaint?" Another pause. "---You can't be friends with me because of your tribe...?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Not.. tribe." She frowned deeper, sadder. "..Horrible people."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...Horrible people?" His confusion was apparent, as he stared at the red mark further, attempting to glean some sort of further meaning from it. "...You can't be friends with me because of... Horrible people...?"

Oh...

Oh that’s... Awful.

...The horrible people are... Horrible to her. That’s why she can’t... Why she can’t say things, or be friends, or...

...

Why would people do something like that to her?

S'vexrha Tchuma nodded weakly.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...I don't... I don't get it... They... But you're free, aren't you? Can't you just leave? ---You don't want to be part of them, right? You're nice! You... You were nice to me!"

S'vexrha Tchuma shook her head. "..I-.. I am-.." She hesitates, drawing a deep inhale. "..I am not f-.." Her voice simply dies mid sentence, features contorting in slight agony as her hands dart up to curl around the back of her neck. She inhales sharply and sways on the spot, her tail swatting against her leg as her chest heaves a little more sharply from her breathing in response to whatever sudden pain was just caused to her. Judging by her previous hesitation, it might've been an outcome she was expecting, or it's all too confusing to piece together.

Vhal'ra Ansahk lunges in close without thinking, hands raised... But to help in what way, he wasn't sure. "What--- What's happening? Vex...?" He half panics, ultimately opting to just hover about her until whatever it was that took her subsided. "...Did..." A trail, as he chews his lip. "---Did they do that? Just then?"

---Did they hurt her? I... I wasn’t sure what was happening, or how to help, but i...

...These people are awful!

I have to be able to help her somehow, right?

S'vexrha Tchuma exhales sharply and slowly adjusts herself to stand more straight, eyes pinning shut for the briefest of moment before she lets her gaze settle atop Vhal'ra. She gave a vague nod, rubbing her hands along her neck. She hooked two fingers into her collar and tugged it downwards while raising her head, letting the crackly scars which surround and extend across her neck land on view. "..--Free." She finally manages, followed by a small shake of her head, as if trying to bypass whatever happened beforehand.

Vhal'ra Ansahk watches as her hand moves, following it with his gaze... Which widens as it meets the collar. "---That's... That's awful... Vex..." His nose wrinkles in some sort of defiance. "---Can't you take it off?" A moment of thoughts dismisses his answer - Of course she couldn't. "---Can't anyone help?"

S'vexrha Tchuma shakes her head.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "---There has to be something! Someone has to be able to help, somehow!"

I... I refuse to believe she can’t be helped! There has to be someone, somewhere, right?

She can’t just be like this forever, it’s not fair!

I’m... I know i’m not strong enough to do anything, but someone... Someone...!

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. No. Numbers... high." She exhaled a deep sigh. ".. Too high."

Vhal'ra Ansahk looks a little hopelessly, then. His voice falls into almost a murmur. "...Is... Is there at least something i can do to make it better...?"

S'vexrha Tchuma frowned weakly and shook her head once more.

Vhal'ra Ansahk slowly taps his foot in thought, lingering on the silence between them. Only as a thought crawls into his mind does he eventually speak. "...Does it... Hurt? To touch you? Because of the fire, or the... Y'know..." He gestures to his neck.

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Not.. that I know of..? I'm.. kinda warm to the touch, but.. shouldn't be all too warm, I don't think.."

Vhal'ra Ansahk steps in, and firmly attempts to wrap his arms around Vex; of course, leaving her any room to retreat should she wish to.

S'vexrha Tchuma's body tenses as Vhal'ra's arms wrap around her, eyes fluttering from the surprise of it all. Her ears flatten, a deeper breath becoming drawn.. before she sinks into the hug, and hesitantly allows her own arms to lift up and wrap around his waist in return.

Vhal'ra Ansahk gives a little squeeze, lingering for a little while. "...I... I can't help. But i hope that at least... Made things feel a little less awful. At least for a little..?" He parts with a hopeful little smile, some small attempt at reassurance.

It... It always helped me. When i was feeling rough, or... When i was upset. Even if it didn’t make it go away, it made everything feel that little bit less awful.

...I hope it helps her, too.

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. I-.. it's.. been a long time.. since last I was--.." Her arms slipped down as he released her, an almost pained yet genuine smile managing to grace her lips. ".. Thank you, Vhal'ra."

S'vexrha Tchuma scoffs at you.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...So long as it helped." He smiles, nodding. "---You're real warm. Vex. Unless it's just... Thanalan..." He stares at the sky, as though it would make the offending heat any less dreadful.

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. More than I can describe." She mumbled. ".. Probably both. I am.. aligned to fire."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Oh! You're aligned too?" He asks, head tilting in some curiosity at her words. "...I've met others like you, too!"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. I know one other, and.. know -of- a third.. But never met them." She gave a shrug. ".. We are not so common, I suppose. But linger here and there."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Every Seeker i've met so far! I've got a friend who's the same with earth! And then there was this one woman back home who was super, super cold!"

S'vexrha Tchuma's ears flickered slightly, her head tilting. ".. The one I know--.. is.. also a Seeker." She paused. ".. Wind."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Oh, huh! That's interesting... I wonder how it all comes about? Before i left the clan, i never knew anyone with anything like that! I've seen magic before, sure! But this is different!"

...Maybe it’s a thing with all Seekers? Every single one i’ve met has some kind of fancy attunement!

It’s pretty cool, honestly!

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Some call it a curse, others a blessing.. I'm not so sure, myself."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...I mean... I think it's pretty cool. But then, i... Don't have to live with it, so..." A slow roll of his shoulders, then. "...Does it cause you problems...?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Sometimes. More often when.. I did not have a lot of control over it. It's.. better now." 

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Well, it's at least good to know that it's less of a hinderance to deal with than it used to be. But it bet it's useful, right? Lighting fires, boiling water... I bet you never get cold, huh?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. It is. And.. No. I do not." She raises a hand, and gestures towards the sun. ".. I'm also not particularly offended by the sun."

Vhal'ra Ansahk passes a short pout over his shoulder towards the sun, which dipped ever lower towards the horizon. "...That sounds nice." He half sulks, brightening almost a moment later. "I bet there's so much you can do! You could even make charcoal and draw, or even cook!"

S'vexrha Tchuma: "... I can write. Poorly."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Iiiit's... Not my best talent!" Vhal'ra laughs, a little embarassed. "I can read and write enough to get by!"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. I.. can't."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Well, it's... Not the hardest to learn, but it's a lot. But writing poorly's better than not writing at all! I'd write letters home, but... It would take me so long to figure out what to write, by the time i'd written it it might have just been easier to pay a visit..."

S'vexrha Tchuma: "I am.. trying to learn.." She mumbled, prodding at the soil with her foot. ".. It's hard."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...It was for me, too, when i learned. My aunt taught me, but then i got busy doing all kinds of other things and helping out, and by the time it became useful again, i'd forgotten most of it. It'll get easier with time, though!"

S'vexrha Tchuma: "I don't really.. get a lot of time to practice." She grimaced. ".. Secret from.." She raised a hand to gesture at her mark mid-sentence. ".. They'd be.. angry."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Angry... Why?" He again adds the reasoning together. "...They made it so it's hard for you to talk... I guess writing would pretty much make that pointless, in their eyes..."

S'vexrha Tchuma nods to you.

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Communication." She pauses, as if trying to fool  whatever forces make her unable to speak freely. "..Cut it."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "...Yeah." Vhal'ra nods, finding some understanding in what she meant. "...Makes it more important to learn, though. And at least you'd be able to make something to write with pretty much whenever you wanted, yeah?" Another small flick of his ears, then. "---Maybe we could write eachother letters!"

That’d be fun! We could hide them somewhere in Thanalan so she wouldn’t get in trouble, and at least we’d be able to keep in contact!

S'vexrha Tchuma smiles weakly at you.

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Yeah." Her ears flickered, a weak smile lingering on her lips. ".. Maybe. I.. am not sure."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "We don't have to send 'em anywhere, just hide them under a rock or something! Though i can't write well.. It might take a while!" He laughs. "...But even then, i plan to work in Thanalan more often... Hopefully on suns where it's a little cooler. So hopefully, we'll run into eachother again!"

S'vexrha Tchuma smiles weakly at you.

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. One can hope."

You motion joyfully to S'vexrha Tchuma.

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "---Yeah! Though..." He contemplates. "...Are you... Always by yourself, out here...?"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. No."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "And i'm guessin' these horrible people aren't as nice as you..." A small frown, then. "---Then, if i see you with people, i'll keep away, but... That doesn't mean i won't give a wave or something when they're not looking!" He beams.

...I don’t want to get her into trouble, or anything if they see her talking to me...

Though i’d want to go talk, it’s probably for the best if there’s others...

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. Be careful."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "I will! Don't you worry!" He promises, though he's not exactly inconspicuous. "...I should be getting back, though. It's getting late, and i've been out all sun, and it's still a fair walk home..."

S'vexrha Tchuma glances towards the sky, frowning at the setting sun.. which has only now offended her with how low it had gotten. ".. I should.. return. Before they recall me.." She sighs, unhappily, yet forces a weak smile Vhal'ra's way. ".. It was nice to meet you.. And.. thank you for the hug."

Vhal'ra Ansahk: "Anytime!" The chime of his words was muted by her mention of recalling, taking a few steps back. "...Be... As safe as you can, yeah?" He tried to hide his worry, but his ears betrayed him. "I'll be around soon enough!"

S'vexrha Tchuma: ".. I will try. And I hope you will do the same. Be wary of these." She gestured towards her mark.

Vhal'ra Ansahk nods; a short, uncertain thing... As he commits the mark to memory. With his parting words said on a happier note, he opts not to tarnish it, simply giving her a wave before running towards Highbridge in the setting sun.

[bylightofdawn]

WIP Sunday

What I actually managed a WIP which isn't half a damn chapter's length? Someone check me for a fever, I must be sick. :P And it's totally not because I as a reader am always thirsty for more when I get a sneak peek but shush. Context, pretty much takes place after Cahir exits season three after he decides that a lone soldier on foot and totally take on five mounted Scoia'tael which is to say ya boy should be dead but I'm operating on the assumption he makes it through it obviously. But is pretty grievously wounded. Had a fun pneumothorax and is still recovering from that. Gallatin got some emergency aid from someone and is now trying to put some distance between pretty much everyone and find a real healer to might be able to keep Cahir from backsliding back to the brink of death. It's been about two-three days so Cahir is started to become more coherent and realizes it fucking sucks being this wounded. So he'll prolly start getting salty pretty quick here and Gallatin should enjoy it while he can bully and motherhen him without much resistance. 😂 Standard disclaimers, this is super rough and has not ben read through or edited in anyway yadda yadda

The widow was even willing to part with some of her dinner for the cost of a little more coin and a sob story Gallatin made up about them being partners and now Cahir had been wounded in a battle up North. How he was taking him home to die because that had been his final wish.

The entire time he spun that lie, it felt like a fist was squeezing around his heart because there was probably more truth to that lie than he preferred to consider.

One good thing that came of it was the unexpected knowledge that there was a coven of Druids nearby. As tempting as it was to pack Cahir back up onto his horse and ride through the night for the Druids, the woods were far too dangerous to be traversing at night. Instead, Gallatin had thanked the woman for the information and the hearty stew before retreating to the bunkhouse.

He found Cahir sitting up in the bed he’d left him looking somewhat alert though Gallatin suspected that was due to the pain. The painkillers he’d given the man had worn out hours ago but the elf was trying to use it sparingly since they didn’t have a lot of it.

“I got us some food. Think you can keep down something solid?” He asked as he settled onto the bed next to Cahir who blinked at him owlishly for a moment.

“Yes,” the stubborn fool forced out hoarsely despite Gallatin’s earlier advice for him to limit his talking. It felt like his throat was coated in a layer of broken glass and even that simple word hurt to utter.

“Idiot, I told you not to talk.” The elf chastised but there was no real heat in his accusation.

Then, to Cahir’s everlasting mortification, the man held up a spoonful of the rich-smelling stew to his mouth to hand-feed him. Gallatin outright laughed at the offended look on the knight’s face.

“Don’t get used to it, I’m only playing nursemaid until you can reasonably hold a spoon and not drop this entire bowl into your lap. The sooner you get better, the quicker this ordeal will end. And to get better, you need to eat.”

Cahir’s glower was pretty impressive for a man who’d been on death’s door only a day or two ago. But he did grumpily allow Gallatin to feed him and he made a pretty decent dent in the bowl of stew. The flavoring was all wrong to his Southern raised tongue but it wasn’t bad.

One thing the North had that they lacked in the South was the readily available supply of starchy plants and root vegetables which could bring flavor to the leanest of poorest cuts of meat. Back home, they tended to drench tough and or gamey pieces of meat in so much spice and flavor that you couldn’t taste that it was practically saddle leather that you were chewing.

So the food was bland tasting but more hearty in a strangely comforting way.

“Madwynn, the woman who owns the farm, says that there is a circle of Druids a few day’s journey to the Southwest. I’m hoping we can find a healer among them. Do you think you’re up for trying to reach them? We could lay here for a while, keep our heads down, and see if you heal up on your own, but there’s no real Healer in this place or anywhere within a day's ride.”

“I can manage,” Cahir rasped tiredly. “Need to…put some distance between…us and Aretuza.”

“That was my thoughts exactly.” Gallatin conceded quietly and didn’t bother to chastise the human about speaking. He tucked into his own bowl of stew quickly finished it courtesy of the hunger pangs that had been plaguing him for hours.

The sad truth of the matter was, at this point, hunger was a near-constant companion to the elf, and he’d gotten good about ignoring it. When given the chance to eat his fill, he didn’t pass it up. Madwynn had included two generous hanks of chewy, dark rye bread that served as a perfect vehicle for scooping up the meaty broth.

“Goddess blessings, I’m almost sad we’re moving on. Do you know how long it’s been since a pretty lass cooked me a home-cooked meal?”

Cahir shot him a grumpy look, feeling unreasonably displeased to hear Gallatin lump praises upon their unseen hostess. “Just keep your ears covered. Or you might find…her quaint bucolic charm changing quickly.”

A violent coughing fit took him then and Gallatin went pale despite the natural tan he had.

“Damn you, Cahir. Would it kill you to listen to me for once?” He cursed the man as he pulled him into his arms to help keep him upright as the coughing fit racked his body.

After the fit calmed down, he coaxed the human into drinking from a skein filled with willow-bark tea that had been steeping all day. [Spoiler Character] had suggested it along with a healthy dosage of honey to sweeten it to help with the inflammation and ease any coughing fits Cahir might have while his lung healed.

By the time he’d drunk a third of the tea, the human was wrung out and weak as a day old kitten once more. Frustration was beginning to bubble up inside of him now that he was becoming more and more aware of his injuries and how uncomfortable and mortifying it was to be brought so low.

Gallatin stayed there on the bed and combed his fingers gently through Cahir’s sweaty tawny curls. He carefully picked at the tangles and soothingly dragged his nails along the man’s scalp until he’d passed into an uneasy sleep.

He told himself as he continued to hold the other man through the night he was worried about him lapsing into another coughing fit and that was why he didn’t seek out his own perfectly good bed a mere handful of feet away.

All in all, he got very little sleep that night but at least Cahir slept through it, as peacefully as a babe in its mother’s arms.

[shirebarbie]

[Anthony Bridgerton x f! reader] None of Them Were Me (pt. 1)

a/n: when i can’t sleep, this is what happens. very random, very unedited, hope it’s at least semi-decent. about 1.7 k words. maybe i continue with it, who knows!

summary + setting: after countless unsuccessful attempts at courting different people, lifelong friends [y/n] and Anthony are having a heated argument in the countryside. confessions of love; bees; lots of hand touching. no warnings, i’m pretty sure :)

FIND PART 2 HERE

„And do not think I have not realized what you have been doing all this time, to all of my potential suitors! I am well aware you tried your very best to ward off every single one of them, one way or another!” [Y/N] yelled out, gesturing in anger.

“None of them were good enough for you, [Y/N]. None of them!” Anthony yelled back, tilting his chin upwards. His eyes met hers for a brief moment before he quickly looked away again.

“Oh, please, Anthony! The bloody Prince took interest in me – a man who is intelligent, kind, handsome, and I would have been married into royalty! How much better than that can it even get?” Crossing her arms over her chest she stood her ground in front of the man.

“He was not worthy of you, [Y/N]-“Anthony began, raising his arms in defense, before rapidly being cut off.

“What was he lacking, then? Somehow I am the one paying for the impossible standard for perfection of Viscount Bridgerton, and I have never said a word about any of the women you have seduced for fun, Anthony!” At this point, [Y/N] was basically fuming – double standards were never something she was willing to accept, especially not from someone she has known all of her life. “Then tell me,” she continued, “why were none of the men that were interested in me, some of whose affections I have returned, good enough?” Her fiery eyes looked pointedly at the brown-haired man in front of her. She was so caught up in their little interrogation that she almost failed to notice how the two of them gradually moved closer to one another.

“Because… because none of them were me.” Anthony breathed out, trying to steady his voice. Somehow it was easier to look anywhere else except for the girl a few centimeters in front of him. An expression of shock spilled on her pretty face as she searched for his eyes unsuccessfully. Anthony swallowed thickly, looking down. [Y/N]’s arms were now at her sides, fidgeting with her dress. It took all the willpower Anthony had not to just envelope the girl’s hands in his bigger ones.

“W-what?” [Y/N] stammered, not believing her ears.

“They did not – th- [Y/N]…” The Viscount scrambled for words, mentally scolding himself for momentarily forgetting how to speak in such an important moment. The only thing his brain was able to produce was a desperate utterance of the girl’s name.

“Please explain yourself,” [Y/N] cleared her throat, feigning composure. She clasped her hands together and gave Anthony an once-over. His dark eyes were still refusing to meet hers.

“I know you have had a fair share of noble men whose eye you have caught,” he began slowly, allowing himself time to mince over his words with the utmost care. “And I understand why and I do not blame any of them. But do tell me, can you blame me for protecting the woman I love, and having her best interests at heart?” As soon as he paused between his sentences, having realized what he had just let slip past his lips, [Y/N] let out a short gasp. Anthony’s eyebrows shot up as he now started to play with the hem of his sleeve.

The woman he… loves? Anthony Bridgerton didn’t do love. Anthony Bridgerton was never going to do love.

“I am offering you my deepest apologies if my actions have offended you in any way, [Y/N],” he cleared his throat, deciding to pretend that no secrets have accidentally been revealed a mere moment ago. “I simply could not bear the thought of you, of all people, being mistreated by someone, being used, b-being… I do not know.”

“What should I have done about your little love affairs in the city, then? Chased all of them away? You are being unfair, Bridgerton,” though still upset about the quarrel they had going on, [Y/N]’s voice was now much calmer. Inside, though, she felt like her heart was about to explode into a thousand fireworks.

“I knew that would come up as well, yes,” Anthony nodded curtly, mostly to himself, bowing his head in a mix of shame and understanding. “All this time, you have had dozens of men competing for your love, a-and I could not just- I knew I could not let you be with me. So then I tried to distract myself, time and time again, trying not to think of some other man having his hands on you, breathing you in, brushing your hair away from your face, holding you in his arms on the dance floor, as everybody else looks on in envy…” the viscount trailed off, in one swift movement taking one of [Y/N]’s hands in his and gently squeezing it. To his great relief, she returned his gesture. “But no matter what I tried, the only thing I ever wished to do, repeatedly and constantly, was just to be near you every living, breathing moment of every day. And do you want to know why, in spite of meeting nearly every eligible lady in the whole country, I have never even attempted seriously courting any of them, much to my mother’s dismay? Because if it could not have been you, it would never be anyone else. Anyone. Else. Ever.”

Anthony hadn’t even realized his breathing had grown quicker until a heavy silence fell onto the pair. Heavy, on the one hand, and freeing, on the other. Now he had revealed his true feelings, at long last. Still taken aback, [Y/N] did not know how to react – in all fairness, that was a lot of information to take in. She reached for Anthony’s other hand and took it; partially to reassure him, and partially to try and steady herself a bit more. It felt as if the ground beneath her feet was vibrating – the gentle breeze in the air felt as if it would tip her over.

“Anthony…” she began quietly, “you could have just told me. We have known each other our whole lives, we have talked about so many things… we could have talked about this.”

“We could not have,” the man replied briskly. “I could not have let you love me and have your heart broken if something happened to me, w-when I die,” he stuttered out, with all his might trying to keep his composure as the tormenting images from years ago flooded his mind. “I have seen it firsthand, what my mother went through when my father- well, you know everything.” He attempted a dry chuckle. “You were there. You have been there this whole time. I did not want to burden you with more than I already have, [Y/N]. It is not fair to you. My duties are not yours to take care of.”

Anthony felt his walls crumbling down the very second he allowed his wandering eyes meet [Y/N]’s – always so full of compassion, so full of understanding and love. She was looking at him as though he held the entire universe in the palm of his hand and was about to gift it to her. In some way, he did. He was offering her his whole heart out in the countryside, in the vicinity of Edmund’s grave.

“Nothing is going to happen, Anthony,” she spoke softly, grasping both of his hands and not breaking eye contact. “And even if something did, I would still choose you. Over and over again, no matter how many chances I got,” [Y/N] admitted, going in to run her fingers through Anthony’s, now slightly wind-swept, hair in a moment of courage. Before she had the chance to touch it, there was a swift change in Anthony’s mood as he whispered hurriedly through gritted teeth, “Don’t move.”

“What is it?” the girl inquired, confounded, looking around immediately. The viscount felt his hear speeding up to the point of almost ringing in his ears. A bee was flying dangerously close to [Y/N]’s elegant neck, and he saw a hundred horrible scenarios play out in his mind.  

“J-just don’t-“ he gripped her shoulders with such fervor that his knuckles almost turned white. His eyes rapidly darted between the bee, [Y/N]’s face, and the statue of his father a few meters away. No, no, no, no, he thought, he had just told her he loved her, this could not be happening. Almost instantly his body broke into a sweat, and he thought he was going to collapse at hearing [Y/N]’s little wince – she got stung. In the neck.

“Darling,” she spoke as calmly as possible, “darling, nothing happened.” Anthony still had a death grip on her shoulders, now audibly hyperventilating as his wild eyes scanned up and down [Y/N]’s body, searching for any kind of signs.

“Anthony, my love, I am alright,” [Y/N] said slowly and clearly, starting to try breaking free of the man’s grasp so she could take his hands. As soon as she merely budged, Anthony gasped in-between his heavy breaths, thinking she was going to collapse any second.

“Y-you cannot-“ he stuttered, not even daring to say what he was thinking, “you, I-I just-“ Anthony was a complete mess and [Y/N]’s heart was breaking for the man in front of her. She knew the whole story about his father, bloody hell, she lived through that with him as a dear friend. And of all moments, this little accident had to happen right after he’d confessed his intense feelings for her. Having gotten out of his grip, she gathered him in her arms and pulled him into the closest hug possible. It did not matter in the slightest whether someone could see. Curious eyes and opinions of unimportant people were the least of [Y/N]’s concerns right now.

“My darling, my Anthony,” she whispered, rubbing a hand up and down his back – he was almost shivering as he clung to her like she was the only thing in this world keeping him alive. “I am perfectly fine, my dearest. I am alright. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Still unable to control his breathing, he just squeezed [Y/N] harder around her waist with one arm, and around her shoulders with the other, if that was even humanly possible anymore. Finally she started combing her fingers through his silky hair. In a moment of weakness, Anthony buried his face in the crook of her neck as he muttered something unintelligible between ragged breaths. [Y/N] pressed a gentle kiss to his head. “I am here,” she tried reassuring him some more, “I am not going anywhere, my love. Not now, not ever.”

For the first time in who knows how many years, Anthony Bridgerton started to cry.  

[appocalipse]

sure! here you go, hope you'll like it! | “What’s going on?” “Mom and Dad are fighting.” + steve harrington

quick summary: steve doesn't know how to deal with jealousy; fortunately, the kids are there for him. angry confessions ensue at an empty supermarket aisle.

“What's going on?” asks Dustin, brows furrowed in confusion.

Max takes the snacks from his hands and deposits them in the shopping cart, already overflowing with far more items than necessary.

“Well,” she scoffs. "Mom and Dad are fighting."

Max, Lucas, and Dustin wait, standing around the cart, watching from a safe distance from where you and Steve are arguing — right in the middle of the supermarket aisle, like an old couple.

Except you two aren't old. You’re not even a couple.

Just yet, Max is sure.

Steve places his hands on his hips, his regular pissed-Steve stance, and complains, “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Max mumbles. She tries to keep herself busy organizing everything in the cart; Lucas leans over to help her.

Dustin is still confused as to how things escalated so quickly. It was supposed to be movie night — easy and fun after all they'd been through. You were going to buy some snacks and then meet the rest of the gang at Mike's house, like you did every now and then. Everything was fine when he left to get his favorite snacks.

But now…

“What is wrong with them?” he asks.

“We ran into Billy,” Lucas says Billy like one would say disease. Well, that did explain a lot of things. “Thought he and Steve would get into another fight.”

“Fight?” Dustin chuckles lightly. “That wasn’t exactly a fight.”

“Exactly,” Max chimes in. “And it would have ended the same way if she hadn’t intervened.”

“So he’s pissed because she defended him?”

“No,” says Lucas, watching as you pretend to be interested in buying coconut oil just to turn your back on a still talking Steve. “He’s pissed because Billy pretty much asked her on a date and she said yes.”

Dustin's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. “She did what?”

“She didn't say yes,” corrects Max, elbowing her boyfriend. Out of all three of them, she is the person who perhaps knows you best. “And Billy didn’t ask her on a date…he was trying to piss Steve off. Y/N just gave him what he wanted and he left. End of story.”

“So Steve is jealous,” Dustin states. “What is new?”

But he’s not expecting you and Steve himself to turn to stare at him — he’d said it louder than he meant to. While yours is a stunned stare, soft and surprised, Steve’s angry. Angry and embarrassed — because it's true.

Not that he'd admit it. “That's ridiculous.”

“No,” you cross your arms over your chest. “You're ridiculous. Can you just drop it? It’s not a big deal, Steve.”

“Not a big deal?”

Max, Dustin and Lucas are now watching like it's a tennis match, looking from your face to Steve's and back to yours again. Unfortunately, they don’t have popcorn to go with it.

“I just don't see why you’d agree to go out with him of all people,” Steve continues. Now he seems to have forgotten all about the kids, all about the supermarket…everything but you. “I could have handled it.”

“Like you handled it the last time?”

His cheeks heat up slightly, thinking about his unconscious self at the back of Billy’s car while Max badly drove. “So your solution was to flirt with him?”

“Well, I’m sorry if I care about you and I don’t want Billy to beat you into a pulp again!”

Silence. There’s the heaviest silence Steve has ever witnessed; even the kids are quiet for a moment, poorly pretending not to be listening in when you turn to look at them. But Steve can’t tear his eyes away from your face, can’t utter a single word. His mouth opens and closes and he doesn’t say anything.

Care about me?

Maybe he should feel offended or at least embarrassed by the way you worded that — beat him into a pulp? — but all his brain registers is those four words; I care about you. I care about you.

He almost doesn’t notice when you storm off.

“I’ll go get chocolate,” it’s your excuse, though Steve can see about five chocolate bars visible in the cart from where he stands.

Lucas clears his throat. “We already-”

But you don’t reply, already disappearing into the aisles. And Steve feels incredibly stupid watching as you do so.

“Dude!” Dusting whisper-shouts, “What are you doing?”

“Huh?”

Max takes a deep breath, as if getting ready to scold a particularly mean child. “Go after her, dumbass!”

So he does. He’s such a mess he doesn’t even think twice about taking relationship advice from a fourteen year old — he’s already trailing after you once he realizes that, walking fast to catch up.

Oddly enough, there’s no one besides you on the chocolate aisle. You're staring at the bars like they've done something particularly nasty to you, arms crossed and all.

Steve knows you saw him out of the corner of your eye and decided to ignore him. He puts his hands in his pockets, feeling weird, really weird, now that he's alone with you. 

“I'm sorry, okay? I didn’t- I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“I'm not mad.”

You take one of the chocolate bars in your hands, a brand he knows is far from being your favorite.

“You look mad,” he observes.

“Then stop looking.”

“Oh, c'mon, I was just- I just didn't want you to get hurt, okay? Billy is…uh, Billy. He wouldn't…”

And now you’re looking at him, raising your brows. “Wouldn’t what?”

“...treat you right.”

You laugh. Couldn't help it. Did he really think there was a universe in which you would go out with Billy Hargrove willingly? After all he'd said and done to Lucas and Max—and even Steve himself?

“Steve,” you say, because you think he needs to hear it. “I would never, ever go out with him.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets, hoping you wouldn’t see the relief on his face. “No?”

“No.”

“Why not?” 

You bite down on your lip. He gets distracted and quickly adds, gaze anywhere but your face, “Sorry, I...sometimes I can’t think around you.”

You think about all the possible reasons for him to say that, all the meanings behind those words, and you feel your heart filling with hope. You turn your body to fully face him. Steve finally locks eyes with you.

“Sometimes?” you say, teasingly. Now you can barely remember why you’ve been arguing minutes ago. It was stupid, you’re sure. 

Steve doesn’t miss your tone. 

“Maybe most of the time.”

He smiles fondly. You take one slow step towards him, then another. He waits patiently as you come to a stop before him, within arm’s reach; he’s still too self-conscious to reach out and touch you though, even if that’s all he can think about right now.

“Why can’t you think around me?”

He wonders if you’re just that into riling him up.

Of course, you are. 

You tiptoe, smile tantalizing, your nose just barely touching his. Steve is drunk on the promise of a kiss from you — one he’d imagined long enough. He tries to trick himself into thinking his body is reacting on itself when he tilts his head down to try and meet you halfway.

And then you move your head back — just slightly, just a little, and he follows your movements unknowingly until you’re breathing the same air, lips within a hair’s breadth of touching.

But still not touching.

“C’mon, Y/N,” Steve finds out he’s not above pleading, “you can’t be that oblivious.”

“About what?”

About how fucking in love with you I am. But he doesn’t want to come off too strong. Instead, he mumbles, “I really wanna kiss you.”

And he does want to do that. Doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more. That’s hardly the time nor the place for this, he’s aware; a regular supermarket aisle, while buying snacks for movie night with the kids. But God, Steve wants to kiss you, and he’d take the empty supermarket aisle if that meant he could do it. There would be time for kisses in special places later.

You’re about to give in, you think, leaning in with no intention of backing out again, watching as Steve does the same, closing his eyes in anticipation as his hands find your waist…

And then you catch a glimpse of three heads perking up behind the corner, bodies stumbling over themselves trying to get out of view; but it’s no use now, they soon realize. They were caught.

Steve opens his eyes a moment later, still longing for a kiss that didn’t happen, looking at you for guidance. You nod towards where Max, Lucas and Dustin are now visible, seeing no point in hiding since you had already caught them.

Steve follows your gaze. Then he turns and pretty much glares daggers at them. “Seriously?”

They all start explaining themselves at the same time; one excuse worse than the other and not one entirely clear. Dustin wordlessly nods at Steve and drags the other two away between mumbles of privacy, let’s give them privacy.

That drives a chuckle out of you, because they’re cute. But you also really, really wanted to kiss Steve, and you’re already missing the feeling of his hands on the small of your back as you watch him eyeing the spot where the kids were seconds ago. 

Still, you get yourself together and say, “Look, maybe we should-”

But as soon as the kids are out of sight, he turns back around and kisses you firmly, taking your face in his hands as if to make sure that nothing would pry your attention away from him this time, delighting in the way you gasp with surprise as his lips find yours. He kisses you until you’re breathless, until you have to pull away, gasping for air you wish you didn’t need.

“Mom and Dad are fighting,” he says in a mimicking tone, once you’ve both caught your breath. He’s smiling affectionately, though. “Can you believe these little shits?”

You giggle, surprised that he had heard it too. “I don’t know…I think it’s kinda cute.”

more drabbles | request here! ♥

[morganlefag]

okay just. walk with me here. obviously it's not the play with the most overt references to homosexuality/homoeroticism (e.g. richard ii; coriolanus) nor is it a play where understanding of character motives necessarily hinges on a queer reading of it (e.g. merchant of venice; twelfth night). HOWEVER. out of all of shakespeare's plays, it is the one that is the most about a queer relationship above any other relationship. specifically i'm referring to the relationship between brutus and cassius.

and. okay. i know that generally when people think of julius caesar, the relationship between brutus and cassius is not the one that is focused on in the general pop culture understanding of the play. i mean it's called JULIUS CAESAR. its most famous moment, and famous line, immortalized via tumblr holiday, is between caesar and brutus.

HOWEVER (second hot take of the day) i think if you actually read the play, you realize just how relatively uninterested shakespeare seems to be in the relationship between brutus and caesar. they only have a single conversation, three lines long, where caesar just asks brutus what the time is. the ancient theory that brutus was caesar's son is never explored even a little bit, despite being dramatically rich and referenced in shakespeare's source material. caesar never really speaks about brutus. sure, brutus speaks plenty about caesar, but caesar's more of an idea than anything else. if the play is about their relationship, then there's not much point to there being TWO WHOLE ACTS that happen after caesar's death. the single relationship that lasts throughout the entirety of the play, serving as a throughline across the whole of the plot, is the one between brutus and cassius.

okay. but the real important question here. are they gay?? short answer: yes ofc. long answer: let me prove my point.

first of all, from one of the very first lines of dialogue uttered between them, cassius is constantly searching for reassurance that brutus loves him.

and i mean constantly. if i included every time cassius said something to this effect, we'd be here all day. now, of course, the word "love" is used a lot throughout the play, often in clearly platonic contexts, but i'm just bringing this up to establish that this is something that cassius cares about to a rather unusual degree.

continuing on. cassius (still in his very first scene!) openly describing his persuasion of brutus to join the conspiracy as "seduction." this speaks for itself.

there are also an abundance of times in the first half of the show where brutus and cassius come to a disagreement in regards to what to do about mark antony. cassius has good reason to want mark antony dead and/or silenced, and indeed the narrative proves him to be correct! the only reason brutus gives for wanting mark antony to live and also to speak at caesar's funeral is, simply put, principle---something that cassius is shown time and time again to not really care that much about personally. so why does he consistently defer to brutus's (wrong) opinion? the only reason that makes sense is that he has a deep affection and respect for him.

things start getting really gay in 4.3, aka the "tent scene," which really just speaks for itself. brutus accuses cassius of corruption, cassius gets offended, and the two get into a really heated and nasty argument. again, cassius is constantly bringing up their love for each other as a form of emotional blackmail.

the argument ends up culminating in this speech, where cassius essentially accuses brutus of not loving him, and therefore asks brutus to kill him.

of course, brutus doesn't end up killing cassius. they both end up cooling down, and then there's this exchange:

of course, that reads as incredibly romantic on its own, but it becomes even more overtly so when you realize that shakespeare reused this dialogue almost word-for-word in the tempest when ferdinand and miranda get engaged.

shakespeare loved the trope of couples committing suicide over each other, and julius caesar is no exception. while not in and of itself homoerotic, brutus's final eulogy over cassius's corpse is just heartbreaking. he commits suicide himself not long after.

(brutus does not, in fact, find time. rip king!)

anyways, brutus and cassius's relationship---which lies at the very heart of this play---is so utterly complex and fascinating. it's horribly toxic, and made even more so with the understanding that brutus has a wife, portia, that he loves. i think some readers/viewers may also shy away from a romantic reading of their relationship due to the sheer amount of times they refer to each other as "brother," however shakespeare's audience would have known that to be in reference to the fact that they were historically brothers-in-law, not literal blood brothers. (and, based on hamlet, shakespeare had no qualms with having romantically-involved in-laws use fraternal terms for each other.)

but i think all those uncomfortable and unsavory parts of their relationship serve to make the core of this play so much more goddamn interesting. these two opposing figures circle each other the entire play, destroying everything around the other until they have nothing left but each other---and then not even that. they are endlessly interpretable and captivating, and are a huge part of what makes julius caesar such an incredible play.

tl;dr julius caesar is really a play about toxic murder gays. you're welcome.

and what if i said that julius caesar was shakespeare’s gayest play. what if!! would y’all read it then

[augustinewrites]

a/n: i just had to bring back coworker!akaashi for this.

“Since when did management give flowers to their employees on Valentine’s Day?”

Akaashi glances up from his notes, gaze flicking between the elegant vase of flowers in your hands before lingering on your face, as if trying to read your expression (you hate when he looks at you like that, like you’re the most interesting person in the room. It never fails to make your thoughts scatter). “You think they’re from management?”

“Well, who else would they be from?” You ask, and Akaashi leans back in his chair, lips pursed and brows slightly furrowed as you realize something else. “Wait– is this because I’m single? Is this a pity gift?!”

“They can’t be a pity gift,” he offers quickly, gesturing to his flower-less desk. “Because I’m also single, and I didn’t get any. They must be from somebody else, someone like–”

“Like one of my clients,” you gasp, gripping the vase a little tighter as you look down at the pretty bouquet of pink peonies and white anemones, cushioned by a smattering of delicate sprigs of greenery. “That makes sense, actually. They send me things all the time.”

Akaashi almost looks offended by this revelation. “They do?”

“Yeah,” you nod, already filing through potential gifters. It had to be someone you’d been working with for a while. Someone who knows that you think red roses are cliche and that you prefer the look of ceramic vases to glass ones. “Do you not get gifts from yours?”

“I do, but that’s not–”

“Hey, you got here before me today,” you recall, tapping your fingers against the vase. “Did you get a glimpse of whoever dropped by?”

Your coworker’s expression sours as if he’s swallowed a lemon. “I didn’t, sorry.”

You breathe a sigh, leaning against his door frame. “Well, custom bouquets like this aren’t cheap. I need to figure it out soon so I can send them a thank you card.”

Akaashi simply hums, still watching you closely. “Is it really so far-fetched to believe that someone in the office may have gifted them to you?”

You hadn’t even entertained the idea of one of your coworkers giving you valentine. At least not one like this. You’d been on the receiving end of leftover chocolates from a box set and the sweet card from your assistant, but never something so…extravagant.

Flowers were intimate. Flowers were what couples bought each other to say, “hey, I’m thinking of you.”

Who in this office was thinking of you on a day like today? A day meant for love and romance and passion?

The sound of Akaashi clearing his throat draws your attention back to him, watching as he sits up, wringing his hands on the surface of his desk. Then, softly stating without meeting your gaze, “You’ve more admirers than you think.”

This idea is foreign to you. Stuff like that only happens in sappy romance flicks. “Like who? Rei from marketing?”

“Rei from marketing couldn’t tell you the difference between an anemone and a peony if it hit him in the head,” he scoffs, and for a moment the both of you are silent, even Akaashi seeming shocked by his brash tone.

“Then…who could?”

“I don’t know.”

But in the two years you’d been working here, you know him. It’s very rare that you’ll hear Akaashi Keiji - who is organized, concise, and a bit of a perfectionist - utter the words, ‘i don’t know.’

Because Akasshi Keiji doesn’t involve himself in matters that he doesn’t know the full circumstances of. He doesn’t give answers that are only half-researched or pass on statements that are unconfirmed.

And he’s still not looking at you, instead idly tapping his pen against his desk.

(Akaashi Keiji is also a very bad liar.)

“You know something!” You exclaim, and the steady bloom of heat on his cheeks only further proving your point. “Keiji, you need to tell me!”

His gaze finally meets yours at the use of his name, but just as he opens his mouth–

–his phone rings.

So it’s with a pout of your lips and a playful wave of his hand that you step back out of his office, mouthing, ‘we’ll talk about this later.’

When you close the door behind you, Akaashi breathes a little sigh of relief. He carefully moves his hands from his desk to not wrinkle the note he’d been working on.

(The one with your name on it.)

–

Akaashi had spent the entire day dodging you, clearly intent on keeping the identity of your so-called admirer a secret. You’re not entirely sure who he holds so much loyalty toward, if not you. He was your friend here first, after all.

It’s when you’re trudging out of your office to speak to your supervisor before finishing up for the day that you realize you’d been asking the wrong person.

Because your boss’ assistant brightens a little when she sees you, asking,

“Did you like the flowers that Akaashi-san gave you?”

Akaashi.

Akaashi gave you the flowers?

Akaashi was thinking of you today, on Valentine’s Day? A day meant for love and romance and passion?

You’ve more admirers than you think.

You’d never thought that would include your coworker Akaashi, who always remembers your coffee order. Who knows that you prefer .5mm to .7mm pens. Who always lets you step on and off the elevator first, and always drops whatever he’s doing to indulge in your nonsense.

(Akaashi, who you’ve probably had a crush on since the day you’d started your internship together, if you were being honest with yourself.)

When you rush back to your office, there’s a neatly penned note on your desk, right next to the bouquet. This time you’re not confused, unable to stop the warmth rushing to your face and the smile on your lips because this time, you know who it’s from.