#prompt: formal

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Gossip Is Currency

Prompt Day 21: Formal | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Canon Background Stancy | Tags: Missing Scene from S2's The Pollywog, Post-Halloween "Bullshit" Scene, Pre-Steddie, Platonic Hellcheer, School Sucks, Eddie Knows

This is cruel and unusual punishment. 

Eddie sits on the stupid folding chair, behind the stupid folding table, with a stack of tickets to sell to the winter formal. It was this or another suspension, and it was only because he was sure Wayne would not appreciate not having to talk to the principal again anytime soon, that Eddie chose this option.

They've got bubbly cheerleader Chrissy Cunningham sitting next to him controlling the money box that they definitely didn't trust him to be anywhere near, as they try to sell tickets to the kids still roaming around during extracurriculars.

Chrissy hasn't said anything to him after greeting him, and he hasn't said anything in return. They hung out once before, during a middle school talent show, but he doesn't expect that she remembers that.

Another shitty jock walks up.

"Two?" Chrissy asks.

"Yeah," the kid answers, and she takes the money, makes the change, and all Eddie has to do is hand over the two ticket stubs.

He resents it. 

It's stupid, it's–

"It's bullshit," he hears from down the hall.

Yeah, it's exactly that.

And hell's frozen over, if he agrees with King Steve.

Harrington's in some sort of heated debate with Wheeler as they stomp down the hallway, bickering back and forth. She's a fucking firebrand, that one. Everyone thinks she's a priss, but oh no, Eddie's studied this whole school long enough to know that's not even remotely true.

Harrington's gonna get knocked down a peg or two under her, and deservedly so.

Seeing them coming in his direction is at least interesting. Eddie tears off the two tickets and hands them over to Tweedle Dumb, and keeps watching the free show heading his way.

"Winter formal tickets?" Chrissy asks Harrington, and Jesus H. Christ, does she have no observation skills? Now is not the time. This is the time to blend into the wall so they can get the dirty fucking details on this fight. Gossip is currency.

Harrington turns to look at them, and shakes his head no. He looks more sad than mad, and that isn't near as fun. 

"Steve," Wheeler says, and she looks annoyed.

Harrington runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends, and then they're gone. 

Well, that was uneventful in the end. He didn't learn anything worth repeating.

Eddie had heard rumors of a Halloween night blow-up, but wasn't there to see it with his own eyes. Apparently they're still in a tiff today.

He can still hear the echo of them around the corner and down the hall, and well, he's nosey. It pays to know everything that's going on in this school.

"Be right back," Eddie says, and follows them down the hall, with the excuse that he's heading to the pop machine.

He digs four quarters out of his pocket, and pretends it's hard to make a decision, before hitting the Mellow Yellow button. The machine whirrs to life, and the can drops down. He feeds the other two quarters in, still trying to listen to Harrington and Wheeler fussing by the double-doors.

Eddie can't really decipher much besides hissing mumbles. Damn.

He presses another button without even really paying attention.

Welch's Grape Soda.

He might actually pick that over the Mellow Yellow he thought he originally wanted.

Harrington and Wheeler leave, so Eddie takes both cans back towards the table, holding them up, an offer, "You want?"

Chrissy smiles, "Really?"

Eddie nods, "You choose," he says, and she falters, just a bit, looking up at him like there might be a wrong answer.

There's no wrong answer here. No trick. He puts them both down on the table, "Totally fine either way."

She reaches for the grape, and is still looking his way. He nods, "Excellent choice," as he picks up the Mellow Yellow, and cracks open the can.

"Thanks, Eddie," she says, like he's given her something more than a can of pop. Carver's a bigger dick than he'd realized, apparently. 

They sit in silence, waiting for more kids to finish up with their stupid clubs and practices. 

The door clangs closed on the other end of the school, and they wait. It's Harrington again. He crosses the hall intersection in his little shorts, and Eddie can see that he's pinching his nose as he darts out of their line of sight as quickly as he entered.

Then it's just them, alone in the hallway again.

"She called him bullshit," Chrissy whispers.

Eddie turns and looks at her, waiting for her to elaborate.

She does.

"On Halloween. At Tina's party. She called him and his love bullshit. I heard it myself, waiting for the bathroom. She was drunk, not making sense about Barb Holland. It was pretty mean."

"No shit?" he asks, leaning closer. 

She nods, giving him a rundown of the whole party. She's got all the good gossip, not just about Harrington and Wheeler's dust up. Eddie feels a twinge of something. 

He's well acquainted with being shit on publicly.

Nobody's around this school, and Eddie gets up to go take a piss. He can't sit still. Hates it. And doing it for this is a special version of hell.

He walks down the hall, to the bathroom. He stands in front of the urinal, unzips and is pissing when he hears the stifled cough from behind him.

Eddie turns to look and sees familiar shoes under the stall door.

Tucking himself back in, re-zipping, he reaches over and flushes the urinal.

"Harrington," Eddie says. 

He waits and there's no response. 

"Harrington," he tries again.

"Go away, Munson," Harrington says, and then mumbles under his breath, "It's bullshit. I'm bullshit."

Eddie takes three steps towards the door, then impulsively turns back.

"She's wrong, you know? You're not bullshit."

And then Eddie waits a beat before adding, "You're just an asshole."

Steve chuckles, and Eddie smiles to himself as he turns and heads out the door.

Timing is everything. 

Mission accomplished.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

[pvtashby]

Whumpees with caretakers/partners who wonder why they hate intimacy so much. Why anything more than hugs scares them. The thought of undressing, doing that, just no. They can’t do it. It’s panic inducing, the thought makes them want to run and hide.

Caretaker/partner is sad, but respectful. They know better than anyone that Whumpee is exquisitely sensitive to their boundaries being broken.

But it’s not until they find out why Whumpee is that way, that they fully understand. They’re horrified.

Sure, they knew Whumpee’s time in captivity was bad. But when Whumpee told them the ways they’d been violated, stripped—literally and figuratively—of their dignity, they wonder how Whumpee even manages to function.

[aashidoodles]

vamp shiguang but they do/play with each other’s hair🙏

Shiguang flirting with each other as usual (but in the vampire au)

[ryllen]

Hello, Ryllen-san!! I'd like to apologize if someone has given you this ask previously...

Someone wrote an amazing TreyJade fic and dedicated it to you!!! I wanted you to know, just in case! <333

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64785091

On that note, I would like to thank you for singlehandedly carrying the EN side of the TreyJade fandom with your art... I might as well have been dehydrated from thirst without your creations... Thank you, and I hope you'll always have a nice day!!! <333

[Direct link to fic] ♣️🐬

SCREAAAMIMMMGGG CRYIIINNGGG DYYINMGGGGGG I READ IT AND I'M FGSGSFSFSGSHSH AAAAAAAA!!!!!!

I'M LITERALLY SQUEALLINGGG LIKE A HIGHHSCHOOL GIRLL WHEN I REAAD ITT FHDHSGSGSGS *ACTUAL AUDIBLE SOUND FGSGZ

OH THE WAY THEY SIMPLY FISHED AND BAITED EACH OTHER IS SCRUMTPIOHS FHDHS MY FACE CRACKS AND I HAD TO TAKE A BREAK TO SQUEAL SEVERAL TIMES

I'M DYING THEIR UNDERLYING FLIRTOUS EXCHANGE IS SO STRAIGHT FOWARD IT MAKES ME BLJSH FHDHDHS

THEY ARE LITERALLY PLAYING EACH OTHER SO FUN !! ♡♡♡

BUT JADE IS SO PLAYFULLY DIRECT IN THIS ONE, I CAN'T HOLD MY FACE STRAIGHT FHDH I CAN'T BELIEVE TREY ACTUALLY CAN MY FACE MUSCLE WOULD BE CRAMPING THROUGH AND THROUGH FHDHDHSHS ♡♡♡♡♡

FSHSH thank you so much for bringing this to my attention, i do not have AO3 thing, i am rather a visual person that i don't naturally seek things to read by myself fhdhs

But u guys have been delivering scrumptious AO3 newsletter in front of my door, and I CAN'T BE MORE HAPPIER THAN EVER!! Fsh

[castlebyersafterdark]

🌈REVELATIONS ⛪️

Safe. Out of breath, but out of sight.

They locked the doors to the church and strained and struggled but pulled together to drag one of the pews in a barricade against the doors. Just as one extra precaution. They'd lost the demodeer herd a mile back but adrenaline kept them on a steady bolt, overly panicked as their reconnaissance mission failed and turned into one of survival and waiting.

When in danger, find shelter. Blockade. Stick together. Stay quiet. Wait for the next signal. Hope your radio didn't die and you reminded unseen.

"I think we're alone now. We're fine. We're totally fine." Breathless, and braced against the side of the nearest pew, Mike gave himself reassurances out loud while Will crouched down and focused on level breathing.

"Yeah. Safe," Will repeated. Not something he'd accurately felt in years. Couldn't remember.

"Hey. Hey come here."

Mike pulled Will to his feet and held him close. Chest to chest. Arms wrapped around Will's back. Big hands cradling skull and shoulder blade as Will sucked in a shakey breath and held on just as tight.

"I got you. We're good. We're safe."

"Sure," Will disagreed, voice a dark laugh and cheek a wet stain as he reluctantly pulled himself away from Mike's neck.

Mike had been doing that a lot recently. Hugging him. Touching him. Going out of the way to make sure he was doing alright. Keeping him safe.

It made Will nervous. Liking it as much as he did. He shouldn't.

"...and out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations: and he shall rule them with a rod of iron. And he..."

Will stopped in his tracks. What -

The lights.

(continued under cut)

Will stepped closer to inspect the electric candles, one built into each side of the pews. He leaned in to listen to the preacher's words, softly echoing from the other side in the scattered, floating particles of light. In the right side up, church was in session.

He stepped away and walked slowly along the rows of wooden benches towards the front of the church, catching snippets of the passage being recited to the gathered congregation with fire and brimstone fury as he walked along the trails of light, which flickered as he went and distorted the voice like an in between radio station.

"...and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had..."

Will stopped in front of the altar after ascending the set of stairs. Back in reality, where vines did not cover the church and perpetual night time covered the land, golden sun would wash down through the stained glass and bathe the sanctuary in a kaleidoscope of light and color. Blue, gray and the danger of red comprised Will's current palette - this world he'd help to shape.

He braced his hands on the altar and took a deep breath. Almost thought touching the wood - the mimic, the doppelganger of that thought to be sacred table - would burst him into flames.

"Will?"

He spun at the sound his name and turned to Mike. The glittering specs from the lighted pews lined the aisle, suspended in the damp, dark, stale air. Unmoving like a starry night, unlike the few specs that had clung to Will as he'd walked by. A magnet for the tiny dots of energy.

"Are you ok?"

"...which is the Devil, and bound him a thousand years and cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, that he should deceive..."

Will brushed off the specs of lpreaching, pixie dust preachings, warnings for the eternal soul. Look where he stood. A mockery. Back in Hell again. Willingly, this time.

"This is where they held my memorial service. When I, you know..."

He said it nonchalant, a pained smile on his face as he leaned back against the altar. Casual. Whether he belonged there or not.

"When they found that fake body."

"When I died. Before you all buried me."

"But you didn't."

"Most of you didn't know that."

He'd heard it, some of it. The preacher's voice just like today as his younger self took solace in the safety of the church. A voice that praised his poor young soul. Prayed for his salvation. All for a dummy stuffed with fluff. A rubber boy in a facade of a casket with needless tears dropped on the lid.

He remembered his grandmother, his father's mother, had tried with him and Jonathan. Forced them certain Sundays, forced his father to sit uncomfortably in the pews beside his boys, not so dutiful but trying. Joyce never went. Always worked Sundays.

The attempts were abandoned even before Lonnie ditched them all.

"But I knew. I never gave up on you."

"...and I saw an angel come down from heaven..."

His pale face shone in the blue darkness and dim light. Determined. True.

"I know."

Will waved a hand over one of the wax candles on thin iron stands that dotted the raised platform of sanctuary. It lit without spark or match or touch. He did it again to the others in his vicinity.

The things he'd discovered he could do terrified him.

Mike watched his best friend in awe.

"Kind of hard to believe a boy like me is hiding in a place like this. If I tried this on the right side..."

"What do you mean?"

"Mike..." Will took a steadying breath. Fearful. Terrified. Suddenly brimming with truth. When better than following a moment of life-or-death, in a place that glorified confessions. "Don't make me say it. Please. Don't make me. You know what I am."

"I don't-"

"Mike."

And Mike fell to his knees.

Hands covered his face. Shuddering breath. Crumpled before the altar, before Will.

Will descended from his place on high and rushed to Mike. Kneeled in front of the love of his life. Begged to understand.

"I've lied to you. I've lied to everyone."

"What-"

"I'm sorry. Will, I'm so sorry."

"...and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain..."

Mike took Will's hand in his own, and raised it, in worship, in love, in benediction to the boy he'd been devoted to since life had begun to fill memory. He kissed the knuckles, smelled the scent of smoke on skin from otherworldly fire. And let go. And made a decision.

And kissed Will.

And kissed him and kissed him. And was kissed back.

He didn't have to say it.

Gasps of breath. Hands grasping at shoulders, arms, faces, frantic. Mouths seeking their counterpart. Over and over.

The faintest sound of yelling. Candles burning bright. The lights that lined the aisles flashed and flickered, in tune with the sealing and slide of new lover's lips.

"Mike."

Foreheads pressed together. Mike's hands cradled Will's face, more force than intended but secure, a lifeline. A promise.

"Mike, is this real? It's... it's not-"

"It's real. I'm real. He's not here. You don't- you don’t feel him, right?"

Will felt Mike's pulse. His heartbeat.

Visions lacked either, they'd all found. On rare occasion when they were able to get close enough to check.

"Are you... are you like..." Are you like me? Abominations together. Unholy beings. No. Not a mistske. How could something that felt so right and good and beautiful be evil. "I thought I was so alone. Are you-"

"I don't know what I am. I'm working on it. But not... not how I feel about you. I think it's always been you, Will. Always you."

Will's smile could split the sky, could light up the entire dismal dimension. It belonged to Mike. All for him.

"It's always been you too, for me. I'm in love with you."

Another crashing kiss.

The lights flickered and surged.

"...stay calm, everyone! Join me in prayer. Together we will stand against this evil. This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer! Join..."

And the lights burned brighter yet, flickering in a circling rotation, then random, surging with power. All while two boys seeking refuge in a tainted and tarnished place of worship expressed pure love and devotion to one another.

Darkness, after the lights all burst on the other side. A final echo of yells rang out from the lingering specs of light until they also faded away until all that remained was the conjured burning candlelight surrounding the altar.

Mike stood, and took Will with him, never parting as they kissed and stumbled to the nearest pew...

(to be continued...)

🖤🖤🖤

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Friday

Continued from yesterday:

"Haven's been decimated. Ash- Praxis is desperate, I knew that. I just-" Jak tilted his head back, stubbornly focused on hanging plants until his eyes didn't water so much.

"I just didn't think she'd go that far. She told me she would tell everyone I was a spy if I didn't cooperate. I thought- I thought she was bluffing, Damas."

"She was not."

Damas stood smoothly, this time taking his staff with him.

A symbol of both authority and judgment.

Jak’s heart sank.

"What you are telling me, boy, is that Ashelin Praxis framed you for betrayal because you...wouldn't betray Spargus?"

Damas lifted his chin and looked down at Jak sternly.

"This is her alleged "logic"?"

Don't panic. Don't panic! What would Daxter do? Breathe, breathe breathe-

Jak kept his composure for a full two seconds, but even he wasn't invulnerable. And at heart, he was still just a kid. A scared, lonely, hurting kid who didn't know who to trust.

"If I'm cast out?" Jak's voice strained, then broke under the weight of his trembling. "If I'm outside the walls, they'll be able to drag me back."

Jak’s pride deserted him entirely. He didn't know what his face looked like, but Damas’s was blurring.

"Don't- don't let them take me back. Please- please! Don't make me go back there, Damas, if it comes to that, just shoot me!"

"Shoot you?!"

Another shuddering breath.

"Death before slavery," Jak choked.

A hand found his shoulder, warm, but so, so heavy.

"Do you have so little faith in me," Damas whispered, "That you think I would pass judgment without even conducting a proper investigation? Do you think so little of yourself that you believe I would so quickly take the word of my enemy's daughter over yours?"

Jak’s shoulders shook silently. It was answer enough.

"Jak, I have to ask you these questions. I don't want to. Frith, I don't want to put you through this!" Damas squeezed his shoulder tighter. "But it must go on official record. As many separate accounts as we can gather, to compare or contrast against your accuser."

"I'm not a spy," Jak insisted. He wiped his nose, mortified and terrified all at once.

"No," said Damas gently, "I don't think you are. But you…you may have brought one into the city with you. In that sense, Ashelin may have been telling the truth -- albeit twisting her words to lead to a different conclusion."

Brought one into the city with you-

"What do you mean?" Jak swallowed hard. "I- I didn't bring-"

"Who is missing, Jak?" Damas interrupted, "Who was here during the Arena trial and yet is no longer clinging to my shadow like oil?"

Stunned, Jak barely noticed the second set of fangs beginning to sprout from his gums.

"Pecker," he snarled.

"I swear on my life, Damas, whatever that's worth, I didn't know."

The king exhaled heavily again.

"Unfortunately, that's no longer relevant, Jak."

"But-"

"Whether you could have known or not, Haven has found our city."

Damas turned aside and ran his fingers along the bladed edge of his glaive.

"For years they have tried and failed to find us. I knew one day they would find the right bait for a trap, but for it to be you, of all people-!"

"I didn't betray Spargus!" Jak burst out, desperately. He couldn't stop himself; he reached out to take hold of Damas’s arm.

Damas pulled his arm swiftly from Jak's grip. Jak flinched back as if he'd been struck across the face. But that same arm reached back to catch the back of Jak's head, halting his retreat.

"Stop."

"Sir-!"

"Stop it, Jak! You're not listening to me!”

Damas drove the butt of the glaive into the stone of the dais, sending an echoing tone over the water. Jak fell silent immediately, chest heaving.

"You're not listening," Damas said again, gentler this time.

"An accusation is not a sentencing. I am gathering evidence, boy! For you, not against you!"

When this did not calm Jak, he bent slightly to rest his forehead against the boy's.

"Look at me. I told you, I don't think you are a spy. I trust you. But right now you need to trust me."

Incrementally, the boy began to take deeper breaths. If he slowed his pulse, perhaps this panic would pass and allow him to think logically.

"There may be more questions. You will be required to give an official account of the meeting at the oasis -- and I'm sorry, but you will have to explain why you didn't report it. But you have to trust me."

A little hysterical, Jak tried to nod, was unable to move his head, and settled for a high, broken, sound of assent.

He couldn't have determined one way or another if his tears were despairing frustration, or pure relief.

Damas believed him. Regardless of any strain between them caused by Jak’s defiance in the Arena, Damas trusted him.

It would have meant little to him in Haven, but Jak had lived among Wastelanders long enough to know that to hold the trust of a king was no paltry gift.

Now shame crept through the dregs of his fear, a skulking latecomer scuffing its feet along his heart.

Damas trusted Jak, and Jak had assumed the worst of Damas. He had assumed almost without question that Damas would find Ashelin's story more believable because of his failure to report it. He'd thought he'd moved past the fear Haven instilled in him!

"Sorry," he began, but Damas cut him off again.

"Jak, do you know why I don't believe Praxis?"

"N- no? I-"

Damas released him and stepped back and away. Lifting his glaive, he scooped a live coal out of the nearest brazier. In one motion, he cast it to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. Jak stared, bewildered and a bit concerned.

Stooping to brush aside the embers, Damas took a handful of ash and charcoal in one hand. Then he stood and held it out to Jak.

"I don't understand," Jak said, "What does- what are you doing?"

Patiently, Damas raised the remnant of the coal higher.

"What am I holding, boy?"

"It's char-" Jak's eyes widened as it hit him. He blinked back tears and looked up.

"It's charcoal."

"If you had been a spy," Damas insisted, "Haven would have come down on us while I was helpless, fighting the Blackwater virus."

"Oh," whispered Jak.

"Pecker hid in the aviary doing gods know what during that hell," Damas continued, "You and Daxter stayed by my side when I was at my lowest. You concealed my illness from my own Wastelanders, even taking up some of my duties to spare me the strain. That is how I know you would never betray me."

Jak was, in that moment, speechless. He was running on his twenty-sixth hour without sleep. Back to back missions and battles -- he hadn't even told Damas about the Marauder ambush. Was he supposed to tell him about the Marauder ambush?

The king shook the charcoal off his hand and brushed smears of black onto his tunic.

"Jak, do you trust me?"

Shame tried to drag his eyes down, but Jak forced himself to meet the king’s stare.

"Yes."

It's not a state of being. It's a choice. Right? I'm choosing to trust you.

Damas smiled, a little sadly, down at him.

"Son," he said quietly, "This is your Blackwater."

And Jak understood.

Whatever this coming trial entailed, whether the council wanted a full account, or whether they dismissed it with a wave and a scoff; Damas was going to be there. And he was going to be on Jak’s side.

"What do we do about Ashelin?" he asked, "She knows where we are now, doesn't she? What if they fly over the wall to-"

"To die very quickly? Because that's what would happen." Damas brought his staff down again decisively. "Get some sleep, Jak. When Daxter is finished giving his account, he'll be sent home too.”

Jak looked down.

"Can...I wait for him? I'm not- I don't do well. Without him. At night, I mean. It's..."

He trailed off, embarrassed, and wiped his eyes.

"Moral injury." Damas made a sympathetic sound. "That's what my uncle called it when I was a boy. A crime you have endured or witnessed and the way it breaks your understanding of safety and the rules the world follows. Believe me, I understand."

After a moment of hesitation, Damas’s shoulders fell.

"Alright," he said, almost weary in his pronouncement, "I suppose it's too late to have you walking across the city."

He waved an arm toward the concealed hallway.

"You know where the apartment is. Go get cleaned up. You can make your report in the morning."

Gratitude pushed through the cracks in the weight on Jak’s heart, snaking through like roots until the fear began to crumble away.

"Thank you," Jak whispered.

"This likely won't end with just the dismissal of the accusation," Damas warned. "Tomorrow, you and Daxter sit down with me and Sig, and we're going to go over every flaw in Haven's defenses that you can remember. And if Praxis or any of her allies contact you, what do you do?"

"Tell you first?" Jak mumbled.

"Good man. See that you don't forget it."

Damas clapped him on the shoulder once, then nodded to the corridor.

"And for the love of rain put some eco on those ribs! Did you think I didn't see that?" He pointed sternly. "Eco before you rest. We have an ordeal before us, boy, I'm not dragging you through it with your ribs sticking out every which way."

The image was gross and yet Jak found it absurdly humorous. He managed his first smile that day.

"Right, right."

When he had disappeared into the corridor, Damas’s relaxed posture fell away. He tightened his grip on his glaive and stalked to the window.

It had always been inevitable that one day an enemy would find some weakness in their defenses. A chink in Damas’s armor.

And Haven had found his before he knew it himself.

They'd threatened Jak.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

Idk if your still doing the drabble thing but

https://www.tumblr.com/lookinghalfacorpse/690768399620603904/does-cdream-ever-go-nonverbal-in-any-of-your-head

Dream going non verbal after he wakes up from a nightmare :))

After a few minutes of crying and begging, Dream fell silent.

The change was disconcertingly sudden. With a shuttering, sobbing breath, his mutterings to his sir ceased completely. A few whimpers and whines still made it past his lips, but nothing with substance.

It was strange enough that Techno and Phil exchanged glances. They were spending the night on Techno's bed-- it was much bigger than Phil's, making it a favorite spot for cuddling. A few animals settled in around them until slow breaths and soft snoring filled the space. Now, all the animals sat at attention and stared at them.

"You good?" Techno asked, glancing down at Dream. He had the human tucked close to his chest.

Dream hesitated, thinking. Eventually, he nodded againt Techno's shirt.

"You, uh.." Techno craned his neck down, trying to meet Dream's eyes, but he just pulled closer. "You sure? Can you look at me?"

Dream stayed painfully still.

Phil jumped in, his hand placed firm and supportive on Dream's shoulder. "What can we do for you, lad? Do you want a drink? A bath? Medicine?"

Dream tightened his grip on Techno's shirt. The piglin has seen him like this a few times in the prison-- though he tried, it was as though words just wouldn't come. His throat didn't cooperate. Techno asked Phil's questions again-- slower, and one at a time, giving Dream time to nod or shake his head between each. He nodded when he was asked about the bath.

"Of course, love." Phil responded. "Let me get it warmed up for you."

[gomzdrawfr]

I saw Nekros did this so I too, am curious

[cityandking]

shouting down those better angels

“I swore an oath,” Daichi says. “Despite what you may think of me, I intend to keep it.” ozy/dai; background ozy/kallux and dai/zaref. arranged marriage au. 2.6k ozy belongs to @snapdragonling. for the prompt "cagamosis - an unhappy marriage" from @in-maidjan // prompts

Save for the confusing, overwhelming exception of their wedding night, they’ve kept separate wings of the house. This has been a perfectly satisfactory arrangement, as far as Daichi is concerned. He is not, nor has he ever been, under the pretense that there is any more to this union than the careful political pairing of Helaine’s cousin with the Asdoran king’s… whatever Ozymandias is. General, his title and estate indicate. Hunter, the people whisper when his back is turned. Hound, Helaine had called him with no small measure of disdain when the offer had been extended—but Daichi has met the man and seen him with His Majesty and does not think it is Rivenlus holding his leash.

In any case, theirs is a marriage of nations and armies more than men or hearts, and Daichi contents himself with that. He has his run of the grounds and his own wing, and he attends to the house and his own king and the looming threat of war with Kar’eh. He does not often see his husband outside of their duties as lords of their separate nations and political allies. Their marital business is restricted to dinners, mostly. Galas. Speeches and parades and public events. All the things Daichi hates most and Ozymandias navigates expertly.

It is something of a surprise, then, when he shows up for breakfast.

The girl laying out the plates startles at the knock on the door, but she ducks her head swiftly and goes back to her work before he can assure her that everything is fine. Daichi swallows a sigh. He has given up on this particular fight, despite the discomfort of being waited on. He is a soldier and a medic; he does not need tending.

“Come,” he calls, folding Zaref’s latest letter—the front remains quiet, tensions remain high, he remains missed; nothing, then, has changed—and slipping it under the lip of his plate as the door slides soundlessly open and lets a man in.

“Pardon the early intrusion, Master Eliades.” Ozymandias’ body man sketches a shallow bow as the door clicks shut behind him. At the table, the girl begins setting a second place, so Daichi know what is coming when Kallux says, “Might you be willing to receive a guest?”

“Daichi is fine, Kallux,” Daichi says. It is another fight he is losing, but one he is less willing to give up on. If he is to live here for the rest of his life—or at least til the war begins, and subsequently ends, which may be equally as long—he would like at least one friend on the staff. And if not a friend, at least someone to talk to who will not flinch and demure in his presence. He had never thought he would miss Izzy’s impropriety quite so badly. “Whom do I have the pleasure of entertaining?”

He knows, of course. There’s only one person that Kallux announces.

“The lord of the house desires your company.”

Daichi has never had a face for politics—nor the desire for them, for all that Helaine insists he could do well in the service so long as he keeps to letters and listening and lets someone else do his talking—so he’s sure his displeasure is obvious.

“So early?” He may not see his husband often, but he sees his husband’s staff and visitors and the entourage he takes when he leaves the estate. Ozymandias, unlike Daichi, is not one for early mornings. To catch Daichi at breakfast suggests a late night, or that he has planned for this. Given that he arrived back in town only a day ago, he’s not sure which is most likely. Either option leaves him wary.

“He has a busy day.”

This is the other reason Daichi hopes to eventually do away with the layers of formality and station between them—Kallux has a quiet, drawling humor that Daichi does enjoy. He’d like to see more of it.

For a moment, Daichi dearly wants to point out that this is Ozymandias’ home as well, and he must surely be welcome anywhere—but it would do no good to give up the vague illusion of privacy they have conjured up with their separate wings. And he has no doubt Ozymandias does not want him snooping around the east rooms any more than Daichi wants him snooping around his own.

“I would be glad to receive him,” he says. Kallux’s eyebrow twitches at that. Well, Daichi has never had a knack for lying. Another reason he will never escape the military.

“I’ll let him know,” says Kallux. Clearly, though, Ozymandias has been listening—no sooner does Kallux open the door than he steps inside, already tucked into his uniform, brass polished and hair neatly pushed back. His mismatched eyes glance around the room, and the girl setting out breakfast bows deep and disappears out some secret side door, leaving the breakfast cart empty and two places set. It’s a light fare, as it always is—fruit and coffee and a few slices of still-warm bread. A pot of tea has been added to his usual spread, alongside the second place setting. Clearly, this has been expected by everyone save Daichi.

“My lords,” says Kallux, bowing again—a far fuller courtesy than he had given Daichi, which Daichi thinks may be more symbol than slight; perhaps he’s getting through to the man after all—and then the door shuts behind him, leaving Daichi entirely alone with his husband for perhaps the first time since their wedding night.

“Please,” says Daichi, gesturing to the second place setting. Ozymandias’ mouth quirks as he takes his seat. The mockery of propriety is nearly laughable.

“Apologies for the early call.”

“I was awake.” He is always awake at sunrise. Ozymandias, he assumes, knows this. “I apologize that I wasn’t here yesterday to welcome you back. I was not aware you would be returning so soon.”

Not that he has ever gone out of his way to welcome Ozymandias home from his trip for the king, save for when propriety requires it. But given the circumstances, it seems prudent to point out the distance they both keep, as well as the upset of their planned itineraries. The unspoken question of why he is here ahead of schedule crowds the table alongside the breakfast service.

“No apology necessary.”

He doesn’t make mention that he had been scheduled to return tomorrow. A trip out to the countryside to see the king in his summer palace, he’d told the staff. If anything, he looks more pale than he had when he’d left. Daichi watches him as he reaches for the fruit plate, selecting a cluster of grapes, and pours himself a cup of coffee from the carafe. He does not offer Ozymandias tea.

“I trust you had a productive trip?” Not that he expects to hear much about it—Ozymandias is close-lipped about his dealings with his king.

Ozymandias’ fingers make careful work of plucking his grapes from their stems. “His Majesty sends his warmest regards.”

“How kind of His Majesty to think of me.”

Ozymandias smiles, though it doesn’t reach his mismatched eyes. His Majesty, they both know, is not kind. This union is proof of that—a binding meant to keep the king contented enough to turn his attention to the threat at their shared borders. Daichi’s role is as much hostage as it is bargaining chip and spy. Both of them know this.

“He hopes you’ll come along next time.”

Daichi can’t imagine anything he would enjoy less than a summer trip to Asdor’s court. The endless flat nothing of the southlands leave him homesick for the mountains. “It would be my pleasure.”

Ozymandias pops a grape in his mouth. “I hope you’ll lie to lie to him a little better than that.”

Daichi feels his lips thin. “I’ll practice.”

“If you require assistance—“

There is something about his husband, Daichi has learned in six months of marriage, that tries even his considerable patience. “Why are you here, Ozymandias?”

Ozymandias, damn him, doesn’t so much as blink at the outburst. “Can a man not breakfast with his husband?”

“A man usually doesn’t.” Particularly a man who is home two days early from seeing his king with war looming on the horizon. “You’ll forgive me if I’m surprised by the change.”

Ozymandias smiles again, bland, and turns to pluck another grape from his plate. But he doesn’t move fast enough to hide his flicker of displeasure. Daichi raises his cup to his lips, observing. It’s obvious, of course, that this is more than a mere social call. But perhaps he is not the only one on the back foot here. He certainly wouldn’t put it past Ozymandias to offset his own disadvantage by infringing upon Daichi’s well-tended privacy. Daichi hides the curl of his lip behind his coffee cup.

“I had hoped we might catch up. What news from the front?” Ozymandias' gaze dips down to the paper tucked beneath Daichi’s plate, unsubtle, and his mouth quirks. “Has your… friend sent an update?”

Damn him. Zaref is a low blow, even by his standards. Daichi sets his cup down, jaw tight.

“Only that there is no update.” He doesn’t slide the letter out of Ozymandias’ view, but it’s a near thing. Daichi is protective of plenty, but Zaref is— “Does the king feel otherwise?”

“No,” says Ozymandias, but there’s that flicker again. Not the king, then. But someone else. Someone whose opinion Ozymandias trusts. Trusts more than the king? It wouldn’t surprise him. From what he has seen, there is little lost love between Rivenlus and his top general. It is notable, he thinks—and Helaine and Scratch have both agreed—that for all his power, Ozymandias does not lead the Kingsguard.

But if not the king, then who? Daichi reaches for the fruit platter, running through anyone he or Airedon's intelligence apparatus has suggested might be supplying the south with information. He cannot think of anyone who would have better news of the front than Zaref himself. Or Scratch, he supposes, though he hears she advises Helaine exclusively these days. The way Izzy says it— exclusively— Well, Daichi has elected not to think too hard of it.

“Then we are fortunate,” said Daichi blandly. Ozymandias gives him a look, inscrutable, eyes gleaming, and Daichi thinks— the other one. Whoever truly holds his leash. It is more than mere loyalty. The thought sends a shiver down his spine that he covers with a cough. “May we see many years of peace.”

“And prosperity,” Ozymandias toasts, though neither of them have flutes to raise. Daichi watches him, waiting, and is watched in turn. There’s something going on, he knows, behind those eyes. Some calculation, some consideration. Daichi is plenty familiar with his own propensity for overthinking, but it doesn’t hold a candle to whatever vast system of measures and countermeasures Ozymandias considers behind his own placid mask.

This might have been different, he thinks. In another world, in another time. He is not so stone that he does not understand the beauty of the man before him. Daichi can admire the clear, bright line of his belief and action, if nothing else.

But he wields it like a cudgel, unthinking and blunt. It brings to mind a turn of phrase his father use to use, back during the war of independence, when fools were a dine a dozen and cowards more plentiful. His demons, whatever they may be, shout down his better angels, and Daichi wants no part in it. But here they are, both of them trapped in the web of their own making.

He thinks, maybe—despite Helaine, despite Zaref, despite the war—he could have found a happy partner in a version of Ozymandias that is not this one. But this one is all he has.

“Well,” says Ozymandias, clearly coming to a decision. “It is good to see you, dear. I hope we might dine together again.”

“You know where to find me,” Daichi says, disappointment leaden in his gut. He doesn't know what he expected, but he knows it wasn't this. “Perhaps some forewarning, next time.”

“Am I such a surprise?”

“I’d have dressed.”

Ozymandias gives him a look, taking in the brocade of his dressing gown and the unkempt ends of his braids, lacking their usual adornment. Daichi is only grateful his slippers are hidden beneath the table.

“I don’t mind,” Ozymandias says. Bastard.

“Nevertheless,” Daichi says, if only to say something. “Kallux can let me know.”

“If you wish,” says Ozymandias, and there is a flicker again—but one of a different sort. Interesting. He’ll have to keep a closer eye. Or maybe a less close eye. Though if his husband is sullying their marriage bed…

And he dares to judge Daichi for letters. Daichi swallows back something like a scoff, or perhaps fury. It is something to deal with later. Not now. Now, the question is of the war, and whose confidence his husband keeps, and why he has come to Daichi in the morning after what has clearly been some kind of failure that Daichi only understands the edges of.

Ozymandias is halfway to the door when Daichi turns to him over the back of his chair. He moves with a purpose—fleeing, Daichi would say, if he didn’t know better. He narrows his eyes.

“Ozy.”

His husband stops in his tracks. Daichi cannot see his face, but the line of his shoulders is tight. Afraid, he realizes. Something has scared him, enough to come to Daichi. To come to Daichi and decide to keep his secrets to himself, and Daichi cannot let that stand. Not only for their nations and this war, but also because he must share a house and a name and a life with this man, and he is tired of secrets. He will not live like this. He refuses.

“Daichi?” says Ozy, still not looking at him. His name is an odd thing in his husband’s mouth. Daichi takes a breath.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” he says, wishing desperately for Scratch, or Helaine, or anyone better suited for speech. This, he is certain deep in his bones, is important. It is more important than the discomfort of marriage to a man he does not love and more important than his disgust with his husband’s work and more important, possibly, than the politics of their nations’ truce. “But if it as serious as it appears, you have my ear and my counsel.”

“And if I said I did not need it?”

“I would say I don’t think you’re stupid enough to turn down help when offered.”

That catches him enough to turn him around, and for a moment his face is like the southern storms—dark, clouded, impassible. Uncontrolled. Daichi reads fear, and fury, and a deeper uncertainty than he could ever have imagined his husband possessed. It's a relief, he supposes, to know the man is human after all.

“You think so highly of me?”

Hardly highly, but Daichi will not say so. Not now, in any case, when he finally, for the first time in all their months of marriage and courtship, feels as though he finally has Ozy's full attention. “I think you are not your king's favored general for no reason.” He reaches across the table and pours a cup of tea, steam wisping from the surface. “And I think you did not come here on a whim.”

“No,” Ozy allows. “I did not.”

“Then give me the chance to provide what you came here seeking.”

“You ask for a great deal of trust.”

“I swore an oath,” Daichi says. It is an oath he did not wish to swear—not here, now now, not to him—but it is an oath nevertheless. “Despite what you may think of me, I intend to keep it.”

“I don’t doubt you,” Ozy says. It sounds almost—Daichi does not believe himself—like an apology.

“Then sit,” says Daichi, with every ounce of his considerable patience. “Come eat with me, and tell me what you have heard.”

And Ozy, miraculously, does.

[essektheylyss]

Alright, as of now, I have contacted everyone who's filled out my zine form by some communication or another; if you submitted to the form and have not gotten an email, Discord friend request, DM, or ask from me, please either send me an ask (will be answered privately) or DM here, or try to fill out the form again and I will be in touch!

And if you haven't submitted, what are you waiting for? Join us at the wedding of the new age—but you only have until July 31st to RSVP!

[pearl-kite]

And for an animal prompt, I'm gonna pick... lamassu for a bat-eared fox (I saw his huge ears and I just had to!)

EARS

Throw some palette prompts at meeeee. Some details in the tags of that post. If you're shy, you can do it on anon <3

[peaches2217]

Given it’s like 2 degrees where I live: 🥶!

🥶 - Cold

First Snow

Inspired by this piece by the exceptional @akiiame-blog!

EDIT: AO3 Link!

~~~

Gonnnng! Gonnnng! Gonnnng!

Mario’s stomach dropped into his feet hard enough to make him stumble. The clock in Toad Town’s central square rang the hour out, ten resounding, musical gongs that rattled his very bones. They pushed him to sprint faster once he recovered his footing, and though the frigid air burned his throat and lungs like fire, he forged ahead with unprecedented determination.

Of all days to get distracted by snowfall! Now he would have no choice but to take the pipes at the base of Castle Hill. They would shave valuable minutes off of his commute, but the shortcut wasn’t particularly fun, being sized to accommodate creatures who reached three feet tall at the tallest. 

Though the closer to the castle he drew, the more he saw that he was hardly the only one who’d fallen victim to the snow’s charm. Toads spilled from their homes and places of business and even from the schools, filling the streets (and forcing Mario to dodge and leap over them at every turn) to make snowtoads and pelt one another with snowballs and share warm drinks with their friends. That was his out, he decided quickly, and he practiced his wording as he flew through the pipes. You know I’m never late, Princess, please forgive me! I’ve never seen the town so crowded this early. It wasn’t a lie, after all.

Surprisingly, the castle grounds looked much the same as the town itself did. Straight out of the final warp pipe, Mario was met with a flurry of merriment, everyone from visiting families to familiar staff and groundskeepers mingling about, frolicking and playing or otherwise watching their children frolic and play.

And straight ahead, on the bridge gapping the frozen moat, a form in all shades of gold and pink towered over those Toads. She caught Mario’s eyes as soon as he looked her way, and suddenly he felt far warmer than an extensive run could ever make him feel.

“Mario!” Peach’s cheery voice carried with ease as they began in one another’s directions. A luxurious pale pink cape fluttered behind her as she approached, tied in the front with a white bow to which her favorite brooch was fastened. Beneath it, a dress that looked nigh identical to her favorite day-to-day dress, but with long sleeves hidden beneath wool-trimmed gloves.

Mario gulped. Somehow, she was always more beautiful than the last time he’d seen her.

But the warm glow of her presence chilled as they reached one another, and he was forced to acknowledge that he had let her down. He knew his tardiness bothered him far more than it would bother her; admittedly, he was a bit miffed (but undoubtedly grateful) at how easily she overlooked his every fault. Still, he would be remiss to not hold himself accountable. Pulling his cap from his head, he drew in a deep breath—

“Please forgive me.” The words came not from his lips, but from Peach’s.

“...Princess?”

“I had hoped my letter would reach you before you left home,” she continued, casting her eyes aside, her smile turning regretful. “The Public Council will be postponed to next week, in accordance with the First Snow. I’m truly sorry to drag you out here on such a dreary day…”

Mario’s first response was relief. He hadn’t let his beloved Princess down after all! And as much pride as he took in being Peach’s personal guard, attending the monthly Public Council with her was perhaps his least favorite obligation. Standing still and not offering his own opinions as Counciltoads and townsfolk alike shouted over each other about every relevant social and political talking point — for three hours — was a challenge that tired even him. Letting out an exaggerated Phew! and wiping not-so-imaginary sweat from his brow, he slapped his cap back over his hair, and this elicited a small chuckle from Peach.

His second response: confusion.

“First Snow?” Glancing briefly away, he took in the clusters of Toads enjoying the winter scenery once more, and this time he recognized Councilmembers and Chairholders and, well, everyone who usually spent their work days inside the castle walls. And here they were, outside, having themselves a jolly old time. “So today’s like a holiday?”

A matching confusion flickered across Peach’s features. “Yes, of course. You’re aware of…” And just as suddenly, her eyes went wide, and she pressed a palm to her reddening cheek. “No, you’re not aware, are you? I don’t think you were here the last time it snowed!”

Mario couldn’t help but beam at her embarrassed gesture. Even he hadn’t realized it at first, looking out his frosty window that morning.  This was only his second winter in the Mushroom Kingdom, and last winter brought nothing but barren trees and the occasional patch of ice, nothing resembling the powdery luster that blanketed everything in sight today.

That Toad Town hadn’t always been his home became easier to forget with each passing day. He wondered, with a bristle of excitement he couldn’t quite put a name to, if Peach had momentarily forgotten as well.

“Hey,” he said, rocking on his heels, “since I’m already here, maybe you could… explain it all to me? I’m always up for learning new things about the MK! And clearly I’ve still got a lot to learn, yeah?”

Bold of him, perhaps, trying to petition royalty to give him their free time. Surely there were thousands of other tasks Peach would have been better off seeing to. But some nagging feeling in his stomach told Mario that she would much rather spend the morning with him than tending to dreary administrative duties, and he would sooner fulfill that desire and his own desire to be at her side for as long as possible than turn around and head back home.

Peach blinked, and in that fraction of a second he swore her face lit up. But if it did, she got it under control quickly, leaving him with nothing more than a gentle smile and the fluttery feeling that he had made the right call.

With a gesture of her head, she turned gracefully and began towards the castle gardens, and he dutifully fell into step beside her.

Oh yeah. This was way better than having to stand through Public Council.

~~~

“Our kingdom boasts an idyllic, seasonable climate all year long, as you’ve no doubt noticed. Our summers are never too hot, and our winters are never too cold. That’s why the Mushroom Kingdom is the world’s foremost leader in power-up exports: this is among the few places where they can flourish in the wild year-round.”

Mario would never cease to marvel at Peach’s talent for making the mundane sound magical. She clasped her hands in front of her as she spoke, her brilliant bluebird eyes sparkling as she prattled off what should have been mildly interesting but otherwise unremarkable facts. Yet he was unable to tear his gaze from her face, and her every word stirred a powerful curiosity within him, her love for her kingdom radiating so strongly outward that he felt it just as deeply.

Tour Guide Mode, he had affectionately dubbed it. Peach had agreed that, should the whole “leader of a nation” position ever fall through, she would make a pretty good tour guide.

“That is to say,” she continued, looking back over to him, “freezes such as this only happen once every few years. For that reason, the first snow after a long stretch of more traditional weather is always declared a holiday.”

Mario chuckled dryly. “That would’ve been nice growing up. Me and Luigi, our mamma would have to drag us to school by the ear when it snowed. And even then, we’d spend all day staring out the window and daydreaming about being out there instead of cooped up inside.”

Peach reached out absently as they passed another snow-capped shrub, its frozen leaves rustling beneath her fingers. “Did it snow often in Brooklyn?”

“Pretty often, yeah. At least around this time of year.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I would love to see it for myself.” The fondness in Peach’s eyes grew more resplendent still, and Mario could feel himself blossoming beneath it, like a flower opening its blooms to the sunlight. A laugh bubbled in his chest.

“I promise you didn’t miss out on much, Princess. Brooklyn snow was always sludgy and gray. Kinda depressing, come to think of it.” 

“Really?”

“Oh yeah.” At the next shrubbery, he blindly mirrored her actions, sweeping a pile of loosely-packed snow to the ground. “That’s why I had to book it this morning! We saw all this fluffy clean snow and ended up chasing each other around in our pajamas. We were neck-deep in the most intense snowball fight the Mushroom Kingdom’s ever seen when I realized what time it was.”

Peach giggled at this information, a gentle teeheehee that released tiny clouds of vapor into the air before her. “What fun! I’ve always wanted to be part of a snowball fight.”

Mario was more than prepared to continue, to draw more giggles from her with descriptions of two grown men all rosy-cheeked and dusted in snowflakes with icicles freezing from their nostrils — but he stumbled at her words.

“...You’ve never been in a snowball fight?”

Peach was only two steps ahead of him when she registered his absence, and she turned to face him where he’d frozen, her delighted grin growing a touch dour.

“Growing up, I was… encouraged to pour my energy into more productive pursuits,” she confessed. As Mario caught up, she steepled her fingers together and cast her gaze to the dense gray sky above them. “Toadsworth thought it unbecoming to dirty my dresses in the name of any game without clear rules. Better something more clear-cut like tennis or golf, he’d say. Keep the senses sharp.”

Her smile warmed once more in nostalgia, yet as she directed it towards him, he saw the slightest gloom beneath that glow. “There weren’t any children my age to rope into a good snowball fight, anyway. I’m happy to live vicariously through others! Oh, but enough of this gloomy tangent. Won’t you tell me more about the snow in Brooklyn? Come, come.”

Though as she resumed their walk, Mario remained where he was. The melancholy in her gaze… no. It was foolish, he tried to reason, thinking that someone so refined as Peach might be genuinely saddened by such a silly topic. But the heaviness that lingered in his heart implored him to give the thought consideration — and, above all, to do something about it. 

Peach was his Princess, his charge in many respects, beautiful and composed and perfect… but she was still human. She was just as likely to long for life’s little pleasures as he was. And above all…

“You needn’t be so formal with me, you know,” she had told him only a few months earlier. “You are my friend.”

At the time, Mario had agreed, but was far too hesitant to accept her invitation. Now? For a few blissful and dangerous moments, he was finally able to internalize those words. 

He was her friend, and she was his in return, his closest and most cherished friend. He watched her back as she strode forward, his knees bending and his hands scooping and shaping on their own. Just as he was charged to protect her, he felt compelled to humor and address and banish whatever childish sadness lingered within her. And honestly, what sort of friend would he be if let her miss out on such a commonplace tradition?

The notion that launching a projectile directly at a ruling monarch’s head was probably a bad idea didn’t hit him until said projectile left his hand, and by then, it was too late.

Peach squeaked on impact, nearly entangling herself in her own cape as she whipped around to face her attacker. And what could Mario do? He certainly couldn’t look away, not when she stared at him with such unbridled shock, a halo of snow still clinging to her hair. Color rose into her cheeks, but he couldn’t interpret the whirlwind of emotions that flickered across her face, and something told him he didn’t want to.

Oh, he’d done it. He’d really messed up.

“I’m— I’m so sorry!” What was he supposed to do now? Bow? Bowing sounded right. “That was improper,” he uttered sheepishly, bracing a fist over his sternum and bending at the waist and squeezing his eyes shut as if he could undo what he’d done if only he couldn’t see it. “I should— that’s not… I-I should be acting like—”

“Mario.”

Mario looked up immediately at the utterance of his name — and was promptly blinded by a flash of white.

He sputtered and swiped at his face, shocked into newfound alertness by the icy cold against his skin, and the most wonderful sound rang in his ears all the while: laughter. Peach’s laughter, tinkling and light. Shaking his head to clear the snow that still clung to his bangs and eyebrows and mustache (his cap falling to the ground in the process), he found, when his vision cleared, that she was giggling into her left hand, brushing the right against her skirt.

She had— she actually—

“Yeah,” Mario found himself saying before his brain caught up with him, “yeah, I deserved that.”

The color that flooded Peach’s face settled into a dusty pink, and as she closed the gap between them, Mario felt his own skin undergo a similar transformation. Some mix of relief and giddiness and the usual Peach-induced fluster kept him stuck where he stood, unable to do anything but blush and smile nervously. 

“Don’t dish out anything you can’t handle being served in return.” Peach stooped elegantly, brushing the snow from Mario’s fallen cap before setting it back on his head. “Or, put simply: it’s on.”

“W-what—?”

Before the ringing in his ears cleared (and, indeed, before he even realized his ears were ringing), Peach fled from him, hiking her skirts and rushing ahead a good few meters before stooping once more to gather snow between her palms, and only then did Mario’s brain catch up with the rest of his body.

He threw himself to his knees in the knick of time, Peach’s second snowball zipping overhead. Taking advantage of his stupor, huh? Once more pulling his cap into place, a wicked grin spread across Mario’s face.

“Ah! Not so fast, Princess!” he called, fumbling hands forming a rushed retaliation. “You should know I’m a battle-hardened snowball fight warrior!”

The snowball he launched barely missed its target; Peach squeaked again, jumping clear of the attack, and then she was preparing her counterattack the moment her feet returned to the ground.

“Well, I’m far scarier than any warrior!” she called back. “I’m a politician!” 

Thud! The attack hit Mario square in the left shoulder, and he cried in mock-pain, launching himself to his feet to make a show of stumbling around before jumping back into the action. And that was how the Princess of the Mushroom Kingdom and her guard spent the next twenty minutes: circling one another, flinging fistfuls of snow to and fro, and filling the chilled air with harmonious laughter.

~~~

The fireplace in Peach’s drawing room was… excessive, put one way, at least ten feet wide and six feet tall. Mario couldn’t help but keep a wary eye on it as he sipped his coffee. One gust of air and that fire would flash over and burn the whole castle down, he was certain of it.

“I suppose I’ll be getting an earful from Toadsworth tonight,” Peach sighed beside him. Mario chuckled regretfully; the old steward had immediately coaxed them inside upon crashing their game in progress, tutting in disapproval at their unkempt appearances and rambling on about the colds they would catch unless they settled in and warmed their bones immediately, “and I shouldn’t have to tell you that falling ill is the last thing we need for you, Princess.”

Even so, taking his leave after delivering their hot cocoa and black coffee some ten minutes later, Mario knew for a fact that he’d seen Toadsworth smile. An old and tired smile, with some odd nuance behind it that he couldn’t name, but a smile nonetheless.

“Just tell him I challenged your pride and it was all my fault,” he offered in the present moment. Then, with a wink, he joked: “He knows I’m a bad influence.”

“Yes, that’s just what I want: two of my favorite people butting heads for my sake.” Peach smiled over her cocoa in good humor, and Mario did his best to smile back just as evenly, but hearing her affections spoken so plainly (if indirectly) sent his heart into a stutter that made his hands feel suddenly weak. He tightened his grip on the mug in his grasp and swallowed thickly.

But if he intended to respond, the words died quickly on his tongue. The oversized fire illuminated Peach’s disheveled silhouette, frazzled strands sticking out all over her head, her bangs still slicked down with sweat, a downy blanket draped over her shoulders and obscuring her wrinkled and ever-so-slightly stained dress. But seated on the chase just inches away from him, she looked… happy. She hummed as she drank her cocoa, and the flames before them danced in her eyes, orange and red against cool blue, staggering in their brilliance yet serene all the same.

To see her so content wasn’t a surprise, not really. But something about the sight still left Mario short of breath.

Only when her gaze shifted towards him did he realize he was staring, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to look away. There was… there was love in her eyes, he realized not for the first time, a love she expressed towards him and him alone.

Though his heart could certainly hope, Mario knew deep down, or at least convinced himself he knew, that the love she felt for him wasn’t the same love he felt for her. But that made it no less sacred to him, and he knew he’d cherish her love in whatever form it took until the day he departed the earth.

Even so, an all too familiar ache seeped into his chest at the thought, more biting than any chill could ever be. Suddenly, the affection she graced him with felt unbearable. He looked back at the fireplace with an uneasy sigh.

“Mario?” He could hear her concern, soft but prodding, and Mario took the opportunity to finish his coffee and recompose himself. The bitterness of his drink dulled the unwelcome bitterness within him well enough for now.

“Honestly,” he said at last, staring down into his empty mug, “days like today… I wish they’d never end.”

Peach didn’t respond, not right away, and Mario worried at first that his melancholy smile might look a touch too melancholy. But finally she spoke, gentle and quiet and maybe just a bit sad: “I wish so too.”

[seth-whumps]

You are so correct about the line "I don't... feel well"

might I add

"I don't... I don't think I'm quite right."

formal whumpees <<<<< everything

Formal whumpees....... feather you're so right.........

Formal whumpee + informal whumper (dirty basements look so lovely on expensively torn dresswear)

Formal whumpee + informal caretaker ("you can borrow a t-shirt, here." "I'm..... not wearing that.")

Formal whumpee + formal team: ("are you.... sure you're well?" <- my favorite caretaker dialogue in the world)

Formal mentor whumpee + young caretaker: ("It will be alright. I will. I just... I hate to ask for your help like this.")

formal whumpees!!!! FORMAL WHUMPEES!!!!!

[mismatched-ideas]

Stupid Big Brother

Fandom: Sakamoto Days

Rating: General

Relationships: Seba Natsuki & Seba Mafuyu

Words: 848

This is fic 4/20. Just as a reminder, I'm doing 20 prompts in 20 business days (so 4 weeks) as an exercise to stop myself from freezing up due to overthinking. This means the fics will be largely unedited so please forgive my typos.

This one is way late because I couldn't figure out who I wanted to write about for this prompt. It took me so long to make a decision. Also this one probably has way more typos than any of my others so far because it's nearly midnight when I'm finishing this. Currently voting on prompt set #6

"I can't sleep, can I stay here?"

Usually when Natsuki worked late into the night, it was because weapon making was a passion. Tonight, though, he was aware that he was just using it to get his mind off… everything. 

Shin and his people had been badly injured, but given that Natsuki was starting to suspect Shin had a death wish, he’d made out okay. Natsuki had wanted to stay in Tokyo to help since he was pretty sure things were only going to get worse, but of the people going back to the JCC, he was the only adult, so it felt like he needed to make sure everyone got back safely. Also, Mafuyu had been pretty badly hurt at the art museum. Natsuki wasn’t going to leave him to the JCC again, not after they managed to lose him the first time. 

Mafuyu was okay, but it had been a close one. Natsuki couldn’t stop thinking about the bomb or about how Mafuyu had been willing to die just to protect him from their parents’ plans. 

Mafuyu wasn’t supposed to do things like that. Natsuki was the older brother. He was the one who was supposed to protect Mafuyu and he just kept doing a bad job at that. 

So maybe working on his latest failure wasn’t working to get his mind off everything that happened. 

“Nī-chan.” 

Natsuki turned, not having heard the door to the lab open up, revealing his little brother wearing his pajamas and, of course, a mask. Natsuki had long since stopped questioning how and why Mafuyu slept in a mask, knowing both of them had plenty of oddities about them that were better left unexamined. 

“Mafuyu, it’s late,” he said as if he wasn’t also wide awake. “You still need your rest.” 

Mafuyu was still healing, though he was nearly better.

“I can’t sleep,” he said in that soft, slightly embarrassed tone that he only seemed to use with Natsuki. “Can I stay here?”

Natsuki sighed because they both knew he wasn’t going to say no. 

“Yeah, of course.” 

Mafuyu pulled a stool over so they could sit back-to-back. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to sit in this situation, but Natsuki could understand why Mafuyu would want it. 

Mafuyu wasn’t a touchy person—he was pretty touch-adverse—but every so often he’d reach out to Natsuki, looking for a little bit of human contact. It was always a minimal amount, like being back-to-back or shoulder-to-shoulder, but it was enough to be out of character.

“You think Shin-kun and them will be okay?”

“Yeah, they’ll all be fine.” At least he hoped so. 

“What if X is right?”

“Huh?”

“They weren’t bad people.”

“Mafuyu, they put a bomb in you.”

“Sure, but…” Mafuyu was quiet, but Natsuki could practically hear him thinking. “Isn’t the JAA why our family is so messed up?”

“Maybe, but I think that stupid old man would’ve been like that no matter what. Some people just suck.”

Mafuyu was quiet again for a long time. Natsuki worked on his weapon, listening closely to the sounds of the building and his brother’s breathing. 

“I’m tired.”

“Then go to bed.”

“I mean I’m tired of fighting.” Mafuyu mumbled, seeing almost embarrassed. 

“You don’t have to fight anymore.”

“If— when this is over, can we really just go live somewhere and not fight anymore?”

“Yeah, really.” Maybe Shin could tell them how Sakamoto managed to settle into a normal life. 

“Even though you won’t be making weapons anymore?”

“I can make other stuff.” Natsuki wondered how long Mafuyu had been worrying about these things. Neither of them were great at talking about how they were feeling, but at the very least Mafuyu had always been a crybaby, so it was easy to know when he was upset. “I only made the weapons because I wanted us to be safe.” 

As if on cue, Mafuyu sniffled and Natsuki couldn’t help but smile. That was the little brother he knew. 

They didn’t talk again that night. Natsuki worked until his eyes were blurry and but then Mafuyu had managed to fall asleep against him. 

Natsuki carefully stood, making sure not to wake Mafuyu up, and carried him back to his dorm. It had been a long time since he’d done something like that and it even though Mafuyu was hardly heavy, it was harder than it used to be. Mafuyu’s limbs getting in the way as he tried to navigate doorways and light or not, the dorms were pretty far from the labs. 

Somehow, Mafuyu stayed asleep the whole way. He didn’t even wake up when Natsuki took his mask off and tucked him in like he had when they were much, much younger. 

He didn’t want to fight anymore. He didn’t want to see his brother fighting anymore. He just wanted to be allowed to live a normal life for once. 

“Goodnight, Mafuyu,” Natsuki murmured before closing the door and heading to his own room, knowing he should get some sleep as well even though all he wanted to do was keep watch to make sure Mafuyu never disappeared again. 

[redd956]

Mini Whump Prompt 113

"Whumpee?", Caretaker loomed over the recliner. They knew something was wrong at an instant. Despite gloating over the win of getting that piece furniture, Caretaker hasn't even witnessed Whumpee sitting in it once. Come to think of it, do they even sit down?

Whumpee, still head to toe in their daily formal wear, slept away uncomfortably, face red and drenched in sweat.

"Whumpee.", Caretaker prodded at first, before turning to jostling, letting out a nervous laugh at Whumpee's limpness. "C'mon, you of all people know it's not funny to play around like this... Whumpee?"

[jessfandrawer]

I created a simple art prompt generator. For Raoul and Christine it gave me: Protective, Formalwear, and Sleepy.

I don't know about the colors, they were a struggle. I did the book version of Christine this time because I don't draw blonde hair very much. *shrugs*