#that certain phrases are repeated in the first and second drabble

[elluqien710]

day 13: abundance 🌾

“We have an abundance of sugar. We just bought some more yesterday.”

Nelyo sat absentmindedly beside the coffee table, reading a book. Telvo and Pityo were rummaging through the cupboards and pantries.

“Where is it?” Telvo asked. “We’re going to make some pastries!”

“Second cabinet to the left.”

Nelyo’s lips twitched upwards, biting back a laugh at the sound of the Ambarussa struggling to reach it.

“Nelyo? Some help, perhaps?” Pityo called.

Nelyo chuckled. He put down his book and stood up, easily opening the cabinet, then handed a bag of sugar carefully into Pityo’s arms.

"Thanks, hanno,” Telvo beamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We do not have an abundance of sugar. We are on rations.”

Maedhros sat absentmindedly beside the table, polishing his knife. Elrond and Elros were tugging at the hem of his cloak.

“Please, Atto?” Elrond implored. “We want to make pastries for Atya!”

“He’s been doing mopey singing a lot and he might be hungry,” Elros insisted.

Maedhros’s lips twitched upwards. Sweets would do Maglor good. “Do you know how to make pastries?”

The twins glanced at each other. “You can teach us, then!” Elrond declared.

Maedhros chuckled. “Very well. We can make a few.”

"Thanks, Atto!” the twins beamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"hanno" - "brother", informal

"atto" - "father", informal

“atya” - “father”, informal

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<- day 12: scones 🥐 | day 14: saccharine 🍬 ->

all drabbles

[narcjsistx]

— SAY IT AGAIN, EVEN IF I DONT GET IT

✶ words: 0.6k ; sae itoshi x fem!reader ; drabble!

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

You don't even know how you ended up in a situation like this, you who always said that you would only learn Spanish when Sae admitted that his younger brother was better than him, in short never. Yet now, with a notebook in front of you and a cute pink pen, you feel a bit like a kid in elementary school who is learning the alphabet for the first time

"When you introduce yourself you can say "Me llamo..." instead of the entire sentence "Mi nombre es..." says Sae writing in the notebook, his look serious a bit like when he has to score. You nod almost automatically, when in reality you haven't understood a single sentence of what he's been saying to you in the last 20 minutes. Sae looks up, a little questioning "Are you understanding something?" he asks, and you nod again

Going to his last game was the biggest mistake of your life, but at the same time, the best thing you could ever do. Sae had gotten you a surprise plane ticket, just to spend a week together after two months of not being able to see each other due to college and his workouts. It wasn't the first time you went to Madrid where he was now living, but every time you went out he was the one talking, obviously. You had a certain resentment towards Spanish for the simple fact that in middle school you had been traumatized by a terrible teacher

"You’re not understanding anything" he sighs, and you snap out of your thoughts "Wait- No, I swear I do!" you say slamming your hands on the table, and he does nothing but stare at you perplexed, with the typical Itoshi look. He writes a sentence in your notebook, passing it to you "If you understand then you can tell me what it means, right?" he says, and you look down to read the sentence, a little embarrassed "Of course I can do that..." you say swallowing

You watched the game calmly, sitting in your seat with a good drink by your side and a lot of voice to cheer for him. But when Sae finished the game, you naively thought he would come to you. Big mistake. The journalists love him as if he were their son, the typical son who hates answering his parents' questions, and you naively thought that they would ask him the questions in Japanese. You forgot that your boyfriend now breathes, thinks and speaks Spanish, lives in a Spanish city and plays for a Spanish team

Hearing him speak so fluently, without a shred of effort, made you suddenly fall in love with the language you've hated for years. So, when you got home, you simply asked him to teach you a few phrases just to hear him speak some more Spanish

"Creo que... eres estúpido..." you repeat out loud, and he nods "What does that mean?" he asks, and you purse your lips, thinking for a few seconds "I think you're... pretty?" you say, and Sae nods "Wow. You know Spanish better than me" he says, and you look up, surprised "Did I say that right?" you ask hopefully "Absolutely not" he says, and your hopes die

You put the notebook aside, resting your arms on the table with your head above them "I regret this, I never want to hear another word of Spanish again..." you say dejectedly, and Sae seems to be enjoying it more than he should. He puts an arm around your shoulders, leaning in close to your ear "Vaya. Me estaba divirtiendo al ver a mi hermosa novia concentrarse y no entender absolutamente nada, solo porque quería oírme hablar más en espanol" he says, and a slight shiver runs down your spine. You look up, perplexed "What did you say?" you ask, and he shrugs "That you're stupid and you don't even know how to study the basics" he says, and you sigh "Cruel"

✶ translation of the sentences: "Creo que... eres estúpido..." → "I think you're stupid" ; "Vaya. Me estaba divirtiendo al ver a mi hermosa novia concentrarse y no entender absolutamente nada, solo porque quería oírme hablar más en espanol" → "Damn. I was having fun watching my beautiful girlfriend concentrate and understand absolutely nothing, just because she wanted to hear me speak more Spanish"

[leclsrc]

darling audrey, congratulations on 5000 followers! ur witty personality and words of gold have charmed us all <3 considering your celebration, i would like to request a drabble with charles based on the song margaret by lana del rey. there’s just something about “he met margaret on the rooftop, she was wearing white, and he was like, ‘i might be in trouble’” or “when you know, you know” ughhhhh love is so sickeningly wonderful

good as gold – cl16

This is the story of Charles experiencing a rooftop conversation with a stranger. For Charles, this is the story he will tell of how he met the love of his life for the first time.

auds here... much like lana in this song i am messy with the pen, but missed this blog very much, i love you all & genuinely hope you're well mmmwaaahhhh :)

You’re wearing this dress. This long, white, lace-linen thing, too chilly for a London rooftop, too chilly for a London ground floor, too chilly for London, really. It’s the first thing Charles says to you, as a poor excuse for an opener, but you soothe his supposed troubles away with a laugh and a wave of a hand. It’s alright, I’m used to the cold, your lips form cloudily. Worst case scenario, I spill some wine on the dress.

The wine you mention is in a glass wrapped by your left hand, which brings itself upward to your lips, staining them violet for a second before you lick the residue off. You should know, I’m more a white wine kind of girl. He laughs, and every other word he thought would come easy comes so stuck, wrestled out of him. For once it’s not because he’s nervous, definitely not because he’s unsure. In fact he’s never felt surer of himself, and his self-assurance is almost foolish if it wasn’t so resolute in the fact that he’d one day like to slip a band over your blank slate of a ring finger.

Already he feels like it’s too late, he’s missed out on too much time with you. He should’ve known this laugh years ago, felt your skin when he was much younger, known you in an embarrassing phase while he was in his own. His desires feel childish, juvenile, but they feel so real, so much so that he verbalizes them to Lando in a desperate attempt to stave them off at the end of the night.

But that is later and this is now, now you tell him you’re here for work. You’re a something-something at somewhere, too professional for him to repeat back to himself in the fluid way you’re gifted. He asks what else is keeping you in a city like London and he phrases it like London is a shit city, and you joke: “Aside from the fact that it’s basically a first-world city?” He stutters in response, he stutters. “I’m joking. It’s work.”

Work, you say, not a guy, not a girl, work. No ring on your finger. You, like him, are committed to nothing but work. And because you’re two people in your early twenties, the rooftop conversation gradually ebbs in that direction, a foray into the worlds you’ve traversed by yourselves. He shares, ever a man of little words, stories of ex-girlfriends he’d rather not bring up again. He says the usual. He’s thankful, but it’s over.

You too, you sentiment. A while ago. I knew him for years, but we wanted different things. Just wasn’t right, something like that. Your index finger tugs at the plain gold chain resting on your collarbones and slides back and forth. The lights—strung up on poles on the roof and from establishments below—shine on certain angles, illuminate your hair, the beauty mark on your cheekbone, the stain of burgundy lip gloss on the wine glass in your hand. “Maybe in another universe.”

“Do you believe in that?” He asks. All he knows about possible universes is that Marvel and that Oscar-winning A24 film Lewis made half the grid watch and give roses to. The concept is interesting and likely true, but he feels secure thinking this is his only universe. Which, technically, is true, too.

You say kind of. “But that idea gives us too much allowance for mistakes.”

“I know. I guess I believe in it in a…” He’s afraid he sounds stupid, but your eyes are egging him on, genuinely curious, burning bright with a want for him to keep talking. “In a… I feel like I’ve met you before, kind of way.” Like he knows everything he has to know about you and him and it’s been barely an hour.

“I get that.” You pause. “I get that.” Then, with a pretty smile and meek hand over the linen chest of your dress, you excuse yourself to refill wine and make talk with the party host. He lingers, of course, watches the sway of your dress, waits to see if you will turn and smile a funny little just us smile, but of course you don’t. You’re a stranger after all. He turns away to find Lando, and for a second he feels like there are eyes on him, but he keeps walking and shakes it off.

“Marry?” Lando repeats half an hour later, when they’re both tugging their coats on. “You just met her. She got out of a long-term relationship a while ago. And so did you.”

They’re in the foyer of the townhouse, and Lando is pulling open the door now, under the impression that his words successfully permeated Charles’ delusions. He turns and Charles is stationary on the last step, humming to himself.

“Mate,” bogs Lando, eyes dead serious. “How do you even know—”

“I know.” Charles says simply. He never even had to ask himself. He just did. He just does. “I have to run up and do something… don’t wait up.”

[diodellet]

*slides in*

How about 3, 16, 17 and 29 for the fic writer asks?

omg i didnt think id ramble this much (thank u for enabling me ner 🤧💕💕)

3. how you feel about your current WIP

tbh i'm not super confident about my writing any time i come out from from a long long hiatus of not posting anything. also like… i'm not super confident writing other charas aside from jamil since i don't really think ab them as much… (sorry leona-natics* whenever this drabble gets posted, but like fingers crossed the sitch will hopefully be exciting enough)

*i think it might have to do with the fact that i kinda hc leona on the grayspec++have more vv specific hc characterizations i like of him, but ig i do see his appeal (one of m'oomfs is a leona-natic and well ahu her propaganda might've been subconsciously assimilated)

but ahaha i tend to write things that i'm very personally interested in so i'll find a way to have fun with it, i'll be gucci i just get too into my head, it's a vicious cycle as a writer.

16. favorite place to write

uhhh im a very sedentary person, probably a result from the pandemic, and being a thorough homebody even after that

hmm i would say id like a nice ambient public place with coffeeeee my blood my life force Some amount of people engrossed in their own work, but like in the ph, esp in a place populated by a lot of uni students, cafes end up being hella cold (im skin and bones the cold is Evil)++noisy (which i don't see as a big bad thing esp since i like socializing with my friends...at the cost of putting off my own writing oops HAHAHA)

17. talk about your writing and editing process

oh boy. here we go. one thing to note throughout all this: my only consistent practice as a writer is inconsistency. (and ig, if i try hard enough, i can usually put out a passable 200-300 words in one sitting)

sometimes i can outline a fic and take forever chipping away at it

^^(case in point: that sebek x vampire!reader x silver fic... i joked abt waiting until book 7 would drop on EN but it has been Stuck. i wanna write bi-disaster sebek so bad though 🤧🤧)

other times my actual writing veers waaaaay into a diff plotpoint instead of what i have plotted out

^^(there're these 2 now-removed bullet points in wcidfy's outline for ch 3 that went: "do i have the balls to write a fever scene… gaguhan anhirap nito pag walang ob [tl: fuck this is hard (to write) without overblots]" and "i also keep thinking of a scene in the (scarabia) gardens…and lying about bees…weird")

and sometimes i can just shit out 1k-ish words unprompted.

^^though this last example leads to my most rough writing++editing ('ily but leave me tf alone' and 'no id rather pretend'), i only look over for immediate errors, but keep iffy-phrasings and repeated words, but sometimes i still miss incomplete sentences that i jus quickly fix after posting ahahaha.

in terms of my more "polished" writing, i edit as i write (<- i do Not recommend this style. it's very unsustainable if ur planning to do more conventional writing/publishing and it's very easy to get trapped in your writer's block)

and after finishing 80% of it, i try to get a second pair of eyes on it (thanks @jessamine-rose mwaps) because validation of works in progress feels good it also helps to have a trusted outside person look at the work with fresher eyes. also smtimes we get into bouncing ideas back nd forth that we spawn new brainrot lmao like this👇

i like to call my writing a "semi-polished first draft" partly out of self-defense and self-criticism. but really, i think i'd rather have "good enough" writing posted than "my best" because i could spend forever hoarding my wips. i think i'll always have regrets over not fleshing out certain beats/using certain phrasings and references, but i also enjoy looking back on my writing and seeing the incremental, microscopic progress. it makes the process more enjoyable than self-flagellating.

on a personal note, the writing workshop scene can be brutal. with some criticism being needlessly harsh, sure it produced some of my "best" writing but the process was Not Fun. while i get that being able to revise meaningfully is an important thing, i think the endgoal of feedback (from my short exp of betaing for friends) shud always be aimed towards uplifting the writer's aim to create/improving the writer's vision of what they wanna achieve, especially in a craft that is as solitary as writing. wait ill rb a post about making ur shitty pots, very in-line with making art in general

29. how easy is it for you to come up with titles?

very hard. i hate thinking of titles, thats why i yoink lines from songs (who cares if the vibe doesnt fit im adding layers of interpretation or sumn🥴🥴). ACTUALLY wcidfy had like 3 other possible names (it was either *rolls out list* hairtie, nonequivalent exchange, or ben franklin effect* wcidfy was the most bearable one.) *i tried to look up how to distill the psychological phenomenon of someone probably liking u more after u do a small favor for them into 2-3 words, but it had to be a WHITE MAN'S NAME 🤢🤢NAW!!!!

for few other examples:

'say what you mean' was initially titled 'oh how the tables turn'

'roommates? more like roomfoes' was first titled 'pet peeves'

'hypothermia' was first titled 'frigid' but then i thought of paradoxical undressing nd stuff and da pseudo-warmth

i've also moved a bunch of other plot beats from wcidfy's main document into a file called "part 45678 of wcidfy"

as u can see i prioritize making myself laugh wid my wip titles. i wanna put the illusion that my writing's not that serious. unless it is? idk i'm not sure how to describe my writing in terms of its vibes.

(list of fic writer asks, ahaha bug me ab my wips)

[lovesickwiccan]

Decisive bullshit

If you think that this is about you then may it hit your knee.

When you're kicked out of an rpg, your first thought should be how can I fix what I did, not throw your bullshit onto the owners who were nice and was willing to let you in, but instead you want to go and run your damn mouth saying how vile they are and how they talk trash about their members when YOU are doing the same fucking thing. You said their members were not the best. I maybe an asshole, but I'm a funny haha asshole when it comes to things, I've seen shit that haunted me for life. Imagine that staying with you for the rest of your life.

First example of this is when a BULLDOZER buries your loved ones who departed from life.

second, is when you have a Balloon and as soon as you pulled hard enough, your mother gets a phone call saying a friend of the family passed away and you think it was your fault.

third, the person you consider a best friend is on her fucking death bed and you had to watch her dying as family came in to see her.

four your parents get a divorce and you had to choose between your mom and dad. Mom was a drunk mess on your final half of SENIOR YEAR, you live in a house that is about to go into foreclosure and you feel like your somewhere unstable to the point where the last thing on your mind is wanting to go to school, then when you do this, you fuck with your medicine and then your in and out of hospitals because of DEPRESSION.

So, forgive me if I have the dignity of a nice person who is always too nice, giving people chances but realize you, yourself is unhappy when someone tries to steal someone from you and act like she can run and hide her hands. Or your someone who is a massive asshole who values his imaginary cars, or your someone who uses your mental health as a way to make excuses. YES I had those days but I'm not about to use it as an excuse to get out of posting a FUCKING DRABBLE about what my secret was. Like grow up.

Most of us are parents, uncles, aunts, or trying to get on with life when you realize where you are is where you don't want to be. In front of a computer JOBLESS, depressed, hovered over and constantly hearing "Our neighborhood isn't what it used to be." Like geez sorry you got kicked out of a group who is trying to make a positive space.

This isn't High School, or MEAN GIRLS! Besides most of you saying certain groups are Toxic and Vile are the ones that got tired of your shit. Pretty much, the only ones toxic are three morons who are tired, repeating the same phrases and acting like victims. OH, but sorry I'm a victim when a bitch wants to lay down and snort coke on an imaginary person's couch and not introduce herself to other people.... but sure we're not the best members. I think what the group did was get rid of rotten apples and two of you had chances to come back, but obviously you ran to the first person for comfort... congrats your idiots.

-Sincerely yours

HADES!

[bemylord]

↠ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴅʏ ↞

characters: gojo, sukuna, itadori, megumi, nanami, toji x fem!reader.

warnings: smut, aged up, marks/bruises, creampie, daddy kink [toji and nanami], oral [fem!receiving], degrade and praise kinks, grammar errors.

a/c: or s/o gave them scratches on their body. hc + drabble. kento's, toji's, and sukuna's part might be rough. also i may used inappropriate word don't blame me.

ɢᴏᴊᴏ ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ:

would be teasing you in the morning for being too horny to suppress your nails. although, he doesn't hide the fact he adores the little pain when his clothes touch places where you left stripes.

also likes those moments when you're leaving fingernail marks on his thighs or hips whilst sucking his dick. it'd be better spelled if i specify that gojo using your head as a toy for his pleasure.

would praise you for marks you've given him, labeling his muscular body as yours, letting your fingers traveling all over his back to the chest, outlining every muscle.

prefers to do it slow but deep, touching the spongy coil inside you with his every push, feeling your hands on the back as you're trying to take his dick, being capable of not losing your mushy mind at his sharp pushes as how he's overbearingly fucking you.

'giving me all your juices and marks you've gotten for your master' satoru might be playful during the training time, but you've known he likes to talk dirty and be dominant railing you. those marks perfectly suiting on his skin so why not leave them?

despite being overdose with your cum and a facial expression - you opened your mouth releasing ragged whimpers and arching your back, approaching towards gojo's chest in the climax, cumming all over the base - he'd thrust in you more 'till you'd turn into the drooling mess below.

'yes, honey, you're doing good, so good. constricting my dick so good' obscene squelches become louder, as you could feel satoru's released on your stomach. 'you did so well, honey, i'm gonna take good care of you'

ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ ʏᴜᴊɪ:

okay, i think itadori would be the softest boy through all monsters we've got here.

but don't let his innocent face trick you. despite of the fact that most of the time he's a soft bun, he'll make you scream.

ok, make you scream and be asking if he isn't tempestuous.

he'd be disconcerted if you asked him to heal his back. for what? he thinks is a sort of a recall so he could remember what the two of you had been doing in the night and how loud you were while giving him your residue of cum.

he might take some photos of his skin pattern in marks so he could ogle at 'em later, repeating seconds where you were patterning his back.

'take off your shirt, yuji. i'll heal your back'

poor itadori is sitting on the couch totally discouraged as he heard your request. he glanced at you with a bambi look: eyes wide open, as if you said something vulgar. he aimlessly rubbed the back of his head, tossed his head back.

'but i like your marks, baby'

he whined, grabbing your palms in his, forcing you to sit on his lap, wrapping arms around your waist.

'you gave those stripes because you.. you were feeling good, yeah?'

you put your head down at his question but nodded, putting your head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat.

'then i don't need your recovery, baby, let your marks stay until you'll add new ones'

ᴛᴏᴊɪ ꜰᴜꜱʜɪɢᴜʀᴏ:

let people know what sex is. let it be a slogan for your intercourse.

he could fuck you all night due to his long-term capability and would be smug after intercourse as he'd watch the disorder [?] you did on his biceps.

mostly biceps, cause a man knows the main destination of his tongue, masterfully giving you an oral. goddamn that tongue.

he'd let you scratch his back as he'll know that it'd be possibility to show off the mark his love gave him. on other days, you're pulling his hair into your pussy, burying him even more, letting him to destroy you before the fun will start.

his arms full of red stripes. though it wasn't your fault - how can you inhibit yourself while toji is literally eating you like a meal?

'being waiting for my tongue, huh?' he's a teaser - you're at the edge of the bed, baring your dripping pussy to the one he can lick you as you need to whilst teasing and degrading you.

'being waiting to be demolished by me you little whore, don't you?'

you grabbed his strong biceps, dotted them in half-moons then squeeze as toji peeks at you.

'answer me, slut!'

his low voice makes you open widely your legs as not closed to squeeze his head. he's running his tongue on your crotch and labia, teasing you, forcing you to say how reckless and anguished you were without his tongue and fingers.

'yes, daddy, i-i've been waiting f-for you' you sharply breathe, letting out the whimpers, feeling his tongue playing with your swollen clit.

'i'm about to ruin you tonight, are you ready?' he giggled once more, getting into the little game he's been waiting for since he left the house.

ᴍᴇɢᴜᴍɪ ꜰᴜꜱʜɪɢᴜʀᴏ:

it is in their genetic code to make a woman scream but since megumi hasn't got a huge sexual experience as his father does, he'd be tender at first, asking abt your well-being, if he can move, etc..

when he watches at the mirror in the morning, he finds out his back and a few shoulders are drawing by your nails.

he'd be overwhelmed and speechless as he saw a reminder of the night.

'gumi will make up an excuse, sort of: 'i got into the fight with a curse, nothing special'. itadori'd have been asking him if he's okay, how it was but satoru isn't a naive one.

deep inside would be proud of himself that only he could put you on the pleasure, privately enjoying those patterns.

'y/n?' he pronounced your name in a question way, rubbing his shoulder aimlessly, as you glanced at him. you let out a quiet mooing as a response, staring as to how megumi taking off his school uniform.

'would you mind heal me a little?'

you smiled, coming closer to your boyfriend, grabbing a tube of medicine on the way.

'don't think i don't like your.. marks, just-'

'don't apologize, 'gumi, it's kinda chaos on your back' you giggled at your comparison, running with medicine on red stripes. his tensed and muscular body is overwhelming: those abs and pretty strong arms conquering every time you've got an opportunity to ogle.

'tho i love the chaos you made'

ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ ᴋᴇɴᴛᴏ:

i'm certain you'll be scratching his back because nanami is packing - big dick energy, lol.

screaming his name as you've been drawing illegible patterns, mostly on his wide back, so lately he'd smirk at his reflection in the mirror.

those nights when you're trying to fill the lack patterns on his back by drawing lots of geometrical figures or promiscuous tracery.

every move with his tight white shirt at the office makes his stoic face change as he reminisces the night you gave that pleasant pain.

he wants to find half-moons littering his biceps as you were holding 'em while giving creampie on his dick.

if you want it spicy - trail your fingers on his back suddenly, giving nanami little goosebumps to switch his mood.

'darling, you want me to stop?' he unaware question left you desperate as nanami stopped pumping, left a soft kiss on your forehead. 'am i fucking you way too hard?' seldom moment of nanami being tender as he gets used to fuck recklessly 'till you'll be a dripping mess under his cock.

you didn't see fit to answer the question but smack your lips against his, as a silent response named: 'i'm fine, my love, you can move' your wet, deep, and in some way subtle kiss that doesn't fit on the action you've been doing. you trail your nails from the back of his neck to the coccyx, ogling as to how his facial expression changes.

'you want to be used like a slut you are, don't you?'

you couldn't respond, only purr as how nanami suddenly turned on into daddy. feeling how your empty pussy being filled out with a thick kento's cock again as he's making a demolishing [?] pushes.

'get what you want, slut, scratch my back so it'd dotted lately with your nails'

ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ ʀʏᴏᴍᴇɴ:

as for that rough man..

he gives hickeys - you give him patterns on his back.

he'd be exceedingly obsessed after had seen your marks on itadori's body. still, itadori is a vessel for him, so sukuna will be even more self-satisfied. why? a little reminder for the owner who took possession of your body at the night.

once he'll take possession of the body, itadori it'd be or someone else, he won't stop himself as long as his back will be patterns of yours nail on it.

he does literally everything to make you scratch his back, whether it be licking your swollen clit to the way your legs got shaken or fuck you on his lap.

'let the bastard see what matures did it the night' his pace increase as he uttered the phrase that makes the butterflies in your belly thrives off.

his lowly and husky voice intermingled with ragged breathing, little drops of sweat on his hairline as he crushes devastating punches, letting your moans out of your mouth.

you're digging into his skin on the back as he masterfully target into the spongy coil in your stomach, feeling as your orgasm is building up with his every hit. he wants to see his back littering in patterns of your nails, wants to have that sweet but stinging pain in the morning.

's-sukuna, ugh~' you let out a whimper as your cunt constricting creampie on his dick. he chuckled as your hole clenching his thick cock while nails trailing all over back.

//~~//

idk i start always from sukuna and i've got inspiration only on kento's part, that's why nanami and toji might be rough than a king.

[almarantha]

Aurum - A TES Drabble

“You really must take better care of yourself, child.”

Amara’s eyelids shot open at the foreign voice, sending her scrambling to get to her feet. She would forgive herself this moment of impropriety, of weakness. It was a startling thing, being spoken to when you were supposed to be dead. Reaching down, Amara placed a hand over her stomach, searching for a fresh wound that should’ve still been bleeding.

Granted, that wasn’t the only thing that seemed to no longer exist.

There was… nothing around her. No walls. No ceiling. No ground, for that matter. There was a floor beneath her, she could feel it, but actually discerning it was another matter entirely. Her surroundings were but a blank canvas. Filled with anticipation, but nothing had yet been put onto the page. No words had filled the empty void of white. No paint had given color, given life, to the environment.

“Yes, but think of the potential.” The voice mused once more, as if reading her mind.

Amara spun her head around so fast that she feared she might have snapped it. Could she even? She was already dead, right? As is, her lengthy wine-colored hair had likely slapped the owner of the voice in the face. To her left stood an Imperial man, hands calmly folded behind his back. He had a handsome look about him. Square, noble features and umber-hued hair cascaded down his neck. It was a face that could have belonged to a warrior, if not for how scholarly his posture was and how soft he wore his expression. The man smiled softly and tilted his head in acknowledgement, seemingly content to wait for her to measure him up.

His attire was familiar, although Amara couldn’t quite place where she’d seen it before. It was something an Imperial noble would wear, fittingly enough; that much was certain. Long indigo robes were rimmed with white, spotted fur. The robes covered an ornate scarlet doublet decorated with intricate gold patterns. On the whole, it looked inordinately expensive, but nothing more so than the jeweled necklace that the man was wearing. A ruby the size of her fist laid set in a gold casing, while several other, smaller, jewels of different colors rimmed the outside of the amulet.

The ensemble was gorgeous. Any Imperial worth anything would kill to be seen in such an outfit.

And yet it seemed horribly ill-fitting on such a man. Just by looking at him, Amara got the sense that he would have been far more comfortable in much simpler robes. He had that sort of priestly disposition about him. Yes, she could imagine him in a monk’s garb.

“…Who are you? Where am I?” Amara asked slowly, having become more or less acquainted with her surroundings. As much as a Dunmer in a completely foreign environment could, anyway.

The man pursed his lips, as if mulling over what sort of answer he should give. “Those are questions that won’t serve you well here. It would be more apt to ask when.”

It only now occurred to Amara that the man had never once opened his eyes to look at her. He faced her direction and seemed to know where she was, but those eyelids stayed shut. Was the Imperial blind? Amara furrowed her eyebrows at the roundabout answer. Riddles. She hated riddles. Especially riddles coming from mysterious strangers.

“When are we then?” She asked, her tone far more demanding than it used to be. Even a few years ago, that would have been unthinkable. But she’d grown up a lot these past few years. One of the first lessons she’d learned was to not take shit from people if you wanted any modicum of respect.

“Hmm…” The man hummed, contemplating her question. “The Middle Dawn, perhaps? Or maybe the Oblivion Crisis…” He lifted a hand to his chin, gazing upwards at what should be the sky. As it was though, he was staring at nothing. Or, technically, the back of his eyelids. “Ah, no. This is the Fourth Era. The Second Great War, I believe you call it. This is the fifteenth year of the conflict.”

Amara’s eye twitched. “…I knew that already.” She growled out in the most respectful way possible.

“So you did.” The stranger turned his attention, such as it was, back towards the Dunmer. “My apologies for the confusion. Such things come naturally to me, but precision can be difficult. What’s the phrase…? Ah, yes, like a needle in a haystack.” His smile never dimmed, but nor did it grow in intensity. Their entire encounter was marked by that soft, serene smile on his face. It made the stranger give off the impression of peace.

Or maybe he was just insane from being trapped in this strange void? That boded well for her.

Sighing, Amara pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her crimson eyes, attempting to compose herself. That was another lesson. Stay composed. Stay above it all. Never let others know they’re getting to you.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” The stranger’s voice came unbidden, surprising Amara out of her frustrations.

She blinked. The last thing she remembered…

“I was… someplace… where was I…?” It was hard to focus in this place, but she needed to remember… “There were gears… Not the Dwemer kind, not nearly so ancient, but modeled after them.” A stoic face flashed through her mind, violet braids matted with oil. “Zamana was excited. Someone advancing her people’s technology… She wanted to see it. So we went home-“

Wait. Was it her home? She’d visited Mournhold a handful of times, but had never lived there-

Amara snapped her fingers. “Right! The Clockwork City! Almalexia told me she knew a way in and-“

For the third time in a row, Amara cut herself off as a realization hit her. However, this one was far more frantic. It was quiet. Far too quiet. It had been quiet ever since she had arrived at… wherever this was. Amara couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to realize it! There was no prideful voice whispering in her ear. No voice giving out unwanted comments and opinions at every opportunity. No analysis of what was going on, no advice on how to handle this situation.

Almalexia was gone.

“Where is she?!” Amara cried out, aggressively grabbing the stranger’s robes and yanking him forward. “What did you do with her?!” Fury and terror in equal measures danced in her crimson eyes, tinged by the light of budding madness.

Best to head this off at the pass, the man thought.

The stranger carefully placed his hands on top of Amara’s own, his expression serious but not unkind.

Was he pitying her? How dare-!

However, her thought process was cut off as the stranger finally opened his eyes. Amara slumped forward, falling to her knees in abject awe.

Staring down at her were the slitted pupils of a reptile, encompassed by the purest gold that Amara had ever laid eyes on. They were ancient orbs, brimming with power and eternity.

How foolish was she to not see the signs…?

Amara fundamentally knew who she was speaking to now.

“I have done nothing with she who once called herself Ayem.” Akatosh intoned. The smile he had been handsomely wearing was gone, but neither did the dragon god of time look all too upset. “Yet, neither is she gone.”

Amara clutched at her chest, head bowed so the man, the god, before her couldn’t see the tears freely flowing down her face. Her frame shuddered as she breathed deeply. It was as if she was in the midst of a mighty battle, and yet the dragon’s words brought such relief to her! Almalexia wasn’t gone!

But then… where was she…?

Once more, the dragon god answered those thoughts on the surface of her mind. “What do you remember, child?” He repeated the question.

Again with this? What did that have to do with anything…? But it seemed she wouldn’t get anything else out of time itself, so she valiantly wracked her mind for the details. A feat not made easier by her admittedly volatile emotional state… Something that had been becoming more and more common recently.

“We were…” Amara’s voice cracked and shut stopped in her tracks, clearing her throat before continuing. “We were exploring. We found the main chamber. We found… we found the artificial heart. We… I… Oh, ancestors…” Her hand clasped over her mouth.

She’d died.

Rationally, she knew that. She’d known that since awakening in this place. But it was another thing entirely to replay the events in her mind, to hear the grinding gears of the automatons, to remember the cries of Zamana, the blade through her chest…

Daring to look up, she found the dragon god gazing… almost mournfully down at her. All he did was give her a slight nod, confirming her worst suspicions. She really was dead, huh? Amara had never been sure what fate awaited her once her mortal life was done. There wasn’t exactly an Ancestral Tomb waiting for her, and she doubted that House Redoran would look too kindly on allowing her one anyway… She’d burned a lot of bridges, making the roll of the dice and gambling that she would succeed in forging her grandfather’s empire anew… But it seemed that it was not meant to be. She had died too soon.

That still begged the question, however… What was to be her fate? Was this… “Is this the Dreamsleeve?” Amara asked the god.

Akatosh glanced around, observing the surroundings… or lack thereof. “No, I’m afraid not. This is a dream of sorts, but no, this is not the realm of rebirth. Your ultimate fate remains unknown, and it is not my place to speculate on matters of life and death. That is Arkay’s domain, not mine.”

Her ultimate fate…?

“Wait, what do you mean? Am I not dead? Should my soul not be bound for Aetherius or Oblivion?” Amara furrowed her eyebrows, squinting in blatant confusion. “You mention Arkay. I do not worship you Aedra, yet if one were to handle my death, it would be him. I am educated on that much. Yet here you stand, the dragon god of time… Why?”

Akatosh scratched at his clean-shaven chin. On anyone else, it would have looked almost sheepish, but surely the high and mighty Aedra had nothing to be embarrassed about, right?

Why he even had a chin to scratch was another question entirely. The humans depicted him as a dragon. The mer depicted him as a great golden eagle. Was this supposed to be a form she would be comfortable with? An avatar of his will? Amara had so many questions, but frankly, that was the least of them. So, she did not voice it, even though it was abundantly clear that Akatosh could read her mind.

“You have my blood.” The dragon god replied simply.

Amara blinked. What?

“You have my blood.” Akatosh repeated. “Your grandfather was dragonborn, surely you know this. The most famous dragonborn in Tamriel’s long history. The title is named as such for a reason. He was not mine in body, but in spirit… All dragonborn are my children. So in a way, I suppose that makes you my grandchild of sorts. Or great-grandchild. I care little for mortal semantics, however.”

She… okay, that was… wow, a lot to process. The metaphysics of it all… Yes, she had known that all of this was the official Imperial line, but… Well, she’d never exactly put much stock in it.

Akatosh glanced down at her and smiled that damnably soft smile once more, now looking almost, well… grandfatherly. Amara wasn’t convinced, however. Picking herself up off of the ground, she rubbed the dried tears away from her face. To say that she was wary was an understatement.

“And do you make a habit out of conversing with the descendants of dragonborn?” Amara asked dryly. She doubted that he even talked to actual dragonborn all that much, if at all.

The dragon-man shrugged, making the motion look far more dignified than it had any right to be. “Admittedly? No.”

“Then why me?” Amara shot back immediately. “Why are you here? In this… this dream, whatever this is?”

“You are mer.” Akatosh spoke softly. “A Dunmer who once worshipped the mortals who propped themselves up as gods. A Dunmer who does not worship the Three Good Daedra like the rest of your kind. A Dunmer who is unsure where she stands among Aedra and Daedra, and so devotes herself to worldly pursuits instead.”

The dragon god trailed off, looking down at the amulet which laid flat against his chest. Clutching it in his tanned and worn hands, Akatosh lifted it off of his neck and lifted it up so that it was level with his golden gaze.

“Despite all of that,” he continued, “you chose to follow not the path of any of your mer ancestors, noble and just and clever that they were, and instead chose the most difficult path of all. The path of your grandfather. You, Amara Ra’athim, a Dunmer of Resdayn, would restore the Septim Empire. A Cyrodiilic Empire. A human empire. Did you think that you wouldn’t catch our attention?”

Amara had remained silent as the avatar of Akatosh explained himself. And when he phrased it like that…

“People need help. Someone has to do something.” She whispered quietly, mostly to herself. She looked into those ageless eyes across from her ever so briefly, which beckoned her to continue. “Ever since I was a kid… Probably before that… Everything has been going to shit around me. You called me a Dunmer of Resdayn, of Morrowind, but I’m not. My father imparted as much of our culture onto me as he could, but I grew up in Falkreath. I grew up in Skyrim, surrounded by Nords. I’m an outlander, and I worked so hard for so long to erase that stain from myself… But it’ll always be true. It’s just who I am. A Dunmer who grew up outside the homeland, because my father fled after the Red Year.”

Amara sighed, only now realizing how exhausted she felt. She supposed she had the right. She was dead, after all.

“The Great War, the Skyrim Civil War, the return of the dragons, the Interregnum, the Second Argonian Invasion, the Second Great War… It feels like we’re all trapped in a loop of pain and suffering. Everyone everywhere is hurting. And things didn’t used to be that way; dad was always fond of telling me. Father was never fond of the empire that his own father had established, but he was never afraid to admit… Things were just better when the Septims ruled the Empire. When all of Tamriel was more or less at peace. Sure, things weren’t perfect, but the world wasn’t almost ending every few years… There weren’t constant wars with… so much dead.

“I was a healer during the first Great War, you know that right?” Amara asked rhetorically. “Of course you know that. You’re the dragon god of time. But I saw… I saw so much death. So many died in my care, I couldn’t save them…” Her expression became unfocused, her crimson eyes haunted by memories best left buried. “I did my best, I really did. And it was more… it was more than my people as a whole did. They were just content to sit idly by and let others suffer. I can’t- I couldn’t… I could help. I could help so I had a responsibility to do so!”

Her fists clenched tightly and a fire roared in her stomach, determination rising up in her throat until she felt the urge to roar. For the first time, she met the dragon god’s gaze and kept at it, refusing to let the mere glance of a god bend her into submission.

“I am the granddaughter of Tiber Septim. I am the Anticipation of Almalexia, with all of her wisdom and training at my side. I had the ability and the means to help Tamriel, so I decided to do it. And if you tell me the way out of here, I will continue to do it. I don’t care if I’m dead, someone has to do something!”

Amara was breathing heavily as she finished her speech. In a lot of ways, it felt like justifying it to herself more than to the dragon god. How often had she questioned herself? How often had she wondered if she was just letting Almalexia convince her to do things? Well, Almalexia wasn’t here right now. This was all her.

Akatosh remained silent for a long moment more, before finally nodding in satisfaction. He held the amulet out to Amara, letting it dangle off of his fingers. “Did you know…” He rumbled, sounding more like a dragon by the moment. Ancient and all powerful. “That it used to be that whenever an emperor was chosen, they had to hold this amulet and light the dragonfires? It was a symbol of my everlasting covenant with man, that so long as a dragonborn sat on the Ruby Throne, the gates of Oblivion would be shut.” He paused. “It was more than just a symbol, naturally. Since St. Alessia, no one could light the dragonfires without my approval or consent. It is I who judged each emperor worthy. If they aren’t… they don’t tend to last very long.”

The amulet dangling off of his fingers glistened, twirling slowly as the dragon god told his story.

“No one has worn this amulet or lit the dragonfires since the Oblivion Crisis. The amulet was destroyed. The last emperor of the Septim Dynasty, a righteous young man named Martin, sacrificed himself to seal the gates of Oblivion shut forever. The dragonfires no longer have any purpose, and it will remain that way. However… perhaps I have torn my gaze from the empire I claim to patron for too long. Perhaps it is time for the Amulet of Kings to be worn once more, as a symbol of my divine providence.”

Reaching forward, Akatosh lifted the amulet over Amara’s head and settled it on her shoulders. The giant ruby thrummed against her chest, and Amara couldn’t help but wonder if this is what the legendary Heart of Lorkhan felt like?

“I…” She tried to speak, but no words came out. Instead, Amara dropped to her knees, but in a far more orderly and dignified manner than her previous descent. She knelt before Akatosh, head bowed as if she were speaking to her liege lord. “I promise that I won’t let you down.”

“I very much suspect that you won’t.” Akatosh intoned his voice more of a growl than it ever was, yet somehow felt amused. Like he was chuckling to himself. “From this moment on, you are dragonborn much in the same way St. Alessia herself once was. The covenant is reborn. Now, my child, look up.”

Amara did as she was commanded, yet could not help her mouth dropping out from under her. For before her was no man. The mighty golden dragon of time stretched out before her, infinite in all of his glory. She saw him as he truly was, not merely stretched out before her in this plane, but across all of time as well. It was enough to render her blind. Or mad. Or dead. The fact that she was only one out of those three things was likely due to the grace of Akatosh himself… And the fact that she was already dead.

“At this point, I would normally send you off. However, there is… one more thing to attend to.” The dragon forced out. His voice was far deeper than it had once been. The voice before had felt borrowed, but this… This was the voice of time echoing throughout her very being. “Tell me, child, what do you remember?”

This again?

“I died.” Wasn’t that all there was to it?

“And, pray tell, how did you die?”

“I was run through by a blade.” Amara responded automatically. But that couldn’t be what he wanted to hear. The memory was fuzzy, there had to be more to it… Who had wielded the blade? Some sort of…

Oh.

“The Clockwork City, it was being run by… some sort of ghost. Except it wasn’t a ghost. I don’t know how to explain it, but… Sotha Sil, one of the Old Tribunal, was in the city itself. And he wanted revenge against Almalexia because she had killed his body centuries ago. Zamana and I fought through his machines… We reached the chamber where his mind was being held. He had made some sort of… dwarven metal body for himself. We fought. I killed the body, but the mind still persisted, we couldn’t kill it. Then… then he had reinforcements…”

She clutched her head, trying to remember.

“I remember Almalexia screaming… She was so angry… And so terrified. I could feel it all inside me. Another Dunmer walked into the room. Seht’s reinforcements. It was… It was the Neravarine.” Amara glanced up helplessly at Akatosh. “…The Neravarine killed me.”

The infinite dragon nodded. “And in so doing, completed the final piece of the puzzle. You must understand, my child… Amara Ra’athim is dead. She cannot come back.”

Amara slumped, her assumption shattered. Akatosh had chosen her, but she could not return. Was all of this for nothing?

But, naturally, the dragon could read her thoughts. “You misunderstand, child. Amara Ra’athim is dead. But you are not Amara Ra’athim.”

…What?

Her disbelief must have shown on her face, because Akatosh continued. “Almalexia did not have your best interests in mind, child. Ever since she became attached to your soul those many years ago, she has lived in your shadow. Feeding off of you. Whispering in your ear. Plotting. It was her intention that you were to be her avenue to resurrection. So she influenced you to the best of her ability. She trained you. Molded you. Guided you. You, who was raised to worship her since you could walk, never thought to question it until it was far too late. She made you like her. She led you into the Clockwork City on purpose, having a good idea of what was down there. She needed you to follow the beats of her life so that you would understand her, and in that understanding…”

“She wanted me to mantle her…” Amara whispered.

Akatosh nodded. “Indeed. You asked me earlier if Almalexia is gone and where she went? Nowhere. She has gone nowhere and is not, in fact, gone. You are Almalexia. Almalexia is you.”

“I did it?” The woman formerly known as Amara asked, utterly dumbfounded. “I mantled Almalexia? But… I don’t feel like her. I still remember being me.”

“Have you? Do you not feel like her? To mantle her, you had to become so much like her that there ceased to be a functioning difference between the two of you. That the Aurbis itself could not tell the two of you apart. Do you not know things that you hadn’t before? Do you not have memories that Amara Ra’athim never experienced? You are ALM. But there is a caveat to that.”

“…Well what’s one more earth shattering realization, right?” She quipped, not knowing how else to cope by this point.

To his infinite credit, Akatosh took it in good humor, chuckling along with her. “The mantling did not occur as Almalexia had planned. She forgot to factor in one, crucial element…” He let the moment drag out. Imagine that, a god with a sense of dramatic timing. Then again, he was the god of time…

“The mortal element. For all that she spent millennia as a god and being worshipped as one. Almalexia forgot what it was like to be mortal. It drove her mad before her death, but when she had no choice but to endure it while her spirit was stuck to you… Almalexia went out of her way to influence you, however what she failed to realize was that you were influencing her in turn. Not intentionally, mind you, just simply by you being there. The bond the two of you shared was intimate by any metric. To put it in mortal terms… You rubbed off on her. She became more like you as you became more like her.”

“So we…” ALM began, trying to wrap her head around the idea. Former divine or not, it made her mind spin.

“Mantled each other.” Akatosh confirmed. “You are one.”

ALM couldn’t help but note that he looked insufferably smug about that. But then again, he would. The Tribunal had never had the best relationship with the Aedra. She lifted her hand to rub her temple in an attempt to alleviate the budding headache, but she noticed something.

“…My hand is gold.” ALM noted dully. Because of course it was. Almalexia’s skin had been gold, the last Chimer in existence, and now her skin was gold too. Because she was her. And yet was Amara too. By the Ancestors, she was going to need a mirror later.

“The veil is lifted.” Akatosh rumbled. “You see yourself for what you truly are now. More than a mortal, less than a god. Somewhere in the middle. A soul retroactively made dragonborn and a soul that still held a spark of the divinity it carried for millennia. The two together… It is not unlike the ascension of Talos, although perhaps not as grand. Which is for the best. I require you on Nirn for the time being.”

“Right…” ALM muttered. “I need… to lie down. And I can’t very well do that here. Do you know the way out of here?”

“Indeed. Our time here grows short as is. I have spoken all that has need to be said, and your Dwemer companion will require your assistance if she is to survive the night. Although, I must warn you… The method of return will not be pleasant.”

“Whatever you have to do…” ALM sighed one last time, before giving the dragon god a soft smile to match the one he once wore. “And for what it’s worth… Thank you. This all… It really means a lot.”

Akatosh nodded, rumbling in confirmation. “You are worthy. Never forget that, even in your darkest days.”

Then, without any warning or pretense, Akatosh opened his maw and swallowed her whole.

Because being eaten by the dragon god of time in order to return to the land of the living just seemed logical after the day she’d had, she thought as she slid down the divine gullet. Hmm. She was going to need a new name, wasn’t she? Amara and Almalexia were dead, yet lived. They were one.

Almarantha sounded pretty good.

[dansiere]

random asks drabbles./ @rosiqe​​​​​​​ sent: "Think of it as a... a Pas de Basque, maybe," the gem suggested, wooden replica of own saber resting atop her shoulder — during their SWORD-FIGHT PRACTICE, one had noticed the other was a tad stagnant, might be because of blade's weight or the fact that Pearl was out of her element ; using terms relating to the other's interest should work in their favour when trying to apply footwork to a new technique. "Just without the arms flailing around, and with a blade in your hand."

✩⋆ .PAS DE BASQUE / WHY, SHE KNEW SUCH A TECHNICAL TERM TOO WELL; a way to describe something that otherwise knew no name: in the end, it was but a phrase. Something ringing hollow at first & yet considered familiar all the same. -- form straightening upon concept’s very mention / had Rose ever asked her to dance? Perform, linking steps together to some complex choreography? Had she ever truly danced? Recalling nought but errands & standing still; poised, feet frozen in first position since the day of own emergence. -- sinking back into a stance now, if only to cover the blatant tremble in dominant hand. Ambidextrous first & foremost, weaponry clutched with no true preference; switching hand in-between mandatory breaks the second limbs started to ache. 

     Indeed, yielding to new impressions every day;       the sting in every sinew only one of numerous things she now experienced.

     Alas, alas was it not way more OVERWHELMING than a mere experience? The full intensity of emotions she could not name, of impressions hardly categorizable. && now haunted by a certain soreness that made the simplest motion far too unbearable. Rendering her clumsy, devoid of elegance up to the point where she TRIPPED & fell more often than once; shame & embarrassment seething in the pit of her stomach; yearning for some justification / to explain short-comings & inadequacy: blade’s weight, the lack of refined movement, having to pay attention to numerous things at once. -- posture, speech, inner voice clamouring on & on & on [IGNORE it] / meeting her gaze without wanting so desperately to disappear. Imaging own shattering with every failed attempt / or worse: rejuvenation, losing what SHE [they] had built; words & dreams & desires, all nestling, blooming within an open mind; IMAGINE IT. -- never had it mattered in the past; burdened by apathy, by a numbness hooked into her every muscle; tainting where her heart had now found a place to flourish. To think she could lose it all again; back to being white & dull, MUTE & BLIND. How it sickened her, how it tormented her. -- she wants & wants & wants: this glimpse of autonomy, this speck of something more. 

      "I -- I can do that.” my diamond. Bite your tongue; never, never, NEVER AGAIN. FOCUS! Adapt. -- integrate dance / most logical choice, nay? To direct one’s mind towards something familiar. Focusing not on the very weapon clutched in shaking grip but rather the movements performed. -- ingrained in every pearl’s mind; an ability mastered upon emergence. To DANCE meant to follow old conditioning; to DANCE meant to appease whatever squalling voice wanted / begging for her to yield to the very rules & regulations once hammered into her every thought / to ditch this act, face REALITY [they will get you & they will force you to relapse. Fix your flaws & malfunctions, crush you under their heel; pathetic thing] -- How to WEAPONIZE what had once chained her down? Imprisoned the mind, subdued the very pulchritude found in free will? -- oh, how could she hope to protect / to aid / to be of use if body already faltered; if she could not keep up? THEY DREAMT OF REVOLUTION: say, who would shield dear other in times of need / some lie pressed through smiling teeth; pushing oneself continuously to make it happen / do it for her. -- To DANCE with fingers clutching sword’s grip. 

     There is something dawning in her chest; fiercest sentiment / flaring up; it had no name, no description other than intensity; a drive to be better, to rise to the occasion. -- call it resolve; setting shoulders straight & expressions firm.

      Cue a nod; adamant, jaw set. Feet shift position; from second to fourth, hands kept low, raging against what mind dictated. Remember: without the arms flailing about; to keep fingers wrapped around sabre’s hilt. To merely move its weight & rely on momentum alone; coordinating footwork by following inner instructions [can you do that?].-- there it is again; a drive, an urge; burgeoning akin to some wayward flower; grip tensing as one takes a simple step back in calculation. Bouncing on the very heel, nervous / anxious GO -- ! Position changed ever so abruptly, in a leap, leap, engage. -- sword dragged along, & brought up in some crooked crescent cut. She felt blades collide, other taking a brisk step back to negate the impact. Again, weight shifts; again position changes. Leap, leap, engage! It hurt; every clash of wooden make-shift weaponry sending some harsh tremor through delicate limbs. -- continue! Do you see other’s smile? That widening grin? The glint in her very eyes? -- CONTINUE. Leap, leap, engage; go quicker. Move faster; switch your hand. Sword now held in her left, prior movements repeated, soon finding fluidity where there had been none. Adding another step, another twirl; rapid dance, expanding, altering. -- coercing Rose to adjust mid-spar; to parry, to counter. Repeating base combination, altering it by adding whatever instinct mumbled / whispered / expected. -- having blades clash by relying on momentum flow alone. Again & again & again, ‘till wood would splinter & palms ache; ‘till knees buckled under the strain, ‘til sun sank & moon rose. -- over again.

     -- they collapse with a laugh; broken weapons on the ground, sides stinging whilst wrestling for breath, pulse hammering in her ears / a thunderous cacophony. Cue a wince; cue some half-gasp / half-sob, the very soreness felt severe enough to have tears form in the corners of her eyes / stars, how her body screamed; for a pause, for her to stop. -- breathless, exhaustion clutching her very neck / digging nails deep into her skin; prickling, a tingle felt in every finger. -- ocean blue darting aside to find hands reddened & scrapped; throbbing under incessant abuse. --  praise utter exertion, mind delirious now that whatever had pushed her onwards had abated as briskly as it had come rushing in. -- incapable of moving, slumped against other’s side. -- yet oddly AWAKE, mind running rampant with wild imaginings.

     this feeling, this lingering sense of accomplishment /      intoxicating, having left a mark on wired up mind;      call it freedom, call it yours.

[jasinned]

Finding The Antichrist

((A drabble thing about Jason finding Alice’s church!

((TW for death, blood, and just some gross stuff in general

((i deleted it the first time bcos i was Afraid it was too much so here i am posting it again so no need to reread it if you already have read it sdfggsdfsfd

The sun began to set as Jason did his nightly walk into the forest. He had his backpack swung over his back that had all of his essentials. His knife, cult book, and bandages being those essentials.

He was taking a bit of a different path than he usually did in an attempt to find more of a variety of animals to sacrifice. He was hoping for a deer, as he felt like he needed to sacrifice something bigger than rabbits and raccoons.

The man stayed on the path and observed his surroundings as he did. Pine trees lined each side of the path, along with bushes and various wild flowers that haven’t been picked by children yet. The blonde kicked a pebble as he walked until he noticed something pretty peculiar.

The path ended as the trees appeared less and less, thinning out as an opening came into his line of sight. With a grunt, Jason trailed onto the end of the path.

The dirt path came to a stop and was replaced by concrete. He looked around to see a tiny, white church in front of him. The church door was open.

He cocked his head a little. It wasn’t Sunday…Was it? He pulled out his phone to check the date and- he was right. It wasn’t Sunday. He put his phone back into his front pocket as he kept walking forward.

As soon as he took a step forward, that’s when it clicked. Was this the church of that bastard pastor lady that kidnapped Alyssa. He stopped in his tracks and slowly pulled off his bag and placed it on the ground.

The man got onto one knee as he opened up the bag and pulled out his trusty knife. He closed up the bag and threw it back over his shoulders before he stood back up.

He clutched his knife at his side and took a deep breath. Did he want to do this? Maybe not. But if he didn’t, it would bother him for a long ass time. Jason continued to walk towards the church, his heels crunching against the pebbles that resided on the sidewalk.

–

Jason approached the church door and walked through it. The church was…eerily empty. It didn’t seem like anything had been touched in a while. The man pulled out his phone an turned on the flashlight as he walked through the dark church.

His feet caused the floor boards to creak from under him. His initial reaction was to jump and quickly turn around. An exhale of relief escaped him as he saw nothing behind him. However, when he turned around, he saw the closed door that said ‘office’.

The man gripped onto his knife’s handle as his feet slowly walked over towards the closed door. The closer he got to it, the more something smelled rancid. The blonde gagged to himself. This….wasn’t the first time he’s smelled this. He stopped before he opened the door, and took a moment to think.

There was for sure a dead body on the other side of this door. He knew that there was. But he didn’t know if it was that pastor or not. It was…for sure someone, though.

The man attempted to mentally prepare himself. He’s…seen dead bodies before. He’s killedpeople. He doesn’t know why he’s having such an issue with doing so.

He adjusted his shirt to cover his nose and mouth before he used his hand with his knife to open the door.

He still wasn’t prepared for whatever he was about to see.

With a gag, Jason looked around the room. It was a fucking mess. Papers were everywhere, the rug on the floor was out of place, the curtains were crooked, everything on the office desk was messy, and the office chair was facing away from the doorway.

The blonde hesitantly approached the desk. The closer he got to it, the stronger the horrid scent was. Jason jumped as he accidentally stepped in glass of a broken tea cup that was on the floor. His boot stuck onto the ground before he could pull it up. Gross.

His eyes glanced onto the desk. The first thing he saw was a familiar necklace. The rock attached to it was purple with splotches of black and gray. It was Alyssa’s necklace.

The necklace resided on an open bible, which was weird. Of course, he didn’t question it. That wasn’t the weirdest thing in the room. Hell, he was pretty certain that there was a body in that office chair. Jason’s hand shakily reached over to the necklace as he picked it up. He stuck it in his pocket before he noticed something highlighted in the bible.

Curious, Jason pushed up his glasses and read what was highlighted on the page. Maybe it would help him unravel things a little more.

I will fill your mountains with the dead. Your hills, your valleys, and your streams will be filled with people slaughtered by the sword. I will make you desolate forever. Your cities will never be rebuilt. Then you will know that I am God.

Jason stared at the bible, his stomach dropping. Well fuck! That fucking didn’t help this situation at all! And what was fucking worse was that he was going to have to turn around that goddamn chair and see a fucking dead body!

Jason’s hands trembled as he looked at the back of the chair.

Did he…really want to turn it around?

The bible verse had…seemed to burn its way into his brain. Why was it so violent? Wasn’t Christianity supposed to be hopeful? What the fuck? Did the pastor bitch do it or someone else?

Jason found himself to be…very hesitant to turn the chair around. He stared down at the desk.

It’s just another dead body.

It’s just another dead body.

It’s just another dead body.

The man repeated that phrase in his head as he braced himself and turned around the office chair.

Jason felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand as he froze in place. He felt like his heart was beating out of his chest, like it could burst out at any second. His body soon felt heavy. Everything felt like a dream. He felt…so disconnected from everything as he looked at the woman’s body in front of him.

Her head rested on her shoulder, a blank expression resting on her blotchy face. Her eyes were glazed over, any personality that she had previously completely gone. Dried blood ran down her mouth and chin, which lead Jason’s eyes to her neck. Oh. Oh god.

Jason felt like he couldn’t move, but at the same time he wanted to run. The blonde stood frozen, not capable of moving his legs. He didn’t feel like he could control them. Everything felt so…disorienting.

Jason…didn’t remember much after that. All he knew was that he stared for a few minutes longer and before he knew it, he was back outside.

He stared blankly at the ground below him, completely zoned out.

Jason couldn’t even…think straight. He couldn’t think straight to the point where he just…walked back towards camp.

He wasn’t going to alert the police, they’ll find her on their own.

Jason…thought he could handle a dead body. He thought that he wouldn’t freak out like this. He thought that he would be fine. He’s killed so many. He’s sacrificed so many. Why isn’t his mind…functioning?

Sure he hasn’t killed in a few years but…he still didn’t know what was going on with himself.

Jason remained silent the rest of the way back to camp, the image of the body and the verse burned into his brain.

Fuck everything, honestly.

[conundrums-and-cupcakes]

Drabble: I Am Not the Nautolan You’re Looking For

Verse: ;When is a Sword? - Star Wars verse

Summary: Order 66 survivor Eddie Nigma finds himself in a tight situation and has to rely on an ancient ability to escape.

"I am not the Nautolan you're looking for."

It was a simple phrase, but it had been incredible difficult for Nigma to say. The wording required a casual annunciation, but an incredible amount of concentration.

He remembered back in the Temple days when they'd practiced this. They'd been studying Force Persuasion for weeks, but hadn't done any practical application yet. So it was quite a surprise when they returned from morning meditation to find the setup in the training room.

They'd trained with the Instructor Troopers before. It was an affectionate nickname - most of them were defective clones who were unable to serve the Republic in a regular capacity, but aided in training younglings, and in more remote parts of the galaxy were sent as envoys of the Republic to aid in teaching military strategy to planets at the mercy of the Seperatists. It was always enjoyable to train with them, more often than not they were very eager to strap on the armor and engage in a little mock warfare - and it was much more fun than spending the day pouring over a bunch of old textbooks.

Master Kenobi had presided over the lesson, guiding them in their movements, a wave of the hand to temporarily distract the eye, and a calm demeanor, but on the inside visualizing exactly what you wanted from the subject. The assignment itself was simple, to persuade an Instructor Trooper to let them out of the room, despite them being ordered by Kenobi not to allow such a thing.

A few students got it right first time; some students tried all afternoon but couldn't make it work for them. Nigma was fortunate in that it only took three tries; both times he failed, he went to the back of the line and tried to focus on Kenobi's instructions. Each time, there was a moment of agonizing silence between his saying of the command and the Troopers' response, having to hold himself together mentally AND facially even if it felt like it had failed.

On the third try, the Trooper's eyes glazed over, and he stood aside, allowing Nigma to leave the room.

In the years since that fateful day, escaping the Temple through the secret underground tunnel while dodging blaster shots from the Instructors they had once laughed and roughhoused alongside, Nigma had used the ability sparringly, only when he needed to get out of an impossible situation - one time he had eschewed it in favor of fighting his way out, getting back to his ship with two blaster wounds and a large gash in a major tentacle. All things considered, he had felt less foolish than had he used the power that could bring him the wrong kind of attention.

But this was an emergency.

An Imperial agent had found him - not too unusual, they often sought him out for information - and was asking certain questions. She didn't seem to know anything about Eddie's true nature, but her questions were too specific, asking about his origins, why he was straying so far from the Nautolan homeworld, where he had been during the rise of the Galactic Empire. Clearly, whoever was after him was more interested in his past than any crimes he had committed in the present.

As he had spoken the phrase, the Imperial agent had looked at him strangely, seemingly confused as to why he was giving her such a command. Seconds past, but they might as well have been hours - Eddie found himself trying to pick up any microexpressions, and wondered if it was too late to whip out his blaster...or his other weapon...and make a run for it.

"You aren't the Nautolan I'm looking for," the Agent finally spoke, her tone monotonous and her demeanor hazy

Eddie had to resist the urge to smile, or to breath a sigh of relief - it wasn't over yet. Fortunately, once a subject was ensnared in the mind trick, they were significantly easier to manipulate.

"I can go about my business," Eddie spoke again in the hypnotic tone, remembering one of the many stock phrases that Master Kenobi had taught him

"You can go about your business..." the Agent repeated, for a moment looking confused at why she had said such a thing, but not persuing the thought

"You're sorry to have bothered me," Eddie smirked

"I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Oh, think nothing of it," Eddie dropped the tone and concentration, stepping away from the table where they had been speaking, "Have a pleasant solar cycle."

There was a strong temptation to add 'you want to pay the bill' to his series of commands, but from what he knew of the Galactic Empire, one of their agents picking up a check for their suspect was as much grounds for suspicion as if Eddie had whipped out his lightsaber and carved the hyperspace vectors of Ahch-To on the adjacent wall.

[davantagedenuit]

3x13

Obvs not a drabble (but each segment is 175 words long).

Funerals are when one is buried in the hearts of those that know them.

Will Graham has four of them.

--

1. The first happens in a Baltimore hospital. Jack Crawford finds Molly Graham’s room. Her shoulder is still in a sling, and her son sleeps on the couch. The news is playing on mute. Molly’s eyes are somewhat puffy and she taps the TV remote on her thigh silently.

Jack’s coat still smells of the emergency flares and the spilled gas from the crash site. He takes a seat.

“It’s probably not a good idea that we talk right now,” Molly says.

He nods. The news show footage from what the band at the bottom of the screen calls a national manhunt. “Will told us to tell the media that he had assisted Hannibal in escaping.”

Molly shuts her eyes. “It’s kind of funny how you just phrased that,” she says.

A moment stretches, and as it dilates, Jack becomes dimly aware of the thing that will one day have grown into guilt. “Whatever happened,” is what he says, “I’m sure he wanted you to know that.”

“Really? Sounds like you wanted me to,” Molly says.

 --

2. The second takes place in some very dark waters.

“Be careful, alright?” his mother says.

Walter turns around. The wind breathes in the pines around the lake. It’s almost dawn. “Why? The ice is really thick,” he says.

Molly smiles. “Be careful anyway.”

Down the hole in the ice there are only some slivers of gray and indigo blue, then just dark things below. Walter opens the small polished, wooden box he has brought with him. He’s made sure they are all there. It’s snowed last week, but since then it’s been so cold that the snow is dry and rough. The lures shine on the ground.

Walter ties a weight to a fish line, and then he ties all the lures on it. It takes some time.

In total, there are seventeen lures. Walter puts the weight near the edge of the hole.

“You can say something if you’d like,” Molly says.

The boy shakes his head. He pushes the weight and watches the lure slide on the snow, then disappear in the water.

 --

3. The third is in Jack’s office.

Agents Price and Zeller are at the team’s meeting with the others. The only clue they have is the Hallmark’s birthday cards.

“With a key inside,” Jack repeats. “The key is found to lead to a locker. First was in a Kansas public pool. Second was in the MIT library. Last one was at an outfitter near the Canadian border. The locker has a map inside with a cross marking the location of a body.”

Jack paces in front of the pictures and the maps. He does not impose as much as he used to.

A muffled voice comes from the back. “Even Will Graham wouldn’t be able to figure this one out.”

Silence falls on the room. Zeller turns, but he can’t set his eyes on who’s said it.

Jack has heard. He stands very still. He doesn’t yell as much as he used to either.

Back at the lab, they pour themselves whisky in beakers. They toast over the third victim’s body. Neither of them says anything.

--

4. The fourth is featured in the tabloids.

“Agent Crawford. Agent Crawford!” Freddie Lounds calls out in the corridor. “Could Tattlecrime’s readers, by any chance, have a quote from you on the new room?”

Jack stops. “I was under the impression that you had been denied access to the opening, Miss Lounds,” he says.

Freddie Lounds gives Jack her widest smile. “Only to the press conference.”

The Evil Minds Museum is closed, only a few employees linger. Jack puts on his hat. “I can’t help you,” he says, over his shoulder. “You can say I didn’t agree with it.”

She fidgets with her camera, and returns to the entrance. To the new room that leads to all others.

Personally, she thinks it’s a bit overwhelming, but they went for realism, she figures. It��s a replica of Will Graham’s bedroom. Only it has better lighting. There are cards on the walls and furniture. The door to the kitchen leads the visitor to Hannibal Lecter’s kitchen. A nice touch.

But she’s certain Will Graham would also not agree.

[masteredshadows]

condemned.

this is like seven parts rambling one part knife of d.unwall one part cory d.octorow one part ‘please stop writing drabbles that are just zed thinking’ and three parts me fucking with stylistic quirks

it’s long but I’m posting it now because otherwise I’ll obsess over it for three years trying to make it something close to good

enjoy it or don’t ur choice I can’t control your response

     It has been several days since Kusho's death, or maybe a week, or perhaps longer.

    'Perhaps,' Zed thinks, as though he doesn't know exactly how much time has passed. Of course he does; he meticulously planned and plotted and worked towards the day for two years and then some. Every instant of that day is forever burned into his mind, as though the memory is the sun and he has stared at it for too long.

    The days since have passed in a blur of regret and triumph, yes, but Zed will never forget Kusho's murder, nor how much time has passed since it occurred. Six days, and if his understanding of the time of day is correct (though it may well not be, given the lack of windows in the dark-infested room), it has been six days, four hours, and some unknown number of minutes and seconds since he sent his blade soaring through the air and biting into Kusho's neck.

    He traces a hand over the black and gold box before him.

    Why does he act as though he could possibly brush past the incident as he has so many murders before?

    It is a question he knows the answer to, loathe as he is to admit it

    Regret.

    Or rather, the fact that Zed very much does not want to admit exists within him. The emotion is a pesky one, and certainly not one he expected to feel. Kusho, for all of the praise one hears about him whilst walking through the winding roads of Ionia's many towns and cities, was not a good man. He wasn't even the type of man that one could simply feel indifferent to, passing through the world without committing very much of either good or evil.

    No, Kusho -- even objectively -- was a man with dubious morals and worse actions. His training often felt more like torture than the honing of one's skills, and the agonised howls of misery and pain Zed would sometimes hear emanating from Shen's room still have a tendency to appear in his nightmares and send him bolting up in a cold sweat, goosebumps covering his arms.

    So why does Zed feel regret over the kill?

    He ponders the question quietly, rubbing his thumb over the clasp keeping the box tightly sealed.

    In the days since the man's death, Zed has been seen outside of this room and away from the box (and the shadows, and their whispers, and the emotion and the pain--) a total of six times, five lasting just long enough for him to take a shower, quickly designate assignments for the day (Jun, ensure we have disciples watching every possible entrance into the area; Saral, you are tasked with moving everyone into this temple and sealing the old one, and so on), and eat something before disappearing back into the room holding the object which has irreversibly changed the course of his -- and Ionia's -- life.

    The sixth time (or rather the first, if one viewed the instances chronologically) was in the hours following the crime. Zed had wandered around the temple, refamiliarising himself with the scratches on the walls and scrutinising the chaotic disarray the Kinkou had left behind. The task had taken a long, long time, and he had not allowed anyone else to enter the temple in the meanwhile. Some disciples had tried, of course, curious to see what it was that gave them their power and brought Zed to such desperation, but a single, burning stare from him had been more than enough to send them skittering away like frightened rats.

    Zed knows some disciples have questioned his absence. If he was in their place, he is certain he would do the same. Their leader, the man who has wrenched them from ruin and seen them ascend to glory, has holed himself up as though he is nothing more than a petulant child wishing to get away from his parents.

    But then, they don't understand the power emanating from the object before him, do they? They don't know the agony that surged through him when he first opened the box, nor the way his fingers trembled with the immediate rush of power that followed. All they know is a weak, watered down sensation; they do not understand.

    Even now, as he rests his hand on it, palm down, he can hear it whispering, calling his name and murmuring a thousand incomprehensible phrases. It almost feels like it is throbbing, like a beating heart lies under his hand, but the box is solid metal and stone and wood, so this cannot be.

    Zed stares down at it.

    The longer he holds the box, the louder the whispers grow. They are ever present regardless (demons have never been creatures known for being quiet), murmuring and hissing and cackling somewhere in the depths of his mind, but when the things in his mind connect to the ones still in the box --

    He takes his hand away.

    Weak, something hisses, and Zed frowns.

    "I am not weak," he says aloud, gaze still locked onto the all-important box.

    Then why do you feel regret?

    The frown deepens, and Zed stays silent for a long, long moment.

    The box is mocking him.

    Zed narrows his eyes.

    He thinks he just might have begun the descent into madness.

    "Kusho was different," Zed finally offers, shrugging his shoulders.

    Different from annihilating the swarms of Noxians that had buzzed their way into Ionia, spreading destruction everywhere they stepped, different from silently slitting the throat of an assassin sent to kill him, different from killing a faceless ninja who would only be remembered by one or two family members.

    This was a man that Zed knew very well, someone he'd spent hours talking to and working alongside and studying under and hunting down a serial killer with. This was a man who was a father figure to many, and a legend to even more. Even if Zed knows of the infinite atrocities Kusho committed, that does not mean Ionia does, nor does it mean he can simply erase the excitement of the five year old child who finally had a home again.

    They will come for you.

    A beat.

    "Let them."

    The answer surprises even Zed, but after a moment, he repeats it, his voice firm, his posture tall.

     "Let them! What can they do? Kill me? Hah! Doubtful. I have you now. The Noxians couldn't destroy me, the Golden Demon couldn't escape me, and the famed Master Kusho couldn't sway me. So--"

    Zed takes a breath, stepping away from the box and spreading his arms wide for an invisible audience. Around the room, the shadows shift, responding to his abrupt conviction and swirling around his feet.

    Zed does not notice any of this. His gaze is still locked onto the box, and his mind shows him visions of hundreds of men and women lying at his feet, some reverent, most dead.

    The regret that seemed to have him wrapped in its jaws not moments ago now seems so distant.

    Why would he regret the death? Because Ionia would condemn him for it? The notion is utterly preposterous. Ionia already has condemned him for choosing to follow the shadows; Zed is irrevocably a villain in their eyes no matter what he does.

    Weakness would consume Ionia if Kusho had been allowed to live. Even now, the nation and her people threaten to lose sight of strength -- had Zed not stepped in, there would be no telling what would have happened to the island. No, this is not an action to regret.

    Slowly, Zed smiles. The whispers and murmurs and hisses and cackles are gone, now, replaced with a blessed silence that he has not heard in months.

    This -- the death, the murder, the rage, the power -- this is what Zed has wanted.

    Ionia will recognise his worth in due time. He does not need to convince them; his actions will speak for themselves. Not today, not next month, perhaps not for years and years and years, but one day, he will be recognised for his worth, heralded a hero and saviour.

    Zed reaches out for the box, extending both hands and grasping its sides firmly.

    And in the meantime?

    If he must silence those who would speak out against him to achieve true victory, then Zed may as well enjoy the process.

    He opens the box.

    The click rings out through the room, and an intoxicating rush moves through him, filling his very spirit with a sensation of power unmatched by anything he has felt before. Shadows wrap around him, twisting up to curl around his arms and embracing his neck.

    This time, it does not hurt.

    This time, as Zed opens the box and stares into its depths, he finally understands.

[segyc-blog]

          01 timeline drabble --- age: 04 - 09

His mother was kind. In fact, it wouldn’t take much for the child to say she is the most considerate person he has ever seen in his short life. Despite the fine lines slowly starting to come through on her complexion, her gentle smile seemed like a blessing. She always wore that smile. It was the kind of smile that made you feel like the world was a better place just by looking at it -- even if the boy wasn’t able to comprehend that expression just yet.  Especially when someone needed her, always lending a helpful hand without second thought. Even when Yejun saw how tired she looked late at night. The times she came home late from work, just to continue working. A hushed “ I’m fine, don’t worry. ” leaving her lips as she let her fingers lightly dance across her jawline -- but still her gracious smile remained -- when he asked her if she was tired. Most people would be saying she was lying, but that wasn’t what her child thought. No, Yejun wasn’t a child that would doubt his beloved mother’s words. Someone as good as her wouldn’t lie.

And that made him so incredibly proud.

Yejun was an intelligent young boy. From the moment he learned reading in school, most of his days were spent in his father’s old study; everything still in place as if the man was still alive. Book after book and turning page after page. It was as Osamu Dazai said “ When you spend your time reading, you are never alone. ” Sentence after sentence, word for word; he felt as if his father was in the same room with him. Watching over his son’s shoulder as they shared the same kind of passion for the books he left behind. But even when he would get stuck on a word, he yet had to learn Yejun didn’t mind. His charming mother sat in the very next room; working like always. The same smile still on her lips when he would come and ask for her help. And she would always agree, explaining the meaning of every hangul syllable he did not hear of before in the most gentle voice. Ever so patiently teaching him.

Those moments were the reason why it was hard for him to process when this happened. But as he explained to himself several times before  “ Even the most compassionate people have their limits. ”  That is the reason for him laying on the floor right now. Why he was curled up, trying not to react more than necessary. Underneath her; getting to know his possible place in this world. Repeating the same, sugarcoated lies a million times:

“ I’m sorry, mommy. ”

      “ I don’t need anything! ”

    “ I’m so sorry. ”

 “ I’m sorry. ”

          “ Please, forgive me! ”

“I’m sorry--!”

  “ I don’t want anything. ”    

“ I’m so sorry... ”

He felt ashamed for making her this upset again. Even more so for lying to his mother. But what he was sorry for? Was it for asking if she could buy him this one book he saw for his birthday? Was it because he asked if she could spend time with him? Or was it for his very existence that seemed to be a bother?

Whatever the reason was, the young boy was still sure of one thing: She was not the one to blame. He must have been the cause -- so often the boy saw her humble smile and her warm nature with  o t h e r s. He definitely had to be the reason for making his kindhearted mother want to do this. After all, he doesn’t know the world. He doesn’t know his place yet. His presence barely left a mark on anyone in this world. He still made a lot of mistakes. Asking for the wrong things at the wrong time. Asking for attention at the wrong time. Asking for love at the wrong time.

But the more time passed, the more it happened. Uncounciscly he began to walk faster into his father’s study when he would get back from school, closing the door despite prior protests from his mother. But when he was reading the same old books his father left behind . . . the world seemed to be fine. He listened to his feelings -- even if it was all just in Yejun’s head and the words leaving his father’s mouth were nothing more than the ink on the pages. Usually completely unrelated to the things happening around him. But it did enough to ease his mind, and so the young boy remained hopeful that what was happening wasn’t entirely his fault. That his soft-spoken mother didn’t mean what she did. Yet it happened again. And again. And again. And again . . .

It had to be his fault, right?

This was all the young boy could tell himself while he couldn’t believe what he made out of his mother; the tears wouldn’t stop flowing and he repeatedly muttered the same phrases. Was he crying because of the pain? Was it because he pushed his mother this far? He had to take this, right?  -- for her sake. He couldn’t hurt his mother and tell anyone about this; he wanted to be the one getting hurt instead if it would mean she could be the gentle person he knows once again after this was done. She was the one person he had left in his life. The one too bright star that he could only dream of touching. And she would be cooking his favorite hamburger steak and smiling at him alone the very next day. The young boy found himself curling up even more underneath her, both of his hands protecting his face from possible bruises while one hand slowly rested on the chin just as one certain sentence left his lips for the very first time while she was like this:

“I’m sorry, mommy, I love you--!!”

                                   ・ ・ ・