shonen-boy

[shonen-boy]

this was (the start) of ota’s xmas present

AU OF MAURCILLIO AND MIHAIL IG!!

i wrote this in december (squints)

--

Rizio's grip loosened from his sides, steps easing from a small, timid scuffle to that of a thoughtful stride. Less grandiose than its central wing, the boy found this part of the museum refreshing and intimate-- an oasis of paintings and sketches displayed against walls of understated wood and velvet. Above the doorway, the copper plating noted the collection's status as both temporary and private.

His birthday was celebrated the week prior to his parents leave to Milan. A dinner at home for three and a fair-sized allowance; the latter of which he'd used for the actual day of his birth.

He readjusted his pass as he made his way to the first of twenty images.

For personal reference, he penned the contours of its lights and shadows. Though reference for what, Rizio didn't quite know; the boy hadn't consider himself an artist aside from these passing flights of fancy-- and it showed in the fuzzy, unsure quality of his charcoal strokes. The man within the portrait peered downward with cat-like contempt whilst his less handsome, poorly rendered twin scowled from his journal, eyes shinier and rounded than they should have been. Noticing the differences was a matter separate from knowing how to fix them. This he thought with little self-condemnation.

He did what was to his ability and moved to the next of twenty.

As he attempted the long, spindly blonde hair of portrait six, Rizio'd begun to realize the gallery's theme-- at least, his interpretation of it. In the primitive sense, the man must have been an angel. In paintings 1, 3 and 4, the angel held a lyre and wand, ink staining his hands and wings. In 2, 5 and 6, a sword and chalice, blood splattered at the feathers in place of ink. Rizio pressed hard into the paper to mimick its effect. "You've taken quite a liking to this man. But, he had an exquisite temper-- or so my research went. That's his lover's blood..." The boy shut his sketchbook over his pen.

"Ah... Well, that's unfortunate," Rizio said. "...B-but, also interesting! There must be a lot to these paintings."

"More than meets the eye. But, an artist is drawn to creation and intuits inspiration to the material world. Everything else is pretention-- including 'knowing.'" The stranger motioned toward Rizio's book. "You're quite good. And, he is beautiful, isn't he?"

Like an apology, it was handed over.

The stranger held its spine with a flat palm, his pale, manicured fingers spread across the covers. He was tall, broad-shouldered and bespectacled. When the light caught his face just right, Rizio noticed those eyes were green and sharp behind those glasses just like the angel's. "But, you don't draw often, do you?"

Rizio shook his head.

"And this is your first time at the museum?" "N-no. I come here every summer. For my birthday."

He let out a short laugh which made Rizio's ears ring even hotter. His nails curled back into that small, tight grip as the stranger turned another page.

"Ah? I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's just-- I'm here so often that it feels like a second home. Just the thought of someone spending his most precious day here. It's... refreshing. I forget how novel museums can be for those who can't--" Rizio guessed at the sentiment though the stranger caught himself. "--well, I must insist that I treat you to lunch. It's the least I can do as a patron of the arts.

And, of course my bad manners.

It's Micha, by the way."

The stranger returned the apology, patting Rizio's hands over the covers. He flushed, pulling them back with his sketchbook.

"Rizio. And, it's fine. Really, I can't impose."

"Then I will insist, my dear Rizio." --- The two walked alongside the other toward the museum's cafe.

Micha'd watched the boy unnoticed since his arrival to the collection, a little bird drawn inward by the hands of fate. To greet him immediately would warrant an awkward conversation, the sort of reception afforded to park strangers and salespeople. But, to be more forthcoming in his motive would prove even stranger.

Creepy, even.

And, whatever editorials lambasted his ego or dismissed his tastes as 'pedestrian' 'shallow' or 'pretentious'-- Micha considered himself a gentleman of good social graces. At the very least.

He congratulated himself for those graces and his timing as they seated Rizio and himself across the other over an elegant table. The waitstaff presented a laminated menu and a plain, paper one that outlined the seasonal dishes.

"I'd recommend the latter. But please, order whatever you like."

Rizio obfuscated his bewilderment with a flatlined expression. His fingers gave it away though, the adorable way in which he thumbed at the tablecloth. Micha smiled reassuringly.

"...No pressure at all."

"T-thank you." Micha's hand cradled his jawline with a retired ease. The image of an idle date.

On the way over, Micha spoke at length about the paintings in his collection, the best ones hidden from public view. The man'd inherited the portraits from a distant relative and was immediately taken by the technical merits as well as the austerity of their subjects. 'It was the angel I found prettier. But, the more I looked upon his student, the more I understood his attraction...'

Rizio nodded. His eyes squinted over the menu-- the items of which were worth more than his birthday dinner for three.

Something simple, then.

"...The piadina," he said.

"The chef is from Ravenna, so it's as authentic as one can find outside its borders." Rizio sensed Micha's attempt at conversation-- a piece of trivia about himself to exchange for the trivia he'd prepared.

But again, Rizio only nodded.

There was some guilt each time he did this; each time he failed to respond with something more than "Ah" and "I see." But, what could he say to someone like Micha? And, conversely, what did Micha even want from someone like himself? The other man was handsome, eloquent and worldly. Rizio thought himself plain, boring and untalented. Of all the real artists the he could have approached, Micha chose an imposter.

He opened his mouth to repivot when Rizio blurted out instead:

"I'm sorry.

...For being so uninteresting." The collection was quiet. The piadina was cheap.

He hung his head as the servers brought a bread basket replaced their glasses for water.

Micha yawned cheerfully, shaking his head. He offered the first piece to Rizio.

"Rizio. Please, your presence is in itself enough. But, if you must know the reason for my interest, well..."

He smiled a small, cat-like smile. "...Perhaps it is for the same reason that angel took to that student."

-- His gaze shifted from the table to the large cloud patches as they drifted over their view of the townscape. A political move on the committee's part, the main street was named for the mayor's nephew's wife, the general's daughter. The alley within it was named for their cocker spaniel.

Tangentially, his mother and that general were sweethearts as children amicably married to other, more strategic alliances. He had connections similar to this throughout the city-- people and histories just six degrees separated. His latest collaborator'd gone to school with an investor's cousin, his supplier was the same as the great Bellisario's.

[scene switch to mihail's townhouse btw yes]

[shonen-boy]

this was ota’s bday present

more shigeita ya’ll!! i wrote this in october and rushed the ending... i’ll get around to editing this properly later!!

The ache started with the weight at his chest and then the taste of iron on his lips. In waking, Eita groaned, unsure of what hurt most. Given the state of his body and his recollection of last night’s battle, he decides it must be his pride.

“H-Hira-kun! You’re awake! Thank goodness!”

He turned to his right.

No. No, what hurt most was his neck.

The boy settled back into the futon and focused on the ceiling. Its details came and went with the lights in his eyes.

“Ah. Chiura-san. You’re still here. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“What! Did you think I’d leave you there?”

“…”

“… Dude, okay so. First of all, we’re friends, aren’t we? And, secondly– you were amazing last night. The way you handled that mask? It was like… Like. Nothing I’d ever seen before! You gotta show me how you did that!”

“I… Of course. Thank you.”

Shigeru blinked then covered his mouth for the off-chance Hira-kun might rise and yell at him again for smiling so wide.

‘Spare him his dignity, Shige. Don’t ruin your chance. Keep it cool and…’

“Anyway. I can stay, if you’d like. Dunno what you do all day, but. It feels awful lonely.”

“…That’d be nice." -- Shigeru sat at the stool beside Eita's bed, his palms a hinge for his fingers to drum at his thighs. He'd made it a point to come by after school each day breathless and sweaty as he took his perch at exactly 4:15 PM.

After the first week of sprinting and then sitting, Kanon had rolled her eyes, pointed out that his punctuality didn't matter; he just sat there the entire time, did his homework and then stared at the wall. But, Shigeru's eyes gaze shifted to other places too and he'd learned plenty about Eita this way-- even if Eita closed his eyes the entire time or ignored him to read from his own textbooks.

Within Eita's room there was also a small tv, barely used. He also had a book shelf with a scratch beneath its second knob... A big closet and a little one for the linens and his pajamas respectively. There was a cabinet for his medicines, and yet another for spare pen and papers. And once, when their cellphones had fully charged from the corner outlet, Eita asked him to fetch his. Briefly, Shigeru caught a glimpse of the wallpaper: a stock image of Mt. Fuji.

"I think he likes the mountains," he'd explained to no one who really cared. "He also keeps his phone charged at three bars at all times! Very responsible."

Shigeru placed one hand over the other to muffle the sound of his tapping... Only for the beat to return full-force, his need to move but inability to pace gaining the better of him... but not in any way Eita would notice and feel bad for keeping him. This he made sure.

Besides, even if it got just a little, tiny bit boring, he'd made a promise to keep Eita from loneliness. --

It wasn't so much lonely for Eita as it was routine. Solitude presented an opportunity for self-meditation-- to visualize the steps necessary to become one's own best self. He'd spent most of his life like this and never once did he see it as cause for pity.

But, he supposed it was a matter of contrasts. Where Eita found the quiet normal, Shigeru spent much of his time outdoors, laughing and talking beneath a too-hot and too-bright sun that made all things smell dirty.

Shigeru rocked in that chair until that bored him and then tapped at his knees until that bored him too. To use his cellphone would be rude, but to speak to someone in the throughs of recovery would be even worse. Especially unprompted.

At first, Eita found this annoying. But, in spite not needing Shigeru, he also found the sentiment of his offer endearing in the way one might find a dog endearing.

"...Chiura-san."

"S-sorry! I'm so sorry, this was a stupid idea."

"You can bring a movie if you'd like. I know I'm not much in the way of entertainment, but I don't mind watching something with you."

Shigeru picked himself up from the floor and crawled to his side. A stare down at his fingers ensured he'd keep his distance. But, it was not enough to stave his excitement.

"!!! M-movies. Hiratani-kun, I-I didn't know you watched movies."

"..."

"I-I mean!

...What kind do you like? My pop's got a friend who works at the VideoBuster. 'Says I can get anything I want, any time."

"Anything is fine then.

...And yes, I do watch movies, Chiura-san." -- Shigeru wiped the screen with a sweater paw, revealing both their faces in the  glass. He paused to stare at Eita's, embarassingly pretty even as the screen distorted the perfect curve of his jawline.

"Curse of Otabby 2," he said, examining the cover left in his lap. His expression was as unreadable as the bloodstained font. "I haven't seen the first, Chiura-san."

"Me neither, actually... So it'll be both our first times--eheheh..."

"..."

"S-SORRY. Ok. I'll turn it on now. We don't have to talk anymore."

Shigeru twindled his thumbs over the remote, adjusting the volume before turning his seat toward the television. The video jumped, the first second looping and then proceeding with tiny cigarette burns flaring at the side.

They hunted demons so Eita thought it redundant, watching a movie about a mustaschioed demon and its curses. Nevertheless, if it were lacking in entertainment value, then he could at least devise a mental strategy-- should he come across circumstances similar to the teenaged protagonists.  He brought his chin between his thumb and his index finger, calculating their options as they entered the school.

Animals hate fire; the obvious choice would have been the Kazenbo. But, it might also weaken a partner's demon, so perhaps something more specialized. A dog to hunt the cat? Or, the Mizuchi to wet its fur and scare it.

The girl blinked on-screen. Her books had been a distraction that separated her from the group. Eita leaned forward, fingers balling his sheets tight against his chest.

Shigeru jumped as a claw overtook the camera.

"O-oh man. That one got me good."

From the corner of his eye, Eita sighed grip loosening with the shift in scene. It was the tenser moments that affected Eita, the build-up to the scare over the actual reveal. Shigeru tucked this observation away with Mt. Fuji; again, sparing his dignity from a casual remark. He side-stepped again.

"I can sit closer, if you'd let me."

Eita moved to make room.

"The cold makes it worse," he said. "We can share."

He withheld his knees and another grin as he tucked his legs beneath Eita's blanket-- careful not to push his newfound luck-- as he indulged in the other boy's warmth. -- It spoke to Shigeru's in-battle reflexes, how quickly and often he jumped at things and their shadows. But, in spite smelling like the sun and moving his bed so much, Eita again found this less annoying than anticipated. He wasn't as much above the rush of a scary movie as he thought either; yet another pleasant surprise.

The second act opened in daylight, whereupon the group realized the girl's absence and Eita noticed the way the screen's light reframed Shigeru's features from this angle. A different character though Eita found himself short a definition.

He dismissed the thought when it'd brought him too far from the plot.

"They'll need to find Otabby's mother," said Shigeru. "I think it was covered in the first movie."

"Ah. That makes sense."

Though he'd avoided touching Eita, Shigeru noted their proximity through the first act until now. He bit his lip. Yasuo would recommend throwing his arm around Eita, just like in the movies. And he considered it, but just as quickly yelped at another cat bound across the screen.

"S-sorry! Again." By the movie's end, their shoulders had met, but barely. Shigeru bit his lip, tread across the darkness to retrieve his phone and confirm his departure.

"S-so... Did you like it?" he said.

"...I'd like to see the first one." Shigeru gripped the phone as he pocketed it. "...But yes. I enjoyed the movie. Thank you."

"A-Ah...AHMI'M. Glad. I'll find it for next time. Hira-kun."

"Next time. Yes, I look forward to it.."

[shonen-boy]

2018 KAMIGAKARIS

oh god i’m so fucking bad at posting my own writing.

here’s some stuff from summer 2018 for these rascals

THIS IS REALLY DUMB

"If you've got 'im on his knees, give him a lil tap on that ass. Just enough so he feels it."

"Tap?"

"Yah. Quick one. Like that."

It'd been three years since Yasuo'd mentioned the idea, a click of the tongue and a motion over his own rear to match. And, within those three years, the idea made itself apparent each time he and Eita fucked and the angle was just right.

Shige flushed, steadying the other boy's hips against his own. As he rocked forward, the mess of Eita's yukata slid downward over his back revealing a smooth, pale back. It was a shame he couldn't see and kiss Eita's face; but, there was satisfaction in feeling him so deeply, the way he sighed into his thrusts. His hand rose as he felt himself coming close and...

Eita moaned and tightened, before shifting his head into his sleeve. "A-ah... Shige-kun. That was loud. I apologize."

A beat of silence passed. ...Then, having realized that he'd done it, it was good and he wasn't dead, Shige pulled out and then pulled the other boy backwards into his arms. His head fit easily from behind Eita's neck and shoulder.

"Don't." Kiss. "You were cute." Kiss. "It's fine."

IT GETS... GAYER...

"Shige-san."

Eita'd said his name with an inflection half-way between a question and a statement of fact.

"A question."

"Shoot."

"I wasn't so sure how to bring this up but. That slap two weeks ago. Why?" Shit. Eita's stare bore into his chest with watchful curiosity.

Shige's felt his soul recede inward. ...A beat passed and he realized. An apology. It was obvious that he should apologize. What had taken him so long? Oh god, why couldn't he just apolo-- "Do I need to repeat the question?"

"N-no no no. I'm s-sorry. It was just you have such a nice uh... And I. You know. Couldn't help myself and. Uh."

"Ah, Shige-san. It wasn't an accusation." Eita paused.

"I was just curious. And, if anything, I'm happy that you think I have a nice... Well."

"Butt?"

"Yes."

"So can I keep..."

"Uhm. Sure. If you'd like."

SAILOR FUKU SHENANIGANS

Eita moved his weight into the door, pushing into Isamu's studio with some effort.

Shigeru stood, as if he'd waited this entire time for...

What struck him first were the other boy's thighs, exposed by the quiet flutter of a girl's school uniform. Further down were his knees, turned inward with the curl of his toes. Shigeru's frame was all-wrong for this sort of thing; his height and shoulders too long and broad respectively. If he'd raised his arms, that shirt might've revealed his midriff. He thumbed at the pleats and slouched slightly, fully aware of this.

"H-Hiratani-kun..." His voice was tight in his throat. "It's not weird... is it?"

Eita coughed, turning his head as a whistle sounded from behind.

"I think it's more than okay, Shige-kun."

Isamu nodded with Kanon's assessment, his glasses lit with approval. "Yes. It's perfect, Shige-kun. You too, Hiratani-kun. The perfect reaction... I've captured it in my mind's eye. I'll proceed with the panel, full-speed!"

Shigeru glanced at Eita in increments. The skirt's hem moved with his inelegant strides. That was all-wrong too.

"It's just... we're running tight on money. Isamu-kun offered, and Kanon-kun had a spare uniform..."

"Please. Do not make this. More suggestive. Than it has to be, Shige-san. For both our sanities."

DARK SHIGE?

Shigeru's steps reverberated as he made his descent into the barrier's final layer. The funhouse had stretched into short, wide halls that splintered into small, capillary-like tunnels. He paused, unsure of his direction... until all at once, the lights burst into a series of spotlights.

He stood under its brightest one.

To his right, were a series of halved reflections, distortions of his komainu mask. To his left, a maze of glass that mirrored his figure at odd angles.

The light followed as he paced forward.

Shigeru'd chosen the komainu because it'd been the first demon he'd sealed. He likened the familiarity to docility-- a controllable force beckoned when he felt unsure of his abilities.

But, even the komainu growled today, a reminder that any doubt was still enough.

He paused, stopped by a wall that marked a dead end. Beneath its surface, his alter smiled with a small cant of the head.

--

Eita tracked his partner's steps. There were mirrors, but his presence hadn't lent itself to a reflection.

He paused where Shigeru had.

"...Where is he?"

"Shigeru? You're speaking to him," the voice was his, but with a clipped edge. This Shigeru reached forward to touch Eita's hand. Eita remained unphased.

"At least, a version you haven't met yet, Hiratani-kun." The hand raised, cupping his. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't real.

And, you know, this version loves you too."

[shonen-boy]

demon uni.......

these two will fucking ruin me

me and ota-san’s charas, art by ota-san! 8 u 8 top one is hiratani, eita who is my chara and voiced by maaya sakamoto! second one is chiura, shigeru who is hers and whose voice is here!

—–

what their relationship was, before things got SAPPY

Shigeru settled on his knees in the same manner as he’d sat during kendo practice: back straight and forward, knuckles rounded and touching the floor. Though he’d placed Hiratani-kun at about his age, the other boy carried himself with the sort of cool indifference that he found intimidating in the way he’d find a yakuza boss intimidating.

“I… uh… Met a senpai the other day. Saw that I was a newbie. Helped me out with that mask there.”

Hiratani-kun unfurled the package at his bedside, his wrists thin and white as the sleeve fell to the crook of his arm. It didn’t help that he found the other boy so pretty.

“Lower level. But, it’s progress. Who helped you?”

“Yasuo-kun.”

“Who?” Hiratani stood; but, accosted by a series of wheezes, paused and then settled back into his blanket. He heaved to calm his chest, face flushed with frustration as Shigeru resisted the urge to stand and help.

“… … He’s a pervert and a nobody.” The other boy managed.

“You know him, then?”

“Aside the point. Just. Whatever. Learn what you can for now. We’ll continue this later. Leave me.”

——

very first practice write, to get a feel for the characters

The ache started with the weight at his chest, and then the taste of iron on his lips. In waking, Eita groaned, unsure of what hurt most. Given the state of his body and his recollection of last night’s battle, he decides it must be his pride.

“H-Hira-kun! You’re awake! Thank goodness!”

He turned to his right.

No. No, what hurt most was his neck.

The boy settled back into the futon and focused on the ceiling. Its details came and went with the lights in his eyes.

“Ah. Chiura-san. You’re still here. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“What! Did you think I’d leave you there?”

“…”

“...

Dude, okay so. First of all, we’re friends, aren’t we? And, secondly– you were amazing last night. The way you handled that mask? It was like… Like. Nothing I’d ever seen before! You gotta show me how you did that!”

“I… Of course. Thank you.”

Shigeru blinked, then covered his mouth for the off-chance Hira-kun might rise and yell at him again for smiling so wide.

‘Spare him his dignity, Shige. Don’t ruin your chance. Keep it cool and…’

“Anyway. I can stay, if you’d like. Dunno what you do all day, but. It feels awful lonely.”

“…That’d be nice.”

——

(i wrote this 10 minutes later)

“Shige…san?” The other boy had paused, his expression somewhere between shock and disbelief.

“Ara… You finally smiled. Wait. Please.

…Don’t.”

Shigeru’s hands fell upon his shoulders. This close, Eita noted the sharp curve of his lash line and the series of sunspots spread across his cheeks. Briefly, he wondered what Shigeru must have noticed on his face before, even more embarrassed by that thought, he flushed and turned his eyes downward.

“I know you hate when people tell you this but… You’re beautiful. You’re strong and brave and smart, but you’re also the prettiest person I know.

…Especially when you smile.”

“D-don’t… Do this to me…”

“Ok, I’ll stop but. Just wanted to let you know, okay? I really mean it.”

“…Okay. Thank you.

…Then, I’ll say this once too. I like you, Shige-san. I’m glad I met you.”

—–

(i hate myself why are they so easy to write)

Shige lifted his bangs, fingers brushing the stray hair from his forehead to the side of his head. Eita withheld the urge to take the other boy’s wrists and lower them, stilling his breath and heart beneath those hands.

The first kiss is chaste, placed at his temple like a flower to a shrine.

“I love you, you know.”

“Shige-san. Please.”

Shige’s knuckles settled beneath his jawline and tilted it slightly.

The second kiss is as indulgent as those words, his lips warm and perfect against his own. Briefly, Eita’s thoughts ceased and he eased into the other boy’s touch– the natural way in which they fit into each other’s spaces.

“Did you like that?”

“You said you wouldn’t embarrass me.”

“I can do it again, though. If you liked it.”

—- 

Villain dialogue for arc 1′s antagonist : 3 c

Masaru: These pretty words you give to your friends, your enemies… The people you love, the people you hope to forgive.

Tell me, Shigeru-kun. Do you believe them? Or, is it more to the belief that if you say them enough, you might?

Because deep down, these are notions you want to be true, but aren’t.

Shige: I…. You’re wrong. I’m not like that.

and then eita responds.

Eita: Shige-kun. You’re nothing like him.

He’s an ungrateful runaway. He kills people to answer for his lack of drive, forms a pact with demons to compensate for his own weakness.

And then he tells you these things– It’s…

Unacceptable.

You’re more than your hate, Shige-kun. I know you are.

That’s why I love you.

You’re kind, honest and warm– this is in spite what your father has done to you. To be good is a choice, not a birthright.

So please. Come to your senses.

—-

arata is eita’s brocon older bro,,,,,,, because this is an anime.,..,.,.

Arata: He’d lock his door for days on end. Sometimes, he’d step out to request fresh bandages, another set of weights.

There other days where he’d just stare from his window, resigned to his own weakness. Those were the days I liked most… When he wasn’t out to hurt himself. To worry me.

Shige: But, it’s good isn’t it? Doesn’t he want to be strong?

Arata: That’s where your understanding ends, Chiura-san. My little brother is precious because he needs to be protected.

—-

THE FLUFF STRIKES AGAIN

Their feet swung off-tandem from the park bench, the heel of his sandal dragging against the sand as Shige’s toes kicked it forward. In the foreground, the wind moved the grass in waves. The other boy’s bike lay beneath a lantern’s light, an empty picnic basket and two fishing rods close beside. It’s the kind of quiet that Eita’d learned to differentiate from his upbringing.

His head rested on Shige’s shoulder. When he turned his into the other boy’s shirt, he registered the clean and familiar smell of the sun.

Silence was once a stage for self-betterment. A person fills the void with action, displacing stillness with a will to action. With him, quiet was a space in which a person could simply be.

“Do you think we’ll be able to do this when we’re older?”

Shige slid his hand forward. Eita felt his smile, in spite the angle.

“I look forward to it.” A kiss. “Actually.”

—–

last one for now :’’’ ( future au where they’re married and preparing to adopt

Shige leaned forward, palms cradling his chin as he watched Eita tend to an empty crib. Between 16 and 26, the other man’s features had softened; his eyes, quicker to betray a proclivity toward kindness– however much the other man continued to deny it.

A sigh. It helped that he smiled more easily, too.

“It’ll be confusing with two oto-sans. When she’s older, we have to figure out what we’ll call each other. Like, I was thinking… Oto-san number one for me. Oto-san two for you?”

Here, Shige spotted another difference: Eita frowned, but entertained the suggestion. Ten years ago, Shige mused, he’d be on his knees, apologizing for his own insolence.

“If you insist,” Eita said at last. “You can be one. I can be two.”

“Or… Would you rather Eita?”

“O-Oto-san two. Is fine.”

“Is it really though, Eita?”

“S-stop– This is embarrassing.” He covered his mouth, the flush still apparent behind his sleeve. Shige stood and moved toward the other man, taking his hands into his. “…And now you’re just making it worse.”

“I know. But, I love you and I love your name. So, as your husband, you’d let me indulge… won’t you?”

“O-okay. Fine. Go ahead.”

“I love you, Eita.”

[shonen-boy]

iuxta mare writes

HOHO...

a lot of these are nsfw

Villain monologue, to get a feel for Sultan Vaal Athabasca

Vaal: Your thoughts are known.

‘When all is lost, what remains is my dignity.’

‘There's resistance in willingness. I'm the one that chose to stand here. Between me and this old man, I am superior because I know who I am.’

But, who are you, really? Where do you stand?

[The young prince falters. It's a hint, just as quickly given as it is withheld.] 

[But, it’s also just enough for Vaal to notice]

Vaal: A castle with half its staff at war. You're at the heart of a dying country, stripped before a half-wit king's bed.

There's no pride there, Derya. Just the inevitable.

But, who's to say that it can't be good for the both of us. No?

------

Villain dialogue, to get a feel for Delphine and Tigris Palatinus

Tigris: I saw their prince the other day. I'd heard of a prodigy... a son to a noble family. But, I didn't expect someone so...

Delphine: The old Athabasca adopted the boy to fuck him. We can't explain their customs in our terms. They're savages, after all. Tigris: That's better than what I'd call em.

Delphine: That aside, the man disposed of our greatest obstacle. A Napirian snake, eating its own tail.

This time next year, we'll take their southern-most cities. 

Tigris: And their capital by winter. This, I promise

------

REALLY FUCKING THIRSTY DADDY KINK : (

Derya awoke with a daze, his joints weak and throat dry from last night's session. The sheets had tangled over his legs. They were hot and sticky where the fabric touched his skin, but cold and wet where he had not.

It'd been a year since his adoption and with that time, things'd gotten easier. It bothered him less when he'd noticed the bowl of magnolias placed at their bedside. It bothered him less when Vaal asked him to call him "father" when they fucked, told him how cute it was when he begged to be fucked.

The boy shook his head, allowing a few white petals to flutter from his hair. From the window's arch, the city and greenery stretched beyond the hills to a thin, blue shoreline.

As a child, he'd visited the palace in the summer. His real father had brought the family, as did the other lords and ladies for the festivities. When no one was looking, Derya had found his way into this room, and peered from this same window.

He'd said, hand outstretched: 'This will be my kingdom, someday.'

And he'd closed his fist on a conviction: 'All that the light touches will be mine to protect.'

A kiss at his neck snapped him from his thoughts. The king had moved to his side and placed another magnolia in his hair.

The prince lowered his hand, embarassed by the memory.

"What were you doing?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"Oh? We'd agreed that you don't need to do that anymore, did we not?"

"I-- Yes. We did. I'm sorry."

"Good. Now, come closer-- Let's remind you of your place, just to be sure."

-----

BUT I ALSO WROTE A KAWAII THING... DERYA AND HIS SISTER MINALI!!

The palamut fell between them, eyes round and glassy as it pulled its lip against Derya's hook.

He winced. Its blood had mingled with the puddle of water and mud at their feet, the ooze more black than red.

"Should I push him back? I don't think I want fish tonight..."

It pulled harder. The flow of blood into dirt worsened. The thrashing slowed.

"What's the point of fishing if you don't bring home a fish?"

The girl sighed, tossing a rock in his direction. If there was anything about her brother, he was kind in ways she found both irritating and predictable.

"Dinner was fine last night, wasn't it? The chicken, the lamb. Someone killed those too, Derya. Only children eat without knowing the life given for their meal. You're not a child anymore."

"I... It just..."

"Derya." The rock came down with a hard and ugly crack. It took all the boy's power not to sob, and he turned from the girl, hoping in vain that it wasn't apparent. She lowered her fist. Her voice softened.

"Good. Good. Now, let's pray for it, okay? C'mon, now... Repeat after me. Slowly."

---

i really like writing siblings : / 

His ninth birthday started with a pop and series of cheers.

"Happy birthday, my lord!"

To which Derya had covered his mouth, embarassed by how silly his face might have looked, beaming so recklessly. Minali took his wrist and lead him to the center of the room. It was only recently that he'd realized that he sister didn't hate him, and even more recently that she cared by acting so mean(-a-li). Which was weird, but overwhelming like this attention and excitement was overwhelming.

A servant popped another fire cracker, filling the room with little pieces of silvery-pink foil.

"I-I don't know what to say. T-thank you everybody!"

"Don't be silly, Derya. This is the kinda thing you gotta demand outta people. Expect it, own it. You're gonna be king someday, so you better act like it."

"Right. Er." He cleared his throat. "Then, everyone, eat! Dance! Sing... and be merry!"

"That's more like it... Hear that everybody? Your king's spoken so...

LET’S GET THIS PARTY STAAARTED!!!"

----

but also i don’t want you to forget that im a not good person

"Do you remember that, Derya? Your sister was adamant that I'd come. The girl plots my downfall, but insists on my attendance to a celebration dedicated to the one who'd usurp me."

"You were my uncle, after all."

Vaal kissed Derya's neck, his lips lingering as he drew the boy closer.

"'Were' is correct."

Derya grimaced, but did not resist.

"Convenient, no? You'll be king upon my departure, and I can rest, knowing that I'd raised a fine, devoted son. No treachery needed. Just love" Another kiss. "And loyalty."

[shonen-boy]

i wrote first this time!!!! >: ^ O

hi the beauty storyboard by otchachacha

---

Maurcillio'd reached outward, hands careful and soft as he moved for the other man's lips. His existence inspired both pity and fear, and just as Mihail might kiss his fingers, he could just as easily snap them.

He paused, warmth and anticipation the only contact between the other man's skin and his touch.

Innocence and savagery are two sides to one coin. Pain necessitates a will to hate, and walls are built to defend what is vulnerable. For this reason, Maurcillio knows Mihail weaker than Alle. Where the latter has nothing to hide, nothing to protect -- the former needs that security. To feel wanted. Loved, even if he'd never admit it.

Mihail needs him more than Alle ever would. 

"You're beautiful," Maurcillio muttered. Rather than his lips, his hair, neatly tucked behind his ear. "Thank you."

...

He wrapped his arms around Mihail-- the distance closed in a sudden and frantic attempt to communicate more than this. The other man was more than beautiful and it wasn't gratefulness he'd wanted to express but understanding.

Sentimentality was a liability, Mihail had said. To indulge in such displays was a danger best avoided.

Yet, the boy gripped tighter, unthinkingly, overcome with sorrow for how /sad/ that fear, this persona, these games all were.

The other man placed his hands at the base of his spine and pulled him closer. He hadn't expected Mihail to reciprocate.

"Maurcillio... Why are you crying? Are those tears for me?

[shonen-boy]

THANK U,,, OTA,,, FOR MORE WRITING FODDER,,

play this btw : 3 c

-

The doorway frames a man and a tree in a room bathed in blooming lights. NATALE stands from the shadows of the hall; her eye reflects the saturated amber tones.

The door creaks conspicuously in spite her effort. She slips into the room, a child out past her bedtime.

With the camera pan, the room reveals itself a massive coridor—the size of which dwarfs the already tiny princess. At either side are lines and lines of trees. The winding branches bob to the weight of the illumination spells, the source of those lights.

NATALE closes the door swiftly.

She proceeds with a sense of wonder that hasn’t died since first meeting him. Her heels click and echo against the marble tile.

At the end of her distant path is the NYMPH.

NATALE

Ah...

Up close, the NYMPH is handsome and melancholic as he always was. The stone mosaic that forms his back wall is an image of what NATALE assumes was his home.

The girl pities him just as much as she thinks she loves him.

Her hand extends towards his cheek. It is pale, white and fat against his sallow cheek.

NATALE (whispered)

Sorry, I’m late. I hope you weren’t lonely.

From his expression, NATALE assumes that he was, and continues to speak-- guiltily. She details her troubles with ZOPHIE, her studies, her attempts at cooking. But, it all blurs beneath an incomprehensible garble. It’s a tone easily mistaken for KAYLEE’s.

--

KAYLEE, KYO and RIKA are hidden in a cart where they’d last been seen. Dead tired, they sleep huddled against the other for warmth.

The camera pans to KAYLEE. 

Overcome by an unseen pain—JIN’s pain—a single tear streams down her cheek and drips from her chin.

[END SCENE]

[shonen-boy]

1st kissies

don’t fuckin touch me

---

Alle flopped backwards into the carpet and kicked his feet into the air. "She was pretty," the prince said, "And she came from a far, far-off land... all the way across the sea."

Maurcillio joined Alle on the floor. He'd propped up his head with a pillow and listened with careful attention to the details. The other boy's first kiss was with a viscountess, two years older and two inches taller... But, she wore tall shoes, so it didn't count. She'd laughed and muttered something he didn't understand when he'd asked to dance. But, her eyes sparkled like stars, and she'd spent the night with him anyway.

Their kiss-- Alle's first-- was by the garden, under the light of the foyer. He sighed.

"And how about yours?"

"It's boring."

"No, omg. I talked for like, an entire hour, Maurcie!!! So, you gotta talk for two!"

"I... ok. He was... is. Important to me."

Alle rolled forward.

"It was at church. He'd said some things I needed to hear, so..."

"You went for it!"

He chuckled. "No... but, I needed that too. It was if he'd saved my life, just by kissing me. Though, that's silly of me to say."

"It isn't, though!! Maurcie, this is an amazing first kiss! Like, the complete opposite of boring!"

"Alle..."

"Let me encourage you, ok!"

"Ok. Ok, fine."

[shonen-boy]

Buncha key scenes

MISC OCs :’^0

--

TESSITURA [the picture of savage elegance].

The law must be the same for all, whether it protects or punishes. We, as citizens of this country, endowed with reason and fraternity, must act in the spirit of liberty.

And to those who oppose these values, our revolution of justice?

Death.

Death to them all.

--

It's only when he falters that TESSITURA's strength becomes apparent. Just a snap in the right place, ARABESQUE was aware... and it'll all come down in sheets of ice and rock.

TESSITURA's grip tightened. His wrist hurts more than it should.

TESSITURA We're depending on you, Sir Arabesque. Do you realize the importance of your position?

ARABESQUE I don't take orders from subordinates. TESSITURA [said, like a threat]. They're my ideals-- my vision-- we're fighting for, Arabesque. Please. Do not forget this.

----

PEITA has spoken at length about his past. From his tone, TAMA registers something uncharacteristically sad. His persona remains casual, like an older sibling she's never had.

It's the words that worry her, as well as the wistfulness of his delivery.

PEITA We'd be our own family... brothers, you know? and I'd make sure that he grew up right, that he'd never know that there were people that wanted him dead.

But, he's gone now. I don't know where or why... But, I hope I'll find him. I hope I can make things right.

TAMA [looking outward, keeping distance emotionally] How long's it been?

PEITA Awhile. Today's my 9th year, I think.

TAMA Well. All it takes is tomorrow, right? Just one step in the right direction.

PEITA [a little more positively] Haha, yeah. It'll be great. I've got so much I wanna tell him.

TAMA cannot help but wonder why RIKA could leave someone like PEITA. She doesn't intrude, and speculation's easier anyways. Surely, he must be someone worthwhile, she decides.

Nine years is a long time.

[shonen-boy]

So i’ve been writing scripts to match ota’s magnificent storyboards... hi...

--

Their escape is silent and desperate. As they move, lines and lines of jail bars pass their forms like a film reel. There is a light at the end of the hall; but, there are also a series of echos that call from behind. PETRA hastens JIN forward, his voice a low and panicked rasp.

PETRA We have to hurry. Jin. Stay with me, please. JIN ...

JIN collapses. His knees hit the ground, followed by his hands.  The reel stops.

[PETRA nudges JIN back up.]

PETRA Jin. Please, just a little more. C’mon. JIN ...Sorry... PETRA There’s nothing to be sorry for, man. Listen, none of this is your fault. Jin. Hey. Jin...

The camera falls back as the weight of realization settles. JIN’s expression is telling. He has known this entire time.

It wasn’t their escape. It was only PETRA’s.

JIN takes PETRA’s hand and squeezes it. There is no strength left in his grip. The infection has worsened—the wound now a nest of worms.

JIN Petra. I can’t let them see me like this. Promise me, that you won’t let them. Please.

PETRA awakens to the sound of a gunshot. A flock of birds shutter in its wake. The sky is jarringly bright to contrast the prior scene.

The camera pans out as PETRA stands.

The hill and his body are a single silhouette cut against that bright blue sky.

PETRA I won’t. Promise.

[shonen-boy]

what’s this

A spell burns a memory. The more precious the memory, the more powerful its magic.

It was a day in spring when he came upon a magnolia tree, under which stood a girl who remembered nothing but a name.

Wizards were a strange lot. This one was slight of figure with hair slicked into wet, algae-like tendrils.  Her smock– which might have been a parakeet green– clung heavy and dark to her skin, accentuating the whole drowned-in-a-swamp effect.

Their age was the only point of similarity. Pale as sand and dressed in brown, he was dry, tall and normal. No magic.

The normal boy tucked a stray hair behind his ear and approached the girl who was not.

“I’ve found you,” he said. “That’s my name.”

---

Without a talent for the arts, a good memory can be made useful to other ends. Historian, accountant, wizard’s assistant, as examples. Too stupid for the first and lacking the patience for the second, it was only natural that Olwen became this wizard’s guide.

But, magic cannot burn the retelling of a memory. It requires the collective experience, the sum of all sensations to their most intimate detail. Ergo, Olwen’s position existed in the name of logistics. He was there to reorient his master, and to remind them of a lesson learned or an avenue distantly visited.

Beneath his feet, the grit became dirt. The dirt became mud. The mud gave way to marsh water, and then the pristine tile of her castle.

A towel and a dress waited for her in the foyer. She was in and out under the clinical eye of one who’d done this before– but, not so many times as to resist noticing the delicate hollow of her collarbone.

“You are Melusine.” He said. This statement of fact trained his attention to the pearl buttons at her waist.

“And you are a wizard of water.”

---

He saw her first through a tank at the aquarium. A school of minnows obscured her mouth, eyes and hands. When she turned, they scattered in streaks of pale copper.

Melusine nodded to acknowledge his existence, but did not smile to welcome it.

Her hair moved like an undulating wave as she said: “The Catalan sequence.”  

And he’d recited the request as she watched.

“One. One. Two. Five. Fourteen.”

Or perhaps it was at the café by the theatre, for he also remembered the way the sun had lit that hair with a crest of white. A bistro table at a bistro café: this made far more sense than one in the midst of fish. (Even if she were a wizard of water).

At each quarter hour, Melusine punctuated the monotony of the process with a raised hand. He watched as she studied a small, silvery notebook from her cloak, her eyes obscured by the thick fringe of her eyelashes. Beneath her fingers, the leaflets shimmered like scales.

This happened three times. On the forth, she stood and took his wrist, turning it palm-up.

It wasn’t unlike him to forget a setting. He’d already prefaced this to the wizard before accepting the interview for her post. 

But, he had a mind for numbers and facts, which was enough. 

---

They sat by the river which cut through her garden. 

Two months had passed since he’d found her at that distant field. Melusine had placed her feet into the mud; the reeds caught onto her ankles, its motion like a carp's tail.

Olwen had read from the book in increments. Words and phrases became chapters that described her feats, both great and terrible. There were days when her eyes only reflected what was around her, and she appeared to look through him, rather than at him. There were other days, where he’d catch some semblance of her old self —the way she held a fork at supper, as an example-- and he’d feel his heart at his throat.

If memories made experiences, and experiences made a person… then, what of a wizard is still a wizard?

An old master had told him that forgetting was an inevitability. As we grow, we shed our pasts like an old skin; relationships, priorities and meaning, and with it hundreds and thousands of versions of one's self. Wizards just make the inevitability practical by way of magic. The answer to his question, in other words, didn’t matter.

Not really.

“You sunk a mountain once," he stated. "And you'd cursed the land, so that nothing would grow without a sacrifice in your name. They say that the people there say 'Melusine' like a prayer and blessing-- like a word more precious than water."

[shonen-boy]

lil stupid fluffies

hello,,

these are all alle X maurcillio >: q 

thank u ota for the random words

o1. BUTTS.

"Er... Move your hands higher, Alle. Not there... here."

The grip moved from his rear then firmly to his sides. Allemande laughed and wiggled his fingers, leaned close enough for their noses to touch. "Please forgive this vagrant fool, my dear Maurcillio. I am stupid made stupider when I'm with you."

Beside them, the river lit the grass and Alle's face in streams of white. He flushed, unsure of his place in this moment. There was so little he could have done to deserve it, so little he could offer to the other boy's benefit. A prince, much less.

"Still," Alle continued. "I should hope that you would accept this fool's kiss."

"You're so silly." His lips were soft and eager, the indulgence punctuated only by a shift in those hands-- down then back up then settling just beneath his jawline.

“Alle...”

o2. SINGING

Allemande perched at the bedside, hands clasped tight over his lyre. It was as bright and gold as the finery at their altar, the sort of thing a commoner might have were they a thief (or a prince in disguise).

"You can start," the other boy said, "I'll catch the melody."

"Right"

From his chair, Maurcillio straightened his back and cleared his throat.

Singing came easily, so long as it wasn't for Mihail. From the base of your heart, to your throat's highest point and then outward to a projection point. He registered his voice as the usual contratenor and to the tune of a hymn he'd performed last week in choir.

A stanza came and went. Two refrains, and then a harmony.

Was it bad? Was Alle unfamiliar with the song he'd chosen?

The ease wavered with each note, slowing to a pause and an awkward, solo finale meant for two. He tucked a stray hair behind his ear and trained his eyes downward. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to pick so..."

"Your voice! Maurcillio! It's just... I couldn't... It's beautiful!"

Alle leapt from his spot to clasp his hands.

"Can you teach me?"

o3. THE MOVEMENT OF THE OCEAN/WAVES

Landlocked and centrally-located, the Amheristae kingdom counted two countries east and one country south between its capital and the ocean. Alle was as familiar with the coasts as the rest of his family which was a three week vacation, twice a year.

He crossed his arms and frowned. These paintings did the experience little justice even if they moved.

"It's much bigger," said prince. He pointed Maurcillio's attention from the 8 by 10 to the tapestry at the center of the gallery. "That one's closer, especially with all the glittery bits. But, speaking as a vagrant traveler and hero, you have to see it... It's like, you realize how small you are, how vast the world is... You know?"

Maurcillio placed a finger to his lip in thought before turned to Alle. If his disguise wasn't so perfect, he might have mistaken that look as one of suspicion.

"Ah... I can see that," the other boy stated. "I lived in the countryside before coming to this city. There's a room with paintings of lavender fields, all the right colors, but not quite like I remembered."

"Right? You have to see these sort of things to really get it.  I'll take you to the ocean! You can take me to your flowers! Let's make a promise to each other!"

"I'm not..."

Alle held his breath.

Maurcillio turned. "Okay. Don't look at me like that. Sure. I promise."

o4. SUNSET

The sun dipped beneath the horizon line, a gradient of pale indigo and pink trailing the usual reds and golds. Their shadows had lengthened, turned and then melded into the night. Maurcillio settled his fingers into the grass, plucking at the blades.

Allemande had gone silent.

Sad, but expected, Maurcillio supposed-- but, he'd prepared an answer if Alle'd asked and he'd prepared for the aftermath upon its reveal.

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen."

"...For how long?"

"...Over a year."

Fifteen minutes turned to thirty and then an hour.

At the very least, Maurcillio would have more time for Mihail, who knew and loved him in spite it.

"I'm sorry that happened."

Maurcillio blinked into a hug.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there." The grip tightened into his shirt.

"Alle... Ssh... Please don't cry for me, it's over now."

"But, it isn't! It isn't fair that you went through that!!! I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner."

"I... Alle." Embarrassment. Gratitude. Love. He shook, emotions resurfacing in waves of panic and self-pity. "Please, don’t be like this."

[shonen-boy]

obvious

“Okay, serious question though. You’re young. Smart. Pretty. What do you see in a guy like that?”

The question punctuated Limca’s joke like a stopper to a bottle of champagne. If there was anything to like about the other woman sprawled diagonally opposite herself, it was that Pepper was direct. When everyone had a manual to them, she gave you hers even if you didn’t ask.

The girl took another sip and propped herself up by the elbows. In the patio window peered a reflection of herself, the professor, the sunken living room and the orange glow of the fire place. Pepper’s diamond cuff glittered with patient curiosity. Beneath her sweater, the raised line of her bra, loosened for comfort.

“He’s an idiot.”

“I know plenty of those.”

“He’s my idiot.”

Pepper smiled. “Ah.”

Limca, by contrast, made herself difficult by virtue of her intuition. Pepper knows this kind of nuance like she knows the way her honey dislikes people she finds reasonable enough. Which is to say, a variable known but not fully understood.

“So you like the control then, no?”

“Do I seem like the type?”

“I don’t know. I can see it.”

–

Limca thought to Rasna before leaving for their sleepover, supposing that Pepper’s observation could be right if you squinted at certain angles. At the surface, they’re the prototypical May-December student-teacher romantic-comedy, complete with all the necessary neighbors and friends to make things difficult for him and a little inconvenient sometimes for her.

He’s the kind of person that gets himself into situations too big to handle, but refuses to say otherwise. A toddler, Pepper had concluded.

He needs someone to hurt him, just to wake him up. And honestly, there’s so much more you can do with your time and with those with so much more money and talent.

She crisscrosses her legs, ankles bouncing off the other as she speculates through the buzz of her drink.

She knows herself just as easy as Pepper.

Explanations were only a matter of reception from the other person. It so happens that most people won’t listen when you state what you find obvious, so it’s pointless to try.

Yes, Rasna needs the humility.

But, that was his charm to be provoked not changed.

There was no irony to the kiss she’d left him.

—

Pepper yawned. The rest of her bra came off with an outstretch of the arms. “Anyway. It’s easier to imagine this kinda love stuff with another woman, I think. The benchmarks are just me and what I have to offer compared to the other person.”

‘And who wouldn’t want that?’

She thought this part, but didn't say it.

Her eyes fixed to the ceiling, the lumps of stucco like this morning's cottage cheese. With patience and explanation, Pepper knows that any person can be understood as point A connected to point B to C and so on and so forth. The obvious just saved her time better spent exploring other facets (or someone else, entirely). Another sip from her glass. ___ would return this weekend. "Not to be so... clinical. But, it's a proclivity. I need to know the worth of my investment... and to know, certain variables are best held constant."

[shonen-boy]

spring

i got really stressed out in the middle of writing this so there is porn toward the end

(not completed, will continue)

Pressed to a suede cuff, the lace trim of her sleeve held like a lady held herself at a salon or café.

They were at the latter today. And, at the request of the proprietor, Ven held a basket of baguettes in his free arm and Kazhali a plate of jam biscuits in hers. It’d been a long day with similar stops for pictures; in their newly matched frocks, polished shoes, fitted hats.

‘Isn’t it weird that these humans keep calling us cute?’ he’d asked.

'Oh? Why do you say?’

'We’re assistants to high-leveled wizards is what I mean. Esteem should precede diminution. At least.’

'Mm… If Paracelsus thinks well of me, then I can’t say I mind.’

’…Right.’

This one only needed their likeness for the foyer. So, he’d accept the exchanges because of Kazhali’s opinion (or lack thereof) and in the gingerly way he’d take his master Antero’s advances.

The clock chimes twice some 40 minutes later, and they are seated by a picture-esque window for the passersby. The glass and wood forms a circular frame to fit the girl, the boy and the rose-coloured dishes between them. In the feathery afternoon light, Kazhali’s features are as soft as Ven’s is sweet.

The elegant sleeve curls over the edge of their table.

“It makes sense now that I’ve given it some thought.” His spoon spins in the teacup and he settles back.

“Paracelsus is a master of his craft and an excellent teacher. Of course his respect would be your priority.”

“Ah?”

“Er. Not to be so ungrateful, because Antero is too a wizard of unparalleled magnitude but. I can’t say I’ve learned much from him.”

Kazhali blinked. Then, she nodded empathetically– yes Paracelsus was perfect, yes, Antero was far from it. And yes, Ven’s form could be better.

“My circumstances are fortunate,” she agreed. “Especially facing yours.”

If he’d been bothered by the statement, Ven would have liked to think that he hid it well. But, would have liked is distinct from likelihood. And, instead, the demon finds himself batting at one too many comments on his and Kazhali’s supposed quarrel: from the waitress who waived their bill, all the way down to the end of the fork which returned them to Antero’s townhouse.

'The grass is only as green as your perspective, Ven. Focus on what you have, not on what you don’t.’

Kazhali swung her legs over Antero’s divan. These pictures were typically the last and she thought it a shame that Ven looked so sour as he did. Luckily, the wizard thought the effect cute– like a spoiled child, he’d stated– and Paracelsus was at the other couch watching her.

To the simple pink sensibilities of their seat at the café, the divan at Antero’s townhouse served as a more ostentatious pedestal. Antero collected feats; the more difficult the spells required and the loftier its trophy upon conquest, the greater likelihood its appearance in his garden. She was Ven’s counterpart, Paracelsus had explained, the other half to a set that Antero would never, everown.

Kazahli straightened her back to fit to the frame of Antero’s viewer.

She’d replied that Ven was only a half because he wasn’t very good at magic.

Where he could not stand alone to Antero and on the battlefield, Kazhali would to Paracelsus.

–

Seven snaps and the camera lowered.

“Whatever has gotten you so upset makes for a great picture. But, Ven.”

The camera is gone and his voice– a grand boom– shrunk to some semblance of empathy. All the same, his form hangs like an imposing shadow.

Ven turns his head.

“Did you miss your master?”

The wizard turns it back.

His kiss is as soft as it was embarrassing. “Did my meeting with Paracelsus go too long?”  It moved from his forehead to his lips.

“Uhh… I could go, you know.”

Kazhali had already propped herself into his arm, as if to reemphasize the notion that “Yes, yes, we could.”

“We’ll continue this discussion next week, Paracelsus. There were some variables I’d forgotten to address.”

And, as the door shut, Antero pinned his assistant to the chair and straddled him, fingers working to the buttons of his ruffled collar.

–

Ven wrapped his arms around Antero’s neck, that chest and those hips broad against his own. His master liked the proximity as it marked their difference in size. And it was his duty as demon and assistant to attend to the things that his master liked (that he himself disliked.)

He faltered as Antero thrust, his cock, thick, heady and still overwhelming even with the many times they’d fucked in a day. Two already; three, if the session past midnight counted.

“You’re so spoiled, Ven.

…I’ll take it that you’ve already forgiven me?”

“Nnnn…”

His knee had lifted and he felt Antero more acutely. “I’d hope so. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you didn’t.” Inside him and beside himself with satisfaction, the other man’s giddiness had mounted to the usual fawning that wrapped itself around own shaft and stroked it. The divan moved as his body rocked to Antero’s, dignity lapsing to pleasure only his master could give.  

When he came, quietly and with tears blurring the corners of his eyes, the man stroked his hair and chuckled.

The pillow was cool to his cheek as Antero urged him forward to his elbows and entered him again.

“Though, you’ve always been so easy to please.”

–

Paracelsus stood outside having just remembered that he’d left his book at Antero’s vanity but then also having heard something along the lines of “how cute,” “so cute” and “you love this don’t you?”

He considered the options.

They’d lived together for a considerable amount of time during his apprenticeship; so, modesty was not the issue in so much as it was watching (much less hearing) Antero and Venetici like this. Of course, the book could perhaps be teleported; but, it could also set fire during teleportation which would be an inconvenience… But, it would also be an inconvenience to spend another night without.

He shifted his weight to the other leg.

Kazhali blinked from his arm. Whatever delayed her master must have been important.

[shonen-boy]

breeze

i really wanted to write a fight scene HI

(these are self-inserts >:^ 0 )

---

The world came and went like a passing zephyr-- a wind of which Cappy barely registered.

He turned his spear from under Vorlad's kneecap, striking him once at the thigh and then again with the hilt.

The breeze and sickening crunch die only as he realizes their importance. And, what's left is a thought to what others might think and a supposed emotion in place of a real one.

He timed his smile as Vorlad looked up. It was a day in spring and their clearing sparkled green and gold as the hero hauled the hero's companion from off the ground.

"Guess I'm no match for destiny, huh!"

"Ah... well, you almost had me with that parry.

Even a hero of justice needs practice!" Though neither of these statements were so.

"Who's next?" --- The sparkles turned from that green and gold to orange and then red as one-by-one, his companions stood to parry; and one-by-one, they fell, shook their heads and sprawled like ants to the perimeter. Hero's knight, hero's mage, records-keeper and confidant. Signa side-stepped past Iliana's waist and Volrad's neck with the same care that Cappy used to smile and apologize.  

His spear lifted.

The man at its end claimed fatigue with each round. Yet, the expression, posture and ease by which he held his weapon was that the same as it'd been before and during training.  Cast red, the effect could have been unsettling.

Signa might have pursued the lie. Why? And, to what end, Cappy?

The answer, easily guessed and already present within the presence of their audience... yet if there was anything that wasn't uninteresting in this world, it was his destined rival. Just his practice partner, for now.

"Be careful Signa!" called Desi.

"I'll try." ---

Signa returned the same tactic he'd used on Volrad with a jump and lunge. Cappy finished the circle of his momentum and reoriented his stance. As the dust rose at their feet, the other man's blade had cut at the handle between his hands. He'd fallen to the defense.

"You can do better Cappy." "Right." He made no excuses to the fights prior, because 'They didn't make a difference, anyway,' Signa thought.

He pulled the blade and stepped back. Again.

[shonen-boy]

impressions, iver’s side

I STARTED A COMPANION PIECE A BIT BACK..

supposed to go with impresssions, paradis’ side.

o1. Paradis Leicester. 

Hers was a name among an indexed bestiary, sorted on the basis of interest and use. Iver was practical in that way; trivia became evidence to habit and motivation when and if the occasion arose. A murder, as an example. A newfound partnership.

Or, in this case, a wayward glance. 

The Marchioness concluded her point on the king and his advisor as the detective  considered the younger Leicester’s relationships and mode of presentation. If she’d been more important, he’d think her existence sad at best. Cadmus Leicester was the politician where Paradis Leicester stood as the obligatory appearance, a sibling whose reputation hung like an afterthought to another’s. 

With a twig-like snap, she withdrew from his stare.

(Importance doesn’t suit her type.)

(And, for people like Paradis Leicester, Iver couldn’t have expected any different.)

o2.  The week which followed found him in the garden, counting the petals of a violet bloom.

As the stem spun clockwise and counterclockwise between his thumb and index finger, the sun cast a white light through the fig leaves above. This bright and this cold, with shadowy splotches swaying this way and that over his arms and bench, he placed the hour between 7 and 8.

Each step was like the tick of a gear to the castle’s machinery. The short and hurried ones that padded were for the servants that had to be both quick and careful. The long and easy ones were reserved for those who let others wait while never waiting themselves.

From the overhead window, a shadow eclipses the splotches at his arms.

There was no sound.

And, it passes before he turns, so he doesn’t.

o3. To compose himself around a liar and a murderer was easy. Just as easy as it was to simply be himself, making these sorts of listless garden-side observations, day-by-day, by day. The difference in knowledge– his knowledge versus theirs– meant a difference in power. 

And to the aspect of murder? 

That was a difference in preparation.

He nodded at both now, the height, the make, the shape of the passing shadow one of many factors to this case. The culprit took the upperhand as they always did, briefly, before he deciphered what they knew and then their plan of escape.

Paradis Leicester excused herself.

o4. His next impression followed a thought said to no one: “Wait… that’s not right." 

But, answered with an "Oh?” And then “Do explain then Countess.” He recognized the stiffness as recognition. But, like he with the shadow from earlier… The delicate yellow-orange curls moved at her neck where she did not. 

Her voice is more resolute than Iver might have imagined. “The Viscount told me that his father would have been down to oversee the begonias. When the delivery was delayed, the maid saw the old master in the yard, not the balcony. So, our working timeline can’t be right because–" 

"It would place the victim too far from his murder. I’d considered the possibility of a moving corpse. But it leaves the question of its detection. Or, rather, lack thereof, Countess… Unless." 

…

And, Iver took to the hall before the connection left him, leaving Paradis Leicester alone at the stairwell. 

o5. Focus and speculation. The difference in servants prior and after a distraction and an explanation for the unfamiliar noise, so Iver turned to the girls’ exchange. A noble person to a servant was like a servant to any noble person. Which was to say, indistinguishable within its pack.

Ergo, old master to a poor, useless and tardy servant girl could have been any richly dressed person she’d never met. 

Even a murderer.

He’d explained all this to his audience.

And, as the servant looked helplessly to Iver--not knowing if she’d fallen in love or if the shame had overtaken her will to exist--, Iver thought to Paradis. 

Paradis. 

Paradis.

o6. “Countess Paradis Leicester.” 

“Marquis.” 

Her neck is slim and pale beneath a wound black ribbon. The curve of her chest rises and falls beneath the knit bodice of her dress. And, what he’d originally equated to fear, he now relabeled reticence: wisely, interestingly kept. 

He smiled.

“Would you accompany me next week, to Lady Sancta Fide’s?” 

...

[shonen-boy]

THAT ONE TWITTER STORY

i found it and put it back together aYYY

-------

In this world there exists a City of Witches, the Heart of Magic, a living and moving myth of steel and glasswork.

And, within this City whose base stands upon six mechanical legs exists a witch named Cadence. Presently, the witch called Cadence had taken the form of a young boy, and in a field of thistle the young boy-witch Cadence had lost his hat.

Akin to a school uniform or a ticket to a ferry, a witch without a hat would not be allowed entrance into the City of Witches. And, as needlessly bureaucratic as it was, the officers at the front gate followed this protocol with the utmost ceremony.

Once, Cadence had recalled how an aunt of a friend's friend had lost her bonnet some time between the city's settlement and move from Paris and then Tibet. He had seen her from the round blue window of his study (though he probably hadn't been studying), a woman too far to be sure of her features. She wore white linen, however, he could tell that much and the tails of her amber beaded skirt caught in the rocks as she beat her way toward the leaving City.

 The witch Cadence never saw the aunt again though he had shuffled the observation to the back of his mind (along with his belated assignments).

They say that once the City leaves it is impossible to find it, no matter how long a witch has lived there.

Standing here in a field of thistle, hat-less and alone, the witch Cadence felt worry bubble from his stomach and dying just short of the tips of his fingers. "I'll find it," he thought, hands balling themselves into fists. The City let out a puff of steam and creaked as if to challenge the statement.

Somehow, he could not recall how his hat could've possibly escaped his fingers nor his crown; it was far too heavy a thing to flutter very far should the wind get the better of him, too garish in all its intricate bone-work and heavy lining to camouflage itself in any field such as this one.

Therefore, Cadence thought reasonably, it must have been stolen.  

(In truth, he'd steal such a magnificent thing too...)

---

In the next city, upon the nearest throne sits an old king.

Though, rather than the usual crown upon his head was a splendid hat-- found and presented to him by the most handsome and steadfast knight in all his court. The knight stood tall in her shining armor though not too tall as to out-shine her too-stylish king.

Though the courtesans thought this silly if only under the heavy perfume of their feathered fans and cat-like whispers-- the king's old age only served to contrast the Lady Rocio's elegant nape, the definition of her jaw and the shapeliness of her arms (seen only in the brief instances when she was without that metal).

 In all honesty, they continued, fairness ran like fire within the bloodline of the royals... but in law and composure not in face and form. The king's daughter, for example, kept to herself unless the Lady Rocio was alone. And, in all her plainess, studied and read instead.

 The princess was named Pavlina-- though close friends could call her Lina if they so insisted on the informality-- and she was in love with the Lady Rocio.

These feelings had been made apparent when the Lady Rocio was 12, and already the court's darling-- a prodigy of etiquette, riding and joust. Lady Rocio had bowed to her opponent and then to the audience, and their eyes caught on a copper line of electricity. And the jolt, both warm and exciting, moved from Lady Rocio's dashing smile before striking Princess Pavlina's heart.

She could not read that night (or even the rest of the week), only think to the girl knight and wonder "Was that smile for me?"

(or out of that renown etiquette?)

Whether it was or was not, Pavlina did not mind, only hoped to highest hope that she could shine so brightly as the Lady Rocio.

She sighed to the chamber-y echo of the grandfather clock, reclining at her usual reading spot by the window. The stained glass washed the nook over in stretched diamonds of gold and vermilion. In the distance, the court's chatter

The princess had had the most terrible luck since her Rocio had brought her father that hat. With that extravagant thing came excuses to celebrate, public appearances... which, in turn, meant the knight had to attend as well.

 She pressed her head against the plush back of the chair. In the courtyard, an unfamiliar figure. Perhaps a witch?

---

Cadence had traveled for half a day, silently cursing the sun and the brush and his diminutive height and finally his own negligence, lacking both the spell knowledge and power to alleviate these series of inconveniences.

 But, if anything, he gathered his hat's location. Cadence was a poor study, but at least three levels above pathetic in the end.

A society steeped in tradition, the City of Witches values these things above all else.  They are from least to greatest importance: hats, punctuality and the core curricula. The latter encompassing the former two with mandatory courses for every young witch.

In his 10th year, Cadence and his class had taken a City trip to the Plaza of Artisans.     

By this time, many of his fellows had taken elegant, robust or otherwise intimidating forms as their default... So Cadence and some others stood like human children in a procession of model-esque gentlemen and ladies.

They stood short and small, but in front. Their professor made sure everyone could observe the resident Hatter at work.

"A witch's hat," Cadence recalled in the Hatter's melodious voice, "is imbued with a touch of magic in every stitch and line."  "Should you ever doubt the genuineness of another witch's hat, close your eyes and run your fingers along the brim. …And feel for the sparks-- same as the kind beneath your fingers after a long spell." Here, she demonstrated, smiling and nodding as she caught Cadence's eye.

One lesson of hundreds and, fortunately, he had remembered an important one.

 And, to this, he trudged gallantly over the prickles and toward the next kingdom (and nearest throne).

---

The phantom pull of his hat carved an eastbound path for Cadence upon which he caught the faint smell of saltpeter and ash.   

...that only intensified as he neared his destination.

 His certainty wavered when the stench became overwhelming and he sensed a magical presence that was not his own.

Cadence ran his hand along the blackened bark of a tree, shivering as his nerves registered the surge of magic residue.

The average spell fades as it materializes; structures of dust easily crushed by the turn of time and the elements. Far from average, this spell was akin to a /series of curses/ unlike anything Cadence had ever seen before. 

But he needed his hat; and, what else could he do, really?        

---

 [CHAPTER 2]

When they had found the child, it had been a rainy Saturday hunt in a field of thistle.  The child-- or accurately, toddler-- was small, dark skin shrunk to the bone and hair matted with mud to match.

"Ah! Now, isn't that sad?" a nobleman piped, "Unfortunate, really."

"True and quite," answered another courtesan.

And they would have left it at that if not for yet another's quip.

The last to speak yet the cleverest of the trio, Lady Adelaide gave a smile akin to that of a wolf. (The sparkling sharpness of her blue eyes accentuating the effect).

She motioned toward the girl, fingers curling outward one by one, "But, consider a foundling such as this one, gentlemen. Now, imagine her, reared by the court, every noble person giving just a little to ensure her comfort.

Can you think of anything so amusing as this?"

The two looked upon one another. The aforementioned foundling kept her gaze locked downward, understanding little but enough.

 "It isn't much if the effort is collaborative."

"And! Fools /have/ been hard to come by as of late."

 "Well-thought Addie, my girl! Brilliant as always!"

"Of course."

And so it was as it was. In the face of life versus death, fate had brought three noblepeople to her would-be burial ground. For this, she would learn to be grateful.

Rocio, like dew-- the court decided. They had found her in the rain so it was only poetic that she'd be named as such. And she should joust and ride, learn the manners in which to properly speak and curtsy, they decided....and hunt and embroider and sing and...

Among this flurry of decisions, Rocio kept her gaze low and accomplishments high.

A decorated dog is a dog all the same. This was her Truth. Under the usual circumstances, Rocio paid her respects to this constant.

 Except, perhaps when she was alone with the Princess Pavlina.

Then, her Truth seemed almost cruel.  

---

As Rocio belonged to Pavlina's father, her loyalty to the young princess should have only been by proxy-- nothing less. And beside, the princess would wed another royal, would she not?

The question hung heavy once, when she was 12 and a smaller princess had watched her first tournament. The girl had been hesitant in her stance, yet forthright in gaze. 

Rocio raised her sword, bringing the point up and forward with an elegant arch. And now, nerves raw from the voltaic waves of magic that pulsed in pendulums of pain and pressure. The question, the stance, the gaze all the same.

"I'm coming with you," the girl said. "/Please/."

Her joints ached terribly all the while. 

"Dear princess," she responded, "Your future lies in-wait, and I gather your father would want you to find it someday."  Pavlina hit the floor in the instant that Rocio recovered her stance. "And I hope, as well."

 (To the question, Rocio bowed to its Truth, the last that would define her in this lifetime.

  And to the gaze and stance she thought, /Farewell/.)