#SO I REWROTE IT LOL

[willowser]

now i wake up by your side—

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 2.8k+

tags: u.a. college au, canon-compliant, reader has a telekinesis/telepathic quirk, references (and potential spoilers) for the current arc in the manga, angst, a lot of secret hidden feelies

tysm to @alrightberries for giving me the opportunity to bring this lil thought of yours to life 🥺 your patience and understanding during the time it took me to write this is so appreciated it, and tbh you're the reason i'm even still here right now LOL you're so sweet, and i hold your kindness so close to my heart. i wish i could convey how much it means to me. i hope i did this even a lil justice !! happy birthday dear !!!! 🥺🩷✨️

Sero dreams of watching the sunrise on top of the Roppongi Observatory.

It’s a beautiful sight, one you’ve never seen with your own eyes, but you soak in the warmth flushing across his cheeks and the anticipated break of morning through the clouds. When he takes in a hefty breath, you feel the spring chill sting inside his chest, crisp and clear, like it’s you breathing instead of him, and it’s almost comforting enough to lull you to sleep, too.

But a clay pot shattering against a nearby bench has your eyes springing open, ripped from the haven you’d been lost to. 

You have to blink several times in order to fight through the exhaustion wearing you thin, but the evening returns to you in small, bleary doses. It’s the middle of the night—or at least it was when you’d first wandered out to the training field, and you can’t be sure how many hours have passed since then. Across the yard, you’ve successfully managed to carry four pots from the garden plot near the entrance all the way to your feet with your Quirk— but number five sits in pieces in the grass.

You’ll have to clean that up by morning or Eraser will make you run laps until you puke. Again.

Kirishima flits through your mind in a suit and tie: not as a Hero, but a spy of some kind, chasing down men with masks covering their faces and wielding a gun that looks odd in his hands, even in his own dream. Despite being back in the dorms, stories up and near the end of the hall, you can see it—hear him yelling out at the criminal to stop, feel the thud of the ground under his feet. His own determination blares through you like a freight train, as strong and damning as he is, and you fight to force yourself back inside your own shoes as you try to carry another pot.

Recovery Girl used to tell you that you did this to yourself: all your worry about losing sleep psyching yourself out of it completely, chasing it away before it even had the chance. When everyone is getting ready for bed, heading out of the common room and hitting the showers, you can feel that suspense building; what will come across tonight while everyone dreams? Fantasies? Or nightmares?

During the day it’s easier to drown out the foot-traffic of everyone’s thoughts—you do it without trying, now—but your brain needs rest, too. Letting go of control for even a second, just to get some shut eye is—

Something frightening is outlined in your peripheral vision, the dash of a pale shape you aren’t able to discern before it’s gone. The air turns metallic and stale and you can hear water sloshing, though you’re nowhere near the pools. All your blood rushes in your ears and your fingers curl, like you’re gripping your seat—gripping the edge of the couch in the common room, where you’d been sitting beside Mina when Kaminari put on that horror movie. The one with the—

“The hell are you doin’?”

Your eyes snap open for the hundredth time that night—show over, credits rolling—and it’s Bakugou. Standing only feet away from the new set of clay shards of your failure, tangible and real and staring at you with an intensity not even your dreams could mimic.

You blink, eyes stinging and heavy. You must look insane. “Oh, hey,” the voice that comes out of you is far-away, chartered off to distant lands, and he notices immediately, focus razor-sharp despite how late it is. “What did you say?”

Bakugou wrinkles his nose, like he’s offended at having to repeat himself. “I said, what the hell are you doin’? It’s nearly 2 in the morning and you’re out here throwin’ shit around in your fuckin’ pajamas.”

Almost on cue, the breeze brushes past your legs, chilly enough to have you shivering, and you peek down at them as if you don’t know what they look like. The sweater you’re wearing is from second year and the U.A. logo is half-worn off, but it’s the comfiest thing you own and if you’re going to be plagued all night by the forced intimacy of your classmates’ dreams—you at least want to be cozy.

When you look back up at him, Bakugou is pointedly looking away, taking interest in something other than your wimpy state of dress. 

It dawns on you then that he’s out here, too, in sweats and a simple back sweatshirt, hair a messy, golden halo in the pale, buzzing field lights. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think his face was a little rosy, but—maybe you’re seeing things.

Still. Being out and away from everyone, alone with Bakugou, makes your stomach tighten horribly. Like you’ve done too many sit-ups.

You try to brush off your sudden bout of shyness, because you know he’ll clock that in no time, too. “Well, I could ask you the same thing.” At the raise of your eyebrows, he only tchs, and casts you a filthy look. “But I think maybe I’ll just mind my own business.”

The face he makes is so awful and hot-blooded that you laugh, truly and earnestly, enough that a headache pulses to life. You wince, and the stream of pain that shoots down the middle of your skull brings back that image of Kirishima’s action-thriller: blood and knives, the sound of skin on skin, a fist against cheekbones, the ugly snap of breaking—

“Oi.”

Bakugou is closer than before, when you’re grounded back inside yourself. At least no pots have been broken this time. Less to clean up.

“Sorry,” you shoot him an apologetic smile that you know he must hate. “It’s just so—” your hand feels like it’s made of lead, but you drag it up to massage slow circles into your temple, trying not to grit your teeth and worsen the pounding in your head. “So loud sometimes.”

He’s silent until the pain ebbs out, and when you can blink without flinching, you peek up to catch how intently he’s watching your face. In the night like this, his eyelashes seem darker, longer, a kind of haunting beauty you would dream about, if you could get some sleep.

Again, you think of Kaminari’s horror movie, legs pressed against Mina’s under the heavy comforter she’d brought down from her room. It’s warm, the kind of pink, fluffy thing you’d imagine a girl like her to have—but it didn’t stop you from shivering every time you chanced a glance at Bakugou and found him already staring back.

The heat in your cheeks spreads to the back of your neck, so immediate that you think you might start sweating. “Dreams and stuff,” you murmur, by way of an explanation, “nightmares, sometimes.”

Bakugou's frown deepens, the muscle in his jaw tightening once as he grits his teeth. “What, you can just…hear that shit all night?”

“Usually,” you shrug, “It just comes in, you know? And I—” you steal another glance at him, aware, then, of just how intrusive you might sound. The veil of privacy is thin between you and others, and they don't often like being reminded of that. “Not for you, though. I don't—I don't get anything from you.”

And it's true, frustratingly enough. Not that you are ever intentionally peeking into anyone's head, but things slip through, occasionally—sudden reactions, wild, loose trains of thought. 

Bakugou's face twists, regardless, and you're reminded of all the times you've been forced to spar together, at Eraser's behest. One of the smartest in your class, quick on his feet and never without a plan; every time you've managed to get a hand on Bakugou, there's been nothing but a sea-shore calm.

It's hard to do and, at this point in your life, you've seen a thousand people try it—but he's the only one that's ever succeeded in keeping you at bay.

Nothing in his expression changes, but all your nerves spread to your voice until it shakes. “You're—I don't look in there, of course, but it's—you've always been…” Bakugou is terrible at taking compliments, you know that, almost as bad as you are at giving them. “Pretty, I guess.”

Awful, at giving them.

Embarrassment floods him, suddenly stained pink as he curls into himself. “Piss off,” he barks, and though he’s scowling at you in what must be disgust—you can’t help but to smile at how aggressively bashful he is.

You almost get the guts to make matters worse, just because you can. Admit how handsome you’ve come to find him, after the last few years, until his face is steaming in the sweet nighttime chill; the kind of intimacy you wouldn’t mind dreaming about again and again.

The absence of his thoughts are a comfort for your tired mind, has all the harsh edges of night fading into something a little easier to swallow, to breathe in. You know he does it on purpose as a strictly defensive move, but you almost want to thank him. For the quiet.

You don’t know if it’s from you or him, but when you reach a hand up to hover near his temple, the air buzzes between you, gently. Charged with that same thing that had you unable to look away from him in the common room only days ago. “In here, I mean,” you murmur, and the smile you pull on feels lame, but it’s as genuine as ever. “I don’t know, I don’t know how you do it. But it’s…nice.”

You’ve seen him die a thousand times.

Mostly in Midoriya’s dreams, sometimes in Eraser’s when he nods off during last period, but that horror—like many others, from that day—stains you all. When dinner is put away and showers are finished and the lights go out and the flood gates open, someone almost always relives the ugliness of it all; you’re more familiar with that moment than you are with any of your own.

Here and now, you close your eyes and see Jirou staring back at you, face beautiful and full of hope. You see Kirishima’s torn suit jacket and the blood on his cheek and the empty gun in his hand, the most dedicated secret agent. Aoyama is dreaming of his mother, something warm that makes you feel like you’re dazzling, too.

And yet—Bakugou is silent. Even right in front of you. Even after everything.

If anyone deserves the peace and quiet, you suppose it ought to be him.

“When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

You blink until his blurry figure is clear, and it’s like you can physically feel whatever energy you had left seeping from your body at the mere mention of sleep. “Maybe a morning or two ago,” you tell him truthfully, “I usually pass out after a few rounds of ‘throwin’ shit around’.”

Bakugou only stares at you as he digests the words, and once he’s gotten them down, he shakes his head before looking out over the mess you’ve made of the training field. With his head turned like this, you can take in the full weight of his scar—the one that’s wide and still baby-pink across his cheek. 

You almost get the guts to tell him he’s handsome. Almost.

Frustration is evident on his face when he looks back at you, but his voice comes out softer than you expect, like he's struggling to get out any words at all. “Can’t keep doin’ this,” he chastises. “Can’t be a Hero if you’re half asleep all the time. Gotta figure this shit out.”

“I am,” you give a lazy wave to your pots, “What’s wrong with this solution?”

“It's ass.”

“Alright, you have any better ideas, pretty boy?”

He bristles, visibly enough to have you snickering, and—you’re not sure what you expect of him; to continue his griping or leave you to your own devices, building his walls up high as he always does. Ever the fighter, ever the protector; maybe it’s a good thing, you tell yourself, because you’re weak like this and one of you needs to be thinking straight.

Despite his flush, there’s a playfulness to his grouchy expression, his raspy tone—and it has you leaning too far into things you don’t know how to name.

You never know what to expect of him.

There’s the slightest brush of skin against the back of your hand, and when you drop your eyes to the slowly-dwindling space between you—the rough pads of his fingers are touching you, gently. Softly enough to be the breeze, if it weren’t so warm.

You’re afraid to look at him, suddenly, like it will break whatever spell the night is casting over both of you; instead you press your lips together to stop their wobbling and the smile fighting to give you away. You’re waiting for that sea-shore calm, that quiet comfort, whatever it is he’s trying to offer you, strangely enough, in this moment. When you turn your hand over to catch his, the air buzzes again and the blood rushes in your ears.

You focus and—all you can see is your own face staring back at you. In a flash, like he’s cycling through his cards in a hurry, trying to find the best one.

You, across the arena during the entrance exam. You, in the locker room before the Sport's Festival. You, sitting in the common room during Christmas. You, ruined with tears and your own blood and covered in grime, on the darkest day of your life.

You, now. On the field in the stale light, prettier than you think you must look, for being so exhausted, the lines of your smile deep as you grin up at him.

—And then there's nothing.

The absence of noise is louder than anything. A stark, white silence that cuts through; a different world trickling away. A single touch and a little focus is all it takes to take root inside someone’s head and that’s always felt like a weapon, but now it feels like coming inside from a snowstorm, relief shuddering down your spine. Everyone else's fears and nerves and heartaches dissolve until they’re only a bitter taste at the back of your throat. Something far, far behind you

There’s just Bakugou. A strong silence that feels impenetrable, invulnerable to the outside. The steady beat of his heart is comforting in a way you didn’t realize it would be, has that bloody, dead-eyed image of him shifting into something else: another moment in Midoriya’s memories, of his silhouette standing in the sun, tall and fierce and alive.

Returned. Here and now with you, after numerous, unforeseen turns of events. You wonder if the ease surrounding you is his own, something else he’s sharing—or if this is just how it feels to be with him after so long. Maybe in the past it was different—you know it was; during the entrance exam, during the Sport’s Festival—but now you feel more relaxed than you ever have. A reminder that, no matter how dark the nights get, the sun is only just beyond the horizon. 

Returned, comforting and quiet.

(You won't know this until much later, but your hand will go slack in Katsuki's and his fingers will tighten around your own because he's not ready to let go yet. When your knees buckle, he'll already be there, awkwardly holding you up against his shoulder as his face flames and his eyes dart around the empty field, checking for any shitty snoops.

Ears is always up damn late, too, and there's a decent chance he'd get caught trying to haul you back to your room on the third fuckin’ floor, so there's really no better option than to gently lower you both to the grass. After a couple of minutes with no movement, the field lights will shut off and only the distant glow of the stars will remain.)

(You won't know this until much later, but Katsuki will arrange the both of you so that your head isn't slumped on the hard ground, but resting on the plush of his bicep, an arm around your shoulders so that the warmth can be shared between you both. His heart will pound hard enough in his chest to be worrisome, and every time you shuffle and scoot closer to him and nudge your nose into his sweater—Katsuki will fight to stay open and true, only honest with you in this wordless way.)

(You won't know this until the sun rises high behind your lids and your bones ache and he’s shown you things he could never say, but it's the best sleep you think you've ever gotten. With him, under the stars, surrounded by his calm and his constant.)

(You won't remember this but in your dream—your real dream, born from with solace Katsuki offers you—the morning will rise and settle in and he'll walk you back to your room despite the stares and in the elevator when you're alone, his lips will touch yours and you'll feel his  heart in your chest and his nerves in your stomach and his fear and relief all in one.)

(And right away, when you wake up, you'll finally have a name for this thing that's been blooming between you both for as long as you can remember—and he will, too.)

[annasofthe11thdimension]

Pictured: Loop being extremely normal as they lay in their shallow (homemade) grave as they meditate on existence and also if they have annoyed the Researcher enough THIS time for her to murder them and bury them alive.

(Spoilers - they did not annoy her even CLOSE to that much.)

And there is the required reverse image of Odile arriving - she's had a LONG day (i.e. previous loop), and due to this it will take ten minutes before she even acknowledges the shallow grave Loop is laying in, as she was distracted complaining about what Siffrin just did to annoy her.

----

I'd say there's context for all of that, because like...there IS context? Here's the link to the series of fics that HAS that context even! But also...even with context...can't say that it's going to make any of this less weird.

Mostly Odile is looping because due to Loop's wish the universe got rewritten to make Siffrin's repression and emotional issues (the ones bad enough to get him stuck in a time loop in the game) 'someone else's' problem...or at least that's Loop's best theory atm!

Regardless, context or not, I'm quite happy with how the pics came out, and figured I might as well post them here too.

[alizibtheterrible]

Inside my heart is breaking, my makeup may be flaking

but my smile still stays on

wanted to draw this man for a while now. This song popped up on my recommended and all my brain cells started working overtime. Anyways Happy Thanksgiving!

[a2zillustration]

I carried this thing for MONTHS with the EXPRESS PURPOSE of putting Raphael in it (knowing full well Larian wouldn't let me do that, mechanically) and I had one major miscalculation.

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[worm-in-a-trenchcoat]

As much as I love G3 for what it is, I still absolutely hate the fact they they made it so were-creatures turn human during a full moon.

Like it genuinely irritates me so bad why did they do that 😭.

It just makes no sense?? It’s like they forgot they made Clawdeen half human last minute and were like “hmm what do we do to make this make sense?” And then made it makes even less sense lmao 💀.

I just saw the teaser trailer for the new YouTube series and they showed human Clawdeen, that’s why I’m randomly bringing this up. She looks so cursed lol.

Were-creatures turning human at some points makes sense, but during a full moon??? That’s so backwards 😭

[polux-aka-hyakunana]

Cooking my own food between projects pt.2

Pt 1 feat Tycoon and Buffa

And context on the rambling tags of this past post lol

[astrolotte]

Fun update overall, love the lesbians, but god I can't believe people dared to get mad at me for suggesting devsis could ever be aphobic when the last update had just come out

Before, I interpreted these messages as an aromantic kid denying their own aromanticality and latching onto the concept of love, which I thought was nice because that's genuinely something a lot of aro people go through, and I thought it was cool that Devsis were exploring a story with that. But?? There seems a clear indication that Pavlova and Sugarfly are/could be in love, in another timeline. We're clearly meant to think there's something going on there - and the potential Cupid/Psyche metaphor...

Which just makes all those lines about love being The Ultimate Goal aphobic, ESPECIALLY since in the first two screenshots he is telling Hollyberry how she needs to let love in her heart while she tells him she prefers it empty, and then she DOES. And Pavlova comments on how her heart is full now.

So, the message is just that we all feel love even if we think we don't, or would prefer not to?

if a message of a story was that the man who only experiences attraction to men fell in love with a woman, or that a trans woman actually realizes she was a man all along, we would rightfully call it queerphobic. But when the message is that the person without love turns out to actually feel it all along, we accept it. Because aphobia is treated as not as big of a deal - after all, it's so accepted in our society that most people don't know stuff like that is aphobic! And that's true. And why I'll probably keep playing, I'm used to it. But that doesn't make it okay.

And during Pride Month too! Thank youuuuu Devsisters

And before you try to argue with me, I know you don't want the company behind a game you like to be bad, but please just genuinely consider the implications here. It's shitty. They did a shitty thing.

[bbeelzemon]

as time goes on im realizing that describing your gender is tbh kinda similar to the naming of jellicle ca- hey wait no stay with me for a second here okay. im holding your hands and looking directly into your eyes now. listen to me. i have a public facing gender. a more specific and personal gender that i can share with my closest friends and family. and an innermost unique gender that only i can ever truly know. gender is just like a jellicle cats

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The prophecy x long story short

lmao first of all I missed this by one night but ANYWAY I'M BITTER BUT I SWEAR I'M FINE. Groupama Stadium you will always be (in)famous or whatever.

Once again: I love the way she plays this! Girl and Her Guitar Doing A Bit At A Coffee House! She sounds so beautiful and the vibe of the song is so different, even if the meaning is the same.

Spending my last coin for someone to tell me it'll be OK... Past me, I want to tell you not to get lost in these petty things. THAT IS A GENIUS TRANSITION. GENIUS!!!

She spends the whole "Prophecy" section singing about deep longing and yearning and loneliness, and then in comes "Long Story Short" to be like "lol what even was that THANK U NEXT." The unrelenting sadness of the first song gives way to the magical healing powers of time, where these deeply painful experiences fade into distant memories and you find yourself in a much, much better place on the other side.

Who do I have to speak to to see if they can redo the prophecy? ... Long story short it was the wrong guy(-uy-uy). Long story short, I survi(i-i-)ved. Is that not TTPD in a nutshell? Grieving all the things you have to give up inch by inch as you sink deeper into your loneliness, only to realize: hey, maybe I'm not the problem after all, maybe there's another variable that can change the outcome. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, maybe it's time to do something to change that. And she DID survive! She faked it till she made it till it was true! AND SHE DID REDO THE PROPHECY. Because she did end up finding someone who wanted her company and wasn't going to make her crumble in wait.

As an aside, I looooooooooooove how she sings "Slow is the quicksand, poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand / Oh, still I dream of him," because she is bordering on twangy and it just feels soooooooooo intimate. Once again, she sings so beautifully. And another thing about her delivery: On the album, The Prophecy is obviously so, so sad; there's such an air of defeatism yet desperation at the same time. Obviously on the B stage, the vibes are completely different in general, but it's especially notable when she comes back to The Prophecy after LSS: she did redo the prophecy! She didn't seal her fate, she changed it! SHE DID THAT! She reclaimed the land! And now she's all about the next person in her life! (Dare I say, him passing by rare like the glimmer of a comet in the sky was indeed a sign of a soulmate!) She wasn't condemned to shades of greige for the rest of her life, she found all the colours all over again!

The mashup is so much fun but also more poignantly a testament to the human spirit. She thought she'd be forever alone, and now she's found forever again! She thought that it would kill her but it didn't! In fact, she's found something even better. And I've come to love "long story short, it was the wrong guy" even more now, because it's another way of saying "lovers spend years denying what's ill-fated": e.g. trying to fit a square peg in a round hole until it drives you crazy is exhausting... at a certain point you need to realize you're working with the wrong tools. But look what happens when you find your match!

It's such a hopeful, cathartic story!

[omegalomania]

What are some of your favorite aro-/ace-coded fob lyrics?

oh fuck yes a little bowl of seeds just for me

boycott love from disloyal order of water buffaloes is a personal favorite of mine. its a lyric i really really want tattooed at some point. that's not the only lyric i latch onto from an aro perspective but it's probably the biggest one

basically the entirety of it's hard to say "i do" when i don't but a special mention goes to you are appealing to emotions that i simply do not have as well as the only ring i want buried with me are the ones around my eyes

it's true romance is dead / i shot it in the chest and in the head from the music or the misery is also a favorite of mine, also just that whole song in general

i thought i loved you but it was just how you looked in the light in hum hallelujah resonates with a lot of queer folks i've found, and it's no different for me

same goes for it's a strange way of saying that i know i'm supposed to love you from g.i.n.a.s.f.s.

i'm outside the door, invite me in / so we can go back and play pretend from alone together brings me back to when i was trying to perform heteronormativity/amatonormativity even if it was making me miserable

i also hold to a very similar vibe with she said "i love you 'till i don't" / i am just playing house, no idea what i'm doing now from sunshine riptide and also most of burna boy's verse, frankly. i fell in love but i didn't fall down and feel like i'm bulletproof, baby in particular

american beauty/american psycho, particularly the first verse. i think i fell in love again / maybe i just took too much cough medicine

golden is a big one for queer folks in general i've found. the chorus especially hits hard from an aro and/or ace reading. and i saw god cry in the reflection of my enemies / and all the lovers with no time for me

i've got a dark alley and a bad idea that says you should shut your mouth is a heavy song no matter how you slice it. but that chorus gets to me in particular: we can fake it for the airwaves / force our smiles, baby, half-dead / from comparing myself to everyone else around me

the kids aren't alright reads to me as one big anthem for platonic love above anything romantic, which resonates super hard with me. the second verse has a lot of good lines that i latch onto from an aroace lens too. your love is anemic and i can't believe / that you couldn't see it coming from me

pretty much the whole chorus of HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T does it for me, and those verses have got some good aroallo vibes too! i never really feel a thing... confidants but never friends...

the whole of fake out is a gimme. that chorus rings real true. starts with love is in the air, i just gotta find a window to break out and finishing with but it was all a fake-out

i've got all this ringing in my ears and none on my fingers is one that has another highly applicable title but the whole refrain of the truth hurts worse / than anything i could bring myself to do to you paired with the one-two punch of that second verse REALLY gets under my skin

and of course, the culminating one: you are what you love, not who loves you from save rock and roll. obviously there are a LOT of ways to read that line

there are a couple other songs i latch onto - wilson (expensive mistakes); a little less "sixteen candles", a little more "touch me"; the (after) life of the party to name a few - but the ones listed above are the big lyrics that resonate with me on a personal level

just in general i have a shitton of fob over on my aro playlist (which doubles as a general aroace/queer playlist but has a lot of emphasis on aromanticism) in case i forgot to mention anything but like i said those are the big ones

[simonscones]

BYEE I FOUND A LIST IN MY JOURNAL FROM 2020 OF THINGS I WANTED TO SEE IN AWTWB… this is what it said 😭

(the comments in parentheses are me telling my past self if we got our wishes or not)

holy shit if i don’t get this i will cry.

- simon meets lady ruth (✅)

- simon and baz tell them that they love each other <3 (i can’t remember if they said ily exactly, but they definitely made it known to the other that they love them!)

- simon gets his regular magic back (WOMP WOMP 👎)

- simon finds out about his mom and dad (✅)

- everyone to be alive (yeahhhh!!!)

- baz’s family and dev and niall (yes we got both!)

- simon and shep bromance (ehhh sure what the hell. idk can’t remember)

if i don’t get this i think i’ll be ok, just very disappointed

- penny and shep getting together (YUPP #STORMCHASER)

- agatha confirmed aro/ace (no 😔 but i still hc her to be on the spectrum)

- the sword of mages to come back?? (well…no!)

would be awesome, but it’s unlikely

- simon confirmed bi? (no, hes still an unlabeled king)

- simon getting bitten but not turned (no BUT THEY TALKED ABT IT!!!)

- sex (… YEAH. i said this one as a joke but not really a joke lmao)

[somemismatchedsocks]

Symptoms of Falling (In Love)

To my dearest thief,

Out of all the things you have stolen from my pathetic life, I received your book. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I still enjoy it. Perhaps you meant for me to discover this volume. For you are such an exceptional thief I doubt you would allow me to have taken something of such importance with such lacking consequence.

Or perhaps I am experiencing the worst form of punishment already,

For this novel has managed to consume the thoughts of my every waking moment as well as the thoughts that plague my idle body every night.

In other words, I ponder the rather romantic dilemma I face. 

And so in other words, I dream of you.

Though that seems like an unfair parallel as the phrase “dreaming of you” paints me as a lovestruck prince that drapes himself over his tassel daybed that longingly stares out the window as I bleed out from cupid’s arrow that has inconveniently lodged itself through my still-beating heart. 

Then again, I will note that the dedication of the book has been inked out and instead replaced by ‘you’. The word ‘you’. Which means, me. The reader. Though ‘you’ is very vague and could refer to a multitude of people. I could be a ‘you’. You are a ‘you’. They are a ‘you’. But the question is, who is the ‘you’ you speak of? If it was not dedicated to me, then at least 64 of my current daydreams that cycle through my head like some wretched carousel with no off button (which must violate some sort of OSHA guidelines) are automatically disproved. This only leaves 138 which can slowly be sorted through by the process of elimination. But more on that later. 

One thing you should know about me is that I am foolish. Even in my crafted scenarios I often fumble as you take confident strides forward. I stop over words and it sometimes takes me three or four times to read the loops and scratches that you like to call your handwriting. I always say they look like a work of art—then I'm asked, if they are art, why can’t I read it? My answer being: When you go to the art museum and look at a painting of geometric banana among other miscellaneous fruits  you will find yourself appreciating the artist and their brilliant mind, but that does not guarantee the understanding of such a painting, nor its subject. 

I find that I've spiraled off again. For a thief, you carry yourself with the pride of a monarch and the grace of a dancer, though I've been told love is blind. If love is blind, then my vision is to be so impaired I ought to get myself a handicap parking pass for I’m afraid i’ll trip over a breeze. 

And I suppose that is another reason that I’m rather apprehensive about this novel. For all the things you’ve taken from me, this book is a rather flimsy substitute. Perhaps that is why my imagination seeks an explanation where the paperback in fact does have some hidden value, whether it is monetary or emotional. Though a quick visit to an antique book shop has quickly revealed that in fact, it is not the former. Perhaps the reason I am so desperate for it to mean something is because I’d rather not admit the loss I have since experienced at the hands of your nimble fingers. You’ve always had an eye for the finer things in life. By now I have come to the conclusion it is most likely that you have given me the book knowingly. You are much too intelligent to have let something like that slip under your nose. 

But then the idea also lingers, perhaps you are not as intelligent as I once made you to be, for anyone with an ounce of logic could have found that transferring their book to my ownership is a poor decision.  I am clumsy. I fear that I may drop it and crumple it, dent it, or smudge the pages and ruin the text, or worse, your annotation along the margins. Even though you are a criminal, I commit atrocities you would not dare dream of. I admit, I dog-ear pages. 

I consider myself a prideful person so I hope you will understand the amount of agony it brings me to admit this, but I am quite afraid. 

I am afraid that I will somehow disappoint your silent present or break your unspoken expectations and you may take your book back. And I will be left to my own devices and more than I fear freedom I fear the absence of you. That may sound like the exact same thing, though upon closer look they have an important difference. I will leave it up to your interpretation to figure it out though.  

In the end, perhaps all I’ve ever truly wanted was for you to steal something you couldn’t return. Though when I realized what that thing was, it had already been plucked from my home—even before I knew I had one. I don’t know if I'd want my heart back as it’s been a great inconvenience before (and still one even after you have whisked it away). 

If the book was meant as a goodbye, I must admit—it’s a rather inconvenient one. Now I’m stuck rereading you over and over, hoping the plot will change.

Now I’m stuck rereading you, over and over, hoping the plot will change. But alas, thieves are rarely authors. They only leave endings we’re forced to write ourselves—perhaps some metaphor for human greed. I’m sure you’ll find it hidden between these lines. I never could. I was never the kind of person to analyze anything. I’d rather read your annotations in the corners and internalize them as truth, no matter how biased they may be. 

I will take care of your book. Not because I think you'll come back for it, but because if you ever do, I want you to see that it was loved. 

As you were.

Sincerely ruined,

Your ever-pilfered fool. @yourfavvvintj

[faeralcatmeems]

愛しい魔女になるつもり

alternate caption: it's time for my yearly yasu redraw!!! jk, i don't redraw my yasu pictures every year, but every time i do draw anything umineko, i default to yasu. that part of umineko spoke to young me most directly, i guess. i find myself relating to yasu the older i get, actually

[mikkalia]

mini-fic! Cal and Merrin training, from Greez's POV. 1k words.

Cal and Merrin face off in a small clearing not far from the Mantis. She has a staff in hand, new and sturdy, just picked up from an outpost market, and Cal has…nothing. In fact, his lightsaber sits next to a nonchalant Cere, who’s scrolling through a holopad, seemingly unaware that Cal is about to get his ass kicked by an armed Nightsister.

Their resident Jedi Knight is a powerhouse, sure, and Greez is thankful every day he’s on their side, but without his lightsaber… Greez takes one look at the situation and decides he really don’t want to know.

He asks anyway.

“Training!” Cal says without opening his eyes. Greez isn’t going to question it. Not this time. Nope. Merrin watches Cal closely, one end of her staff buried in the soil, her hands folded on the other end so she can rest her cheek on the back of them. She waits patiently.

They all seem to be waiting for something. Even Greez, who still has no idea how this qualifies as ‘training.’ And Cere, who still doesn’t look up from her ‘pad, takes a serene sip of her drink. She’s probably using some freaky Force thing to sense what’s going on.

Cal looks like he’s meditating standing up. Deep, slow breaths. Calm expression. He keeps his hands lowered, like he’d used them to direct his breaths and then left them down on the exhale. Greez has seen Cal and Cere on early mornings, moving in sync with each other as they go through a fluid, tranquil set of movements without their lightsabers. It always started and ended with them directing their breaths like that.

Greez moves next to Cere, feeling like an intruder, but unable to stop watching.

The atmosphere is calm. Poised.

Then Cere says, “Go.”

Merrin is fast. She kicks her staff up and swings fiercely, devastating even without her magicks. She’s aiming straight for Cal’s head –

 – who doesn’t karkin’ move. Greez lurches, a shout on his lips, but Cere puts out a hand to stop him. Wait and see, she doesn’t say, but Greez knows that look.

Cal dodges without opening his eyes. Minimal movement, languid in a way Greez’s never seen before. Merrin’s eyes flash in determination and she’s quick to go in for another strike. He dodges again, body twisting, never taking more than a couple centimeters more than he needs to avoid her staff. Greez’s heart eventually calms as the two of them move in tandem. Like a dance. An elegant and mesmerizing back and forth.

It could almost be a performance. Something specially created for a dramatic stage.

Eventually, though, Cal’s calm expression starts to pinch. Mouth twisted into a grimace, sweat beads up on his forehead and darkens his training top. He falters. Dodges a second slower. Moves a little further out of the way than he was before.

Merrin swings her staff just has hard, just as fast as she has been, but Cal doesn’t dodge in time. He flinches and stumbles – and Merrin’s not stopping.

That determination slides into panic, Merrin’s eyes widening, but the momentum is too quick even for her. She tries to change the target from Cal’s head to somewhere safer, like his arm, because a broken arm is better than a broken skull, but she’s too fast and he’s fumbling and –

Just before the staff connects – it wasn’t going to make it to his arm, Greez realized with a sick horror – it flies out of Merrin’s grip into Cere’s hand. Holopad and drink forgotten, Cere twirls the staff in one hand before she plants the edge into the dirt. Greez hadn’t even seen her move. Hells.

Cal drops to the ground, heaving for breath. He groans out a heartfelt swear in some language Greez doesn’t recognize – Greez discovered early in their mission for the holocron that the kid knew way too many languages. Seriously, a kid that young, five years on a backwater planet like Bracca or not, shouldn’t know so many languages! Let alone all those karkin’ swears.

“Language,” Cere scolds mildly. Cal just groans again. ���What happened?”

He props himself up on his elbows, hair in disarray and the side of his face speckled with dark soil. Merrin carefully pats the soil off the back of his head, her movements stiff. “It started to feel too easy, and I panicked,” he admits. “I started overthinking.”

“How do we fix it?”

“…Don’t do that?” Cal offers, grinning. Cere raises an eyebrow. He takes Merrin’s hand and allows her to heave him up. Greez doesn’t miss the way he subtly squeezes her hand in reassurance before he lets go. “I got complacent. If there was another opponent, I would’ve been taken out a lot sooner. It was only the Force and Merrin, and I freaked when I realized I didn’t know anything else.”

Cere nods. “In other words, you sank too deep. That’ll only be fixed with more practice. You can’t do that in the middle of real combat.”

Cal sighs gustily. “More practice,” he agrees as he holds out a hand and Merrin’s staff comes flying to smack into it. He twirls it with a flourish before presenting it in a low and dramatic bow to an amused Merrin just to make her smile. She does, helplessly charmed, before she quickly twists it into a smirk as she takes it back, a faint blush on her cheeks. Cere hides her own smile behind her hand.

“Next time, maybe don’t aim for his head?” Greez suggests.

Merrin looks disgusted by the very idea. “Then how will he learn? Training must prepare you for battle. If you do not fear for your life in training, then you will not fear for your life in true war. You will die.”

Cal laughs loudly over Greez’s sputtering. “Yeah, Greez, how will I learn? Merrin, aim for the head any time.”

“With pleasure. Someone must knock sense into you.”

Greez drags a hand down his face in despair. What did he get himself into?

[theirwolfbicanthrope]

no blood for you will ever be enough (can't bury anything without digging it up)

rating: Explicit relationship: Ellen/Thomas, Ellen/Orlok, Orlok/Ellen/Thomas, Orlok/Thomas trigger warnings: please see tags, very dubious consent and bad Dom behavior summary: “Take me in his grave,” she had whispered in her husband’s ear. “Let us have each other there where he sleeps.” It was a wicked thought, a wicked act, to fuck there in the cold soil of his grave-bed. To put their scent there, their sex, like animals in heat marking their territory.

[branmer]

still gonna make a sideblog for my writing so i can collect snippets and ramblings in one place but in the meantime here is a little preview of something from chapter 4 of i joy in my disgrace >:)

“That,” Branmer faltered, found his voice again, “that can’t be right. I would know.” They had been on Minbar when he was seven. His father's ship had been due for maintenance and they had spent the time visiting his mother's family in Tuzenor. It was no use trying to remember. The memories were too distant and fragmented for him to make sense of, time stretched out and insensible, events slipping into one another, intransigent and borderless. Had his father been gone for any length of time? He couldn't say.

Ardrishi cleared her throat, lacking her usual confidence. “Look, maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Why don't you ask him? If he did return to it after swearing off, maybe he had a good reason.”

“Maybe,” Branmer said. “It doesn't make any sense. When I was little I used to beg him to compete, but he always said it was too frivolous a risk - why would he do it and not tell me?”

“I couldn't say, Bran. I'm sorry.”

As they came closer to his father’s apartment a tide of chatter and laughter washed over them, and they entered to find the firepit ablaze and the courtyard swelling with people, laying out food on the edge of the pit alongside drinks and plates. Children were running underfoot, their parents calling after them while they wrestled benches into place and threw down blankets on the mossy grass, and a tell-tale collection of instrument cases were propped up by one wall. His father was a significant absence in the crowd, but not a surprising one. He would be high up the mountain above Tinarel tonight with the Shai Alyt, assisting her in the Warrior Caste’s ancient rituals of mourning and renewal; letting blood on the rocks at the Tindroa spring that fed down to the Ardroa waterfall by the temple. It was part of the private, formal liturgy of the festival, that only the upper echelons of the Warrior Caste had any real part in and that few outside the caste were even aware existed. No priest had ever been invited to witness tindroa-da, nor ever would. The closest Branmer would ever get was this; the lesser, informal tindroa’dumri, where Warriors gathered on this auspicious night to sing the songs of long dead clans lost in the Great War and pay tribute to their names. Not an ordinary dumri, and not one he could miss without comment. Even Neroon might find himself obliged to sit the fireside tonight.

So, no chance to question his father immediately. But perhaps that was for the best. Better to have time to think things over and let cooler thoughts win out over his ruder instincts. If his father had -not lied, he would never accuse him of that- omitted some facts then he must have had good reason. He could always ask his mother anyway, who he could see unpacking her kyelti on the other side of the fire.

“Rather lively,” Delenn remarked, coming along beside him, “I thought tonight would be a sombre affair.”

“It’s a celebration of the dead, not a funeral,” Ardrishi said. “There are other nights for weeping, other rites.” She made a little, all encompassing gesture. “We are all here because of their sacrifice, so we owe it to them to take joy in everything they gave up for us. We sing their songs, because they cannot, and because they cannot, we can.”

“To everything they were, and everything they could have been,” Verann said softly, quoting the old Warrior Caste funerary toast.