#The second I saw the art though I knew I had to recreate it with Ellie

[blackbirdffxiv]

"I can make that face too."

Ellie acquired a strange new companion, who certainly needs a lesson in manners.

[Based on this art by kuponutmilk on twitter]

[unhinged-simp]

Hello!

I love your writing, and I thought I'd drop in with a headcanon request. Hear me out: the reader asking to draw Luca, Towa, Alan, and Zenji (or whoever you like). And when they ask, the reader says it's because they want to draw someone beautiful.

I hope this isn't too big of an ask, and thanks in advance if you write this

Asking to draw them HCs(Luca, Alan, Towa, and Zenji)

Thank you so much, and thank you for requesting! This wasn't a big ask at all. I just had to figure out how I wanted to proceed with it is all. I hope you enjoy.

Spoilers in Zenji's part for the Hotarubi chapter.

Ever since you first met Luca, you had always wanted to draw him. 

He was just so perfect in your eyes, you wanted to attempt to recreate it in a drawing.

Luca would ask why you were staring at him, and embarrassed you gave some excuses.

One day after watching Luca train, you finally decided to draw him.

He saw that you were watching him, and walked over to ask.

You two conversed before you let out the question you had.

“Luca, can I draw you?” You asked. Luca blinked, a bit startled. 

“Of course, but why me?”

“I wanted to draw something beautiful.” 

“Eh.” Luca blinked.

Luca flushed and stumbled over a couple of his words, but he quickly became happy. 

He'd let you draw him anyways. He'd ask to see the finished product

When you saw Alan, you were blown away by how pretty he was. 

Every last detail made you want to draw him, but you were too nervous to ask him to model for you.

You would try to analyze him to draw him in private, but he was quick to notice his staring.

One day, you finally had the courage to ask him if you could draw him.

You met up with him at the cafeteria, and after eating, asked what you wanted to ask.

“Alan, can I draw you?” Alan stared at you for a minute. 

“Why?” He asked.

“I wanted to draw something beautiful,” you said.

Alan just looked at you in silence before his cheeks reddened.

Afterwards you noticed that Alan was in a good mood, and that his cheeks still had a bit of that red tint. 

He agreed to let you draw him, wanting to see your art in general. He'd want to see the finished product, but wouldn't pressure you into showing it.

Towa was adorable from the first second you saw him, especially when he eats that dandelion from your hand.

He was so gorgeous that you just had to draw him.

Whenever he saw you studying him, he’d come over and hug you.

During one of your visits to Jabberwock you were sitting with Towa under a tree, conversing with him.

“Towa, would it be alright to draw you?” You asked. Towa nodded and hummed in response, though he tilted his head in confusion.

“I just wanted to draw something beautiful.”

Towa would grin from ear to ear. He'd hug you and hum happily. 

He’d pose rapidly for you to draw him. He'd lean over your shoulder to see your drawing.

When Haku revealed Zenji, and you saw him with your own eyes, you were blown away by him.

He was so handsome and you knew you had to draw him.

He’d catch you looking at him, and would question you about it.

You sat at the table at Hotaburi with Zenji beside you, and you pulled out your sketchbook.

“Zenji can I draw you?” You asked. Zenji hopped up in excitement.

“My dear, you'd really draw me?”

“Of course, I want to draw something beautiful.”

Zenji was praising you much more and he had a blush on his face.

He'd do whatever pose you wanted. He'd want to see the drawing, and would get inspired by the drawing you made.

[amazingmsme]

Restless ‘Til We Reach Home

A Lamb in Wolf’s Clothing (ch. 2)

AN: The long awaited second chapter & thunder saga is heeeere! I was getting ready to post it but stopped in my tracks when the thunder saga trailer dropped & realized how close it was & I knew what I had to do. Gotta say, Odysseus is real mean in this one. But hey, at least Hermes is there to balance it out!

Ch. 1 Ch. 3

Polites felt as though he really needed to clear the air with Odysseus, but where to even start?

The captain was nowhere in sight, so he floated around the deck in search of him. He was still trying to get used to his new way of travel, but he liked to think he was getting the hang of it pretty well.

In the underworld, he couldn't fly. Then again, that was a place made for people like him. It was meant as a bastardized recreation of home, to provide the comfort of solid ground and company.

Polites thought back to Hades, and how despite how horrible he thought he looked, there was always someone around the corner who was worse. He had gotten used to the gruesome sights after a while. And as awful as it was to say, seeing them kept him humble. Because yes, things were bad, but at least he didn't have his entrails dragging behind him. Eurydice was one of the few who looked just as beautiful in death as she did in life.

Eurydice...

He wondered how she was holding up. It'd been hours for him since he'd left, but for her, who knows? Had only seconds passed, leaving her on the bank as she wondered what awaited him? Or had it already been a day, the loneliness beginning to set in? Even with the perspective of the real world, Polites found it difficult to gauge the passage of time down there. So wherever she was, however long it had been, he hoped she was doing well.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, inching towards the horizon. It would be dark soon. For now, the light shifted, reflecting off the clouds in vibrant golds and orangey pinks. It was the first sunset of his new life, signaling an end of an era and a new dawn on its way.

Night fell quickly, enveloping them in a blanket of stars and darkness. Polites looked for the moon in the sky, but it was nowhere to be found. Ah, a new moon.

If you were to ask him, he would say that the moonless sky was just as beautiful as a full moon night. He'd started various debates about it with other soldiers, encouraging them to just hear him out. Of course the full moon is beautiful, he never said it wasn't! The new moon may lack her silvery glow, but doesn't her absence make it all the more beautiful when she comes back? The darkness on nights like these provide the most clarity, offering to you all the stars you could ever wish to see.

Most people thought the night sky was only black, but oh how wrong they were. These are the impatient ones: those who never allow their eyes the time to adjust before they give up, going on about their night. But when you lay back and just allow yourself to study the canvas before you, the work of art will reveal itself with bold blues, greens, purples, and yes, even pinks.

Polites floated on his back, hovering mere inches above the deck as he stared up at the sky. By the Gods, how he'd missed it.

He didn't know he'd been crying until he heard heavy steps coming up the stairs, and he frantically wiped them away. He sat up just in time to see who was approaching.

Odysseus let out a startled yelp when he saw his friend's crumpled form lying on the deck, just as he looked before he died.

"Dear Zeus, you scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you still doing here?" he snapped, keeping his distance.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you, Captain," he said earnestly. "I-I was just watching the stars. It's such a beautiful night..." he mused, gaze turning upwards once more.

"I didn't mean why are you out here. I mean why didn't you go back to where you belong?" Odysseus asked in a harsh growl.

The warm, soft smile that had found his face was gone in an instant, "W-What?"

"If you're really Polites, you should be in the underworld. Isn't that right?" he cocked his head to the side, taking a threatening step forward.

Polites stared at him in complete and utter shock. "Odysseus... Why would you say such a thing?"

"Answer the question."

"I WAS IN THE UNDERWORLD! You were in the underworld! But- we made it out, together-"

"No, you stowed away," he clarified harshly. "There's a difference." He had backed Polites against the rail, continuing to advance until he was so close, their noses were almost touching.

"I-I thought you'd be happy to see me again!" he cried defensively. There was a flash of sadness, of forlorn longing across Odysseus's face, but it was gone in an instant. Polites continued, "I know I sure was... until you opened your mouth."

Odysseus scowled, "If you really are Polites... and I seriously fucking doubt it, then you have no idea what we've all been through since you left. So I don't much care for your holier than thou judgment."

Holier than thou-

"Is that what you think of me?" he asked, genuine hurt laced in his voice. "That I thought I was better than you?" His voice began to tremble, but he fought against it, although his words still came out in a wavering rasp through his weakened vocal cords. "Because I would never think that." He couldn't believe he actually had to tell him this...

Odysseus didn't speak for a long moment. Despite their close proximity, Polites had never felt farther away from his friend.

"I don't know what to think anymore."

Polites shook his head, eyes flying wide open. "No! Odysseus, you know me! You know better than to think that!" Said man rolled his head to the side, glaring at him from the corner of his eyes.

"Do I now?"

"You should..."

Another long stretch of silence. The only sound was the gentle breeze catching in the closed sails, swaying them about and flapping the fabric. Small waves lapped at the hull of the ship, creating a soothing sloshing sound.

"Yeah well, like I said. Things have changed." He inhaled deeply, letting out a long, suffering sigh. "I really wish I could believe you," he said, eyes closed as he addressed him. He shook his head, the movement barely noticeable. "But I just can't."

"But you can!" Polites reached out instinctively to hold his hand, but Odysseus jerked his arm away before he could. And then he noticed the way he was staring at him, as if he was some kind of threat- some kind of monster.

The captain quickly schooled his emotions, taking a moment to himself before addressing Polites.

"So... what made you follow us?" he finally asked. A hopeful smile broke out on the spirit's face. Maybe he could convince him to see the truth through the haze of paranoia.

"Honestly, it wasn't my idea, but my friend down there, she told me I needed to go. A-and I thought... just maybe... you were looking for me," he admitted shyly, staring at the ground. He didn't like the way he could see through his own feet to the deck below.

Odysseus let out a shaky breath. "I knew it..." This was it!

"You really aren't the Polites I knew."

And just like that, the world came crashing down on him. His eyes were welling with tears fast.

"H-ho-how can you even say that?" he asked as he slowly sank to the floor.

"Because Polites wouldn't be so stupid as to think I'd risk the lives of my crew to rescue a dead man!" he screamed, spit flying from his lips with the passion of his outburst.

Polites took a step back: through the railing. He held his hands out in front of him, as if to protect him. But there's nothing to be protected from anymore. Nothing except the newfound cruelty of his old friend.

Tears threatened to spill over, but he blinked them away, shaking his head frantically. "Nonono, you don't really mean that. Y-you're just upset! Odysseus, please tell me you didn't mean it like that," he all but pleaded.

Odysseus opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself short. He tried once more, but all he could muster was a simple, "I'm sorry." He hesitated before turning his back on him, marching off to patrol the ship.

Polites was left floating there, completely heartbroken by his reaction. Never in a million years would he have expected the venom shooting from Odysseus's mouth to be aimed at him of all people.

Polites let himself fade from reality, disappearing completely as he drifted up towards the crows nest. It had always been the most peaceful place on the ship, and tonight was no exception.

He floated on until he reached the top, sitting down in the tightest ball he could manage. He buried his face in his knees as sobs completely wracked his body.

Why would he say such horrible things? He knew he couldn't even begin to fathom how their journey's gone up until now, but it was hard to believe it would prompt such a dramatic change.

But the alternative; the idea that he had never truly know Odysseus, was a far worse thought.

He looked up at the dozens and dozens of stars stretching before him from every which way. He felt as if he were flying, falling up, spiraling out of control towards them. Would he be falling for an eternity? Or would the stars catch him in their net, allowing the darkness to swallow him whole and consume his soul?

How wonderful it must be, turning to stardust.

"Oh Eurydice... you were wrong. I never should've left." His voice was weak and strangled as he spoke, just as it had been in his final moments. He gasped through his sobs, swallowing the snot that rolled down his throat, making him shudder. His whole body shook with convulsions as he cried.

"They don't w-want me a-around anymore. I'm nothing b-but a f-freak to them," he spoke barely above a whisper, frantically wiping away tears and blood. He hung his head low in defeat and shame, "I should've just stayed in Hades with you."

"And she's what? Girlfriend, friend, come on fill me in," an unexpected voice rudely interrupted. Polites screeched in surprise, turning visible once more as he whipped around to meet the intruder. How the hell did someone climb up without a sound?

"If you'd like, I'll even give her a little message from you," the strange man smirked wider, twirling his long curly hair around a finger. Polites gasped and looked down to the man's feet just to be sure, and just as he thought: wings.

"Hermes? I-I'm sorry, but uh, what are you doing here, exactly?" he asked, his previous breakdown quickly replaced with confusion. Something he did not appreciate. He wanted, no needed to cry after all that. But even the Gods wanted him to suffer, it would seem.

"Well excuse you! Taking a page from the captain's book, I take?" he taunted before bursting into a fit of giggles. Polites stiffened and glared at the God.

"No. I'm just trying to mind my own business, can't you do the same?" he huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. Hermes squinted in the dark and gasped when he recognized the man before him.

"You're his little dead friend, aren't you? The one that used to be cute," he clarified in a teasing manner.

Used to be cute... That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Hermes froze, mostly out of fear, when he first saw tears. "Um, what are you doing? Stop that," Hermes ordered, sitting on the edge of the crows nest. Polites looked at him in utter disbelief.

"I'm crying Hermes, what's it look like?" he snapped, and true enough, tears were once again rolling down his cheeks.

"Well, it's not a good look. Nope, doesn't suit you at all, really," he mused, looking the mortal up and down. Polites chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to be patient as he continued to glare.

"Oh really? And what, pray tell, would suit a face like this?" Polites asked bitterly, pointing at himself as he blinked back more tears.

"A smile, for one!" Hermes cheered, plopping down next to Polites and throwing an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. Polites squirmed and shoved him away angrily.

"Leave me alone! I don't want to smile, okay? There's nothing to smile about! And you know what? Yeah, I'll say it! I was happier in the underworld!" Polites screamed, not caring how loud he was. In fact, he hoped a certain captain with his head up his ass heard him. He hoped the guilt ate him alive.

Polites hated the fact that he didn't really feel that way, that he was self aware enough to know it was just his anger talking. Because once it blows over, he'll be the one wracked with guilt.

Hermes reeled back from his words, a hand flying up to cover his mouth as he gasped in shock.

"Oh Polites, you shouldn't say such a thing! I mean, what if the Gods themselves heard you? Ahahaha!" he threw his head back, cackling at his own joke.

"I don't care anymore! Clearly I don't belong here! I-I should've just stayed..."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was such a touché subject," Hermes apologized, seemingly meaning it. Polites remained skeptical. "But I'm truly shocked by your little outburst. You were always the happy one, were you not? So what's changed?"

"Everything!" Polites cried. "Are you blind? How can you not see that everything's gone to shit?"

"Careful now, don't forget who you're talking to," he warned through pursed lips, trying to hide his growing amusement.

Polites sighed in defeat. "I'm sorry Hermes, sir, but I don't really care right now."

Hermes shook his head, a small frown etching its way onto his face. "Oh my, this really is worse than I thought," he muttered to himself, resting a hand on his cheek. Polites couldn't help but roll his eyes and turn away.

"Tell me something I don't know..."

Hermes sighed, staring at the back of his head with pity. "Odysseus can be... stubborn at the best of times. He'll come back around. You just have to show him that same, chipper, adorable Polites he knows and loves," he tried to encourage him.

"But that didn't work..." he said, voice shy and meek.

"Oh! Um, well then... keep at it!" he chirped, slapping a hand on his back.

Polites was more than ready to tell him to get lost, but the touch on his back stole away all of his attention. He turned to meet Hermes face to face, eyes wide in a mix of shock and excitement.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

Polites gestured at him wildly. "You just touched me! I mean like, actually touched me! I thought that was impossible!" Hermes opened his mouth to speak, but he rambled on, "Is that a God thing? Or can-"

"Shh, if you'll let me answer, I'll tell you!" he said before breaking off into giggles. Polites quickly shut up, hanging on his every word.

"It all comes down to intent. And, it works both ways. Here, shake my hand," he explained, offering holding it out for him to take. Polites looked at him skeptically before reaching out.

He tried to grasp his hand in his own, but phased completely through. "This is hopeless!" he whined in defeat. Hermes whistled and smacked him upside the head.

"Ow!" Polites yelped and flinched away, rubbing his head, more for show than anything. Hermes rolled his eyes at the dramatics.

"Oh please, I know that didn't hurt. Quit whining and try again." Polites grumbled under his breath, growing frustrated when he phased through once more.

"Try harder."

"I am!" he growled before taking a grounding breath. He tried again, and this time his hand firmly clasped around Hermes's wrist. A bright smile lit up his face as he met his gaze, "I-I did it!"

"Yeees, congratulations... You can let go now..." he prompted with a smirk.

"Sorry!" he immediately let go, yanking his arm back as if he'd been burned. Hermes chuckled and rolled his eyes.

"You're lucky it's me," he teased, breaking off into even more laughter. Polites couldn't help but giggle along with the infectious sound.

"I guess I am... So uh, t-thanks, for all that. I needed it."

"Desperately so," Hermes agreed. "But I single handedly saved the day, so you're welcome."

Polites snorted, "I wouldn't go that far, but you did make me feel a little better." Hermes cocked his head with an exaggerated pout.

"Aww, just a little? Are you sure about that?" he asked, and before he could answer, Hermes reached up to flutter a few fingers under his chin. Polites scrunched his neck with a barely choked back giggle, and the look he gave the messenger God was priceless. Hermes burst into hysterical giggles, flashing a sly grin his way, "Like I said Polites, it all comes down to intent."

He fished around in his bag, pulling out a gold drachma. "Catch," he said, tossing the coin his way. Polites reached out, snatching it in the air. Hermes gave an impressed grin, nodding in approval. "I expect you to practice. 'Til we meet again, ta-ta!" he waved farewell, hopping up on the edge of the crows nest and stepped off backwards. He swooped up in a backflip, definitely showing off as he flew away.

Polites stared at the coin in his hand, smiling softly. Maybe things would turn out okay.

~~~

Things always seemed better in the morning, Polites told himself. In the light of day, he would have a fresh start, a unique perspective. He just needed everyone else to come to terms with their new normal. So he went about the day like any other, floating down to the deck when the crew was called for breakfast.

He saw the few men spread out across two long mess tables, and he quickly spotted Eurylochus. He smirked and turned invisible, making his way over to him. He waited until he reached for his glass, and Polites placed his hand atop the cup, preventing it from being lifted.

Eurylochus stared at the cup with furrowed brows, giving it another tug. It barely budged under his hold. He looked around the table at the men around him, wondering if they had something to do with this. A few began to take notice and were just as confused as he was.

"Having a bit of trouble this morning?" Elpenor teased from across the table.

"Haha very funny," he said sarcastically, tugging on his glass one more time. Polites didn't fight back, and water splashed right in his friend's face. Anyone seated around Eurylochus had ended up in the splash zone as well.

The men who got drenched cried out angrily while everyone else erupted in wild laughter, and Polites joined them. But his laugh was loud and distinct, and a sound Eurylochus knew all too well.

He froze looked around the room, glaring at thin air. "Polites? Was that you?" he dared to ask. The unruly crowd suddenly grew silent, unsure if they wanted an answer. Then, a fork launched off of a plate, spinning in the air before it clattered to the table. Excited screams and cries broke out as some gathered around the fork, while the rest scattered as far away as possible.

"You think it really is him?"

"He answered us, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but what if it's a trick?"

"You're all playing with fire!

Not everyone was swayed, but it certainly planted the idea in their minds.

Polites liked pulling off these small, ghostly pranks. Mostly because, to him, it felt like magic. Just focus, and you can turn invisible. Focus even harder, and you can make things move. He had his favorite tricks of course: a self rowing oar, a lone mop swabbing the deck, but the funniest thing was when he'd hold something behind someone, only to hide it as soon as they turned around. And his audience seemed more than amused by all of this.

Up until the moment he decides to show his face again. Then it's all hushed whispers and adverted gazes, even from his best friends.

Elpenor frantically looked around his room for his other sandal. It had just been there a second ago, but now only one remained.

"O-okay, very funny. Now give it back," he demanded. He gasped and went stiff when he felt the mattress sink next to him, as if someone sat next to him. The temperature shifted.

"Looking for this?"

Elpenor chanced a glance in his direction. His missing sandal dangled from a mostly transparent hand. He gulped.

"Yes."

He reached for his shoe, but it was yanked out of reach at the last second, and again when he made another grab for it.

"Give it!"

"Then look at me!"

The request took Elpenor off guard. Polites sounded... desperate and sad. He had to look, no matter what the captain said. He wasn't here anyways.

He hesitated, but ultimately caved and looked at Polites. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this.

Polites was smirking at him, a warm look in his glazed eyes. Yeah, he didn't look the same, but he still looked like himself. A sob caught in Elpenor's throat.

He snatched his sandal without warning, quickly lacing them up before rushing out of the room.

~~~

"I don't get it Eurylochus. Are they really that afraid of me?" Polites asked after five days of strategic avoidance from everyone on board. He took a deep breath, thinking about how he'd answer the question.

"Maybe so." Polites scoffed and looked him up and down.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, deciding to put him on the spot. He stiffened, keeping his gaze trained on the floor, and he didn't speak. Polites deflated, "I knew it."

"Polites, trust me, it isn't like that," he tried in vein to reassure him.

"Oh please. None of you can even look at me," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Have you even seen yourself?" Eurylochus barked back, going on the defensive immediately. Polites floated a little lower to the ground, bottom lip trembling.

"Polites, wait-"

"No, no, I get it. I wouldn't want me around either."

Eurylochus had to force himself not to roll his eyes at the theatrics on display. This was typical for Odysseus, but Polites?

"I didn't mean it like that."

He looked up at him, and for the first time outside of battle, Eurylochus saw him look truly upset.

"There's not many other ways to take it, Eurylochus..."

Neither dared to speak for a long time. Polites took a shaky breath and finally broke the silence. "I guess I'll be seeing you around. But... you don't have to worry about seeing me," his voice sounded weak and strangled.

"Wait I'm-" Eurylochus spun around to stop his friend, but he was left alone on the deck. "Sorry..." he finished lamely, dropping his arm by his side.

He flinched when a hand squeezed his shoulder, but immediately relaxed after the initial surprise.

"It's okay, really. I-I think it's for the best if no one sees me for a while," he said, and despite being invisible, Eurylochus could hear the emotion in his voice.

"Are you sure?"

"M-mhm. I think if I stay, it'll just make things worse."

Eurylochus stared at the empty space the voice was coming from. "If you say so..." he reluctantly caved.

Barely anyone had seen Polites since. Sure, he made his presence known in other ways, and most of the crew seemed better off for it. But that's what hurt the most: he'd been right. Eurylochus was wracked with guilt, knowing it was their own reactions that drove him away. Even worse still, their captain didn't seem to care at all. In fact, it only seemed to upset him more with every interaction Polites attempted.

He stood behind Odysseus as he steered the ship. The men were gathered below deck for meal time, leaving the two of them alone for a rare moment.

"I know you're there."

"You should go down there. You need to eat too, y'know."

Odysseus couldn't help but roll his eyes. "What, and let you take the wheel?" Polites furrowed his brows.

"Would that really be so bad? I handled her plenty of times!"

"No, the real Polites did!" he snapped. For once, Polites snapped back, refusing to back down.

"I AM THE REAL POLITES!" he screamed, on the verge of tears. Odysseus merely gave him a cold, empty stare.

"Maybe if you were the first one we ran into down there, I could believe you," he admitted in defeat. There was something a softness behind his eyes that hadn't been there before, his shoulders heavy with grief.

"What will it take?"

"Huh?"

"Tell me what it'll take to prove myself," he pleaded.

They stared at each other for a long moment, seconds passing by in silence. "I don't think you can."

Polites refused to let it end like this.

"Your favorite color is red," he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. Odysseus froze and turned to face him, a puzzled expression in place. He locked eyes with him and continued, "And your favorite food is Penelope's stew with fresh baked bread."

By now, Odysseus knew what he was trying to do, so he quickly closed his eyes in hopes of drowning him out. "Don't."

"You have a mole on your shoulder that looks like a comet, a-and you like sunsets more than sunrises, and you used to go pick flowers for Penelo-"

"Please, for the love of the Gods, just shut up!" he cut him off harshly. Polites snapped his mouth shut, obeying the command. Odysseus slowly opened his eyes and stared at his friend. "Why are you doing this to me?" he asked as tears finally spilled down his cheeks.

"I just want you to believe me," Polites insisted. Odysseus shook his head.

"I told you, I can't-"

"WHAT WILL IT TAKE?" he repeated, voice straining against crushed vocal chords. He was crying, and he didn't care if he was shouting. "You say you can't believe me, but you don't give me a fucking reason! And you won't tell me how I can win your trust back, and I just- I don't know what you want from me."

Odysseus thought long and hard about his answer. "I wish I could tell you."

"Then why don't you?" he pleaded.

Odysseus avoided looking directly at him, choosing instead to stare at a crack in the wall just over his shoulder. It was insulting how he thought Polites wouldn't notice.

"I don't know." Then, as if to add insult to injury, he marched straight ahead, walking right through Polites. It was just another way for Odysseus to assert the fact that he wasn't really "there." To prove to himself that he was right. And that hurt more than it had any right to.

But he was nothing if not persistent. When it became clear that Odysseus wasn't looking for a conversation, he thought maybe a few light hearted pranks were just what he needed to jog his memory, to open his fucking eyes and see that he was right there.

Polites could've sworn he saw him smile when he noticed the way he was making his cape billow behind him. The old Odysseus was still in there somewhere, no matter how hard he may be hiding.

But he was still more than skeptical.

~~~

Odysseus was making his way down to his quarters when he felt someone step on the back of his sandal. He turned around in annoyance, ready to chew out the culprit, but he was alone. He thought nothing of it and continued on his way. Then it happened again.

Odysseus sighed heavily, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back. "That you?" he asked in a disgruntled tone.

"What, can't even say my name?" he sassed in order to hide his true nerves when confronting his friend. He appeared behind him, arms crossed.

"Not sure it's really yours to say," he countered easily, the retort sliding off his tongue with ease. The smile he flashed him was cocky and vindictive; nothing like the way he used to grin at him.

Polites decided to go out on a limb and risk it, "Why are you so adamant it's not me?"

"Because if something's too good to be true, it is. But you know all about that, don't you?" he spat, words laced with poison. No, no, there was no way he was talking about that.

"Captain? What do you mean?"

"Oh I think you know," he said darkly. Polites didn't dare to answer. He only shook his head.

"The sheep, Polites. I'm talking about the sheep."

Polites couldn't believe his ears. He sucked in a sharp, shuttering breath in shock. "A-are you trying to say it's my fault that I was killed?" he asked in complete and utter disbelief.

"... If that's how you wanna take it."

He had no hope of fighting off the tears welling in his eyes.

"H-how can you be so- so cruel? It was a mistake!" he pleaded.

"Yeah? Well that mistake cost you your life! And not just your life! You think you can greet world with open arms, but you just can't. Only the strongest survive. And that's why I'm still here, and you're not."

The tears rolled fat and heavy down his cheeks, drawing clean streaks through the blood and grime smeared on his face.

"I-if that's how you r-really f-feel, then fine! B-be that way!" Polites was a blubbering mess as he tried to speak, and he couldn't stand it. He balled his hands into fists by his sides, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as possible. "Y-you'll never have to see me again, if that's what you really want!" he screamed back, allowing his own hurt and anger to boil out of him.

"Good!" Odysseus snapped, completely exasperated.

Polites was frozen in shock. "I don't even know you anymore..." he whispered, mostly to himself. Odysseus glared harder before he turned his back on him, marching down the hall to his cabin and slammed the door behind him. Polites was left alone in the room, feeling hollow and hurt.

Polites took a shaky breath. Why bother to fight a losing battle?

~~~

If barely anyone had seen Polites in the days prior, then he must have made himself truly scarce after his last confrontation with the captain. The playful, if unexplained, shenanigans were no more, and the crew fell back into their monotonous routine.

But remaining invisible for so long takes its toll, and he needs his moments of peace and quiet. And so, the crew took notice of the man sitting alone in the crows nest, his presence never faltering. At least this way, he can still be of some use to the crew while completely isolating himself.

By now, Polites hadn't moved from the crows nest in over a week. Even his practice with the coin was getting weaker. He sat with his knees pressed to his chest, desperately trying to shove the drachma across the planks. His finger phased through, making no impact on the piece of gold.

"How have you possibly gotten more pathetic than the last time we met?"

Fucking great.

[thatanimewriter]

WHAT WONDERFUL DAYS!! (OR NOT-)

➳ request: May I please request headcanons for the Style Five reacting to their female S/O who’s a famous singer performing a surprise duet with another singer and showing great chemistry with them?

➳ character/s: nanase haruka, tachibana makoto, hazuki nagisa, ryugazaki rei, matsuoka rin

➳ warnings: some jealous boys (haru, rin)

➳ notes: what wonderful days is a good style five song, big bops, big dance energy

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

── 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐊𝐀.

he's always backstage at your performances

quiet with a small smile on his face

but not tonight >:((

he knew the plan because you asked him beforehand if you could be a little closer to the guest singer

n as an avid supporter of your career

he said yes

but now he's got a lil frown on his face as he watches you slow dance with this person

he wants to be the only one you slow dance with :((

you now owe him mackerel for making him endure this

maybe he will sacrifice the privacy of your relationship for this-

he thought he wanted to be entirely unknown to the world but he's having second thoughts now

can't bring himself to say much to this guest singer after the performance

too salty

won't be clingy around them

but at home, you're never escaping his clutches

── 𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐎.

oblivious smiling in the front row

:DDD

just happy to be in your presence

he trusts you, so this doesn't bother him

also knew about this guest singer before it happened

he thinks they're super talented and nice

no qualms here

thinks it's great that you have on stage chemistry with other artists

means a better performance and more convincing performance for the audience

he's always making sure you have a successful career

will take any post-show photos of you n the guest singer for your socials :))

maybe even get some for himself-

but he'll slow dance with you back home when you're out of stage makeup and costumes

lots of praise for the performance

husband material, truly

── 𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐊𝐈 𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐒𝐀.

probably cares more about the guest singer at this moment-

he saw the guest singer appear and just

"WOOOOOOOOOO-"

isn't backstage and had no clue you were doing this

he is HYPE

has a video of it, but the whole time he's either cheering or mumbling to himself

kinda wishes he was you tbh

he wants to dance with this singer now

definitely runs to you after the performance and asks for the singer's autograph

also snaps a photo of him with the guest singer but also of all of you together

gushes about this performance on the way back home

and wants to recreate it when you are home

who's who, you're not entirely sure

are you yourself or are you the guest speaker?

it's a cute moment nonetheless

── 𝐑𝐘𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐊𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐈.

is probably just seeing it as art rn

you're beautiful

the guest singer is beautiful

the song is beautiful

he is crying

both inside and outside

for sure has filmed the whole thing

he managed to find a seat in the perfect spot to not be too close but not too far away

he invested in a nice camera, either on his phone or a dslr for moments like these

he's not jealous, because he understands that this is a work thing

but he can't help but imagine himself in the guest's position

he won't ask directly though

that's so embarrassing

but next time he hugs you, he may or may not start swaying a little bit

he won't tell you, but he'll give you hints

── 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐎𝐊𝐀 𝐑𝐈𝐍.

pouty baby

he can sing, why isn't he up there >:((

scuffing his shoes on the ground in silent anger

but still pouting

he's super salty

happy that you're just this talented you can make this performance believable and immerse the audience

but now HE'S immersed and he's sad that it isn't HIM

he does well at karaoke, he could be this other singer??

right??

he's bad at hiding it though, you can sense his inner bitterness

his inner koala comes out when you go home

clinging to you like nothing else

angrily muttering about how you're his and he doesn't wanna share

but he does give you his phone for you to look at the photos he took of the performance in your honor

maybe it's not SO bad if he gets a wave of affection for this (no, it's bad-)

[ryuichirou]

Replies

Some replies!

Anonymous asked:

I didn't realize it was possible to filter without tags. Thank you!

No problem, Anon! I’m glad we could help. Have a nice day!

Anonymous asked:

Hnnng…booba…

(this is about this art)

Hehe yeah…

I was looking at my first sketches of fem!Azul recently, and wow I draw her boobs bigger and bigger every single time. She wasn’t supposed to be this big… but alas.

Anonymous asked:

I feel like 2 bottoms and 1 top is more fun if the top has an extra dick situation going on, like 2 tops 1 bottom is great because humans come with AT LEAST two holes perfect for taking dick, and sometimes more 😌✨ so basically Ortho is the master dom of them all, but like, we already knew this ♥️

First of all, YES, this is usually our reasoning as well for preferring 2 tops 1 bottom, it’s just easier to navigate the holes and all lol But also you made such a good point??  Ortho absolutely would be able to have multiple of those, as many as he needs in fact! And also have a lot of different kinds of stimulation… wow, that’s OP. Ortho, your niichan created an unstoppable master dom…

Anonymous asked:

I just saw the Jellyfish post and the image of Silver bowing and pleading for others to golden shower him, so good

Lillia would love this, he trained his son so well, and he will of course give his cute son his pee as a treat

(this is about this post)

You imagined it!! I’m so happy, Anon. But also, sorry for that… (but also, you are welcome)

Poor Silver doesn’t even realise how it looks, oof… Lilia would almost pass away out of the sheer excitement and pride he felt at that moment.

Anonymous asked:

Kalim and idia would be a funny ship because idia could not handle how happy and positive Kalim is during the entire time they do it including aftercare

Awww, don’t be silly, Idia, what else should he do while doing it, cry?

Facts, Anon. Absolute facts. Kalim always behaves like this is the best moment of his life and it’s all about how awesome it is for him to be with Idia and to do what they are doing right now!!! How does one even react to that?..

But also I’m not sure if Kalim knows how to do aftercare... He is very used to just falling asleep afterwards and then suddenly waking up after a nap to continue the cuddles. Idia would suffer either way because he would try to carefully run away while Kalim is asleep… instantly waking him up and prompting him to start cuddling him with the widest smile possible!

Anonymous asked:

Hey Ryu! Hope you're having a nice day.

Real quick, what would Ortho do if he was replacing?

(I was doing some stupid shit on c.ai and it just popped into my head.)

What if Idia had a lover (you can use Azul or Lilia for this cuz we ship it. Or any other top that fits this scenario) and they died so Idia, just like he did with Ortho, tried to bring them back to life? Bc of this he became so possessive in an unhealthy way over them, shutting away the world like he did before, but that includes Ortho.

Hi Anon! I hope you’re having a nice day too :)

Ohh, interesting; honestly, it kind of sounds like an anxiety that Ortho could have. Similarly to how he usually treats Idia being in a relationship with someone: he is very happy, excited and supportive, but also very jealous because he actually really doesn’t want to share Idia with anyone.

In a way, I think he could make peace with Idia being with someone by thinking that what they have with Idia is special and totally different from what Idia and his boyfriend have. So if Idia’s boyfriend suddenly passes away, and Idia grief pushes him to shut away the world and focus on recreating that person, Ortho would feel horrible on many levels: both because of Idia pushing him away and because of Idia doing for that person something that was supposed to be special and their thing. And even though Ortho would recognise that Idia is hurting, and it’s probably selfish of him to be so against it, he might even try to act supportive, like “isn’t it cool, there will be the second one like me”, but he would probably hate that thing. I don’t know, I feel like it would end badly lol

Anonymous asked:

do you have any thoughts/ideas about a shroudswap au, in which ortho lived and it was idia who died? how do you think a human ortho like that would turn out?

Oof, I wonder if he would be better or much worse than Idia… I feel like Idia tortures himself for the most part (mentally), but with Ortho, even though he would still torture himself because of guilt, could also be more of a danger to others. At least because he is less secluded and more sociable in general.

Hmmm.

Ortho was younger than Idia when the incident happened + he isn’t as insanely skilled as him, so I don’t think he would be able to build a robot and write an AI as fast as Idia (even for Idia it took a couple of years), but he would still try to do it. I think it would be his work-in-progress at the age of 16; he would just have a bunch of junk on his floor + an android torso with a silicon face that doesn’t move, because it’s not done yet. Ortho would still talk to it a lot.

I think Ortho would combat his grief and guilt by thinking that it’s up to him to honour Idia’s legacy, and he’ll talk about it a lot: about how he tries his best to be a good technomagician and a mechanic, and he would indeed be the best at his dorm, but not quite as good as Idia would’ve been in Ortho’s head.

Ortho would almost look like a normal guy, somewhat similar to Ace in the way he acts at times, but there would always be something uncanny about him because he is never 100% genuine and his heart is clearly closed from others. He would be the type to say “what? I’m friends with everyone” but have zero people whom he actually trusts. He prefers to talk to his half-built robot-brother more anyways.

Now, what I mean when I say that he is more likely to be dangerous is that while Idia is in terrible shape and his coping mechanisms aren’t the best, Ortho would bottle up his emotions more, as if he can’t allow himself to grieve properly because it is his fault. It would become very clear that he is still not over it once something triggers him and he becomes super resentful towards everyone and everything that isn’t Idia, or rather an idea of Idia in his head that gets more vague with every single day because he gets older, and he hates himself for “losing” him that way too. I think Ortho could express this frustration by being destructive because he would be in a very bad mental space…

Wow that turned dark lol

Anonymous asked:

I mean, that can be incorporated too!

My idea is that Azul is surrounded by a faceless mob and he is forced to sign contract after contract. None of them are for his benefit, though, they are basically trading away any and all of his skills and talents while the crowd laughs at him. After a few times, the contracts start ripping away body parts that correspond to his talents (I.e. singing would be his vocal cords, swimming would be his tentacles/legs, etc.) until there’s barely anything left of him. Whatever is left is then served up as delicious takoyaki.

I swear I do like Azul.

(this is about Azul’s danganronpa-style execution)

Wow, that sounds perfect, Anon. destroyed by the very thing that empowered him in the first place and reduced to what the most helpless form there is available to him: an actual snack.

I would love to see it.

Anonymous asked:

Did you watch the lyric video for No Me Diga or this one: https://youtu.be/UrFH772ytzM?si=yjd1dMNYhAPp6Ybf because the linked version makes the song worse with the visuals 😂😂😂😂😂

Yep, I watched this one lol

[acomposerofdreams-blog]

Why I’m afriad of Red, Yellow, and Blue

It is deceptively simple, a sheet of red boarded by a line of dark blue on the left, and a bright cheerful line of yellow on the right. The colors just pop out at you and linger in your mind, it is easy to picture, simple to recreate in your imagination, and utterly haunting in its simple context. Cause yes, there is no denying that the painting itself is… simple, that’s the point. There is nothing that gets in between you and connecting to those colors the terrifying question it asks so blatantly. Why are you afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue?

Such is Barnett Newman’s first iteration of his series of paintings titled, “Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue”. A story of a man whose life begins as the child of Immigrants from Poland, a childhood spent watching the First World War who turned into a young man that graduated art school right before the Great Depression, who then saw the horrors of the Second World War unfold only to then be faced with what seemed like at the time… imminent nuclear extinction. The story of his life and how it affected his art should be an essay in its own right, however that is not the point today. It is a more personalized look at what might be considered his most beloved and reviled work. Today I’d prefer to talk about why I am afraid of “Red, Yellow, and Blue”.

My family has a history of rage, of lashing out in anger against those we love the most, especially on my father’s side. My own father struggled with controlling his emotions as a frustrated man with three sons that he always had a hard time understanding. To which I’m not saying that he was abusive or hurtful towards myself, my brothers, or my mother, just that he was open with that struggle. I can remember him having to remove himself from situations when he was angry, cause he could feel that surge of adrenaline that could lead to him losing control. I can remember times when his voice rose and I could hear him rant through the walls of our home as he told my mom about all the things that weighed down on his mind and shoulders. 

 I never learned to fear his anger, just my own.

One of the memories that sticks out most is when I was twelve, with all the mess that comes with being a pre-teen who feels lost, alone, and scared whenever he steps outside of the house because of his own anxieties. The moment was with my younger brother, I can’t remember what we were arguing about, but I remember I just had the urge to strangle him cause I was so angry. I didn’t though, I knew enough about my own father’s struggle that what I needed was space, though I didn’t know how that would help. So I left, I stomped down the hallway as he badgered me about the “thing” and just as I passed by his bedroom, the youngest brother stuck his head out cause he was worried about what was going on. 

I punched my six year old brother right across the jaw. 

Cause I could… he wasn’t in my way, he wasn’t doing anything, he was just worried about his oldest brother. I had just wanted to hurt someone, he was the easiest person to hurt.

I’ve never lived that moment down, through a great deal of effort and time I learned that moment was forgiven, along with others like it that I still can’t quite forgive myself for, even though forgiveness was given. I do not like the person I am when I’m angry, that person who takes joy in hurting others as a way to deal with his own hurt. Though I have been told repeatedly that I’m no longer that person, I can still feel him deep within me, gnawing at the bars, hoping to get out. That part of me isn’t gone, it’s just controlled, cause anger doesn’t just go away… you just get better at handling it.

I still fear that anger, I still am very much afraid about what kind of person I am with when rage can so easily be my chief motivator. What kind of Father could I be? What does that mean for me as a Husband? How does that affect my wife? My friends?

So what else am I supposed to see when I look at “Red, Yellow, and Blue”? 

The whole point of it is to ask that question, then put it on those colors so that you have to examine them. That is the brilliance and terror of such a piece of art. Perhaps that’s why when the series of four paintings have been displayed, there have been protests, threats made to staff members, and people boycotting the places that chose to display these four simple paintings. And I can understand that desire, when I look at these paintings I feel… fear. I want to reach out and throw these paintings in a fire, dump them in a river, or shoot them into the sun so that they never have to make me confront that which I fear again. But it’d be in vain, that picture in my head is far more haunting than any physical painting, forcing me to confront the question again and again… 

I have changed though, for the better even. Change that has come with a great deal of understanding from my Father. I remember much of his own thoughts on anger, and I remember most that he wasn’t angry with me after such a moment. Just sad that his own family tendencies had passed so easily to his children. I remember one day I had locked myself in my room because I was furious at, again, my brothers. I had at the time an old walking stick  that was something of a family heirloom, it was heavy, strong, with a thick metal tip. My door never stood a chance as I punched holes through it, to the point that about a quarter of it probably couldn’t be considered part of the door anymore. 

I was so ashamed. I had terrified everyone in my family. Our dog wouldn’t go near me for days, the cats wouldn’t enter my room for another week, and those holes in the wall only got repaired when we eventually moved out of that house some four years later. Yet in counter to that… I remember my dad sitting on my bed right afterwards. Telling me that he understood how much anger must have been in me, cause he had felt that before, and still felt it. He told me that, for now, I was right to remove myself till I learned how to control myself better. We talked about how good anger felt, and what bad things could happen because of it. I like to think that my door was never replaced because my parents wanted me to keep a reminder of how dangerous uncontrolled anger could be.

This would be the part where I’d also talk about kind and understanding therapists, but that wasn’t in the cards. We didn’t have the kind of money for a child to spend several hours a week meeting with someone to help work out all of their problems, something that is likely still needed. But even without that source of help, I became better at not being ruled by my anger through the help of a family that loved and supported me. First from my parents, then from my brothers, and finally from my loving partner. 

I have changed for the better by confronting what scares me, and learning to not let it rule me. By taking that fear, that anger, to understand that it is wholly my own. 

I hope to continue doing so.

[blazichu]

This has been kicking around in my drafts for awhile. I didn't really know what to make of it then, and I don't now, but I want to start cleaning some stuff up, so here it is:

Remember a snippet of a weird dream, which is already odd, because I usually forget my dreams immediately upon waking up.

The setup doesn't matter too much, but I know my brother (younger than he is now, for some reason) was being an asshole to a Gligar he caught in one of his games, and I decided I was stealing it. Proceeded to steal it and then... I guess trade it to myself, but it was framed as being an outdated Pokemon Transfer thing, albeit in its own building, kind of like the old GTS buildings. I traded it to myself and was poking around for some reason, going in doors that were there, until muttering out loud that I should stop and "go home".

At that point, a scene triggered as I tried to go through a different door that, for some reason, caused 3 characters to run out of the door-- clearly in conflict with each other-- and then hurry back through the door, which couldn't be opened after the fact. Each of these characters had Ingo's sprite, but in dream, I could tell that at least 2 were more worn than his actual BW sprite. I can't remember a lick of what was said, and I actually remember that in the 'moment' in my dream, I wasn't able to understand/remember what was being said, only that there was some kind of conflict ongoing. That was weird, because there were definitely text boxes involved, since I distinctly remember seeing a character tag to denote that someone was talking: the mispelled "Ingou".

For some reason, the dream switched to a more first person perspective in that universe, in the supposed PokeTransfer building. There was someone else with me then, trying to recreate what happened, and I kept opening doors and muttering that I had to go home, then. There were phones next to each of the doors, which I don't think was relevant, but I noticed at the time. Eventually, I got something to happen again, but it was just someone talking, and I knew it was the same character. It was some kind of warning/recounting of something that happened before, implied to be an attack from Pokemon against humans, at least some of them children, which was fatal. This wasn't directed at me, by the way-- it was like it was being said to someone else nearby. The person specifically highlighted Alakazam, Magnemite and Magneton, but in plural, implying that multiple members of each species had something to do with it. The only other thing I could make out for sure (because this was a lot clearer, but still hard to understand) was something about a Holiday Island, and then somehow my brain emphasizing that the spelling on "Ingou" was wrong for a second time, even though there was no text box that time.

The person I was with saw that, and after we were done there, we went to look for any clue on what was clearly Bulbapedia, but was never identified as such. I don't know what article we landed on, but we found a reference to "Ingou" leading to an article on Holiday Island. I should note that, as I mentioned, the game Gligar was in, and the version of Poke Transfer were both outdated. They should have been even older based on this being a physical location and the sprite art, but my dream told me they were about Ultra Moon era, and the unknown article cited that this event had been accessible since about 2018/2019. In the "real world" after all of that, I was holding a case that was like... it had the vibes of Ultra Moon but was more blue, if that makes any sense? I was sitting with a bunch of people, implying that I had been playing my game while hanging out there, and found a leaflet in the game case-- as used to be standard-- for a downloadable legendary Pokemon. My brother started walking in right after that, and I stopped reading so I could hide the game/the fact that I committed Bat Theft.

I don't have anything to add from there on; my dream changed right after that, and I can't remember what it turned into.

[joanjettenthusiast]

It's always "ily" (i love you)

But never "hiamatmnstpgisthttaoteoaiitwhtfitaoanfaatitaoanpfaawtioopwttvtfoawtlgsatodgwsbtmiinmtifhdfhsfhochdatbhimntmtamoasiwtytiadwwihdohothbistaceitintaceaiktwihdsimdgigwitbwomlbiscwiwwyumhphstmaniaanmosistditotdicnrliawtwhfmbadofidotwiiwstifbiiwdghbtmtmvpotlfhtmlmtalthiothmvpaiwcrattmuhfmtlofsastithiuatpotstigthosabhmtiwiomhsttairtivaitivhiyokwdgitmyrtlomfwaomsahpbwiwnpwiiootbtihedawiisbwiwpidgsbmssipfhtmaftftimlisitpwtwihalfaam"

(‘He is all my art to me now,’ said the painter, gravely. ‘I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world's history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will someday be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, sketch from him. Of course I have done all that. But he is much more to me than a model or a sitter. I won't tell you that that I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way — I wonder will you understand me? — his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me before. “A dream of form in days of thought” — who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad — for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty — his merely visible presence — ah! I wonder can you realise all that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body — how much that is! We in our madness, have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, which Agnew offered me such a huge price, but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had always looked for, and always missed.’)

[writinglionqueen]

Nectare de Rosa

Drew held you to his front as you sat between his legs, your back resting along his torso...your hands between your legs. The air was hot and stuffy and the two of you had just gotten out of the shower. His skin was like embers against every inch that met yours. But even his breath felt like hot, bellowing smoke as he pressed his lips against your shoulder...and your neck....and the shell of your ear, his panting breath catching along your exposed skin. 

You never should’ve showed Drew the picture you did; a drawing of a rose being held and touched by feminine fingers, followed by a second picture with a man’s hands aiding the smaller ones in touching the petals of the rose, their combined fingers touching the center, only to be covered in the “nectar” of the flower. A subtle erotic drawing you saw and showed the man behind you who studied it with his intense blue eyes, his thoughts swimming in his head. 

In the shower, those thoughts must’ve marinated for a bit because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself as you two washed up. His large hands would move down your sides, teasing every area he knew was sensitive and got you quivering in want. Especially as his fingers eased down between your legs while his lips and teeth nipped against the side of your neck. His own fingers teasing your clit, parting your lips to get you more sensitive to his touches. It was a great start to get you heated, to get the fire and want to pool between your legs, coating his fingers in slick even with the hot steam rising from the water cascading down his back. He was able to leave you alone close to the end, long enough for you two to finish up so he could have you sit between his heavy thighs, have you reclined back against him as the both of you sat propped up against the headboard of your shared bed. 

“Show me how you play with yourself, Princess,” Drew murmured down to you. His deep, gruff voice had you shivering even though you were sweltering in his grasp. But you followed his instruction. You were propped open for yourself....and for Drew...so you could rub your fingers along your own petals, as Drew watched from over your shoulder. He watched the way you rub large circles around and on your clit. Sometimes, you’d collect your slick and bring it up to make the firm touches glide so much smoother. 

You didn’t want to think about the way you could feel Drew’s want for you; heavy and hard and hot against your lower back as he watched you please yourself first. This was about giving you pleasure and making you feel good. Because Drew prided himself and got off on giving you your satisfaction first. 

And you worked yourself up, fingers trailing along your slick folds and pressing hard against your clit, causing you to slightly roll your hips into your own hand. Little gasps and pants left your lips as you knew what you were doing to yourself. But you really wanted Drew to get his hands on you, and finish you off because that’s what he wanted, to follow those pictures. 

So with a twist of your hand, you pushed two of your fingers into yourself easily under Drew’s watchful eyes. You rolled into your hand more. Your slick made it so easy for your fingers to pump in and out of you, and the slight stimulation from the heel of your hand against your clit on every pump had you gasping. Even the curl of your own fingers against your g-spot had you giving pleasant hums. 

But Drew couldn’t take it any longer. He wanted to complete the masterpiece that was in his head. One that you saw coming to fruition between your thighs as his hands moved down your arms and followed suit in aiding your hands into providing you your release.

One large hand held onto your thigh as his other rubbed your clit, providing a lot better stimulation than the heel of your palm could provide. It made you mewl for Drew. It had your eyes clenching close. It had you getting lost in the feeling of the number of fingers that aided you to a high you got desperate for. 

You couldn’t help the way your unoccupied hand reached for one of his massive thighs, to hold onto as you rocked into your hand and his. You felt the familiar clench of yourself around your digits, could hear the roar of blood in your ears that drowned out Drew’s pants and his small, quiet praises for you getting yourself off as he asked.

The man holding you kissed at your neck. His beard scraped at your shoulders as his hand and yours wound you all up, like a rubber band; ready to snap at any moment and release everything. 

“Come for me, Princess,” Drew said to you, “let me see what that flower as for me.” You shivered at his comment. One that circled back to the art piece you showed him, the rose covered in hands and “nectar.” Drew wanted to recreate said piece with the “rose” his fingers toyed with. 

And recreate it, he did. 

You cried his name as your peek came upon you quickly. Your pussy clenched around your fingers and your thighs wanted to close to trap the feeling between them. And you tried but Drew has secured your legs apart with his feet hooked onto your ankles as he made you ride the intense feeling all the way to completion, until you were nothing more than a whining mess, calling his name with your eyes slammed shut and your neck bared for his rough kisses. He obliged in the open expanse of your neck as he growled out how good you were. His Princess. His rose. All while your fingers continued to push into yourself until your orgasm ran its course. 

You could say nothing but his name until you were panting, coming down from your high. You withdrew your fingers from yourself, slowly, and you tried not to peer down at them, knowing you’d see them covered in your cum. Drew on the other hand was quick to point them out however. He hummed in pleasure. 

“Look at that, Princess,” he murmured. You opened one eye, almost frightfully to see him hold your wrist, moving your hand to see your cum glisten in the low light of the room. “I think we recreated that picture perfectly.” You let out a heavy breath as you let your eyes close in exhaustion. 

“I don’t like you sometimes,” you said to him. Drew chuckled into your ear, but the feeling of his erection pressing along your lower back wasn’t lost on you. You sighed. “I recon you’d like me to take care of that for you, huh?” Drew kissed your temple. 

“Only if you’re offering,” he teased. You knew it wasn’t an offer. He was going to get his pleasure because he deserved it for making you feel so good. 

Another sigh left you. 

“Give me one moment,” you said to him. “Let me catch my breath.” Drew chuckled. 

“Whatever you need, my rose.”

Tag: @acon1120 @adriennegabriella @akiko-tanaka @alination @amariemoore @andie01 @annoyingasian @artemisapalla316 @ashkrystal @astolenheartnkiss @axelwolf8109 @baemcintyre @balorstrowmanblackmurphy @beckyann6879 @bellezalatina @bigbabyscottishpsychopath @brownskinafro @calicina @calwitch @castiellawolfkissed @claymoreme @commando-claymore @crossfitjesusinblackskinnyjeans @curlyafrogirl @daddyslittlevillain @dalia-corven @darlingambrose @dcnmarvelgamergeek @demonqueen29 @drew-is-boo  @fabulousrockstar @fireyegale @fivefootxo @flawlessglamazon @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @gold--gucciempress @hardcoresweet45 @heel-rollins @homeorbust @ihavenowilltolivelol @i-have-saracasm @itsicantbelievethis666 @jazzy-tzw @jeffhardyenigmawwefan @junglecassidy @kalliravenne @ladytea19 @letsgivethisonemoreshot @lilred91 @littlesuperstar @madebypointlesswerewolves @malethirsty @meishaabae @melblacc @meremaidqueen @midnight--luna @monocromaticstaircase @morenokatt @moxleysbaby @moxley-unhinged @mox-made-me-do-it @moxnmurphy @moxtiel @myaisawwefan @neversatisfiedgirl @nevertoofarfromivar @new-zealand-chic @nicolewoo @nothinginlifebutgreif @number1120 @ofbeornandbjorn @oreillystolemyheart @pandaluver96 @queenofthearchitect @retro-rezz-the-est @romans-sweat-pants @saiyandude @sassymox @savemeroman @scuzmunkie @sebstanismylife @shortyiceheart @slytherinyourrpants @softmoxymuffin @taryn-dibiase @thatnerdwriter @thatpanpal @the-beastslayers-queen @thepalaceofmelanie @theworldofotps @thewrestlingwarehouse @trashofambrolleigns @twistedbeautifully @undisputedmorgs @unprettypeony @voidstrugh @waywardwrestlewritingwaif @welcome-to-lovecraft-country @xbreezymeadowsx @yaint-me @youcantreignonmyparade @drewmcintyrekoccsrocbwdgfan @thesithdiaries​

[lemonpeter]

My first fill for @peterparkerbingo : Teacher/teacher !

I’ve had a little bit of a writers block, so I’m sorry if this isn’t my best. But I enjoyed writing it and I hope y’all enjoy reading it! 💕 just a bit of spidershield

1.5K words

Warnings: unprofessional behavior between coworkers, fluff, I think that’s it lol

***

Mr. Parker was no stranger to the stares of others. Whether his students, or his coworkers, or even the parents of his students sometimes, he knew that he was watched.

It didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Which was why he agreed to model for Mr. Rogers’ class. And also because he loved being around the other teacher.

The art teacher from across the hall needed a model for his class to do figure drawing. And he’d come to Peter first.

His reasoning was that the teacher had a strong body from dancing for so many years. And that allowed him to stay in positions to be drawn for longer periods of time.

The reasons he didn’t list were that he wanted an excuse to stare at the gorgeous man for a couple hours without seeming weird. But he didn’t need to tell anyone that.

Peter walked into the classroom during his free block, a small smile tugging at his lips when he saw Steve. The other teacher had charcoal smudged on his cheek and forehead and didn’t seem to notice at all. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“Pete! I mean- Mr. Parker.” Steve cleared his throat, grinning a little. “Hey, thank you so much for doing this. You’re the best.”

The younger man waved his hand, laughing. “It’s no big deal, I didn’t have anything going on right now anyways. I’m happy to help.”

Steve nodded. He rubbed at his nose momentarily, effectively smearing another black streak across his face. “Okay, so, the kids will all be here in a couple minutes. You know how most of them wait right up until the bell.” He gave Peter a knowing look. “But you’ll just be right there in the center and I’ll position you once we’re all ready, okay?”

Peter nodded, smile reaching his eyes as he watched Steve. “Sounds perfect. Now, do you want some help cleaning up?”

The art teacher blinked at him, glancing around the room. “I think I’m good, my kids are usually pretty-“

Peter shook his head, brushing his thumb over the charcoal mark on his cheek. “Not the room. Your face. You’ve got a little….” He rubbed at the mark gently until it started coming off.

“Oh! Oh, I’m okay.” Steve’s cheeks colored and he stepped away from Peter’s touch. “Thank you, though. I’m just gonna get more on me, right?” He joked a little. “No point in cleaning yet.”

Peter smiled at him fondly, nodding. “Alright. That makes sense.”

Students began filing in, whispering to those around them as they eyed the other teacher in the room. It wasn’t like it was anything scandalous to walk in on, but everyone loved drama and the chance to start a rumor. It was the most fun part about school. And almost everyone believed that there was something between the two teachers already.

Steve cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention when the final bell rang and the last of his students trickled in. “Alright, I mentioned yesterday that we’d be working on sketching figures today. So Mr. Parker here was kind enough to be our volunteer figure. Isn’t that nice of him?”

A few weak “Thanks, Mr. Parker”s were mumbled, but almost everyone stayed focused on Steve and getting their supplies out of their bags.

“Okay, so-“ Steve made his way to where Peter was standing, mentally figuring out how he wanted him positioned. Then he reached out to move him before pausing. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Peter’s cheeks burned at the words when he heard the giggles from around the room in response, but nodded. “Of course.”

The art teacher’s hands gently guided Peter to where he wanted him, positioning him in a traditional ballet fourth position with one hand in front of him with the other gracefully held above his head. Peter moved his feet into position on his own when he understood.

“Do you think you can hold this position?” Steve asked softly, pulling his hands away to look at the younger man after he was finished.

“Of course.” Peter nodded, not moving at all. He knew that holding his arm up would get tiring eventually, but he didn’t want to ruin the picture. So he stayed as still as possible.

“Perfect. Thank you.” Steve smiled, going to his own seat and looking around at his students. “This is the position you’ll draw him in. You have all of class to complete your picture, it’s due by the bell.”

Everyone quickly got to work, eyes on Peter.

Steve started on his own sketch, an easy smile on his face as he started.

A recreation of Peter began to fill his page. Firm muscle on a slim body, his upper body hidden mostly beneath a loose blue tee. Dainty fingers holding position that lead into strong arms. Thick thighs that Steve wanted to feel wrapped around him that were clear in tight leggings. A soft bulge that the man had to be sure he didn’t pay too much attention to.

His sketch became clearer as time went on, as he was sure to capture every single detail of the man he admired from across the hall.

Just as he finished the gentle smile that curved at Peter’s lips with a stroke of his pencil, the bell broke through his blissful trance.

Steve blinked as he looked up, seeing his students packing up and Peter relaxing from his pose. “Oh, leave your papers at the table by the door. Make sure you signed your name on them,” he called before too many could get out the door.

Peter’s fingers gently massaged at his stiff arm as he relaxed, not noticing the other teacher approaching him again.

“I hope you’re not too sore.” Steve spoke up, his sketch held between his fingers. “I’m sorry if the position I picked was too…demanding. I just figured it would look nice.”

“No, it’s alright,” Peter assured him. “I’m a tough guy, I can take it,” he joked. His eyes landed on the drawing hanging at Steve’s side in his hand and nodded towards it. “I saw you were pretty focused over there. Can I see it?”

The teacher looked at the paper like he’d forgotten it was there and then back at the other man. “Oh- uh, yeah. Sure.” He held the sketch out nervously.

The dance teacher took it with a smile, eyes scanning over the drawing as he took in every detail.

He was quiet for a moment. Two moments. Long enough to make Steve worried that he did something wrong. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not-“

“Shh,” Peter scolded, not looking away from the page in his hand. “You’re ruining the moment.”

Steve shut his mouth again, watching him. Ruining the moment? What was that supposed to mean?

After a few more seconds, Peter finally looked up. “I’m not sure who exactly that is that you drew. He can’t be me,” he said confidently.

“What?” The picture looked exactly like him. Steve may have been a little rusty, but it was definitely Peter.

“Nope, can’t be. Because whoever that is is gorgeous.” The dance teacher grinned at him, the expression a little goofy. “Steve, you’re incredible.”

Steve finally relaxed again, laughing a little. “Oh. Thanks, I don’t know about incredible, but thank you.”

Peter went to hand the paper back, looking up at him when he was stopped. “It’s yours.”

“No, I want you to have it. Please.”

The dancer smiled more, nodding. “Thank you.” Then he paused, going to grab a scrap piece of paper and a pencil.

Steve watched him curiously, chuckling at how he was furiously scribbling on the paper. “Okay?”

“Shh, I’m creating.”

After about a minute of frantic doodling, Peter confidently held up the paper and handed it over.

Steve raised an eyebrow, laughing loudly as he saw the drawing. He just couldn’t help himself. “Why am I a triangle? With just a circle for a head?”

Peter pouted a little before laughing with him. “We can’t all be artists. But that’s not the important part.”

Steve looked lower on the paper, brows furrowing when he saw a number. “I already have your extension. And you’re across the hall. Why would I need-“

“That’s my cell number, Steve.” Peter started to walk to the door. So he wouldn’t be stuck there if he was rejected. “Feel free to call. For anything.”

“Your cell…why?”

Peter sighed, leaning against the doorway. “I want you to call me, Stevie. Clear enough for you?” He bit the inside of his cheek before blurting out his comment. “Maybe you could do some more figure drawing of me. Just not as professional.”

He rushed to leave after what he said, face flushed in embarrassment. What the hell was that?

Steve watched him go, eyes squinted as students for his next class filed in. “Not as professional…what does- oh my god, does that mean naked?”

His classroom fell completely silent and he wished that he could take his words back. He’d forgotten that they could hear every word.

One brave soul decided to speak up after the silence continued. “I say go for it.”

[remmushound]

Chapter 9 - Dinner Drama!

Summary: The Splintersons have a look around the home and then try to enjoy their dinner with their hosts.

Tags: @brightlotusmoon @scentedcandlecryptid @selfindulgenz @digitl-art-monstr @ilo-artistry

After a swift perimeter check to ease their nerves, the visitors finally started to settle into the lair. It was still so new, so enclosed, that Leo couldn’t see himself being comfortable any time soon. Not until he could confidently locate all the exits, and all the entrances, and where weapons were stored. Not until everything was as secure and as open as his lair was. It wasn’t his right to change the place, but it was his right to not feel comfortable when there were so many places enemies could be hiding unseen. So many dark corners, concealed cubbies that could be hiding threats. So much potential for danger.

When Leo got an opportunity alone with Leonardo, he immediately knew what he wanted to ask. “Hey Leonardo, is your Raph still… you know, calling the shots?”

Leonardo had been anticipating that question all day. He gave a pointedly loud sigh and rolled his eyes as he slumped around to be facing his counterpart, “You ask that every time we see each other. You know that?”

Leo felt his cheek grow hot and his head shrank slightly. Trying to save face, he was quick to defend himself. “Well— a lot can change in six months!”

“Six months…” Leonardo sighed again, and this time it was more genuine and heavy. The revelation of just how long it had been washed over him like an icy bucket of water. Yes, it had been six months, hadn’t it? The time seemed to slip away from him. “Yeah… and a lot has changed. But that hasn’t.”

“I just figured… your whole situation would have changed by now. Especially with you boys growing up.” Leo made an effort to explain, awkward now that he knew he was wrong in his assumption. And he had been so certain too! Since he and his brothers had arrived, Leonardo was acting so confident, so much like a leader! Had Leo just imagined all that?

“Well you figured wrong.” Leonardo said, and now his voice had a defensive edge, “Raphael is just as capable as ever. He is and will always be our leader. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, no, not at all!” Leo put his hands up in an offering of peace, “i was just wondering.”

“Yeah.” Leonardo made sure to side-check Leo as he passed, “Sure you were.”

~~~

“Hey little Mike, you got a minute?” Raph waved at the smaller version of his brother.

Michelangelo looked back, and then skipped over to Raph while humming a happy, upbeat tune. “You’re really risking it all by calling me little again~! What do you need?”

“Er…” It took Raph a second to brush past the threat laced into the happy voice, “Just… y’know… I saw a pool during the tour and was wonderin’ if it was recreational or jus’ for training?”

“Well we usually swim laps in it for warmups, but I don’t see why you couldn’t swim whenever. We got floaties if you need ‘em! Mine have sharks on them!”

Raph grinned. “Do they now?”

Michelangelo nodded eagerly. “Yeah! I’m not allowed to go in the pool without them cause I can’t swim so good.”

“Aw.” Raph nodded along, “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah! I‘m too heavy— I sink like a rock! Can you swim?”

“Eh, more or less.” Raph gave a so-so motion. “If my life depended on it, sure. Never really had much access to water that wasn’t a cesspool or Amazon river.” He shivered at the memory of being dropped in the water, the current pulling him and his brothers along like they were little more than skipping stones.

“Oo! Sounds fun!” Michelangelo chirped, “But do be mindful of Piebald; she likes to swim in there sometimes!”

“Piebald?”

“Oh, she’s a mutant goldfish. She was dad’s pet, but then we flushed her and she mutated and then pretended to hunt us with a hook, but it was really all just an elaborate prank from her and dad to punish us for lying.”

Raph stared. “Oh.”

“Yeah, but she’s totally nice now and not at all sadistic and revenge-driven! No worries.”

“Wasn’t worried at all.” Raph lied.

~~~

After their quick assessment, Leonardo and Donnie had come to the decision that Mikey needed the simplest medicine of all: rest. Raphael had been more than happy to stay with Mikey until the turtles could adjust to the new environment, but exactly when that would happen was anyone's guess. Mikey was sat in Raphael’s bed, wrapped in the snappers heaviest comfort blanket and hugging Cheech as he listened to the snapper chatter with all the joy of a child. Klunk had settled in and was sleeping on Mikey’s lap in a tight orange ball, purring to his hearts content.

“Oh oh oh!” Mikey chirped quickly, “Tell me more about the capybara tell me more about the capybaraaa!”

“His name’s Todd.” Raphael indulged, “He owns a puppy farm in the woods near here.”

“Puppies..” Mikey sniffled softly and hugged Cheech tighter, “This day just keeps getting better and better. Are he and the mantis friends?”

“Todd’s friends with everyone.” Raphael answered.

“Oh my gaaaawwdd…” Mikey fell back down on his carapace, laughing weakly as he stared up at the ceiling. “That’s awesome…”

Raph moved to carefully reposition Cheech in a way that Mikey could still hug him while laying down, fixing the blanket and pillows to make sure the shinobi was as comfortable as possible. Mikey’s eyes were closed now, the stuffed bear drawn to his chest as he laid peacefully. Raphael stood slowly and made his way to the door.

The moment Raphael’s hand touched the handle, Mikey sat up straight. “Where are you going?”

“Oh— sorry. I thought you were asleep.” Raphael said, and he returned to Mikey’s side.

Mikey settled back into the bed, cuddling deeper into the blankets and giving a series of high pitched chirps that eventually faded to nothing. Raphael gave it a few more minutes before slowly getting up and going to leave again.

Like Dracula out of his coffin, Mikey sat up again and spoke so suddenly that Raphael couldn’t help but flinch. “What about the other mutants?”

Raphael took a deep breath as he spun around on his heels to face the turtle who still wasn’t asleep. “What do you wanna about them?”

Mikey grinned. “Everything!”

***


Donnie didn't think anything could top him meeting Shelldon that night— and then he saw Donatello’s lab for the first time. The beautifully artistic designs mixed with a generally futuristic style made for a gorgeous display of technological genius . Just like Donnie’s own lab, Donatello had several screens activated at once, scanners and alarms and traps all set to be activated at the simple trip of a sensor. The entire room was lit up in a peculiar violet hue, almost as if it was under one big black light. If that was the case, then Donatello certainly kept his room spotless.

“Oh my kami…” Donnie gulped, his eyes emeralds in the darkness. “Can I live here? I wanna live here…”

“You gotta pay rent.” Donatello said.

“I’d give anything to have my lab like this!”

“Would you give your right cornea?” Donatello leaned against the wall.

“Eh, my eyes are useless. I would give up a kidney or a gallbladder though.” 

“I’ll grab the bone saw.”

“I’ll sign the consent form…”

***

“Dinner is served!” Michelangelo presented a simple dish of pizza gyoza to the table; one could say it was just homemade pizza rolls, but that ruined the magic! Besides, they were more doughy like a dumpling than anything crunchy. 

The two families were gathered around and eager to eat, seated around two tables that had been pressed together to make enough room for ten diners; each set of brothers were on opposite sides of the table, while the heads of the table were reserved for the Splinter’s. The absence of one of the two fathers didn't go unnoticed.

“Itadakimasu.” Splinter said to the proud Michelangelo, “The food looks delicious. Won’t your father be joining us?”

Another chill came to the room. Another exchange of unsettled looked.

“Dad asked not to be disturbed.” Leonardo said simply.

The Hamato family turned their eyes to their food, working with the same mind to scarf down the gyoja as fast as possible, filling their mouths so they wouldn’t have to speak. The Splinterson family took the same opportunity to look around at each other, all but Mikey having the same, constricted looks on their faces; Mikey was already lost in his own mind, his eyes blank as he smiled and shoveled the offered dinner into his mouth.

“Surely your father would prefer to eat his supper while it is still hot?” Splinter insisted.

Raphael stood abruptly. His plastron bumped into the table and made the dishes clink and glasses splash with the force of his motion, but chair screaming as it was pushed back.

“You know what? You’re right.” Raphael hurried to gather another plate and pile it with gyoji, his eyes avoiding Splinter’s as he piled the dinner on a tray with freshly brewed tea. “I’ll bring this to him right away.”

When Raphael left, he took the conversation with him. He returned minutes later but the air of the room remained quiet and tense. Eager to break the silence, Leo finished off the last of his gyoji.

“Gochi sou sama deshita.” He said, and bowed to Michelangelo, “And while I am thankful for your hospitality— we all are— this isn’t a social visit. We really need to get back to our world. Can your gift do that, Donatello?”

“Should be able to.” Donatello said with a nod, “It was designed for two trips, here and back.”

“Great, then what are we waiting for?” Leo looked around for an answer but no one offered one, “Those creatures are still in our world, could be targeting our people, our city!”

“We need a plan first Leo.” Donnie tried to reason, “We can’t just run in blind.”

“Then we should be planning instead of just hanging out!”

“Can’t plan on an empty stomach.” Michelangelo said, pointing his chopsticks at Leo. “We’re eating!”

A sharp hiss came from Leo’s throat. “Don’t. Point. It’s rude.”

Michelangelo put his chopsticks back down and shrank away from the violent hiss, the retreat as instinctual to him as going into his shell.

“Leonardo…” Splinter tried to reason, “Please settle down and allow us to have a nice supper before discussing.”

“But we need to discuss this now!”

Leo’s disobedience of his father made his brothers gasp, Raph pulling back slightly while Mikey even broke out of his minds wandering to tune back in. Leo flinched at his backtalk and fell into a quick, clumsy bow.

“Shitsurei shimashita, sensei.” Leo said in a low voice before regaining his composure, “I just feel like these guys aren’t taking this situation seriously.”

“And I feel like you expect us to pull a solution out of our asses.” Leonardo hissed back.

“Now now, there’s no need for vulgarity…” Splinter tried.

“I’m not suggesting that you have the answers, I suggesting we need to find them instead of doing house tours!” Leo snarled back.

“If you don’t like it, you can get out.” Leonardo didn't back down.

“Leo, it’s fine, cool it.” Donnie tried to mediate, grabbing a hold of his brother’s arm; he was almost convinced Leo might lunge over the table at his smaller counterpart if this went on for much longer.

“I am cool!” Leo pulled his arm free, knocking Donnie back in the process. That got Raph involved, the box turtle standing up ready to confront his brother. Before he got so much as a word out, however…

“Everybody COOL IT!” Raphael slammed his fists down on the table.

The table splintered under Raphael’s slamming weight, chips of wood flying out like dangerous projectiles. The words, with all the force of a hurricane knocking trees out from their roots, brought a silent stalemate. Raphael looked pissed. His eyes were white, entire body like a taut wire that would snap at the slightest breaths. His nostrils flares, and when he had screamed, white, foaming spittle flew across the table. Now, it dripped down his lopsided jaw and chin.

“Not another word.” Raphael said, this time calmer as he left the table once more. All eyes followed him to the doorway to find a small, gray rat standing there watching them.

Yoshi’s mouth was pulled down in a tight frown, eyes glossy. His paws, shaky as they were, held his tray of dirty dishes that he had been intent on cleaning; for now, he just… stared. His fur seemed several shades paler, his hair tangled and unkept, and though it was hard to tell through the clothes. he looked skinny. The mutant looked around at the table, at the turtles and the rat he had paid many visits to, but when his eyes passed over them they held no recollection. No memory. Just dark confusion, empty and cold.

“Dad…” Leonardo said softly, but at Raphael’s threatening chuff, Leonardo said nothing more.

“Hey pops— here, let me get that for you…” Raphael took the tray from his father and hurried over to throw them haphazardly into the sink. He came back after, his massive hand completely engulfing Yoshi’s back to guide the old rat away away. Yoshi followed the snapper at a slow gait, though his feet dragged as if they were made of the heaviest lead and it took a while for him to get anywhere. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed okay?”

Everyone watched as the father and son disappeared out of the dining room, none of them daring to breathe, nonetheless utter a word.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

New Drabble added to my A03 Series: Guilty Canvas.

Full drabble posted below but here’s the A03 link if you’d rather read it there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30357864/chapters/75097899

Summary: Feyre shows Cassian something she painted a long time ago and the two reflect on the lives they’ve built with the person they love.

Feyre shuffled on her feet, still unsure if this was a good idea. Three decades had passed since she’d completed this painting and no one had ever seen it. She couldn't imagine why anyone depicted would want to. She knew even Rhys wouldn't care to relive the realities of that day yet. But Cassian was different, more like her in that way. And Cassian knew that not all of her art was… happy. He had seen her painting her own hollow rib cage, had caught glimpses of canvases depicting fae drowning on dry land, blood-smeared battlefields and he never looked away. Only stood in the door, weight on his toes, happy to turn and leave if she wanted privacy. Then he caught her a few days ago in the act of painting Azriel dragging him off of the battlefield.

 She thought that would be the one that finally sent him reeling. Cassian would never get upset in front of her, but she expected to hear thing break in his wake. She wasn't prepared for the utterly still, calm look on his face as he watched her immortalize his vulnerability. When she finished he only swallowed and asked her what the title was.

 Blood Brothers

 He’d swallowed again and nodded, staring at the painting before telling her thank you and I never want to see it again in the same breath. She saw it in his eyes though, once the cold shudder left there was a soft sort of acceptance, as if seeing how she saw it helped him. Perhaps allayed a bit of his guilt. And then she knew that she had to show him this as well. She waited a few days, but she knew. Because if she was to think about Cassian and guilt… she knew that there was a day he would never forget.

 A day she had already painted.

 No matter that everything turned out well in the end. No matter that he and her sister were happier than anyone could imagine. She knew that they all still had scenes in their heads that sent them lurching out of bed at night. Haunted them. And this was Cassian’s greatest regret.

 Maybe one day she would show it to Nesta as well, but… Feyre knew that her sister might never be ready to face this. This reminder. This pain. Even if Nesta had smirked at the war-time painting Feyre showed her a few years ago- Nesta, blood-splattered in Illyrian leathers,  holding the King of Hybern’s head like a trophy.

 That was a moment of victory though. This… this was Nesta’s ultimate moment of weakness. And Cassian’s.

 Cassian stood entirely still beside her. Still in a way he only ever seemed to be while he watched her paint, or when he was listening to Nesta down their bond in the least subtle way imaginable. The fae tended to be still creatures, but that trait somehow never rubbed off on Cassian. He was restless. Constantly shuffling to expel extra energy, power that begged to be released. Feyre took a step back, letting him have this moment, but not leaving. She simply stood by the door, there if he wanted to talk but easily dismissed if he would rather be alone.

 And then the Lord of bloodshed fell to his knees in front of a 3-foot square of canvas, hand brushing against the careful strokes, making contact with the tiny recreation of the woman that he couldn’t reach that day.

 Because Feyre had painted that moment exactly as she saw it. A throne blurred in the chaotic background; Elain just visible at the edge with Lucien’s cloak draped around her. A green and blonde blob angrily scratched into oblivion, and her sister knee-deep in the dark, frozen waters of infinity. One finger pointed towards the blurred-out king, blue-gray eyes sparking silver in molten rage.

 On the other side of the canvas, Azriel, Mor, and Rhys blurred into a tangle of limbs and blood with Cassian himself sharp and clear. Wings ripped to shreds. Feyre swore she saw the Illyrian General rustle his wings just to make sure they really had healed from that day. As if he hadn’t realized how bad the damage was. Had never seen it.

 But Feyre knew that wasn’t really what he was looking at. He was looking at his hand, soaked in Azriel’s blood, one dim siphon nearly extinguished at the top of his palm, reaching out. His eyes were closed, his power failing, his spirit broken, but his hand lifted, towards her. Always towards her.

 Nesta’s hand was flung out in a death promise and Cassian’s was desperately reaching to keep a life promise.

 A promise he made her.

 Cassian turned away from the painting, tears streaming down his face, and asked Feyre the same question he always did when he saw one of her paintings. He was one of the only people who truly appreciated the importance of the answer. Who knew that she saw and titled every image in her mind long before she actually set brush to canvas.

 “What is it called?” His voice shook, as if her answer would condemn or redeem him in and of itself.

 “It doesn’t matter” Feyre said quietly, it was not her place to deliver his condemnation or redemption. There was nothing to be redeemed, and no reason to be condemned. She only wished he knew that. Might finally be able to see it. “all that matters is that once you pull yourself together, you’ll fly back to the House of Wind, where she is waiting for you” a nod of her head towards the Nesta in the painting “where you daughter is waiting for you. Where the life you built out of this is waiting.”

 Cassian breathed in “What. Is. It. Called.”

 Feyre stepped forward, pulling a strip of tape off of the bottom of the frame.

 The Next Life

 Cassian sagged and Feyre put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you think that you failed that day. But I think everything happened exactly as it had to for us to build everything we have now. Because without that day… Rhys, Nyx, and I would all be dead.” They both shuddered “Alaya would never have been born.” Cassian’s mouth twitched up as he could never stop it from doing when his daughter was mentioned.

 “Thank you” Cassian said quietly.

 “And you never want to see it again?” Feyre guessed.

 Cassian shook his head “keep it. When she’s old enough… I want Alaya to see it. To see how strong her mother was, even as a human.”

 “And to know that she deserves someone who loves her as much as you have always loved her mother.”

 “From the second I saw her.” Cassian grinned “hate and love all wrapped up in one raging human” he chuckled “maybe we’ll keep that part from her.”

 “Please” Feyre scoffed “there’s no way she grows up in this city without hearing the legend of her parents'… tumultuous courtship.” She smirked “Amren certainly filled Nyx in on Rhys and I’s… complicated beginnings.”

 “We’ve really all gotten far too comfortable with each other.”

 Feyre grinned and Cassian returned the smile. Cassian seemed lighter as an unspoken truth settled between them. Neither of them would change a second of what brought them here, to this moment, cloaked in love and family and knowing exactly where, who, their home was.

[voiceless-terror]

prompt request: JMart angst/hurt/comfort "you're not broken" + "i love you, no matter what your brain tells you"

Hey there friend! As requested, here is your prompt. I made it into a sort of season one/two au where Jon and Martin have already been dating. Hope you like! It can be a stand alone piece, but it is also the second in a series, the first of which is here: The Art of Conversation

“I was thinking…”

“As you do.”

Jon fixed Martin with a scowl. “Perhaps we could- that is, if you want-wouldyouliketospendthenightatmine?” 

“You’ll have to try again, love. Didn’t quite catch that.”

Jon sighed in the face of Martin’s open fondness as they strolled down the street, making their way back from lunch. Martin brought a happiness to his life that he never thought possible- a companionship built on mutual respect and love. He enjoyed every night he spent in Martin’s cozy flat, curled up on the couch drinking tea and talking about everything and nothing at all. That’s not to say they didn’t have their troubles- Martin was rather inexperienced with intimate relationships, and Jon didn’t have the greatest track record when it came to communication. But Martin held his hand the night he stuttered out his asexuality, patient and loving and kind. Jon wasn’t ashamed of who he was, never had been- but he knew that for others it was considered a deal breaker. He’d heard stories. But Martin nodded, thanked him for trusting him with his boundaries, and let him curl back into his side, as if it changed nothing.

If he could handle that, than why, for fuck’s sake, was he so worried about having Martin over?

His flat wasn’t that bad. In actuality, it was quite a bit bigger than Martin’s. He wasn’t dirty, he usually kept up with chores, kept it relatively tidy.

But there was something so intimate about it- there was a reason he never hosted any events. Martin saw glimpses of it when he picked him up for things, but he’d never actually been inside. It was just so...barren. Void of anything Jon-like. Sure, it housed his possessions, his favorite books, his grandmother’s salvageable furniture. But it was a peek into his mind that he didn’t like others seeing. What if the way he lived was wrong? What if he didn’t have the right things? Like the little things that Martin had- a proper strainer for loose-leaf tea, little jars of spices for cooking, a towel-rack instead of a plastic hook on the wall. A nice bed frame and headboard, a worn but cozy duvet. In comparison, Jon lived like a freshly-graduated college student. He should have his shit together by now, right?

But every time he thought of making it a bit more homey and lived-in, his mind blanked. Where were the lists of all the things you need to make a home yours? What would look best on the walls? And what if he bought all of those things and it just looked awkward, like puzzle pieces forced in the wrong place? So he kept his mismatched furniture and odd little piles of books. It’s easier to stick with what you know.

But it was about time he had Martin over- the man had accepted him in every possible way, this couldn’t be the thing that would make or break their relationship. That didn’t make it any easier, though.

“Would you like,” he started again, taking a deeper breath. “To spend the night at mine on Saturday?” That would give him enough time to prepare, it was only Wednesday. “I could- I dunno, fix dinner, we could watch that movie you wanted to see? Or whatever, really. I don’t mind.”

Martin beamed a bright, shining smile that always made Jon’s heart flutter when it was aimed his way. “I’d love that, Jon! I’ll bring over some wine, we’ll make a night of it.” His arm wound around Jon’s waist, bringing him closer. “Fix you an omelette in the morning.”

“With the green peppers?”

“Of course. Oh! We could go for a morning stroll; you’ve got that lovely park by your house, yeah?”

“Mhm.” It was nice seeing Martin so excited. His anxiety eased, though he still felt the need to qualify. “It’s- well, it’s not the nicest place, but I keep it clean and-”

“Jon,” Martin’s elbow nudged his side, and he bent down to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Any place is nice if it’s got you in it.”

“Sap,” Jon rolled his eyes even as his face flushed red. 

He could probably do this. Right?

______

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

Jon was twitchy and nervous the rest of the week, his mind spiraling as he considered every situation, even the most ridiculous. Martin’s not going to care if your flat is ugly. Martin’s going to take one look inside and suggest going back to his. Martin will like your cooking. It’s perfectly serviceable. Martin’s going to spit it out and-

“You alright there, boss?”

Jon jumped at the sound of Tim’s voice, almost dropping the mug he’d been preparing to wash. “Christ, Tim! Announce yourself next time, please.”

“That was me announcing myself,” he hopped up on the counter, giving him an easy smile. “What’s going on? You’ve been in your head all week.”

“I have not.”

“You asked me about the Ling statement twice today. It’s Friday. I finished researching it on Monday.”

Well then.

Jon sighed, putting the mug in the sink and turning to face Tim’s friendly concern. “It’s- hm. I’m having Martin at mine tomorrow, and- well, I’m a bit nervous.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Jon dodged the condescending pat to the back. “Seriously, that’s adorable. What’s there to be nervous about? You’ve been dating for three months, and pining for much more besides that.”

Jon’s hands gripped the counter with a renewed force. “I just want everything to be okay. I want him to think I’m a fully-functional human being, not someone who panics over having his boyfriend over. We’re always at his place, he’s always cooking for me. He deserves- he deserves everything.”

Tim hopped off the counter, face suddenly serious. “Jon, you’re quite literally Martin’s everything. It’s sickening with you two, honestly. You’ll be fine.” He threw an arm around his shoulder and Jon allowed it, just this once. “Now, what’re you cooking?”

“Well, there’s this pasta dish he loves at the Italian place on Third,” Jon began, his hands fidgeting nervously. “But it’s a bit...difficult to cook. I found a few recipes and I think I can recreate it, it’s just going to take some time and I’ve never worked with some of the ingredients and I might not have the right dishes for it and I don’t want to just substitute things-”

Tim cut off his rant. “That all sounds really lovely, but why don’t you just stick with something you know? That penne you brought to Sasha’s potluck last year- now that was good. And Martin liked it, right?”

“Well, yes,” Jon bristled. “But you think I can’t do it? It’s just a recipe, I should be able to follow basic instructions, I’m not stupid-”

“I didn’t say that, Jon,” Tim grabbed his shoulders and steered him into a seat. “I just think if you’re already this nervous about having him over, maybe you should minimize the stress, yeah? Lighten the load.”

“I can’t,” Jon argued. “I already bought all of the ingredients- I can’t just let them go to waste. I can do this.”

“Well, that’s the spirit!” Tim put a hand on his shoulder as Jon slumped over, leaning into the table. “Look, it’ll go over fine. Stop worrying. Martin will love whatever you make because you made it, alright? And if you need help, just give me a call. I’m not so bad in the kitchen myself, y’know.”

“Tim, you once set the toaster oven on fire because you left a cheese toastie in there for two hours.”

“Fuck’s sake, you set an oven on fire one time and no one lets you forget it-” 

_______

The day arrives without much fanfare, besides a text from both Sasha and Tim declaring that “he had this!” and to “relax, it’ll go great!” Tim wasn’t very good at keeping secrets.

And of course, a text from Martin.

Looking forward to tonight :) Love you!

He straightens up his apartment and then un-straightens it when it looks too clean. He moves furniture to make it more centered, he studies the recipe a couple more times so when four o’clock hits he’ll be ready to start cooking. It’ll be on the table by six, right when Martin’s supposed to arrive. And everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.

But his books look wrong today. Messy, ugly, no sort of order. There are little piles and big piles. Even the ones on the bookshelf look bad somehow. He’s got authors and genres all mixed up. It looks stupid, laughable. Jon’s got to fix this.

He starts unloading them one by one, first in alphabetical order then later by genre, because that makes more sense, right? He switches them back to alphabetical after much consideration- that’s the easier one, of course. But then he gets online, sees all of these nice color-coded displays and wouldn’t that look nice on his bookshelf? He grabs the older, leather-bound books he keeps in his bedroom and brings them out to the sitting area. Now these should be displayed, these look nice. But then there’s no room left over and he’s surrounded by paperbacks he couldn’t find room for and Christ the place is a mess-

And then the doorbell rings.

Fuck. Fuck!

Of course Martin would get here early. Martin always shows up at least fifteen minutes early, but two hours is kind of pushing it. Maybe he wanted to surprise Jon with something, Martin’s very kind like that. Jon opens the door, hands shaking.

Martin’s standing there, looking flustered and harried. “Sorry I’m late!” he begins, giving Jon a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug. Late? “The trains were running slow again and I practically sprinted down the street- hope I didn’t mess up your plans, love!”

Jon looks down at his phone, dumbfounded. It’s six thirty. 

It’s six thirty and there’s no dinner on the table. It’s six thirty and his living room’s a mess, books everywhere. It’s six thirty and Martin’s going to be so, so disappointed.

“Jon? Is everything alright?” He can barely make out Martin’s voice as his head swims; his arms wrap around his torso and dig into his body and all he can mumble is apologies.

“Sorry- I’m- fuck, I’m so stupid, I’m-”

“Hey, hey,” Martin’s voice immediately goes into that low, soothing tone that he uses whenever Jon’s upset. Whenever Jon makes everything about him when it should be about Martin for once. “None of that, now. Let’s go sit down, yeah?’ Martin immediately sets down his bag and his- oh God, he’s brought flowers and now Jon’s crying and everything’s wrong.

Martin’s steering him over to the couch with infinite care sits beside him, putting a hand on his knee and the other on his cheek, wiping his tears. It’s a gesture Jon loves but doesn’t deserve today. “It’s alright love, don’t cry. I’m here.”

“You’re- you’re here and I didn’t - I didn’t fix anything and nothing’s right, I’m so sorry-” Jon is well aware his words are barely intelligible, but that hardly matters now. Not five seconds in and he’s already ruined the night with his stupid, broken brain that just can’t fucking focus.

“You’re not broken, Jon,” He must have said the words aloud because now Martin’s got his face in his hands and is trying to make eye contact with him. “Don’t say that about yourself. You know it’s not true.”

“But it is,” Martin has to see that. What grown man can’t keep a schedule? What kind of adult loses three hours to a failed attempt at organizing books? Martin’s going to realize how messed up he is and he’s going to leave and Jon’s going to be alone again. “You- you deserve so much more than someone who can’t e-even make you dinner, can’t do one simple thing-”

“Jon, don’t- don’t say things like that. I know what I deserve, alright?” Martin pulls Jon to his chest and the pressure is good, stabilizing. “I love you, no matter what that brain of yours tells you. Okay?” He can only nod as the words bring on a fresh round of tears and he buries his face in Martin’s jumper.

It feels like hours before he calms down under Martin’s soothing hands and warm voice. He reluctantly pulls away to look the man in the eye. He deserves an apology that isn’t a breakdown. “I’m- I’m really sorry, though,” he sniffs, trying to keep his emotions in check. “It’s just- you’re always cooking for me and doing nice things and I wanted to pay you back.”

Martin’s brow furrows and Jon’s afraid he’s said the wrong words. “It’s not about paying me back, Jon. I cook for you because I want to, not because I have to. I like- well, it’s nice to finally have someone who appreciates it.”

Jon’s aware of Martin’s tempestuous relationship with his mother- he’s never brought Jon along on his visits, though he says that’s more to spare Jon than it is any judgment on their relationship. “She’s absolutely horrid sometimes, Jon. You don’t deserve that,” he said.

“Well, neither do you, Martin.” Jon never liked seeing Martin cry, though he insisted these were happy tears.

“You’ve got a lot of ingredients over there,” Martin murmurs, casting an appreciative eye over at the counter. “What were you planning on making?”

He pulls up the recipe on his phone, reluctantly handing it over to Martin. “I don’t think it would’ve turned out well, but I know how much you loved it when we-”

“When we went there on our first date,” Martin finishes. His eyes are watering- is he crying? “I’m sorry, it’s just- that’s so thoughtful, I think that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Martin,” Jon says incredulously as he winds his arms around the man’s neck. “I didn’t even make it.”

“It’s the thought that counts, Jon!” His voice is nasally and tight. 

“Don’t- don’t cry Martin-”

“I can’t help it!”

“You’re going to make me cry again-” Martin chuckles at this and leans back on the couch, taking Jon with him in a mess of tears and laughter.  “What a pair we make.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, love. Maybe we can make it together, yeah? Bond n’ all that.”

“That sounds nice,” Jon’s response is muffled by Martin’s jumper. “Would require getting up, though.”

“We’ve got some time. This couch is heavenly- you’ve been holding out on me, Sims.”

Later that night, after a few mishaps but an all-around good dinner, he’s back on the couch and back in Martin’s arms. He runs his fingers through Jon’s hair, a touch that quiets his brain for the first time all week. 

As it turns out, the only thing his flat was missing was someone to share it with.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27354958

Next in Series:

My Dearest

The Weight of Love

[fiddlepickdouglas]

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 10 - Clean This Up

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, who is he really?, 2.9k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

WARNINGS: abuse, mild violence

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Alex had said to check the diner, so Victoria opted to have dinner there and asked to see the owner. She was aware of the vigilante-style work she was doing, but with everything else going on in her life, this couldn’t possibly hurt any worse. Folding her hands, she breathed calmly as she peeked at the menu. It was important not to act as authoritative as she usually did, she reminded herself. A portly man with short gray hair and a mustache came over and took the seat across from her.

“Hi there,” the man said, shaking Victoria’s hand. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, I’m Victoria Molina,” she introduced herself. “I was actually trying to find someone and I was told you could help me.”

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh, alright. Who are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a young man of about seventeen, he goes by Willie? I was told he works here. I just have some questions for him. Would he happen to be in at all today?”

“We don’t have anyone named Willie here anymore,” the man told her. “I actually just bought this establishment along with the hotel about two weeks ago and a few of the staff followed the previous owner to a different business. You might want to talk to him instead.”

“Oh,” Victoria sat back in slight disappointment. “I take it you’re not Caleb Covington?”

“No, he’s the guy I bought it from. I’m Frank Wolfe. I can give you his contact information, though.”

Nodding, she smiled politely.

“I would appreciate that. Sorry I had to come bother you, though.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I apologize that I can’t be any more useful. If you like, I can take your order.”

“Oh, thank you. I’ll actually have the carne asada.”

“Perfect,” he smiled as he took her menu away. “I’ll have that information for you in just a minute, too.”

Taking a gulp of water, Victoria sighed. It certainly felt just like any regular case. The fact the business had recently changed hands made her want to be suspicious, but she fought to remain level-headed. It was enough that she was going off the word of a teenage boy and an old poster. If it was a dud, if this trip led nowhere, she would buy Carlos a gift and head home safe and sound.

After finishing her meal, she returned to her hotel room and pulled out the business card Frank Wolfe had given her. Something about the dark purple design and the old-fashioned lettering he’d chosen made her feel like Caleb Covington was at least a little pretentious, if not flashy about his business. Picking up the phone and dialing the number, she held her breath waiting for an answer.

“Caleb Covington, who may I be speaking to?” a baritone voice chimed on the other end. The touch of sing-song in his tone was unexpected.

“Hi, my name is Victoria,” she introduced herself for the second time that night. “I was told you were the guardian of a young man named Willie?”

“Are you with social services?” he asked.

She furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry?”

“I usually only get a call when we have a hearing scheduled, but our last one was just a couple months ago.” His tone had gone from happy to serious at such a jarring speed it took Victoria a moment to process his words.

“No,” she said finally. “No, I’m not with them. I didn’t mean to confuse you. I’m actually reaching out on a personal favor. See another young man I know says they met a while back.”

“Oh, is it the band that came through a few weeks ago?” Caleb immediately picked the cheer back up.

“Yes, I’m glad you remember,” she responded, surprised.

“How are those boys doing?”

“Oh, they’re just fine. I think they’re gonna be a success.”

“Good to hear it,” he said. “Listen, no harm done. I own a swanky little club just in the south of town. I would be delighted if you gave me a visit, and I’d be happy to chat.”

“Sounds great, thank you,” Victoria smiled, unable to believe how easy that felt. “I can stop by tomorrow evening.”

“Wonderful. If it isn’t too much, I’ll make you a reservation.”

“Well, I can’t say no to such generosity!” It had been a long time since Victoria had gone on a night out. This was a much needed vacation, and if it killed two birds with one stone, all the better. She said goodbye and decided since she was practically getting everything she needed at the club, the rest of the day would be spent treating herself for once.

Willie skateboarded up the driveway and only just remembered Caleb’s rule about the pool in time to hop off before pulling off his helmet and going around the back. He took the back route into the house and dropped a number of grocery bags on the counter. One of these days he would age out of the foster system and not spend the morning being Caleb’s errand boy, but for now he just laid Caleb’s credit card on the table and went outside toward his shed.

Opening the door, he saw Caleb standing in the middle of the room, looking around at all of his drawings. Paper covered most of the walls now. Faces with no names to them, locations with no map to their destination - only snippets of a past life. Willie couldn’t stop drawing them. There still weren’t many memories returning to him, but any detail was an important one. He hadn’t drawn this much in ages, since before he found Sheldon. The backwards dream had become a recurring one by now, and there was still very little that he understood about it. Still, he had so many scenes made out of it that he could almost recreate the dream in a very rough animation.

“Hi C-Caleb,” Willie stammered. This never happened. It made him immediately nervous.

“What a collection, William,” Caleb said, not exactly sounding like an awed patron in a museum. “I mean, the sheer volume of work that went into these is absolutely mind-blowing.”

A small pebble of pride rose in Willie’s chest.

“Really?.... Um, thank you.” He couldn’t suppress his smile.

Caleb held up a hand and looked down at his well-manicured nails, and then back up.

“I just don’t understand why I look so hostile in this one,” he said, pointing to the picture in question. “And that one. And all of these in this corner.” His gaze returned to Willie with unprecedented menace.

Willie immediately shrank away, his mouth gaping open.

“Well...I..they’re from a dream.”

“A dream?” Caleb repeated, not liking what he was hearing.

“Yeah, I think it was a memory.”

Willie watched the man straighten his posture, a calculating expression on his face.

“Are these all memories?” Caleb asked after a tense moment, casting his eyes about the room.

“I think so,” Willie said hesitantly.

Caleb lifted a hand and grabbed the bottom of one. It was the first one WIllie had done of his dad sitting inside the truck and smiling at him.

“Hm,” was all that he said for a second.

And then he tore it in half.

Willie made toward the picture in alarm, feeling a part of him inside being torn just the same, but was stopped as Caleb held a hand out.

“Ah ah,” he said. “What have I told you about becoming your own person regardless of the past?” He took a handful of another drawing and ripped that one too.

Ignoring what Caleb said, Willie lunged forward to try stopping him anyway. Caleb was faster, grabbing his shirt and tossing him backward into the wall. He couldn’t help but begin crying.

“But these are my memories, why would you - ” he sputtered, lost for words.

“Because, William,” Caleb continued loudly, pulling as many as he could off the wall and shredding them into smaller pieces. “Your history? The one full of loss and being shuffled here and there? That is all that awaits you. You know it’s the truth; that’s how you ended up here. I offer you the opportunity to become a new person, and I can’t allow you to spoil yourself with reminders. And besides, those little friends you not-so-secretly made a few weeks ago have started snooping around in my business, and I can’t have that.”

He didn’t even pick anything up, he just left paper strewn all over the floor and walked all over it. As he made for the last wall, Willie made one more attempt to overpower him. He leapt onto Caleb’s shoulders and tried to pull him back with all his weight. A fist landed in his eye and he slacked his grip. Caleb wrestled him onto the bed and held him down, a crazed look in his eye that Willie swore he’d never seen no matter how familiar it felt.

“I don’t understand, what do they have to do with it? Why can’t I have friends?”

“I’m doing this for your own good,” Caleb hissed at him. “You” - he reached up and touched the scar on Willie’s head with his finger - “You got a reboot and you know how many people are lucky enough for that? You should thank me. Unfortunately, you can’t have friends when they send someone asking me questions about that little past of yours. That’s just asking for trouble.”

All Willie could do was hold his eye and lay back as Caleb tore up the last of the drawings. Once he finished, Caleb patted himself off and made his way out the door.

“Clean this up,” he told Willie. “And don’t bother doing any more art.”

As the door shut behind him, Willie scrambled onto the floor to search for just one of the drawings. Shuffling through smudged pieces of paper, he saw a few tears drop onto his ruined work. Eventually, he held the picture of his father in two pieces in his hands. Sobbing, he tried to hold them together evenly, but Caleb’s work had made that hard to do. His only hope was to try drawing it again, but he was already terrified of what Caleb’s reaction to that would be if his first one had been this.

A piece of another drawing caught Willie’s eye from underneath. He recognized Caleb’s snarling face from the dream and was surprised at how well it captured what he’d just witnessed. His mind went back to the way he knew the look in Caleb’s eyes. Suddenly, the awful realization dawned on him: he finally understood the dream.

Victoria walked into the club that evening, glad she had taken the time to look and feel fresh. This place was clearly up to snuff and then some. A live band played with dancers scattered throughout, all in bright, sparkly, feathery getup. A tall man with neatly styled dark hair was mesmerizing the crowd as he sang, keeping the energy high. As she was led to a table, Victoria simply sat and watched, greatly impressed with the talent.

Once the man’s solo finished, he bowed, gestured at the band to play on without him, and exited the stage. To Victoria’s surprise, he took the seat directly across from her.

“Ms. Victoria, you look so lovely, how are we this evening?” he asked with a charming smile. “I’m Caleb Covington.”

“Are you kidding me?” she started. “That was you up there? You’re a man of many talents; I’m already dazzled.”

“Oh, well, I hope that remains a constant while you’re here,” he said. "But you came to ask me about some other things, what were they?”

“Yes, I had some questions about Willie.”

Willie sat outside the bodega, unwilling to move for a while. He felt like everything inside of him was empty, as if Caleb had possessed claws and dug everything out until he was left hollow. The many ideas that had risen in his mind in the past few hours were all too much, all at once. If he dared, was he sure he could handle everything that might come his way? Every time he’d heard that ridiculous speech about starting over, becoming his own, yada-yada, he hadn’t considered any of the options he was now contemplating.

He’d already done some things. Already bought some things. Now he got up to collect Sheldon and held him tightly as he nodded to Escobar, who saluted him back. The man had said he didn’t want a dramatic thank you. Stuffing the items he purchased in his bag, he kept a hold of Sheldon as he skated off into the darkness.

“So, you see, Willie isn’t missing. He was abandoned,” Caleb was saying to Victoria. “Poor thing has struggled to adjust. I’ve dealt with some handfuls in the past, but I really have been doing the most for him, and he’s been with me for more than three years. I think it’s really sweet of those boys to raise a concern, and I hate to be a dead end, but that’s the truth of it.”

Victoria sat, nodding in acceptance.

“That makes a lot of sense, Mr. Covington, thank you for providing that for me.”

“Oh, call me Caleb. We’re all friends in here.”

“Okay, then, Caleb,” she corrected. “What got you into foster care?”

He put a hand over his heart and a fond look came over him.

“The youth are just full of so much magic, and I hate to see that their parents have chosen to lay it to waste. I’m the one who takes some of the tougher cases so I can bring out the best in them. You see that young man over there, Dante?” Caleb pointed at one of the dancers. “Classic rebel when he was young. You wouldn’t even know, he’s turned into such a gentleman. There’s a few more here and there in the club. I call them my graduates.”

“Well, I will tell you,” Victoria said. “When I first talked to you on the phone I wasn’t expecting you to be so generous. But now I can see that it’s just how you are.”

Caleb shot her a playful smile.

“Victoria, no need to butter me up. I do have some tight business practices to keep up.”

Fluid poured over every inch of the shed. Willie had made sure it was more than enough to get things going. He’d made sure to get the essentials: food for himself and Sheldon, a few changes of clothes, and a stash of money he’d taken from the safe in Caleb’s bedroom. The man shouldn’t have given him the combination in the first place.

Stepping out of the shed he looked at it one last time. What a sad, lousy existence. Living to perform for this man who shut him up inside this little thing and he had actually called it home? The further he was into his plan, the bolder he began to feel. He remembered when he had missed getting into the Pearl and that feeling of wrongness that had made him so frustrated. This feeling he had right now? It was so right. It was so right it drowned out anything scary about this whole idea.

He looked back at where he had put Sheldon on a small leash and tied him along the fence around Caleb’s backyard. It was definitely a safe distance. Then Willie pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lit one, and looked at the flame for a minute. He held it just over the threshold of the doorway so it would land inside. It was so weak, like he had been ever since his accident. But he knew it was going to become so powerful, and he desperately hoped that he could retain some of that power for himself.

“Clean this up, Caleb,” he said, and he let his fingers go.

Victoria had stayed just a little longer to enjoy more food and music before standing up and heading toward the door. Caleb saw her on her way out and made her stop for a moment.

“It’s been a lovely night, and I’m grateful for everything you told me,” she said to him.

“Well I’m glad you took the opportunity to see what I have here,” he replied. “If you’re ever in the city again, please stop by. We’re always partying and putting on the best show.”

“Oh, I most certainly will,” she said, smiling as she made her way outside.

Someone tapped on Caleb’s shoulder from behind. Wordlessly, he turned to see who it was and why it was important.

“Sir,” one of his servers said. “You have a phone call. It’s the fire department.”

“What?” Caleb spat as he went to pick it up.

Willie sped along on his board the best that he could with Sheldon in his arms. He carefully made it down the ramp onto the freeway, controlling his speed as well as he could. He could picture Caleb now, just getting back to his home, eyes wide as he came upon the blaze. It was a very strange feeling, but right now Willie chose to focus on his newfound freedom. The cost wasn’t the matter right now. Freedom was all that was going to take him and his cat as far as they could go. The destination for now was Los Angeles.

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

Do you have any stories or figures, etc. (of your creation OR already existent) that you'd like to see adapted into an opera? Who'd the dream cast be and what would it look like, sound like?

I have two stories I wrote in high school that I'd love to see as operas:

For Every Spring--short story about a mother and daughter during the Reign of Terror

Madeleine: Ying Fang

The Mother: Joyce DiDonato

sparse unit set, cross between music of the time period and a quintessential French Romantic style

The Last Testament of a "Monstrous" Condemned Woman-- prison flashback story about rediscovering art, burglary, and murderous arson

The Woman: Marina Rebeka

The Investigator: Gerald Finley

not sure about who to play the smaller characters, it's set at an unspecified point in the mid-to-late 1800s, so look reflects that, sound kinda reflects that but I also envision it as Korngold/Expressionist-esque

(the full text of both stories is below. please keep in mind that these are both at least three and a half years old):

For Every Spring:

March 19, 1794, evening.

“Go on now. Do it.”

The woman’s voice filled her daughter’s ears with that simple command. The daughter was standing with a pair of scissors in one hand, staring into a mirror hung on the otherwise bare wooden wall. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Mama, how much more can this revolution take from me?”

Her mother could hear her daughter’s weariness and despair, and for a moment, felt pity for her, but steeled herself. “You must do it. There is nothing left for me. But perhaps you could still escape.”

“I don’t want to go without you.”

“You must. There is no way I could escape… the revolutionary leaders know me too well. But they wouldn’t recognize you if you dressed in an urchin boy’s rags and had a dirty face.” Mother glanced at her daughter’s shining blonde hair that went almost halfway down her back again and sighed. “The hair, though. In order to look like a boy, you have to cut off your hair. If they see long hair, they’d suspect you’re hiding something…” She shivered. “And they would investigate, and it wouldn’t end well for you.”

“But what if I pulled it back? Tucked it in under my hat?”

“It could fall down. And if they took your hat off and saw a bunch of pulled-back hair…”

“I know, but other than you, my hair is my one joy left.”

“It’ll grow back.”

The young woman paused. She fell into a swirl of memories: how her father had loved her long golden hair, how when she was little, he would toy with it and tell her it was more beautiful than any princess’s, and finally, how the Reign of Terror had brutally claimed him, just like it was about to claim her mother.

Her mother went on, “Your life is more important…” Knowing her daughter was still hesitant, she took the scissors out of her daughter’s hand. “Now hold up your hair so I can cut it.”

The daughter obliged, but at the same time, a single tear trickled down her pale cheek.

Snip.

The first cut, like a dagger to the heart.

Snip-snip-snip-snip-snip…

In just a few minutes, the deed was done. The girl’s long golden locks were scattered all over the bare floor.

Mother turned her around and gazed into the girl’s eyes. She slowly whispered, “You look just like Papa…”

The tears her daughter had tried to hold back burst forth in her grief, and she collapsed in the middle of the cut-off locks of hair, weeping.

“I lost Papa, and now I must lose you! Why must I lose everyone and everything that brings me any happiness?”

The woman took her daughter in her arms as outside in the streets, people cried, “Vive la révolution! Vive Robespierre!” She said, almost under her breath, “You haven’t lost your life like I will tomorrow. You can make it out of the country, and you will, I know. Don’t stay to see me die, or you will too. Remember the plan?”

“Wear the peasant rags. I’ve done that,” she broke off, gesturing at the clothes she was now wearing. She quickly continued, “Dirty your face in the soot. Take the sack of bread, cheese, and money and leave under cover of night. Tell the guards at the city gates that your name is Raoul, and you’re going to see your sick aunt in Calais. Go to Calais; tell the guards there that you’re going to London to see your uncle. Get to London somehow- stow away on a ship if you must, and start over again. Without your mother who cares for you and wants nothing more than-“ She stopped, momentarily unwilling to recite the last part of the instructions her mother had drilled into her head.

But she took a slow, deep breath and finished,“To go with you, but she must be with you from afar, not by your side.” Her body shook with her sobs.

“Yes,” her mother replied. Now she was crying too. “But take heart, my child, and remember I love you more than the sun and the moon and the stars and the whole world.” She sighed. “Madeleine…”

“Yes, Mama?”

“I wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

“Me too.”

Now it was raining outside, and it was dark. The only light came from the half-moon shimmering in the black sky. It was silent now except for their weeping.

At last, Madeleine said, “It’s raining. See? The sky is crying because of your death.”

“No,” her mother firmly replied, not wanting to hear of any pity. “The sky is not crying- not for me, not for you, not for anyone. It is merely raining, my child. Spring is coming, don’t you remember?”

“Yes, but for every spring…” Madeleine did not dare say the second part of the saying she had heard about spring.

Mama sighed and finished it for her, “A winter melts away.” She shivered and continued, “I am the winter. I have lived a long life, I am old, I am about to die.”

Madeleine wept.

“But you- you are the spring, so young, so beautiful, with such a bright future ahead. Go and live. Do not stay to see me die.”

Madeleine, still crying, sat by her mother, and her mother took her into her arms. They held on to each other, not wanting to ever let go, though they both knew inside that sometime, they would have to let go of each other- forever.

At last, Mother whispered, “Go, my child.” She let go.

Madeleine grabbed the sack and was almost out the window before she looked back at her mother for the last time. She whispered, “I love you, Mama.”

The response, softly spoken through quiet tears, was simple. “I love you too. Goodbye.”

Madeleine slipped out the window.

Some time later, a church bell chimed midnight. “The beginning of a new day, a new spring. Today is the first day of spring,” she thought.

At last, she whispered into the air, to her daughter, wherever she was now,

“For every spring, a winter melts away. But please, Madeleine, do not think about the winter melting… ”

The Last Testament of A "Monstrous" Condemned Woman:

“The Venetian government sent me here.”

The man faced me, with a look that could best be described as a mix of utter contempt and bewildered curiosity, but still managing to be very official, on his face.

“Why? Do they usually do this to prisoners awaiting their imminent execution?”

“No,” he replied very sharply. “They sent me here because even after the questioning and your trial, they still do not understand why you did everything that you did. And your crimes- they are sensational, to say the least. Your trial had the whole city in an uproar. And, mia piccina,” he added with disdain, “that is a very hard thing to do in such a city as Venice. So before you are executed at dawn, they want to know why-why you caused such destruction so heartlessly, why you took so many lives like a hardened assassin.”

“Heartless? A hardened assassin?” I just managed to get out the words. “No, no. You do not understand. The reason I did not talk is because they would not listen. They saw a monster. That is all they saw, just like I know you see me now.”

“Do you not want to preserve your own story before you die?”

His words startled me. And then I realized it: This is my only chance to show them that I am no monster.

“Very well, then,” I replied. “I will tell you everything.”

Without looking at me, he reached into his bag, pulling out a notepad and a pen and setting the pad on his lap. After that, with eyes still averted, he told me, “You talk, I take notes. Begin now, for dawn will come before long.”

“I was born in the English countryside, the only child of a scholar who had come into some wealth thanks to his marriage to the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in all England. Throughout my childhood, I was constantly exposed to all sorts of wonderful thoughts and books and ideas because many scholars would come and share their thoughts on every subject imaginable. My father was always one of the ones who talked the most- he knew so much, and he always wanted to learn more, to discover more-”

“Will you please stop wasting time and get to the point?”

“That was just what I was doing,” I snapped back. “Anyway, he was very ambitious. As time went on, I became more interested in art than anything else. I could not draw, paint, or sculpt to save my life, but I marveled at its beauty, the way some people were just able to recreate something out there in the world, and I wanted to understand how they did it. And there was another aspect of it, too, that fascinated me: there would be scholars that came from Paris, from Rome, from the Netherlands to share these great lost artworks that they had rediscovered, and to tell how they had become renowned for finding these artworks, how the art would be preserved for eternity and so would they, for the simple reason that after all these years, they had found these masterpieces and given them new life. And I? I wanted to do just that too.”

At that moment, I noticed him hurriedly writing, trying to keep up with everything I was saying.

“I can wait for you to finish writing,” I offered.

He nodded, and for several seconds, I said nothing as he finished his notes.

“So what does this have to do with you coming to Venice?” he eventually asked.

“Well, the time came when my father passed away. When he died, he left his entire estate to me, including all of the books in his library. I had never seen many of them- he never let me read them, because they were too precious. But he promised me that when I inherited the estate, I could read as many of the books as I wished.”

“Those books,” I continued, “became my way of healing from the grief. To read the same books that my father had studied from somehow felt like a way of being near him, and that eased the pain. I spent almost every waking hour exploring the library, reading and then reading some more.”

I paused, and a thought shot through me: This is the moment you set down this road of sorrow. I shook it off though, and went on:

“One night, I was browsing through the shelves when I came across a set of eight dusty old books. They were all about Italian artists from the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They had a massive effect on me, but not for the reason you think.”

“Well then, what was the reason?”

“The front cover of each book had a most interesting thing written in it. Together, they seemed to make up a series of instructions for finding a lost artwork. And those instructions were thus:

‘The city of the winged lion has many secrets yet to give up,

Including one by one not older, but younger.

A fire blazing in the Palazzo Ducale

Took the lives of many masterpieces,

And this was thought to be one of them.

But a saint still lives, preserved in that palace,

Old but still preserved, and still preserving,

Francesco’s St. Jerome writes, though he is asleep, and does not die!’

Now I knew enough to know this: the city of the winged lion is Venice, and the fire was the great Doge’s Palace fire in the late 1500s. The “younger” was almost certainly Palma il Giovane, who was the great-nephew of Palma Vecchio, a good enough painter, and who painted extensively for a Francesco, Duke Francesco Maria II of Urbino. It was known that Palma had painted St. Jerome for Francesco, but everyone assumed that the painting had been lost. And as soon as I figured all of this out, I thought, ‘What if this could be the great discovery I have hoped to make?’ You understand, I was very ambitious, and at that moment I resolved to find it, no matter what.”

“Let me get this straight. You pieced together some handwritten sentences, thought overly hard about their implications, and decided to go and do whatever it took to get this precious painting?”

“Exactly.”

“You are British, yes? You are just like Lady Macbeth! You get a hint of an idea, and you murder anyone who stands in the way of you!”

“No. I never planned on murdering anyone, I swear! Now if you would just be quiet, I would get to that!”

Silence. I shook my head, and went on:

“The next day, with nothing but two hundred pounds, a sack of food and water, and the instructions copied onto a sheet- you see, I wasn’t planning on staying in Venice- I left home, and went to London. And from there I traveled on, first to Le Havre, then to Paris-”

“No one needs to know your travel itinerary.”

At that moment, a church bell chimed twice.

“It’s summer, and dawn will be here before too long,” the man advised. “Now I suggest you stop wasting your last hours and skip to you getting to Venice and exactly why you did what you did here. You don’t have much time left to tell your story, you know.” He seemed not so much impatient now as considerate, as if he were genuinely interested in what I was telling him.

“Fine. Anyway, I arrived in Venice, and I immediately set out for the Doge’s Palace. When I got there, it took me forever to find the painting, especially because I had no idea what it actually would look like. No one knew anything about the dimensions or the medium or what it looked like because it had been lost for so long. But everyone was saying that it had been called a masterpiece in its day, that it would be a major find. And that was what kept me going during those hard days and nights of searching. And at last, I found it inside one of the private rooms once used by the Doges of Venice.”

“So you found it. Congratulations. And how did you get here?”

“I wanted to return home, to my books, and bring the painting with me. I was planning to study the painting and only then reveal to the world what I found. But there was a problem, one I had not anticipated.”

“And what was that, mia piccina?” He no longer said it condescendingly, but as if he genuinely cared about everything I had gone through.

“I had no money left, no money to return home, and no way of getting any money, or at least, I did not think I had a way of getting any money.”

I shuddered with remorse now, thinking of where I had gotten the idea.

“Later on, I was roaming the streets, thinking about what I could do in order to get back home. At first, I was thinking of begging, but I thought that was weak. I am not a victim, and I would not allow myself to be weak like that. And then, I saw a jewelry house, with many fine jewels in the windows, the most and the finest diamonds by far I had ever seen! And the store- it was called the Salvadori Diamond Atelier, I believe- was not even guarded! Even though it had all these wonderful jewels worth thousands, thousands of pounds, I tell you!” I cried.

His brows had furrowed, and I knew what he was thinking now.

“Sir, sir, I feel so much remorse for this, it’s true, but when I saw all those lovely diamonds, I could not help but think, ‘This is my way to get money, to go home at last and someday show the world what I have accomplished, and fulfill my ambition.’ And I resolved to steal as many diamonds as I could that very night, so I could sell them for money.”

No, no, no. I cannot bear to tell this… but all of Venice already knows this…and I must tell this…oh God, but it haunts me so much…

My face must have gone pale, because the man asked, “Are you ill? Do you need to rest?”

“No, I just feel so, so guilty and horrified by what I am about to tell you…” I took a deep breath. “But I must tell you anyway.”

“That night, it happened to be a new moon, and the full darkness of the sky covered me. I felt so confident that everything would go according to plan. I would get in, take some diamonds, and leave Venice at once.”

“And indeed,” I continued, “at first, everything went according to plan. There was a door in the back, a very small door, that had been left unlocked. I slipped inside and slowly felt my way into the shop until I found the glass cases. And that was the point when things started going awry: I had found a pin, and since I had been taught how to trick a lock using a pin, I thought that I could simply use the pin, unlock the case, and stuff the jewels inside my bag. But the pin did not work- I don’t know whether the lock was very special or whether I just performed the trick wrong. It wouldn’t open though, so I had to resort to smashing the glass.”

“Let me guess,” he said, looking up from his notes. “Someone heard, and started shouting for the police?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know, because of how concentrated I was on my work, although that is probably it. But in any case, the police arrived, and in that moment, I realized that if I was caught, then I would be arrested and likely never return to England again. And I also realized that there was no way for me to make it to that small door unseen. But there was still another option.”

“What was it?” Now he was leaning forward.

I panicked inside. Please, I want to go back in time somehow, make it so I never did this, so that I never caused so much pain, which I never wanted to do…

“There was a small oil lamp with a flame inside the case, some wood that had broken off the case frame, and a jar of oil. And I realized that a fire would cause confusion, during which I could possibly escape. So,” I shut my eyes and said as fast as possible, “I poured the oil onto the wood, dropped the lamp on top, yelled ‘You will die before you discover me!’, and ran out of the shop, to the streets, and as I ran, I saw the whole building burst into flames and I heard screams, screams of officers burning, burning to death. Those screams, they haunt me still, even after all these weeks in prison and in court. And I smelled their flesh burning, and I relished it at first, knowing I had made it out.” And I realized I was shaking, and yes, starting to feel sick.

“But you seem so full of pain and remorse now,” the man said, confused.

“Just a few minutes later, I ran into another officer. The sight of him made me realize what I had done- I had killed innocent men just for money…” I was crying now, but I knew I still had to finish. So I continued, “At that moment, my conscience overwhelmed me for the first time ever, and I started weeping, just as I am now, and started screaming about how I had burned a group of officers in the Salvadori Diamond Atelier to death. The officer was confused, but I led him there, and showed him- the burning building, the people screaming, the firemen bringing out the bodies of dead officers. And then he arrested me right then and there.”

I fell silent. I have nothing left to say.

The man looked at me. “Do you have anything else you want to tell me?”

Through my tears, I choked out, “No, the rest of the story, you already know it…the trial, my sentencing to death…I just want it all to end. I never wanted any of this, and now I just want it to end, to spare the world any more horror I could cause…You see, the world is right- I am a monster…” Again, I fell silent.

“It is a strange thing, life,” he observed. “So many times, good people are driven to do unspeakable things which they never would have dreamed of doing except in the moment they did them. And for that, they are unjustly called monsters, for that one black blemish in an otherwise good life, and they are condemned to eternal damnation in the minds of the world, to be forever called a monster. Most of the time, the condemned do not speak.”

The cell door opened.

“Dawn breaks,” the jailer said. “And with it, your monstrous life ends.”

“-But you have broken the silence. You are very brave and strong to do that. That man will soon realize, like the rest of the world will, like I already know, that you are not a monster.”

“Now I must leave, for the hour of your death has come. Remember, you might die to expiate what the world has labeled you a monster for, but soon, your legacy will be realized for what it actually is. Go. Hold your head high. You have suffered much, but you do not deserve to suffer forever, and you will not suffer forever. Goodbye, mia piccina.”

And with that, he left. I rose, and surrendered to the jailer.

That black blemish he spoke of, I thought to myself as I walked with the jailer, will never be excusable. But it is not everything I am. And the world will know it is not everything I am.

Suddenly emboldened by this thought, I raised my head and held it high.

I know that I will find redemption somehow, for the world cannot truthfully say now that this is all I am. For I have said otherwise.

Now I am ready to die.

[having-a-hyperfixate]

Secret Reports

Gonna just edit this thing and put line breaks as I get more of them.

I’m also working on the rest of the completion, and will probably wander off in the middle of this to do Another Day, which will probably have its own post. I fully expect that to be sheer madness. 

#1 So is it just me or is Mr H writing these reports to channel how extremely stressed he is. Cuz like. Mood. *gestures vaguely at blog* *gestures at this post specifically*

I. Hold up. Skeezy McFuckwad and Joshua did what resulting in which now. Excuse me. EXPLAIN!??! Joshua had a sneaky Game running with Skeezy that directly lead to Hazuki ordering Skeezy to destroy Shinjuku??? Is that what I am reading. Or possibly the order was already in the works, and then there was the Game, which ultimately just pushed that forward?? You can’t just say shit like that and not give details ffffffff.

 #2 Mr H having about as much contempt for Shinjuku rules as I do I feel seen haha. Bogus indeed. I can’t remember if I said it in one of my other posts, of if it was in a group chat, but I made a comment somewhere how this ruleset doesn’t seem to work with the stated purpose of the whole Reaper’s Game system. Sweet validation.

 #3 Not much to say except that if I had read this entire report when I actually got it, I would have been much more alarmed by all of the Replays Rindo has to do after that. I got it partway through week 3 but decided not to read it until I beat the game and then BAM it has this lovely tidbit about potentially being able to destroy the UG and RG.

 #4 So, the business that the fandom refers to as the Long Game is known in universe by the higher-ups and Shibuya’s impurification, because it didn’t get ‘purified’ like Shinjuku (I object to that term but ok).

“The hierarchical freeze presumably stems from opposition to the impurification”

Skeezy wasn’t reprimanded when he arrived in Shibuya “possibly because most Higher Plane denizens still oppose Shibuya’s impurification”

ExcUSE ME. I. WHAT. In one of the secret reports for the first game, Mr H says something about the way things turned out be an ‘ideal parallel world’ according to the Angels. I guess he only meant the ones who didn’t want the city destroyed holy shit. That most of them didn’t want Joshua to change his mind and STILL DON’T is so massively fucked up I can’t. Dear Higher Plane, what the actual, ever loving fuck.

-----------------

#5 One hundred and four Games under Shiba. That’s… so. many. teams. Holy shit. And the teams we knew had seen at LEAST 30 teams go. And the three teams we saw weren’t small. So many people…

Also, “Minamimoto seems to be plotting something” is the funnies thing I’ve read in ages OF COURSE HE IS that’s what he DOES. XD That was some mood whiplash.

#6 I was so hung up on the lack of entry fee for so long you don’t even know. Like. Those were so important in the first one it was baffling to me that Shinjuku rules didn’t have anything similar. And then eventually I just decided that the whole Game wasn’t being run correctly and Shiba was clearly after something other than driving the improvement that’s supposed to be the point.

I would like more explanation on this ‘Rindo’s stagnation makes him perfect for time travel thing’. I kind of understand how his reactions being consistent would be helpful in being able to control where the timeline goes (also I just realized this further confirms that Angels remember the other timelines glad I wasn’t imagining that the Prime days are a blur), but what does he mean about being able to maintain abnormally high levels of imagination? (It might tell me later so don’t say anything lol)

“I can only hope I’m not overthinking things.” Oh, you aren’t. If I’m understanding everything correctly, Skeezy actually had two proxies. And poor Rindo managed to end up being proxy for both sides at the same time which is. A mess.

 #7 Well, finally we know how Coco managed to get her hands on a taboo sigil. Plagiarism. Lmao. That at least makes sense and I can worry less about her being Something Else. I would like a word with whoever didn’t clean that up from Udagawa long enough for her to copy it though. That’s hilarious. Interesting that Mr H thinks it wasn’t a perfect recreation though, that something in him got changed. Once again, please elaborate. Please. *headdesk* What prompted Coco to just. Copy a taboo sigil though. Cuz that seems. Unusual.

------------------

#8 Ok there’s a lot to unpack in this one. Namely, more Shinjuku rules. I would love to know if these are long standing rules or relatively recent. Cuz like. Did Shinjuku’s Game ever run in a way that would drive the kind of improvement that’s supposed to be the overall goal? Or has it always, or at least for a while now, been basically a meat grinder? The players that don’t clear that minimum bar probably just get erased outright, I would think. Actually, I’m confused. If normally, one team would get to leave and one team would be erased, wouldn’t that normally keep the average pretty level, so the Game would basically go on forever? Otherwise what do you do with all the other teams that are between first and last? I’m confused. It can’t be normal for teams to keep asking for more rounds. And what if the winning team says ‘everyone gets to go home’?

“The Conductor has yet to contact the Composer” and “it is possible he is unaware of the Higher Plane’s purification protocol.” I don’t know why, but I get the feeling these are important.

 #9 These secret reports are really driving at the whole ‘Rindo just goes with it’ thing, aren’t they. Like, that was his thing, right? He has trouble making definitive decisions? So his arc culminates in that moment in Udagawa where he tells Hazuki that he’s going to take the risk and go back one more time, where he’s making that decision purely for his own sake. And here Mr H seems to be saying that prodding Rindo down the road to character growth is going to be a lot harder than it was with Neku back in the day. Which makes sense, I think. Confronting someone with the concept that other people have value is a lot less complicated than trying to get them to not only make a firm decision, but to choose something that is purely because it’s what they want and need, not because someone else thinks they should.

It’s a little alarming that this report implies that if the pin wasn’t absorbing the Dissonance caused by the Replays, the UG and RG would already be having a bad time. Yikes. This is the report for day 2 of the second week. We haven’t even gotten into the crazy time travel yet.

Aaaaand #10 is for completing the social network, so I have to actually go do Another Day. I want to read these in order; it is much less confusing that way.

------------

#10 I really shouldn’t read these late at night with a possible migraine coming on, they’re already confusing enough. The bits that made sense: Uzuki was acting Conductor damn girl. (Did she have to deal with Joshua and was he in Dignified Mode or Being a Shit Mode because that’s possibly an oof.) I had assumed Shiba was Shinjuku’s Conductor and then just kinda took over after they moved in but apparently not? And RIP the actual Conductor, apparently. Weird that so many Reapers made it but the Conductor, who by all rights should have, didn’t.

I am slightly concerned by the fact that there’s standard procedure for obliterating a district. That’s. Alarming.

I don’t think page 4 is continuing the thought on page 3. Fucking. Stop that. Don’t just say a thing and then start talking about something else I would like EXPLANATIONS. UGH. “Almost” he says. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that almost is a big deal, so why don’t you tell me about it.

Four cases where a district got into trouble before a final decision on whether to reset or not was made. And one was the last game. I wonder if that means whatever was wrong that made Joshua want to destroy it, or if the ‘imbalance’ was all the madness that happened after he agreed to one final Game with Kitaniji and the left the UG. Cuz in one of the first set of secret reports, it says that with the Composer absent, the UG is starting to fall apart as the rules are no longer valid, or something like that. I would definitely call that an imbalance.

 #11 All I care about in this report is that Mr H wants to have a digital art bonding party with Kaie and that is so random why are you writing this down you absolute goober. The first page of this report is like ‘everyone is getting depressed’ and then just a wild left turn into dork-town. Lmao what.

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#12 I don’t think Mr H knows at this point (you get this report for W2D5’s Boss Noise) that the Ruinbringers are all Reapers. He’s gonna be mad. He does know what Shoka is up to though. He’s worried. Aw.

 #13 It didn’t occur to me until this report hit me in the face with it, but they’ve set up a fantastic contrast between the two people Rindo knows from online. One is. not great, let’s say, because I did not take the reveal of Motoi’s true self well. The other is Shoka, and she’s a real friend. I now see what you did there. One relationship that’s a farce and one that really, really isn’t.

 #14 Me, out loud, at 1:30 in the damn a.m.: WAIT. HOLD THE FUCK UP.

If getting Tsugumi out of Mr Mew required an Angel, how in the hell did Shiki manage to…? What. I’m very confused.

Also damn, saving Tsugumi was so important that Shinjuku’s Conductor died for it. Did he know what she could do, the whole visions thing? Or maybe that something was wrong with Shiba and it would take someone like her to potentially stop him in the future?

I still would like to now how the hell Tsugumi got her hands on Mr Mew. Especially since its apparently the ORIGINAL Mr Mew and she seems to have had him during the inversion? What.

 #15 So… Inversions don’t always happen when a region is purified. I’m trying to wrap my brain around what a ‘complete loss of character’ in and area that’s had an Inversion could mean. Like… I think I get it, but my brain won’t make words, let alone sentences. Like when you go into a hotel room, and it doesn’t feel like a home, as opposed to when you go to a friend or family’s house, and it does? Kinda like that but it’s the whole district that’s just… blank? That’s kinda creepy.

If there are so many who think a ‘regular purification’ isn’t enough, the a) what does that even look like, b) is that what Joshua was going to do to Shibuya and c) is there an intermediate step between ‘normal’ and Inversion? I have been staring at this report for literally 15 minutes now.

 #16 “I wonder how [Shiba] will feel about all this after he is allowed to return to his former self.” Yuuuuuup. I still Do Not Like him, but dude was borderline mind controlled so like. Yeah. And I did get to kill him once, so. As long as he minds his business and isn’t a total dick from here on, whatever. It all just sucks.

*facepalm* Well at least we got to being suspicious of Replay eventually. Why did it take you this long Mr H. Though I do wonder what Rindo would have been able to do without the interference. He had to have some kind of latent skill for the pin to react to him, right? I’m now going in circles mentally trying to puzzle out if Replay is like, a leveled up version of whatever Rindo would have naturally had, and regardless, where exactly it came from. Because the only time I can think of when anyone had a chance to mess with the pin was when he didn’t catch it in the prologue. And I’m pretty sure it was Joshua who picked it up. Aaagh I’m giving myself a headache.

I find it hard to believe skeezy would just yeet a random time travel pin out into the world. That seems both dumb as fuck and inefficient.

 #17 “Some of them who know what I am occasionally try to contact me.” Lol so Kariya DOES know who Mr H is, I take it. Alright.

I’m having some kind of emotion that Wildkat still exists in a way for the Reapers, and that some of them still go there.

I just imagined Uzuki texting him like ‘plz make the Composer fucking do something kthx’ and I’ve got the giggles now oh dear

 #18 HA! I was right! Minamimoto WASN’T in control when he attacked us! ‘Distortions within himself’ though, that’s concerning. Does that have to do with how he’s come back from the dead twice now? And how Coco’s copy of the sigil was apparently imperfect?

 #19 I was about to say ‘who would target him for his abilities?’ and then my brain turned back on because duh. Shiba and them were looking hard for Neku, to the point that they flooded the RG with Player Pins in the hopes that he would pick one up and get sucked into the Game. A thing that occurred to me last night at 3:30 in the morning because I am a disaster: Mr H says that Minamimoto ‘seems different’. Neku says much the same thing after he comes back. So… Neku’s ability to Scan all the way down to someone’s Soul is potentially close to as sensitive as Mr H’s long distance ability. Which is a little insane. On top of the fact that he can use basically every psych imaginable no problem, survived a pact with a Composer for a full week, while said Composer was using crazy light beams which probably should have melted Neku from the feedback, and then almost singlehandedly defeated the Conductor while somehow inventing four-way fusion attacks. Kid is mad powerful. And he’s just a human. Like, the OG secret reports say that people always become dramatically stronger when they become Reapers. Reaper!Neku would be unstoppable.

“This would be much simpler if I could sit down and talk with him.” Okay, I laughed out loud. Like, loudly.

So… Shinjuku’s Composer… basically had his Conductor assassinated by skeezy. And because skeezy was messing with Shiba’s head, he could prompt Shiba to take the Reapers to Shibuya afterwards, to start doing it there too? Hazuki ordered Shinjuku’s purification so… Oh dear. I might have a few bones to pick with him.

 OH NO. OOOOOH. OH NOOOO. SHINJUKU’S CONDUCTOR. HE WAS TSUGUMI’S BROTHER OH MY GOD. That is fucking tragic what the fuck. What the FUCK. Okay several things make sense now but OH MY GOD FUCKING HELL I WAS NOT READY FOR THAT. Shiki fixing Mr Mew allowed Tsugumi to free herself because her brother had already done part of the work, I take it? Along with us getting the Noise out of there? No wonder the Conductor stayed, he had to go get his sister… Shit, man.

 …… Did Coco steal Mr Mew and take him to Shinjuku?????

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#21 isn’t very interesting, just a rehash of stuff we already knew.

#22 Okay Haz IS Shinjuku’s Composer. What. Why? I’m. So confused. Why would he intercede on our behalf, and why NOW? He was happy to throw his own city away, but stepped in to stop skeezy in Shibuya? And then tried to put it back together, and when Rindo was miserable he came to try to understand why. And then cajoled Rindo into having a breakthrough in his Character Development to boot.

Mr H says he has an idea why Haz did all this. And then doesn’t fucking say it because OF COURSE. *headdesk* That gets really old really fast, game.

I’m now running through The Last Day’’ to get the final two reports and this entire section with Haz is somehow even more confusing with context. God damn it Nomura.

 #23 Even after he said we were on our on this time, he forced the Soul Pulvis to reform as Pheonix Cantus to make it easier for us to fight? Bro. What. Are all Composers just… walking contradictions? Aiya.

Shoutout to emotional support Joshua at the end there lol. I remember half-hysterically thinking ‘what are you just here for moral support?’ but ok. And I mean, it did work, Neku did manage to do the thing, so. *sigh* Speaking of, it is ABSOLUTELY INSANE that Neku manage to sync with the entire city without his brain melting. Remember at the beginning of the first game when he scans for the first time and has a massive sensory overload? Look at my boy, all grown up.

 #24 Holy shit world building on how exactly people come back to life without everyone freaking out. I never thought I would see the day.

I still have so many questions but that was always going to be the case. The first game had so many things it left open as well. Agh. Time to start wearing new holes in my brain overthinking things.