#a drabble a day project

[karolinarodrigueswrites]

An excerpt of my ongoing wip, how Leandro met Abel in Hell Was Made in Heaven, outsider pov from the people trying to find him.

Specifically, this is a homeless god calling a god that has been employed by the government:

Emily fished out of her pocket a card, and went to hunt down a payphone. This conversation would be better leaving as many traces and trails behind as possible. “Hello?” A hesitant voice picked up from the other side. “Leon could be missing and I want to prepare not only for the worst, but to make as much noise as we can to guarantee he will be found.” “Emily! I… I don’t know how much I can do from my side.” “Remind your government friends this child found them six new godly employees in five months. They owe him at least one rescue if his brothers tried to kill him again.” “But I-“ “Lisa, give me the phone,” a new voice approached. “Wonder-boy is missing?”

[gofishygo]

giggling ab this okay so

imagine gaz n reader, they've just started to date

and reader is trans (ftm) but gaz doesn't know that yet

but then after a few weeks of dating reader is taking their T in the bathroom/bedroom and had forgotten to lock the door & gaz walks in oh no,,

YEAH so!!! i hope that's enough to.. you know. yeah!!!! i 💗 ur fics sm.

(we need more ftm fics RIGHT NOW!!)

whoEVER ANON IS . I LOVE U . Thank u so so so so much 4 this request my fingers have been acting to write m or ftm content u have appealed to my deepest desires . myways this rq is super silly i love chilled out gay mf and nervous closeted trans mf dynamic so much. 

Also posted on trans visibility day lets GOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

the same (always changing); kyle 'gaz' garrick + trans male! reader (979 words)

notes: some implied and described internalised transphobia, mentions of transphobia, mentions of gender dysphoria, reader does not have top surgery yet, partial nudity on reader (non-sexual), little hurt/comfort type w/ fluff at the end !!

-

It wasn’t meant to be a secret. It really wasn't.

But here you are, cooped up in the cold premise of your shared bathroom, waiting for the gel to dry into your skin as you stare at your figure in the mirror, noticing the little changes with a strange sense of europhia. You wished you could run back to the arms of your boyfriend as you ramble about how good the hormones have been working, how you can see your outer shell peeling open to show the man who's been living in the inside, a feedback loop that had you seeing yourself in reflections instead of skin and hair and face that you'd barely recognised. Maybe his face would melt into that gorgeous smile, arms pulling you closer to him like he's seeping off the happiness he swears he sees seeping off your skin's pores. But it's the flip of a coin, a winning ticket in an uncertain lottery.

you're not so sure if Kyle would love the kind of person you were.

gender hadn't ever been a point of focus in your conversations, never something that had to be caught and pinned down with word or thought. he was a man, you were a man, and you loved each other. both of you did your best to keep it at that simplicity. but part of you, like the serpent to adam and eve, had always doubted whether kyle would look at you with the same eyes if you somehow ended up showing him your childhood photos or now-invalid passport, the face that was still soaked with dysphoria-ridden tears. 

the gel is still sticking to your ribs when the door practically flies off its hinges slamming against concrete walls and gaping open your closed eyes with ugly sound. There's a groan of exasperation that should make you giggle, but only makes already tense muscles almost turn to stone. "honey, you done ? really need to take a fat shi-" 

And then there's that silence both unsurprising but dreaded, how it felt to inhale smoke. 

You hate the shock as his eyes run over your bare chest in realisation, feeling any words about to come out crawling back into your windpipe as he notices the thin layer of gel and the label of the bottle on the sink. 

"love?" he calls, an endearing substitute replacing your name. you didn’t know if he'd call you that, even after this revelation. Or did he not know what else to call you now that this had been revealed ? "kyle," you echo. 

please just look at me, kyle. 

his eyes still look the same as how they look at you; stormclouds that accompany you on lonely and rainy nights, and your eyes can't help on focus on the pretty shade of grey instead of the battering of water droplets hitting against tin. Not once  does it ever shift to malice or hatred- only worry, for you, maybe. 

"do you want to talk about it right now ?" isn't the response that you expected. It's an gentle offer, and extended hand waiting for you to take or push away, more freeing than astute observations of your perceived identity or the bitter words hissed out when others had realised. You can only nod your head in response. 

"im sorry," you say, and you don’t know how much (what you're) apologising for. Sorry for never telling you. Sorry for making a distance that could have been avoided. Sorry for being this without your permission, anyone else's permission. 

but he's quick to hold you and the shame that you carry , not minding any of the gel residue on his shirt. "hey, no, it's okay," his voice is gentle, reaching out for your secluded self. "remember what I told you when we first started dating?" he puts a hand to your head, playing with your hair as he pulls you closer to him. "I love all of you, dove. Everything." he rests his chin onto your shoulder, murmuring the words into your ear. And you can't help but hug back, clinging to him like a lifeline. Your lifeline. "I love you too," you muse.

you both stay there for a minute before he pulls away with a complaint of some back pain from a recent mission, and you kiss his nose, allowing yourself to smile for the first time since he'd entered the room. "so.." you start, now perched on the rim of the bathtub. "you're ok with me being trans?"

you giggle when he deadpans at you, "love, I just hugged you for 5 full minutes after seeing you apply testosterone instead of taking a shit. I don’t really care if you're trans." 

and after your testosterone dries and you put on your shirt, you both in bed, tangled up in each other's arms. ramblings about little stories or town gossip. professions of grandiose love guised under quiet murmurs. the hormones are still a little crusty on your skin, but they're doing the work that should have been done since birth. 

The same, always changing. 

[ghostofthejungle]

Do we all agree that Zuko and Sokka can’t take a bath/shower together for the sake of it ‘cause the first sets the water at the highest temperature ever conceived by a human being, while the second recreates the Southern Pole into the bathtub ‘till stalactites hang from the ceiling?

[kyojurismo]

luffy who allows his s/o w an oral fixation to suck on his fingers while he’s totally free to move around as he pleases since well, he’s made of rubber.

[kangaracha]

CATSKIN for @feelbokkie

prompt felix + twisted fairytale (catskin)

TW for blood, minor character death, mentions of sexual assault, medieval type violence

word count 4444

---

I.

When first you meet, it is like two stars colliding - like the sun and the moon dancing around each other in the sky, and love at first sight is a dream for foolish, insipid children and you know that to be true, but...

Maybe in this moment, you forget. Maybe you see his face, warm against the cold ice of the cape that falls over his shoulder, or maybe you watch the soft curve of his mouth as he laughs at something his brother says, standing so subtly apart from the crowd that no one notices they are there. Maybe your eyes meet across the room, sun-warmed brown to striking blue, and time stills and the dance stops and your heart thinks that here and now, nothing else could matter but the taste of his name on your tongue and knowing what his hand would feel like in yours.

But this isn't real. The ballroom is crowded, and he is a familiar face you have never met, and you are a stranger with the moon draped over your shoulders for the night. The band strikes up a dance, a lively rhythm that swings fast and slow, and you are swept into the rush of the current, your feet moving in a pattern that they know from heart. Your hands are still stained with coal; you take every suitor's hand palm-down, hiding the black stains that won't quite scrub from already-dark skin, and you waltz without meaning until pale, slender fingers take yours and hold them tight, tugging you from the dance before you can be passed on to the next partner in line.

"Wha-" you begin, and then you look up into the eyes you've dreamed of for days and months and years and forget what you were going to say at all.

"Sorry," he says, and drops your hand with all the haste you'd expect someone like him to once he looked close enough to see the lie shivering beneath your skin. "I just wanted to know your name, before I lost you in the crowd."

Love at first sight is a story mothers tell to put their children to sleep at night, and you have lost all your senses because in that moment, your mouth opens as if to answer him.

"There you are," a voice says behind you, too sweet to be any you know; and an arm loops through yours, and here is Hyunjin suddenly, jewels dripping from his brow and a fire burning in the back of his eye where only you know what it is for. "It's so like you to wander off. Come on; our friends are looking for us."

"Before you go-" says the mouth you'd seen laughing from across the hall, the prince it belongs to reaching out a hand - but you are already gone sliding away through the crowd that fills his ballroom from wall to wall with more dazzling finery than you've ever seen in your life.

"That was close," Hyunjin breathes in your ear, and there is the voice that you recognise, liquid fire and undertones of dark shadow. "You're supposed to avoid him, you know."

"I know," you mutter and allow yourself to be swept away, all thoughts of love and the sun and the electric feeling that had jumped from his hand to yours swept to the side.

II.

The king likes the ballroom to be full and the people to be colourful, and he likes the crowd to be lively.

The wine flows freely for the last day of the summer, the lords and ladies stripped of their cautious humours and careful tongues. Their laughter is raucous as you slip out into the garden, the sun pulled over your shoulders in lengths of fine silk that cut away the cold wind that bites at your exposed skin. Already, the trees have begun to turn and the grass is wet with the season's rain; you stand in the centre of an autumn scene and watch the leaves flutter and fall, the light of the lanterns glittering from your skirts and the swirl of beading across your breast, woven from the finest gold.

"It's you," says the man beneath the tree; and when he steps out into the light, dressed again in pure white, you forget to pretend that you hadn't seen him, or that you'd simply come out here to breathe in air that wasn't stifled by the laughs of a thousand other people. "I was looking for you, you know."

"Were you?" you ask with the curve of a smile, your tongue loosened by the quiet of the cooling night and the seclusion of the garden. "Or could you just not find someone to dance with?"

You'd seen him earlier, standing at the edge of that floor. Gently turning away the hands of countless maidens in gowns that dripped in jewels under the guise of speaking to his brothers, searching the crowd with his eyes at every moment he thought that eyes weren't watching him. The guilty smile that plays on his face says that he knows exactly what you are thinking of; the step that he takes within your reach says that he isn't going to hide it. "Maybe I was waiting for the right person," he says, and then his cheeks turn pink in embarrassment, his eyes sliding momentarily away from yours.

"You'll waste your entire night if you think like that," you tell him lightly, and then you glance over your shoulder at the doors to the ballroom - to give him a moment to himself, you tell yourself, and pretend that it wasn't because you thought you felt the creep of Hyunjin's watchful gaze over the back of your neck. There is no one at the door though, no one watching through the backs that are turned to the glass. Only he can see you here, the sun standing in the middle of the night's darkness.

"I never got to ask your name the last time I saw you," he says; and with a start that jolts up your spine like electricity, you turn back to him. 

"I never got to ask yours either," you say, in lieu of the answer that you cannot give him. Never mind the danger of him recognising you too closely after this night - if he mentioned to Hyunjin the name of a girl he'd met in the garden, if Hyunjin knew what you were doing between the tasks you'd been given...

"Everyone knows mine," he scoffs; not because he thinks so highly of himself, but in the reluctant acceptance of someone who had never known a moment of privacy. "You can't have come to the woodlands knowing so little."

"And what if I didn't?" you question, playing along on this string of a conversation rather than letting him turn it back around to the question he'd really tried to ask. "What if I'd simply come here to enjoy the night, and seen a man across the room that I thought I'd like to know?"

His smile grows wider, his eyes softening. You like the way that smile looks on him. "Then I'd tell you my name is Felix," he tells you. "And I'd probably ask you to dance before we met like this, out here in the garden where no one is looking. And it probably wouldn't be such a scandal if we were seen either."

"That doesn't sound like as much fun though," you say. "Isn't it much more interesting to meet like this, than to have it all planned out?"

"Are you someone that likes trouble?" he asks, head tilted to the side in question; and the words seem cautious, probing, but he draws in closer again anyway, enough that his hand can brush yours in the folds of your dress.

"Maybe I am," you tease, your heart fluttering and jumping around in your chest like a nervous rabbit. "Aren't you?"

"I think I could be," he says, and his hand brushing your chin is followed by his lips brushing yours; and it is only a question, a stepping across boundaries that promises to rescind immediately if you push him away, but love at first sight is a dream and you think maybe, in another life, you might have been a terribly indulgent dreamer.

You kiss him with all the certainty that had driven you to this point, this garden and this night and this man, and his lips are soft and he smiles too much, and his hands are hesitant to wander, but you've already tried hot, heady passion and men who take what they want. Soft is new, and questioning sends a shiver down your spine, and you think this is a better man. 

And then you stop because you remember, but you play it off as the toll of the bell startling you from a daydream. "I have to go," you say, which is true, and then, "I hope you find someone to dance with tonight," which is not.

"Will I see you again?" he asks; and it's notable, you think, that he doesn't reach out of try to stop you. That he accepts on face value that you are telling the truth and that, even though his eyes say they want you to stay, his mouth would be rude to ask.

"Maybe," you say, the word drawn out like honey dripping long and slow from your tongue. "If you have another ball."

He laughs, his eyes squeezing closed with the pain of it. When they open again, you make sure you are gone from his sight.

You're pretty sure you dropped something like your heart there in the courtyard, but you don't dare to go and get it back. Not yet.

III.

You're cutting through fine hallways of tapestry and stone from the garden, your basket filled with vegetables and your face streaked in dirt. You aren't supposed to be here - a scullery maid shhould be in the dark spaces between the walls, scurrying up and down steep and spiralling stairs, but you're late and the cook is a stone-faced woman with a tongue made for lashing, and you hadn't thought-

The prince stops to look at you, confusion furrowing in his brow as he stares at your face. Recognition; except that today you are hiding under the brown of the dirt and the mantle of wild fur, cobbled together from the backs of many animals but none so fine as te ermine that lines his coat. 

Your heart sinks even as it pounds in alarm at the thought of him finding out what you are and where you've come from. It is a disaster if it happens, surely, but at the same time - maybe you'd tricked yourself into thinking that he remembered you the same way you did him. Or maybe he had tricked you, with the way he'd so quietly given you his name in the garden, the earnesty with which he'd nearly asked you to stay.

"Your highness?" Hyunjin asks at his shoulder, dressed all in his own princely regalia, and Felix turns away. And for a moment you hate Hyunjin, as you slip to the side of the hall where your feet should be, out of the way; because how could he be so beautiful, and so detached and so true to his beliefs that he could play the prince, and you are so suited to fur and treachery that you stand here a maid?

"Sorry," Felix says, to Hyunjin and not to you, and pretends to move on. You can see his eyes flick back again as he leaves though, trying one last time to see past the furs and the dirt, to place where he has seen you before.

You can see Hyunjin's too, piercing when they look directly at you. Warning, that you are overcomplicating things. That this is all about to be a mess, and you are no longer prepared for it. 

Your ire rises again. You know what has to happen, and what he will do to facilitate it, and you know your own roll. You know it all has to end. Who is he, to think you can't carry through on a promise? Who is he to doubt you?

IV.

The final coat is made of feathers plucked from the birds of the sea cliffs, tawny brown and ochre and cream. Hidden in the tunnels of the castle, Hyunjin tucks a sprig of samphire into the curl of your hair, picked from the edge of the world before you had left and wrapped carefully in paper made for preserving these kinds of things. A piece of home, brushing up against your ear every time you turn; a signal to those that you have let in the back door that you are a friend, in case you are caught in the havoc.

"What happened to your hands?" he asks as he steps back to look at you, his own lifting your wrists so that he can see the black marks on your fingers.

"There was grease on the gate lock, to stop it sticking," you reply. "It doesn't wash off like blood does."

He drops your hands just as fast as he'd picked them up, his eyes scanning the feathers again. As if it was this coat that you'd worn when you'd taken a knife to the man at the gate, as if he would find evidence of the blood on your hands smeared across the vanes if he only turns you this way and that. Silly of him, really - the edge of the fur coat was the one that bared the stains. The fur was made for the work of the hands. The feathers were only sent as a signal, a draw of the eyes, dropping in the path of your feet as you walk towards the ballroom.

"Stay away from the prince," Hyunjin warns you, his attention turning in the direction of his own path to the party. "He's looking for a particular girl that he saw last time. He'll have eyes everywhere."

"Not on the ground though," you answer, shaking out the coat and watching a feather of mottled brown drift to the floor. You ignore the way that your stomach dips at the mention of a girl. You neglect to mention that the girl he's looking for might be you, and the rouge brushed across your cheeks and the glitter of gold on your eyelids will only draw his eyes. 

You should have worn the dirt and hidden in the shadows, but that's not how they had prophesised it. The witches had whispered of a feather coat and a dress made of the sun and a moonlight shawl, and you'd been the one foolish enough to wear them, and no one in those rooms had been able to resist the magic of them, least of all the prince.

"Time to go," Hyunjin says as the bell tolls seven, and with one last look between you, you turn your seperate ways. 

You don't know where his heart resides, but you know that yours is in your throat. You hope that he survives the night. You hope that whatever he came here for is worth what it is going to cost.

V.

At the moment the ballroom bursts open, the black soldiers streaming in from every entrance, you are looking at the prince.

You hadn't meant to. You had taken Hyunjin's advice, as much as it grated at you to do it, and you had avoided him, skirting around the edges of the room while he searched in all the wrong places for you, dropping your feathers where the feathers wanted to fall and hiding in crowds of garish colour that sniffed and sneered at your coat of soft brown; but even though you don't wear the sun or the moon, you still orbit around him and him around you when you are in this room, and to stay away from him was-

Impossible, in the moment when you turn and there he is, right on your tail like the hunters following the birds to their nests in the cliffs, willing to jump from the rocks just to collect the eggs that might hide below. Except that he wasn't here to steal from you, or to catch you in his hands and tame you - he only thinks that you are beautiful, or that he could love you if only you gave him a chance.

And then the feathers ruffle and shift in the breeze, and the doors open, and the room fills with the men of the sea, axes and knives glinting in their hands and white teeth snarling within their faces.

Eerie silence falls as the room stutters to a halt, the shiny, red-faced aristocrats turning to stare at the army that have entered their sanctuary. The first one falls by the main entrance, his wine arcing through the air as he tumbles to the ground under the sharp blade of an axe; and then they scream, and they move in every direction, and in the maelstrom of silk and chiffon and eyes of horror you lose sight of the prince.

Slipping across the room is like fighting upstream against a raging river, ducking between bodies and around blades that don't have time to see the samphire behind your ear. You fade away into the one hallway you hadn't marked with a feather, disappearing into the black of the walls and the twisting tunnel down to the kitchens where just moments ago maids had scurried out to deliver the feast, and your heart breaks at the red-suited body that tumbles in on your heels, the eyes of a man in armour of beaten iron that take in your feathers and your face and turn away, back to the bloodbath, but you can't go back. You can't save him. 

And then a gutteral cry echoes down the tunnel, and a body blocks the light that flickers from its entrance, and there he is, your prince. His eyes are scared and his mouth open as he gasps for breath, the little knife he'd used on your countryman held in a white-knuckle grip in front of him as if he thinks he might need it again at any time. Blood splatters the front of his snow-white coat, tarnishing the pearls and sinking into every fibre of the cotton and wool that holds it together.

"It's you," he gasps between breaths, the words reverberating from the stone walls. "I found you."

"You-" you begin to say, but the words are lost in the storm of thoughts that cloud your mind, the race of scenarios that you can imagine coming from this unfateful meeting, this turn in the story that was never anticipated. Every step has been told to you up until now - the coats, and the feathers, and the rush of men into the ballroom that leads to the fall of a kingdom - but no one said a word about this. About him, the prince, the hands that now cup your heart to their chest, and the knives at his back as he stands there, just one step shallow of safety.

You think too much about what has happened and what could happen next, but you don't think at all when you reach out and grab him, dragging him down the tunnel and into the darkness, where only sporadic lanterns burn to guide the way. Around this corner and then that, down a staircase so steep that countless girls have broken their necks tripping on its uneven stones, into the warmth and light of the kitchen, where the smell of the pig roasting over the fire fills the air and the stack of pots waiting for you to wash them later in the night teeters towards the ceiling, stacked in one corner by several pairs of careless hands.

No one is here. They'd timed it deliberately for the arrival of the feast, when the attendants of the ball would all reconvene from the corners of the palace to the ballroom to fill their already ample stomachs. Incidentally, this meant that the kitchen staff were all in attendance too, arranging dishes under the watchful eye of the cook, which meant that when you tried to hide a prince in the kitchen-

"Wait," he says, dragging back against your hold on his arm. "Wait, I know a way out of the castle. I can take you where it's-"

"No," you cut across him before he can finish, and you tug at him again, dragging him step by step towards the maid's quarters. "They're in the hidden tunnels too. There's no way out."

He's so surprised that he forgets to resist you, his body going slack with his jaw and his feet following you across the room. "How do you know that?" he asks.

You don't dare to look back at him as you enter the room you share with the other girls, as you open the little chest-of-drawers that holds everything you brought with you (but not everything you own) and you pull out the clothes you wear day-to-day - grey trousers and a cream shirt slowly staining brown, and the coat of a thousand furs, its edges stained with fresh blood. "Put these on," you order him, shoving them into his arms without looking him in the eye, and then you turn your back.

"I wouldn't punish you for pretending to be from the court," he says to your back as he changes, the white jacket thrown to the dusty floor and then his shirt and breeches. "Or for knowing whatever you know. You saved my life." His boots are too nice to be a servant's, but yours won't fit him; you reach for Alice's old pair while he is busy, set neatly at the foot of her bed, and hand them to him when he is done, picking up the clothes he has discarded instead.

You saved my life too, you should say of the man he had killed, to keep up the illusion, but the lie seems wan in the face of the truth you are going to have to admit to him by the end of the night. You stalk past him instead, headed to the fire with the truth and the lies still sitting sour on your tongue.

The shirt and pants burn easily, the leather of the boots slow to sink between the logs that fuel the flame. You hesitate a moment before throwing the coat in after them, eyeing its precious pearls and hand-woven patterns of leaves and swirls. A silver brooch pinned to the lapel catches your eye; your thumb runs over it, feeling the careful details its maker has pressed together and the chips of diamond that embed its surface.

"That was my mother's," Felix says behind you, a certain grief hidden in the stiffness of his voice. "But you can burn it if you have to."

"I don't have to," you reply, and you work it free of the fabric with delicate and practised fingers. The coat feeds the flame; the brooch pins onto your dress, just above your heart.

 "Pretend to be a servant," you say as you turn to look at him. Your hands reach out to fix his coat, to smear the soot from the fireplace into his golden curls and down his cheeks. "I can't keep you alive if you're a prince, but if you're just a boy from the kitchens-"

His hands catch yours as they slip from his face, the ash that clings to your skin staining his as he grips them tight. "Who are you?" he questions. "What have you done?"

Tight-lipped, ashen-faced, you look up into his eyes - pale blue to forest brown, liar to honest truth. "I'm the feathercoat," you say, as if he will understand the words of a fable that people only whisper over the sea cliffs and the raging storms of the ocean. "I'm the one that brings the woodlands to their knees. I'm-"

Your voice chokes in your throat, your fingers growing numb from the force of his grip on your hands. There's a knife still tucked into his waistband - there's a knife behind him, stuck by its tip into the surface of the cutting board. You only have your feathers, and the excuses that stack up in the back of your throat; that the witches told us it would be so, or your land is the only gift my father will accept in place of a marriage to that man, or haven't you seen the way your father encroaches on our cliffs? Haven't you seen the way your farms destroy our hills and valleys and pollute our river? But those are all reasons that blame someone else, and you are the one that stands here, and the grease from the gate stains your fingers, not theirs-

"I loved you," he says, and he lets go of you like he has been burned. "I saw you across the room, and I thought no one could be so beautiful, and you can't even tell me the truth when-"

A shout echoes down the hall you'd escaped from, the rattle of armour and the thunder of heavy boots against the floor. "Wait," you say to him, a hand suspended in the air between you. You're afraid to touch him, when he could reach for that knife - when he deserves to see your blood run, for what you have done - but you can't let him run to his death all the same. "Wait until we live, and then I'll tell you, and then you can kill me. But wait. Take my hand and wait."

He hesitates, his eyes wary like he doesn't believe you, but the man on the stairs shouts again, calling for someone to follow him, and the fear shoots right into his heart and his hand slides into yours, his pulse fast but his fingers cold. 

"I don't want to kill you," he says, like a promise you can't believe he will keep. "Just keep me alive, and when the sun comes up, tell me everything. Please. I don't have any reason to kill you if everyone here is already dead."

"I will," you reply, and this is a promise that will be kept, whether or not he reaches for the knife when the light of the dawn comes. "I love you too, you know. I didn't mean to hurt you."

And yet, you have. And yet, the guilt and the feathers eat you alive.

---

PERMANANT TAGLIST

@amyyscorner @kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @keepswingin @rylea08 @puppysmileseungmin @thatonedemigodfromseoul

[jon-withnoh]

Danny yawned. Beatrice had taken the knitted blanket from the armrest of the settee and draped it over her. Now Beatrice had settled in the armchair next to her, reading the papers with her feet propped up.

“You’re back.”

“Have been for about an hour.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because you look rather lovely without a care in the world.”

Danny scoffed. “You are an unbearable sap.”

“You can hardly deny me my sentimentality,” Beatrice said fondly. She reached out and brushed her fingers over Danny’s forehead. “Not when for decades I could do nothing but dream about you.”

— Prompt 28: forehead touches.

[zylophie]

( ˘ ³˘)♥ — day 2 featuring kamishiro rui

knock knock!

heres some mail!

ଘ(੭´꒳`)°* ੈ‧₊ 💌

⌨️ᶻᶻᶻ...anon is typing... ♡

↻ᴹᵉˢˢᵃᵍᵉ ˡᵒᵃᵈᵉᵈ !

❝Hello! If it hasn't been taken yet, can I request prompt 2 for Rui?❞

━━❝I'll give you a kiss hot enough to melt the snow❞

"Ruiiiii, I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting!"

You were late. Very late.

Rui was standing under the roof of a nearby store, waiting for you...but it's been a few hours from the meeting time that you both agreed on... stupid traffic jam.

"Ah, there you are" He waves at you as you stop in front of him, out of breath.

"Why didn't you get inside?! Oh my gosh, you must be freezing right now!"

"I didn't want to miss you so I was waiting outside"

"Rui..." You absolutely feel bad now for being late now...

"...But I'll let you make it up to me by warming me up" Rui was staring at your face as if expecting something.

"Huh?" You grabbed hold of his right hand and squeezed it tightly. It was cold enough to make your hand tingle, it was nearly frozen solid.

"What are you doing?" He asked, confused.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm trying to warm you up like you said"

"That's not what I meant when I told you to warm me up"

"Eh?"

Still holding your hand, he yanked you towards him, wrapping his arms around your waist "Mm. It's warm"

He nuzzled his face up close, getting tangled up in your hair then he rubbed his cheek against yours...

"What the heck?! Rui! Your cheek are cold as ice and it's scratches!!"

"You can't escape~" He smile playfully much to your dismayed as he pulled himself closer to you, clinging to you even more tightly "Ruiiiii-!!"

...Did you just see a white dot just now?

"Oh..."

Snowflakes flutter gently around the two of you as the white snow begins to fall.

Rui slowly loose his arms around you as he turns towards the dark skies "It's our very first snowfall experience together..."

"It's supposed to be extra chilly today so there was a possibility of snowfall happening today" You paused for a second, slowly unwrapping the scarf around your neck and then wrap them around his neck to keep him warm "Aren't you cold? We should go home soon, I don't want you to catch a cold because of me..."

He then turns towards you suddenly as his gaze make eye contact with yours which makes you feel a little awkward "...Rui?"

He cocks his head "You've got some snow on you"

"What?" You start patting your head "Where? Is it on my cheek? Or is it on my hair?"

"You aren't even close" He chuckles, amused by the looks of confusion on your face "Right here... I'll give you a kiss hot enough to melt the snow"

"Huh-" You didn't get to react much as Rui presses his lips gently against yours as you froze up, taking by surprise as he then wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace "Mmm!"

He pulls away abruptly and give you a peck on the lips as he gives you a little smirk, looking amused by your flustered expression "Well?"

"I-I...wha...?"

(っ'-')╮=͟͟͞͞💌 You receive a letter from Santa Yue!

↻ᴹᵉˢˢᵃᵍᵉ ˡᵒᵃᵈᵉᵈ !

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . .

yahoo~! it's me again~ not gonna lie...if I could, I probably name this as snowflake kiss because why not, hehehe~ anyways it's a first for me to write for Rui! If you were here from the start, I was formerly ModRui before ! Pretty cool, right?

calling... @nogenderbee !

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[cordeliawhohung]

People are so fucking outrageous you take some time for yourself that you told us you were taking and now they're up in your asks demanding stuff tell them to pay you for it, sincerely someone who doesn't mind waiting for whatever you post

on god i literally spent the last few days driving hours on end and just got back yesterday, today is my first full day back home. and i've been traveling out of town for the outreach clinic i have to work at the next few weeks, and even then i've still been writing allskdjf

lmfao i don't want to shit on that anon too much, and i'm def not trying to be rude or anything, but i'm also going to hijack your ask real quick to address stuff since i do have quite a few new followers.

while some users might not mind questions regarding when someone is updating/if they have anything planned for an ongoing series, and things like that, i specifically have it in my rules to please not do that, which is why i got a little short with them even though they arguably weren't being rude or malicious (unlike a few anons in the past have when asking things like that). this one is especially annoying because it's been literally eight days since i last updated for that, and i have other series i've been working on! like even though i'm not posting for it, i've still written a couple thousand words for pet!au, and i just finished a chapter for in limbo i'll have up for early access here in a bit, and then on tumblr probably tomorrow or wednesday.

but mostly, the reason why i specifically request that people don't ask if i have plans/when i'm updating/if i'm updating something is because i literally have an irl life. i've been pretty open recently about how i've been traveling and the work i've been doing, it's not a secret or anything lmao. it just feels... tone deaf, you know? like you come into my inbox not talking about the work, or what you like about it, or otherwise engaging with it, but just to ask if i'm giving you more, like i didn't just do that a week ago. hell, even if it's been months or years that's still rude imo because if you like something enough, then you'd probably be doing more than just asking for more, ya know? at least that's how it comes across to me. and like i said before, some people really don't care, which is why i made sure to specify it in my rules, because i do care. it ruins my mood to write and create because then it feels like a chore and people are waiting on me just to consume it and then beg for more rather than tell me what they actually enjoyed about the work lmao.

anyway, no hard feelings against that anon at all, i'm sure they didn't mean anything by it, so please don't show them any hate or anything. but just use this as a reminder to read the rules of the blogs you interact with please. or at least don't be surprised when you do something that irks them and then they're annoyed at you because of it lmao.

sorry about the rant in the tags

[ninjas-and-coffee]

Just thinking about Lloyd as the Quiet One

He was tossed aside and forgotten about so long ago he doesn't recall a time anyone ever thought of him. This boy needed love or at the very least attention, his father was evil surely there was something he could do to stand out. Something this lost child could do earn his fathers love.

He raised an army that tossed him aside. He fought the chosen ninja and that should have been his moment in the history books. It was never meant to be, he thinks. Watching from the shadows as a girl his age just as sad and broken as he, was brought into his uncle's home and given the keys to destiny itself. This girl fought his father and broke Garmadon free from the dark whisper on the blackest night, better known as The Overlord. She even cured him, though not completely. Garmadon's memories under the venom's influence flash in his mind like a dream. He remembers a woman, a father, a child, and a fight that sent him to another world but nothing is clear. And he can't remember their names. Surely if he can't recall the names of people he vaguely dreamed of loving, they must not have been important.

It must have been a dream.

The forgotten son gives himself a new name. The Quiet One, you don't see him until it's over. His hands leaves their mark on his victims and his enemies that don't know they are enemies. Yet no one has seen his face. His influence in the world is gentle nudge, things just just needed something small and forgettable to add to the pot and cause it to boil over. The Quiet One made a list of all the people who wronged him. All the people who had forgotten him.

At this point, it shouldn't have surprised him when no one recognized him. When he screamed into the void "Look at me!" and no one answered. When his father died, and his mother after having disappeared all those years came to the funeral, no one bothered to call him. His own mother passed this forgotten child waiting by the statues in the Corridor of Elders, for just a moment to look into her eyes. But she didn't see him, a polite nod acknowledging the presence of this stranger and proving he wasn't a ghost. His dreams of reunification were crushed to dust as he was overlooked by the one person in the world who was meant to love him.

It didn't surprise him when no one in their wildest imaginations or forgotten dreams guessed that it was him. The welp from the serpentine attacks could never have grown to be so dangerous. Surely if he were evil the ninja, his mother, or anyone would have noticed. In the depths of the faintest recollections this child was harmless so why worry.

Years later, a leather and blood bound faction that call themselves the Sons of Garmadon terrorize Ninjago City. They disgraced his memory with a dark promise to disturb the eternal peace of the beloved Sensei Garmadon as an evil husk to destroy Ninjago. And not a soul, not a one could understand why.

With the rattle of heavy chains, a red lollipop, and an evil laugh they've long forgotten about, they suddenly remember.

A boy with no home, no family, and no love left in his heart. A boy who's goal is to punish everyone for daring to forget his name

The Son of Garmadon.

[damnedrainbows]

Unravelling - Open Starter

There are some days where he doesn't feel like he'll ever be good enough, a product of years of belittlement and constant invalidation. Some days where he wonders if he's misread the kindness he has now. Has it perhaps been pity? Did they think highly of him at all? Were these relationships derived from a lie, or was that just paranoia?

Lucifer is grateful by the day for every companion he's made when he finally managed to climb the rockface of his depressive hole, but it doesn't stop these thoughts. It doesn't stop the ruminating over things he's likely perceiving wrong.

''Have to cancel our drink night, can we reschedule?" "I'm just tired right now.' 'It's not your fault.' " 'Nobody's mad at you.' 'No one thinks you're stupid.' 'You're not a burden.'

Everyone thinks you're stupid and a burden and everyone is mad at you.

The angels in heaven hiss in every one of his friend's compliments. He hears angelic scorn in every word of their praise, and Lucifer wants to know...when will it be enough?

When will he be able to believe every word of love, and that every justification for his friends changing their plans, doesn't mean they don't want to see him?

He feels like by now...it should have changed. Heaven is a distant memory, why can't he ever believe he is safe with these people?

Not everyone is like his Father. Not everyone is like his siblings.

But when will he be able to believe a single word of affirmation?

It's an unbearable day for the king, whose on the verge of collapsing under the weight of his own anguish, his body falling slack in his cotton swing as sobs of grief and frustration leave him, barely able to muffle each hysteric and intake of breath into the fabric. It surely carries down the hall...

[karolinarodrigueswrites]

Today's drabble starts off from two old paragraphs of an Always Here draft, a story with a love triangle that falls apart, and the drabble ventures into the "perfect girl" of the triangle losing it in an argument with the best friend love interest after she hits a breaking point of exhaustion over the ordeal.

I'm deciding to share this because I haven't really done anything for the wip in so long, though there should be inconsistent tenses.

content warning: mention of suicidal ideation at the end.

In childhood, there used to be a gap between Sophie’s front teeth, all slightly crooked in a bright smile that never failed to mirror itself on Ian’s lips. She had been one to never hold back, the strength of her feelings overcoming the limits of her heart until they presented themselves to the world loud and clear in laughs and tears.

Things changed as their families and surroundings taught them to measure themselves so as to refrain from this type of excess — there was such a thing as feeling and expressing it too much, especially for a pretty girl.

[...] Before, Ian carried in himself the certainty that he always had been on her side, but the deranged laugh that escapes Sophie’s lips now, perfect teeth showing through a snarl, accuses him of complicity in cutting her wings when she didn’t even know she could have a chance at flying.

“I DISAPPOINTED YOU?”

Her cackling adds implications to her screaming, as he cannot recall the last time she raised her voice.

“I spent the last months fearing for my job, for my last friendship, for my fucking life, and YOU WANT TO TELL ME I DISAPPOINTED YOU?”

Tears stream down her cheeks, and her hands, closed in fists, keep shaking.

“Very well, I disappointed you. I disappointed you, while you failed me and I was too stupid to do anything other than hold on and pray I was wrong about the signs of what was coming. I should have cared less. I should have given you guys hell and refused to be associated with your names. Disappointed! You think I’ve had fun with this love triangle bullshit?”

A sudden, extremely sharp and loud scream makes him flinch and stumble back.

“There were days where I contemplated death for so long, I had to remind myself I cannot afford therapy, and then just try to sleep it off instead as though misery and harassment would disappear. DISAPPOINTED! Fucking hilarious.”

[casdeans-pie]

Limes and Spices

Liminal Spaces -> Limes and Spices

Suptober 2023 - Day 1 - Liminal

Tags: Fluff, Rambly Character Study, Post Canon, Angel Castiel. Words: 1,629

---Read on AO3---

Being unable to sleep had never been a problem before meeting the Winchesters. In fact, it had never even been something of note. Angels didn’t sleep. Castiel didn’t sleep. That’s all there had been to it.

When he’d first started spending any kind of significant time with the brothers Castiel had been unused to the concept of sleep beyond a vague notion of ‘humans require rest’ and had often forgotten that contacting either of them in the middle of the night would be met with irritation and resistance.

Especially from Dean, who had very early on been given the moniker of ‘angry sleeper’.

So Castiel had soon learned to occupy his time while they slept, and even if he felt that his information was important, it had to wait until the morning.

Sam slept more than Dean did. It hadn’t occurred to Castiel just how terrible Dean’s sleeping habits were until he’d been with them both for some time and become more familiar with human requirements of rest and nutrition. They’d been sat in an empty diner in the middle of the night when he first told Dean to eat something healthier than all the grease that he consumed and get a solid eight hours of sleep minimum. (Dean had taken another bite of his burger at this suggestion and grinned at him with his mouth and cheeks full in response.)

It had surprised Castiel that he’d even said anything. It shouldn’t have mattered to him what nutrients Dean lacked from his diet, or how he only had half of the amount of sleep that he should to properly rejuvenate his body each night.

But he did. He cared. He had wanted Dean to take better care of himself.

He had, in those early days – as Claire had explained to him with a roll of her eyes one day – ‘caught feelings’.

(When Castiel had eventually told her the story of how his attitude had changed over time towards Dean, Claire had acted as if the explanation had been obvious, but he’d never even experienced feelings at all up until that point, so he often thought that he deserved a bit of slack for not realising sooner.)

He would never admit to Dean the number of times that he had flown into whatever motel room the brothers were staying in for the night and had gently pressed the pad of his finger, feather-light, to Dean’s forehead as he slept – using his Grace to take the edge off his fatigue and help the healing process of any injuries he’d sustained on his hunts. Never enough that Dean noticed. But just enough for him to function better than he should on only four hours sleep and being thrown across the room by angry spirits, or whatever else he’d been up to. It had always physically pained Castiel to hold back from completely healing his injuries, but if Dean had gone to bed with a split lip and woken up without a mark… even the Castiel from back then knew it would have been a little suspicious.

In retrospect, he knew that he shouldn’t have even done that small gesture at all without permission. The Dean from back then would have called him a creeper or something similar.

Castiel smiled at the thought as he pushed himself from the wall he leaned against and began to walk. His footsteps should have thudded loudly through the bunker; the sound echoing and bouncing through the empty halls, but he only had to extend a tiny thread of Grace into his feet to muffle them.

He had walked these halls so many times that he could traverse through them with his eyes closed and know every single step that he took and where it would lead. (Even without using any of his powers or Angel eyes.)

Back when he’d been without his wings, he’d simply walked through the bunker to occupy the hours that the Winchesters slept. Endlessly pacing down stretching, identical, sterile hallways. He would stop in the huge catering kitchen, ready for the masses that it would never cater for again. He would run his fingers over the spines of the books that he’d already read in the library, wondering if there had been a time when the tables would have been full of people sat elbow to elbow researching together. He would watch the lights blinking on control panels that it used to be somebody’s job to maintain and record.

Everything in the bunker served as a reminder of absence.

Castiel had never liked the thought of Dean and Sam living there. He knew that they saw it as home, and he remained grateful for its existence to be that for them, but…

These liminal spaces reminded him of the endless motel rooms the brothers used to stay in.

‘Between’ places.

Somewhere on the way to somewhere else.

Maybe the reason the bunker reminded Castiel so strongly of the motels was because of its transitional feeling nature – it had served its purpose to the Men Of Letters when they’d occupied it, and it had served its purpose for Dean and Sam to be a safe base for them when they’d needed it. He only hoped that meant they would one day be able to stretch their wings (metaphorical ones of course) and escape into somewhere where they could live in the light like they both deserved.

Castiel sighed as he turned into yet another artificially lit hallway that stretched in front of him like all the others. He had only taken a single step forward when a warm sensation trickled up his spine and nestled into the base of his skull. Castiel closed his eyes and felt his whole body tingle, as the sensation increased and the warmth spread to his chest.

Cas… Dean prayed – his voice like a whisper straight into Castiel’s ears.

Castiel shuddered.

Cas… Get your feathery ass back in here.

Castiel smiled, and with barely the tiniest flap of his wings he stood in Dean’s bedroom.

Dean lay under the covers in his crumpled sleeping shirt, hair askew, and glared at him. His voice sounded sleepy and rough when he said, “I can hear you pacing from here.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “That’s impressive considering I muffled my footsteps with my Grace.”

Dean ignored him and barrelled on, “Pacing and thinking. That sound that gears make when they’re grinding? That was you. That’s what I could hear. Gears and stomping. How’s a guy supposed to get his four hours around here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Castiel said, as seriously as he could, trying not to let his lips twitch into the smile that he could feel creeping up on him, “I have a lot to think about.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re a bazillion years old and so’s that joke, now get your ancient ass in here so I can sleep without all that noise.”

Castiel finally smiled and huffed, which brightened Dean’s expression into an immediate grin.

With another tiny flap of his wings Castiel lay beside Dean in the bed, stripped down to nothing but his boxer shorts.

Dean wrapped an arm over Castiel’s middle and pushed his nose beneath his ear, in the crease just below his jawline. “Mm, I think that’s probably my second favourite thing you can do with your Angel mojo.”

“What’s the first thing?” Castiel rumbled, sighing deeply, and relaxing into Dean’s warm embrace.

“I’ll tell you in the morning, but then you’ll have to do it again so I can check it’s still number one on the list.”

“I agree. It’s a good thing to keep the list accurate.”

Dean tightened his hold. “Y’know I’d’ve been happy just to get you back, right? Powers or no powers. Wings or no wings.” His voice was thick with sleep, but still firm and sure.

“I know, Dean. I know. I just… I get worried that I’m disturbing your sleep by lying here awake. I worry that you won’t be able to fully relax knowing I’m just lying here next to you. That you find it disturbing…” Castiel struggled not to voice that he often wondered if things would have been easier for them both if he’d came back from the Empty human.

“Are you kidding?” Dean asked, his voice even lower. “I literally just woke up because you weren’t here, and I had to have you back. And it’s dumb and selfish ‘cause you can’t even sleep and I’m keeping you here like a damn prisoner but… I need you.”

I love you, came Dean’s quiet prayer, softly, gently into the back of Castiel’s mind.

Castiel inhaled and tried not to ruin the moment when he felt the usual flicker of fear and elation that accompanied every single time Dean would pray those words to him. “I love you too,” he said thickly.

“And there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about in the morning...” Dean whispered sleepily. He yawned widely and snuggled down further. (Dean would deny everything if Castiel described his actions out loud as snuggling.) “I think we should… move out… get a place of our own… something with a… big garage for Baby.”

“A big garage for Baby,” Castiel confirmed, “got it.” His heart swelled in his chest to know that Dean had been thinking the same thing he had. He would follow him anywhere. “And no more liminal spaces for Dean,” he added.

“Mm-hm, yep… no more… lime and spices.”

Castiel smoothed a hand over Dean’s arm. Getting to see him this vulnerable and relaxed would never stop being a miracle.

This between place had served them well, but now they could move into the sun together.

Castiel smiled as he closed his eyes, even though he wouldn’t sleep.

[fbfh]

The ending to chapter 11 of LUTD reminded me of this, ngl...

Nico: Y/N, you're going to have to stop screwing around if you want to be Leo's girlfriend.

Goth Shawty: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Girlfriend? I don't want to be Leo's "girlfriend".

Nico: Well... what do you want then?

Goth Shawty: I don't know. I just wanna be with him all the time. I wanna hear about his day, tell him about mine. I wanna hold his hand and smell his hair. But I don't want to be his stupid girlfriend.

Nico: Y/N, what you just described is a relationship between a boyfriend and a girlfriend.

Nico, under his breath: And a pretty clingy one at that.

JLKGJSLKJSSLKSDJD LITERALLY. anon you just described Leo and goth shawty perfectly. reader really said "I don't want to be his girlfriend ew no I just want him to be completly devoted to me and not touch anyone else or be attracted to anyone but me."

nico: "...so you want to be his girlfriend."

seriously though once Leo gets goth shawty to really open up she's going to be the clingiest motherfucker on earth but like same bc it's Leo. who wouldn't be clingy as hell with him.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Drabble 153/366 - Doctor Who

She makes you want to worship on your knees. She makes you want to save her. She makes you want to run with her forever.

You don’t know if that’s enough because Rose is love so bright she illuminates time and space anew for you. Maybe, with another face, another pair of hands, you’d understand, you’d burn like she does.

But you are so tired of fire.

I can’t love you back, you don’t tell her, afraid she’ll leave. Can’t, won’t, don’t, but you make me better, I make you happy.

Instead, you say, “There’s a planet called Woman Wept.”

[pa-pa-plasma]

quite frankly i am shocked & disappointed with the Phandom for the lack a werewolf AUs. where is your fucking awoo

[password-door-lock]

Unknown doesn’t really care about you. That’s been his conviction from day one, the truth to which he has clung with a vice grip throughout his acquaintance with you. He doesn’t care about you, he doesn’t care what’s convenient for you, and he doesn’t care about your feelings. He certainly doesn't care that you've been restless all night, waking up at odd intervals to sniffle for a bit before returning to your tossing and turning. He supposes that he does care if you’re able to help him fulfill his plan, though you’ve already thrown a wrench into it once by refusing to enter the code correctly at the apartment. He had no choice but to bring you back to Magenta, which may have been a bad call, but Unknown has about as much patience for surprises as he does for liars— which is to say, none at all— and your inability to listen forced him to make a snap decision on the spot. 

Presently, he's working at his desk, and you’re asleep on the couch, stirring and whining occasionally in what he imagines is discomfort. He wonders if you're experiencing something akin to the nightmares that plague him when he forces himself to rest, but then goes out of his way to dissolve the thought. Unknown doesn’t like to linger on his own pain. Why would he? So instead, he watches you sleep fitfully. After a few minutes of this, you blink awake. You sit up, looking around frantically. “Did you have a bad dream, prince(ss)?” Unknown asks, amused despite himself. You look adorable even in the faint light provided by his monitor, with your eyes wide and your head swiveling comically from side to side.

“No; don't worry,” you reply, “But my throat hurts, and my nose is all stuffed up— I think I might have a cold or something.” That much is obvious from your voice. 

Even so, Unknown’s fingers pause where they are above his keyboard. In fact, his whole body freezes. He’s stiff, unsure of how to handle the situation. If you have a sore throat and a stuffy nose, then you’re almost definitely sick— Unknown doesn’t have time to process all the reasons why he doesn’t like that thought. He only allows himself to acknowledge the fact that it irks him. “You’re sick,” he informs you, trying not to sound nervous. It’s important that he maintains a calm tone in order to maintain his iron grip on the situation. 

You’re already starting to tremble so obviously that he can see it even from his vantage point across the room. What reason do you have to be trembling? Unknown wonders. He’s the one who might get sick as a result of your negligence— he’s been in here with you all night, breathing your air and touching things you’ve also touched. If you’re sick, then there’s a pretty solid chance that Unknown is going to be next— he growls, annoyed at the thought of losing progress with his work for something so pointless. If his head gets foggy with fever, he’ll work a lot slower, which will doubtlessly cause problems for him in his quest for revenge. It pisses him off that this is something over which he has no jurisdiction— you might be at the mercy of his whims, but your illness is not. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. He should feel good that you’re apologizing, taking responsibility; he should enjoy the knowledge that you’re shaking in fear of how he might respond to this latest inconvenience. Yes, you should be sorry, shouldn’t you? You’re the one who brought some bug into the intelligence room, after all. 

But, inexplicably, Unknown does not feel comforted at all. “Don’t waste time apologizing,” he snaps. It’s always grounding to snap at people— it reminds him that he’s in control. Of course, you do that well enough on your own; you make your devotion obvious with every thoughtful gesture and every offhand word. It’s almost cute, the way you bend over backwards for him. 

Before he can tell you what you should start doing in lieu of telling him you’re sorry, you lapse into a prolonged period of violent coughing. “Sorry,” you choke out again once you’re finished. 

“Okay.” Unknown doesn’t even bother telling you not to apologize again. He’s annoyed that you’re sick, but he’s even more annoyed that he has to stop working to help you deal with your emotions. Can’t you handle your feelings on your own? Why would you rely on him for something like this? Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just sulk in the corner without making a peep? But Unknown concedes that in all other cases, your reliance on him is a good thing. It makes you easier to control. 

Maybe this is a necessary sacrifice, he decides, and that’s what’s compelling him to continue this discussion. If he handles your feelings neatly, you might follow his instructions better, and he can spend his time on more important things. If he lets you stew with your strange guilt, especially when you’re trying to recover from a cold, then he’s going to have to deal with it later, when your emotional and physical condition are both significantly worse. Unknown isn’t interested in that. 

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” You ask, as if he hasn’t already made it clear to you that there isn’t.

Unknown is beside himself. What are you talking about? How could you possibly help him? You can barely carry on a conversation without losing your train of thought in a fit of coughing. “No. You don’t need to worry about that,” he tells you flatly. “Just keep quiet and rest so you get better fast, hm? I don’t want to deal with a sick assistant any longer than I have to.”

“Are you sure?” You ask. Though he doesn’t understand why, Unknown is suddenly very glad that you’re feeling well enough to pester him. “There’s gotta be something I can do.” 

“I just told you what to do,” he reminds you, “So maybe you should start listening before you regret it.” 

“You’re threatening me? Even though I’m sick?” As if your feigned shock wasn’t annoying enough, you take the liberty of pretending to cough into your hand. Of course, this fake cough soon turns into a fit of very genuine coughing— good. It serves you right for trying to mock him. 

“Mhm,” Unknown hums, "Now, why don’t you try to follow directions instead of talking nonsense?” It puts him at ease to play this game with you. He doesn’t have to contend with any emotions he may harbor about the situation if you’re up for a verbal sparring match, and he’d never pass up an opportunity to assert his control. 

“Whatever you say.” You salute him, then sneeze obnoxiously into your elbow. For how long, exactly, is he going to have to deal with this behavior? “What did you want me to do, again?” 

“Now you’re just looking for attention,” Unknown decides. He has no idea why you’re so committed to the idea of working when he’s giving you not simply the license, but the direct order to rest, though it doesn’t really matter. He’s already told you several times that he doesn’t need you to work on anything, and besides, he wants you to feel better. But that makes sense— of course he would want his assistant to be functioning normally. His motivations are entirely justifiable. “Go lay back down and don’t bother me again.”

“Okay, okay,” you hold up your hands and gaze at him with adoration. “I get it! You don’t want me to work! Who are you and what have you done with Unknown?” He just glares at you, waiting for you to finish giggling at your own joke. “But, sure, whatever, I’ll try to rest. Feel free to wake me up if you need something, though. I want to help you if I can.” 

Unknown rolls his eyes. He’s glad to have such a loyal assistant, but you seriously need to stop challenging his authority like this. “I’m not going to tell you again,” he warns. 

“I said okay! Look, here I am resting.” After another prolonged coughing fit, you make a big show of laying back down on the couch and closing your eyes— and if Unknown finds himself smirking a little at your fake snoring noises, that’s none of anybody’s business.